He headed straight for us, gave us a quick appraisal, grunted out a few failing attempts at the king's English and glowered. I had the distinct impression he was telling us to get on our feet. He whipped out a mean-looking switchblade and made short work of the ropes tied around our legs, but he was smart enough to leave our hands tied behind our backs. From there he started prodding us toward the door. Even the thug guarding the door got a few instructions.
"Zercher wants us to take the Aztec. Load the cylinders first. We'll cram these clowns in later."
They paraded the two of us out of the operations building, across a stretch of blacktop to the hangar. By the time we were inside, two of Zercher's crew had busied themselves taking out the partition between the cargo area and the passenger's compartment.
Posnick wasn't the least bit shy. He started barking out more orders and left us in the care of a gawky black man with a cumbersome, Russian-made automatic rifle slung over his shoulder. The two men working on the plane were also armed. I had the feeling all three were candidates for the "shoot first, ask later club."
The skinny guy with the big automatic must have figured we weren't much of a threat, because he went on eating his banana, content to check us every now and then with a sideward glance.
"What do you make of it?" Hannah whispered.
"Piper Aztecan old one. It's got enough range to get us a helluva long way from here, though."
The smaller of the duo working on the plane removed a seat, set it down, stepped up on the wing and crawled back in.
"Where do you figure they're taking us?" Hannah asked.
"Your guess is as good as mine." Hannah didn't know it, but I was a poor one to ask. All I knew about the twin-engined craft was what an old flying friend had taught me a few years earlier in a flight to the Dominican.
On the floor of the hangar, under the wing, was a small pallet of brick-sized packages — 30, maybe 40 of them. They were wrapped in plastic and securely taped. "Is that what I think it is?" Hannah whispered again.
It was becoming increasingly more apparent that Alonzo Zercher was the kind of man who practiced what he preached. It was efficiency in action. He had every intention of maximizing his payload. First the cocaine, then the cylinders — then Hannah and yours truly. If Posnick was going to take a trip, Zercher was going to make the most of it.
One of the two men working on the plane was thin, wore a number of gold chains and bracelets and had a half-smoked cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He was working with the bricks. After he had them loaded, he inserted a small panel over the floor of the cargo area and snapped a piece of carpet into place over it. All of which only confirmed that Posnick wasn't expecting any trouble, because if there had been, there was no way for him to work his way back to where the stash had been concealed.
I leaned over and whispered in Hannah's ear. "Wherever we're going, they figure it's friendly territory."
Posnick and the thug reappeared, pushing a creaky old dolly containing the two cylinders. It took some grunting but they managed to work the bulky canisters through the oversized cargo door and shove them up into the passenger compartment. The wiry one jumped up on the wing of the Aztec, reached around through the passenger's door and inched them into position behind the pilot's seat. If they intended to get Hannah and me in there too, it was going to be cramped quarters.
Posnick disappeared a second time only to return moments later, this time talking to Zercher who was carrying a bulging leather briefcase. He headed straight for the plane and stashed the case on the floor under the second set of controls.
"What about them?" Posnick grunted, pointing at us.
"When you put her down in Barlow Key, Zapata will be waiting. Hand over the briefcase as well as our dynamic duo here."
"Why go to all the trouble?" Posnick grunted. "Why not just finish 'em off here?"
"When their bodies wash up on a beach somewhere and the authorities start poking around, I don't want their deaths to be even remotely tied to this operation."
Posnick nodded. "What about the tin cans?"
"Zapata has instructions." Zercher's response was abrupt. It was clear now that Travell Posnick was a delivery boy, nothing more.
"Barlow Key?" Hannah repeated, under her breath.
I shrugged. I wasn't all that familiar with the string of islands and outcroppings that jutted down from the mainland, but there was one thing for certain. The Aztec had the range to get us all the way to Miami if necessary.
Zercher reached inside his jacket and produced a bulky .45 automatic. "Here… if you run into any trouble, make sure this pair doesn't live to tell about it."
Posnick hefted the chunk of iron a couple of times and slipped it into his jacket pocket. They put Hannah into the plane first, then they jammed me down in front of her. We still had our hands tied behind our backs. The second seat instruments were right in front of me, and I could see what was happening.
Somebody opened the door to the hangar, and the blue and silver bird was towed silently out into the Caribbean night.
Posnick still hadn't crawled into the cockpit. He was going through a series of last minute flight checks, and I could hear Zercher still giving him instructions.
"When you clear departure in Montego, tell Miami center you're a charter out of Hedonism. Use the two-three Yankee seven-seven identification."
Posnick nodded. His hand was cuddled in his pocket, fondling the .45.
Hannah hunched forward, brushing her lips against my ear. "This is our chance," she whispered. "Let's go for it."
The lady had her legs crossed in front of her, and I had to get my hands back and up far enough to manipulate the buckle on the belt of her jumpsuit. By the time I had threaded the fabric back through the large piece of ornamental brass and started to work with the row of buttons, Posnick had crawled in and was concentrating on his pre-flight tune-up. I looked out the window just in time to see someone motioning the Aztec away from the ramp. I still didn't see anything that looked like runway lights. In fact, the only thing I could see was the moonlit outline of the pier and the expanse of blackness beyond. Then it hit me. There were no lights! Posnick had to hustle us out of there without lights. I felt the lump the size of a baseball start to form in my throat.
The turbo-charged Lycomings were run up then eased back. Posnick threw a couple of toggle switches, his paws dancing over the panel like a ballet dancer. Behind me I could feel Hannah's breath quicken when the plane started down the runway, straight for the darkened bay. She was saying something, but I couldn't understand her. The roar of the engines drowned out her voice.
The Aztec broke contact with the ground at the same time my fingers conquered the last button on Hannah's jumpsuit and broke through to the warm soft flesh of the lady's stomach.
"Remember what I told you," she hissed.
I could feel us climbing and the landing gear locking into place with a thud. Posnick was still tweeking dials and punching buttons.
My fingers, working backward, were anything but adept at the task. I had one finger hooked over the top of the waistband and the index finger of the other hand probing down looking for the feel of cold steel. It was down deeper than I thought.
Posnick put the Aztec into a gentle bank, and I caught a brief glimpse of the darkened Jamaican coastline out my window.
"Am I close?" I muttered, keeping my voice low.
Hannah didn't say anything.
The tip of my finger brushed against something cold and hard. Hannah scooted toward me in a hunching motion, and Posnick glanced back.
"What the hell's goin' on back there?"
I had every intention of giving Zercher's errand boy a smart ass answer, but Montego departure control began to transmit so he went back to flying the plane. Slowly my thumb and index finger curled around the handle of Mookie's pistol. I started to work it up toward the lady's belt. It popped out, and I got a grip on it. All the while I was wondering whether the safety was engaged.