This is no abandoned airstrip. There are a few weeds poking up through the compacted surface, but the whole thing has a groomed look that doesn’t originate in nature. Someone is actively maintaining the place. Let it go for even a few months and the scrub would take over.

Shane hasn’t seen them yet, but he’s betting there are hidden beacons—flicked on for only moments at a time—that allow night-landing pilots to make fine adjustments at the very last minute.

The secret landing strip is interesting—the only possible use is for illicit cargo—but what originally got his attention on the Google Earth image lies a quarter mile away, and as rushed as he is for time he wants to thoroughly surveil it before approaching. In the satellite imagery the anomaly appeared to be no more than a faint, roughly rectangular shadow, notable only because of its proximity to the mile-long slash that he’d recognized as a possible landing strip. In the lenses of the NV goggles its true form is revealed.

Hangar.

An aircraft hangar cleverly constructed and landscaped to look like a natural slope of ground, and therefore almost completely invisible from directly overhead. Palmetto and slash pine grow from the top of the mound, contributing to the effect, but on the side facing the runway there’s a vertical cut wide enough to accommodate almost any aircraft capable of landing on the narrow strip. As if the builder had been inspired by some of the old camouflage techniques from World War II where, say, what appeared to be a caravan trail in North Africa might actually hide a squadron of fighter planes under the dunes, ready to roll out at a moment’s notice.

This is scrub pineland, not desert, but the effect is the same: hide in plain sight by blending into the landscape. The hangar entrance has been obscured with palm fronds, but Shane can make out the vertical panels of a wide door. A shut-up hangar without cross ventilation, it must be hot as an oven in there.

What’s inside that needs hiding?

He’s approaching the hangar, intent on a closer look, when the high drone of a gasoline motor makes itself known. Coming at speed. Automotive engine, not aircraft. Shane runs full tilt for cover as headlights flicker though the palmettos. He scrambles atop the mound of earth covering the hangar, figuring if he’s on higher ground the headlights won’t pick him up.

A heartbeat later a pickup truck skids onto the runway from the access road, kicking gravel, and heads straight for the hidden hangar.

What happens in the next few moments will depend on whether the sudden appearance of visitors is a coincidence or the result of remote surveillance. Maybe he has unknowingly activated a motion detector or been picked up by an infrared video-cam. Or maybe it’s just time to make the donuts, or check on the drug stash or whatever.

Belly to the ground, Shane edges his way back from the curve of earth that obscures the hangar beneath it. When the truck stops moving, so does he, knowing that a human figure is easier to pick out of a dim landscape when the eyes are quiet, not jouncing around on the stiff suspension of what looks to be a shiny new Dodge Ram.

Moment of truth, Shane thinks as the truck doors snap open, shedding pools of yellow light. Wishing he had a firearm, or lacking that, a Kevlar vest.

The cab spills out three men, two of them young and solidly built, of more or less identical height. The third man, stretching and yawning, is somewhat older and taller, a scrawny, narrow-shouldered guy with a funny, protuberant belly. Like he’d swallowed half a soccer ball. He’s wearing a straw cowboy hat, well broken in, and has a lilting drawl that sounds to Shane like coastal Alabama, or maybe the Panhandle region of Florida.

“In there?” Straw Hat wants to know, loud enough to be heard over the big V-8, which has been left running.

“Pretty cool, huh?” says one of the two younger men, tugging on his cap. “Sort of like the bat cave.”

“Bat cave? Y’all got them fanged little devils out heah in the swamp?”

“Naw. Like Batman from the movies.”

“Oh yeah? Oh, ah gets it, Roy. Good ‘un.”

Shane quickly picks up on the fact that of the two younger men, the one called Roy does most of the talking. It’s also clear that an intruder has not been detected—the men have business having to do with the hangar.

Roy takes out a ring of keys—his face obscured by a ball-cap visor—and approaches the hangar, thereby passing out of sight. Meanwhile the other one—they could easily be brothers—lowers the truck’s tailgate, recovers a coil of thick rope or cable.

Beneath him, Shane hears a big hangar door sliding open.

“Son of a bitch!” the man in the straw cowboy hat exclaims. “Oo-ee, y’all ain’t lyin’! Ah be damned if this ain’t the real deal!”

Very excited about whatever it is inside the hangar.

“Pretty little thang, ain’t she?”

“Ah swear, Roy, she’s givin’ me a bone! Hot damn!”

The leering tone of conversation almost convinces Shane that the two men are discussing Jane Garner’s missing daughter. Until they rig the rope from the front bumper of the Dodge and pull the sexy aircraft from the hangar.

The long white wings of a twin-engine Beechcraft King Air pass directly beneath Shane, looking down from the top of the hangar. Might as well be angel wings. He can’t quite make out the tail numbers, not from this angle, not yet, but he knows in his heart that this is Edwin Manning’s missing aircraft, the very same plane his hotshot son flew out of Long Island, accompanied by Kelly Garner.

Lying on the roof of the hidden hangar, Shane grins into the dirt and mouths a silent Yes!

13. Chasing The Hum Job

Sleeping in chairs is bad for the back. Plus it can give you nightmares. Apparently I fell asleep sitting up, waiting for the laptop to bong, the binoculars cradled in my lap. Dreaming that Kelly is somewhere in Manning’s penthouse but I can’t find her because the binoculars won’t focus. Also I’m late for a fitting and can’t locate the wedding party.

Anxious dreams, but not quite nightmares. In nightmares Kelly would be dead.

My bleary eyes are open for a moment before I register what woke me. Daylight filtering through the sliders? My own internal alarm clock? The doorbell?

Bong.

The warning signal on the GPS! The laptop is telling me that Manning is on the move!

With a sharp little scream I jump to my feet. Eyes skidding wildly around a superluxury, two-bedroom hotel suite, empty except for me.

“Shane!”

Pointless. My half-asleep brain boots up just enough to remind me that the big guy left last night on a mission. A mission he refused to discuss. Some creepy-crawly investigation thing it’s best I don’t know about. Or so he said. For all I know he’s trolling South Beach for leggy lingerie models. Hitting the late-night club scene because, you know, he can’t sleep.

Why not? I know nothing about the man, not really, except that he’s left me holding the bag. What should I do? Grab the laptop, run down to our rented car and try to follow the GPS signal? Stand on the balcony and scream? What?

“Mrs. Garner?”

Shane stands in the bedroom doorway, bare chested, wearing white boxers and a big bandage on his leg. Dark blood seeps from the bandage. His eyes are puffy. Like me, he’s just awakened.

Liar.

“You were asleep!” I say accusingly. “You said you never sleep!”

“Yeah. Amazing,” he responds thickly, shaking his head. “REM sleep, dreams, the whole nine yards. I got back late and didn’t want to wake you and I guess I conked out.”

The laptop keeps bonging. Shane finally notices.

“They’re in motion!” he exclaims. “The Hummer is moving!”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you!”

“Go,” he says, returning to the bedroom for his clothes. “Get the car out of the garage, meet me on the street. Grab your purse and go!”