Southern Comfort - Fern Michaels [44]
He was experienced on the water, almost as good as the governor. If his father knew he had to take a shitload of Dramamine because he’d never acquired sea legs, he’d never hear the end of it; but what his father didn’t know wouldn’t hurt either of them. He’d sailed every summer and had his own sailboat at the beach house. But he preferred power boats, to his father’s dismay.
His eyes searching for the landmarks the owner of the marina had provided, Tyler found his way to the lot, where he parked his rental, climbed out, and headed for the ramshackle office that boasted that they carried top-of-the-line Jet Skis, catamarans, and cigarette boats to rent. Next to the office was a souvenir shop, where they stocked beachwear, sand in a bottle, plastic palm trees, and what seemed like a hundred shelves filled with suntan oil. He sauntered into the shop, his gaze going in all directions to see if anyone was following him. He didn’t see anything or anyone that looked suspicious, so he walked inside. Maybe he was flattering himself that someone was interested in him. The blast of cold air shocked him. He actually found himself shivering.
Fifteen minutes later, he had three pair of shorts that looked distressed and three T-shirts that said he “hearted” Key West. He bought two pairs of Ray-Ban sunglasses and another baseball cap, which said Miami Dolphins on it. If he dipped it in the ocean water, it would be perfect. Once he hit the water, he could throttle down, snip off the tags, and change his clothes. Two pair of rubber flip-flops, and he was good to go. He paid for his purchases with cash. No sense leaving a trail for anyone to pick up.
When he signed for the cigarette boat he’d rented, he paid in cash but used a phony credit card for security, a card he’d used many times on different cases. It matched a phony driver’s license. Who was he kidding anyway; no one would be looking for him. For someone to be looking for him, he’d have to be important, and that was the one thing he wasn’t. At least according to his colleagues at the DEA. He was nominally in charge of the Miami office. He should be there issuing orders, but no one, not even the custodial staff, would speak to him, so he’d opted to go out on his own. Then, he asked himself, What the hell am I doing here hoping I’m incognito? Almost as if in answer to his question, his cell phone rang. He looked down to see the number of the caller. He swallowed hard. UNKNOWN CALLER. UNKNOWN NUMBER. Answer or not? He opted not to. Whoever the bastard was, he’d call back. He was sure of it.
Key in hand, Tyler jogged his way to the waiting cigarette boat, which would take him out to open water. He leapt on board and checked things out. Satisfied that the boat was going to get him back and forth, he opened his canvas bag to check the contents. All the tools of the trade, even his gun. He was good to go. He liked the idea that a map of Florida and all the different Keys was under hard plastic on the side of the dash. Along with a navigation chart.
A scraggly looking teenaged boy released the boat from its moorings, and Tyler backed away from the dock. The boy waved. He waved back.
He was on his own. He admitted to a small thrill of excitement at what might lie ahead of him in the days to come.
Chapter 9
Kate Rush swiped at the sweat dripping down her face from the blistering midafternoon heat. She looked over at her partner and grimaced at her angry countenance. Should she try to mollify Sandy or should she start to bitch the way Sandy had been bitching all morning? “I’m going for a swim to see if I can cool down a little. If you see that crazy parrot attacking me, call the Coast Guard.”
“Are you out of your mind? I’m going with you. Whoever the hell said that skimpy air-conditioning