Maroon Rising Read Online Free Page B

vision intense, as if I were seeing the teak deck of the fishing boat through the most sophisticated of camera lenses—reminding me that Jack still had money he’d hidden from the investigators after our bankruptcy, while I’d mostly lived like a pauper ever since filing Chapter 11.
    Jack got the girl— my girl. He got the salvage contract—the one my research led to. That last thought made me smile. I waved and the fishing boat idling a hundred feet off the port side instantly accelerated, its Yamaha motor the only sound. Again I smiled.
    They looked at each other then back at me, confused.
    “Maybe there’s justice after all,” I said. “Your salvage efforts—sorry, your archaeological reconstruction project—has been nothing but a dry hole. What have you spent, Jack? Couple million? More?” I smiled again. “And this one here?” I tipped my head toward Heather. “You’d better damned well find some treasure—and a lot of it. Between the two of you, you’ll need it.”

T he gray concrete skyline of Kingston grew close as the captain took me to shore. I caught a taxi back to the airport to check on the Beast. Thom had needed to head up to the north coast, Oracabessa, and I planned to fly to the airport near Ocho Rios, now called Ian Fleming International. I was surprised to find Thom sitting in the lounge at the General Aviation terminal when I arrived at Norman Manley Airport.
    “Thought you rented a car,” I said.
    “Was about to, then I found out how long it would take to get all the way up there, so I decided to wait around for you. Truth be told I was also a little worried, as pissed as you were when you left. You kick some ass?”
    A long exhale was all I could muster. Thom read the signal and didn’t ask any more questions.
    It only took twenty minutes to file my flight plan and get squared away to head north. The afternoon sun hit hard as we stepped out onto the tarmac. Thom carried his suitcase and guitar, and once to the Beast, I let him inside to air her out while I inspected the holes in the port wingtip. Unbelievable. There were only six inches separating the closest hole and the edge of the 110-gallon fuel tank, and miraculously, the bullets hadn’t hit the flap or the vacuum lines that control the flaps. I pushed my finger into the holes, one by one, to feel around for anything sharp, wet, any kind of damage invisible to the naked eye.
    The holes felt clean, though I’d have felt better about them if Ray were here.
    I spotted Thom watching me from the cockpit window. Back at the open hatch, I leaned inside.
    “Do me a favor and grab the roll of duct tape in the file box next to my seat,” I said. I heard him rooting around.
    “This gonna work?” he said when he held it out to me.
    “I’m not planning any water landings, and there isn’t any internal damage, so yeah. It’ll help preserve the aerodynamics at least.”
    I rolled up little pieces of duct tape, stuffed them in the holes, then covered each hole with a strip and rubbed it smooth. Ten minutes later I’d done a preflight check, confirmed we still had plenty of fuel, and closed the hatch.
    Should I take the Beast getting shot as a bad omen, drop Thom off, and head home? Probably. Was I going to do that?
    Hell no.
    “What time’s your meeting with the record producer?”
    “We’re having dinner.”
    I completed the preflight inspection, paying careful attention to the flaps and the vacuum system, which seemed fine. I turned on the fuel valves, moved the mixture control to idle cutoff, pumped the throttles, hit the ignition switch, and engaged the starters. Once the warm-up was done, I checked the oil and fuel pressures and waited for word from Air Traffic Control. Once it was our turn we taxied out, cranked up the manifold pressure, and lit off down the runaway.
    As we climbed over the azure bay between Kingston to the north, with Port Royal to the south, I didn’t so much as glance at Jack’s armada for the big