Second Chance Gold (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 4) John Cunningham (the rosie project TXT) 📖

We blew past the airport, up the hill, around the circle, and down the road to where the Beast was tied down. A boat might have made more sense, but time was of the essence.

The Widgeon—Betty—was gone.

“Where we headed?” Truck said.

“The island shown on that sketch.”

Even though adrenalin was surging through my system at a fever pitch, I forced myself to do a thorough pre-flight check. With all the hanky-panky going on around here, any one of these bastards could have sabotaged my plane. All the moving parts seemed fine, so with the twin Wasp Jr. engines fired up and the radio clear of approaching aircraft, we taxied onto the end of the runway. With only 2,100’ of asphalt before it turned into sand and crystal blue waters, I held the brake, revved the RPM’s to redline, and set the Beast loose. As soon as we were aloft I carved a wing to port.

“We low on fuel, huh?” Truck tapped the gauges.

“We’re not going far.” I leveled the Beast off at a low altitude, only 500 feet above sea level. Within a couple of minutes we reached Ile Chevreau—or la petite enfant as the Dominicans had called it, assuming Nicole was right.

“What’re we looking for?” Truck said.

“Jerry painted pictures of what looks like a rock pile on what I think is this island.”

“Maybe the dude just liked to paint?”

“Nope. It’s like a map—but he didn’t know which island it was. Bankie Banx told me Jerry liked to go out to different islands with a big pry bar and look under rocks.”

“The hell for?”

“Long story, but the Dominicans found out something may have been buried on an island—they just didn’t know it was this island.” I nodded my head toward the large oval of green and brown we were aimed toward. ”Plus they knew there was some kind of clue at Eden Rock, which Jerry told them he had.”

“Jerry knew those motherfuckers?”

“Put the two together and maybe there’s treasure buried out here.”

“Great.” Truck crossed his arms. “So what, we looking for a big X or something? That island’s huge!”

“The painting showed rocks, so look for a pile.” I pressed on the right pedal and circled back to starboard. “The rocks should be piled up to the left of some kind of marker.”

I had to increase our altitude to 750 feet to get above Ile Chevreau. There was a rock-strewn valley between the peaks in the center of the land mass. I flew around the perimeter in a counter-clockwise direction, with me taking the first look—there were several rocky areas. Jerry’s paintings showed detail on the left side, but there were two peaks, and was that the left side looking from St. Barths, or from the other direction? We reversed course and flew in the opposite direction so Truck could scan the island. From what I saw, it was largely ringed in white, roiling water, although there were a couple of blank spots on the shore.

“Cut down the middle, through that valley,” Truck said. “This rock’s too big to see from the outside.”

I banked in a circle, north of Ile Chevreau, then aimed the Beast between the peaks. We were low, almost as low as the landing into Gustavia—

“Hey!” Truck said after we passed through the center where the highest points were. “I saw something!”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know man, go back toward that one!” He pointed toward the incline of land on his right side.

I circled west around the peak, maintained the loop, and cut back through the island’s center again.

“Son of a bitch,” Truck said.

“What?” I now vectored to the east, wanting to try and see what he’d spotted. “What did you see?”

“There’s a dude laying under the trees down there. He wasn’t moving.”

I circled back and spotted what appeared to be camouflage netting pulled between a few trees to create a canopy. A corner had fallen, and sure enough a man was lying under that exposed corner on the top ridge. My mind might have been playing tricks on me, but I thought he raised his arm and waved at us.

We circled the island’s perimeter again, flying in a counter-clockwise rotation. No boats, kayaks, or other forms of transportation were visible. The man was stranded unless he swam—it was just a mile back to St. Barths, after all.

“What are you thinking?” Truck said.

I didn’t respond.

“You told me water landings are illegal here, right? Shouldn’t we be calling them gendarmes or whatever kind of marine patrol they got here? Tell them about that dude?”

“I don’t know who’s down there, but I spilled my guts to Caterina last night, and she’s either working with Jack or the Dominicans, and they’re probably already on their way out here. We try to alert the authorities, who knows how long that’ll take—”

“You seen all that water crashing on the shore, man? Those rocks’ll tear the shit out of this old tin-can!”

On my third and lowest rotation around Ile Chevreau, I confirmed that there was a small gravel beach facing due south, directly at the foot of the valley in the center of the island. Almost everything around that was a nice deep blue, but there were a few lighter circles, some crowned with whitecaps.

“Hell you doing?” Truck said.

To land from the south would mean circling back over the beach at Flamands, which would get too much attention, so instead I flew out toward the next island, Ile Fourchue, circled back around, and began my landing checklist.

“This ain’t a good idea, Reilly!” Truck pulled his four-point seatbelt taut.

With flaps on full, we dropped fast. We slapped down into the waves, lifted, then slammed down again. The old plane rattled—water blasted off the props and the floats dug in and jerked us from side to side. Our forward progression came to a slow stop a hundred yards from the beach. We rocked hard in the white-capped waves, the prop wash sounding like a chain saw.

“Now