Ocean Prey (A Prey Novel #31) - John Sandford Page 0,133
wants some consideration, so I think he’s probably telling us what he thinks is the truth,” Virgil said. “No guarantees.”
The agent said, “There’s a bunch of general aviation airports around here. We’re told to try the other ones; we’re gonna split up here . . . Where are you at?”
“Broward County on I-95, coming up to the Miami-Dade line . . .”
“All right, there’s an Opa-locka general aviation airport, you’re right on top of it. Go west on 135th Street . . . I hope we’re not screwin’ the pooch . . .”
“You and me both, brother,” Virgil said.
Virgil rang off and Hamm pointed at the navigation screen and said, “We’re two miles from 135th, that must be the airport over here, this blank spot . . . It looks big.”
Virgil got back on the phone and called Weaver in the Fort Lauderdale task force suite and told him what was happening. “You need to call somebody who can hook us up with whatever cops they’ve got at this place . . . It’s the Opa-locka airport . . . I don’t know the real name . . . Hook us up with some cops and get us to a place where small planes go outta . . .”
“Don’t they have to sign up with somebody to fly? The FAA or somebody, file a flight plan? There should be a computer . . .”
“Well, shit, I don’t know, Dale, I’m calling you because I don’t know. You need to call one of your feds, get them on this.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
Hamm: “We’re coming up to 135th. How do you want to do this?”
“I need my iPad so I can look at a map,” Virgil said. “Unfortunately, it’s in Mankato, Minnesota.”
“That’s probably too far to drive,” Hamm said. “You can make the nav map bigger by turning the dial . . . and we’re getting off.”
Virgil screwed around with the dials below the nav map until he managed to enlarge it and move it over the airport. “Okay, when we get there . . . It’s further away than that FBI guy made it sound, we’re not right on top of it, we’re a couple of miles, I think, maybe three or four . . .”
* * *
Traffic wasn’t good; Hamm was snarling at the drivers in front of him, reluctant to move even for the cop lights and siren. “You motherfucker, get out of the fuckin’ way . . . Get your ass . . .”
“You need to turn north on 42nd Avenue when we get there, that should take us right through the middle of the airport,” Virgil said, squinting at the nav screen.
“That’ll probably be tomorrow morning the way it’s going, get out of the way, you cocksucker . . .”
Virgil asked, “You armed?”
“Of course.”
“You ever shoot anybody?”
“No.”
“Okay, let’s sort of follow my lead, huh? We’re a major problem for this guy. If we take him down, he’s going away forever.”
“Got it.” He leaned on the truck’s horn and didn’t get off it until the car in front of them, a Prius, edged off to the right, and the woman in the driver’s seat gave them the finger as they went by.
“At least another mile,” Virgil said. His phone rang: Weaver.
“You there yet?” Weaver asked.
“Couple more minutes, at least.”
“Okay, I called the Miami office, they’ve got links to everyone. There’s a street . . . 42nd Avenue . . .”
“We see it on the map.”
“Okay. There’ll be a cop car sitting at the intersection of 42nd and Curtiss, he’ll have his flashers on. He’ll take you around to wherever it is that you need to go.”
“Great, thanks, man.”
“I’ve been looking at the other Miami airports, I think you’ve got the best chance—that’s the closest general aviation airport to Broward, in Miami-Dade. Get him.”
“We’re there . . . well, almost,” Hamm said. He edged through a red light and they were moving fast again, came up to 42nd, made the turn north into the airport.
A block up the street, they saw the flashing lights of a cop car.
“Here we go,” Virgil said.
* * *
When they pulled up to the cop car, a heavyset flatfoot got out, chewing on a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. “You guys are looking for somebody at the airport?” he asked, still chewing.
“He could be flying out of here in a private plane, a twin-engine plane, would have been in the last little while, we don’t know where to go, who to ask,” Virgil