this aircrew with fifteen or sixteen years, all of them at Air Station Mobile.
“Ever been on one before?” Kesnick asked no one in particular. “Like a floating condo. Pretty sweet.” He adjusted and worked the cables that would lower Bailey down.
Wilson slid back his flight helmet’s visor and turned to look at Bailey. He waited for her eyes before he said, “I don’t like this. Dispatch claims six on board. We can’t rouse anyone and I sure as hell don’t see anyone.”
The last time Maggie had been on board with this crew the men had all but ignored Bailey. Sometime during a nasty rescue flight in the vicious outer bands of Hurricane Isaac, Maggie had watched this same aircrew go from calling Liz Bailey “the rescue swimmer” to “our rescue swimmer.” She was glad to see the attitude had stuck.
From what Maggie knew there had been no distress call from the boat. That was one of the reasons the Senator had gone into full panic mode. And Wilson was right. Maggie couldn’t see anyone down below. Empty loungers and a putting green that looked the size of a postage stamp occupied the upper deck. The lower couldn’t be seen from above, but if anyone was on board and the radio was out, they’d be coming out into view, at least to take a look at the noise above.
Instead, the houseboat thrashed around as waves pummeled against its sides. It made no attempt to escape or retreat. Maggie was definitely no expert but she couldn’t help wondering if the engines had been turned off and the steering house abandoned. Interior lights could be seen, but may have been automatically powered on by the darkening sky.
“It’s your call, Bailey,” Wilson finally said. “What say you?”
Chapter 3
R.J. TULLY THOUGHT HE HAD THE EASY part of this assignment until he met Senator Ellie Delanor-Ramos.
She had asked to meet him in the parking lot under Pensacola Beach’s famous beach ball water tower. Most of the spaces were empty. Still, he chose a corner closest to the water. He had seen the junior Senator from Florida in newspaper photos and on television news. She had become an outspoken proponent for immigration reform though pundits were always quick to point out that her own ancestry traced back to the Mayflower. She was hardly the poster child for such an endeavor and even her physical presence seemed to highlight that fact.
A strikingly beautiful woman in her forties, her skin was creamy white, her eyes a bright blue. She wore her mane of caramel-colored hair loose and just long enough to brush her shoulders when she walked. As Tully watched her cross the parking lot, flanked by two men, he understood immediately why this woman was regarded as one of the most powerful in Washington, D.C. She carried herself not at all like the model or beauty queen that she looked, but rather a Fortune 500 CEO, one capable of shoving aside or destroying anything – or anyone – who might stand in her way.
“You must be Agent Tully,” she said with her hand outstretched to him from four feet away.
“That’s correct, Senator.” Her grip was firm, long fingers, nails painted a blood red.
“For God’s sake, call me Ellie.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Do you prefer R.J. or Agent Tully?”
“Actually, just Tully is fine.”
He glanced at the two men who accompanied her. No introductions were expected. Both men stood silent and a foot behind her. Secret service? Bodyguards? They wore dark suits and sunglasses despite the gray sky. They looked more like federal agents than Tully did.
“I missed the helicopter?” She asked an obvious question, immediately betraying her cool, calm façade.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Any news?”
It had been less than thirty minutes. And Tully was certain the Senator would be alerted of any news long before he would, just like she knew the helicopter had already left.
Instead of answering and wasting time with pleasantries, he said, “Sheriff Langley said there was someplace
“Ever been on one before?” Kesnick asked no one in particular. “Like a floating condo. Pretty sweet.” He adjusted and worked the cables that would lower Bailey down.
Wilson slid back his flight helmet’s visor and turned to look at Bailey. He waited for her eyes before he said, “I don’t like this. Dispatch claims six on board. We can’t rouse anyone and I sure as hell don’t see anyone.”
The last time Maggie had been on board with this crew the men had all but ignored Bailey. Sometime during a nasty rescue flight in the vicious outer bands of Hurricane Isaac, Maggie had watched this same aircrew go from calling Liz Bailey “the rescue swimmer” to “our rescue swimmer.” She was glad to see the attitude had stuck.
From what Maggie knew there had been no distress call from the boat. That was one of the reasons the Senator had gone into full panic mode. And Wilson was right. Maggie couldn’t see anyone down below. Empty loungers and a putting green that looked the size of a postage stamp occupied the upper deck. The lower couldn’t be seen from above, but if anyone was on board and the radio was out, they’d be coming out into view, at least to take a look at the noise above.
Instead, the houseboat thrashed around as waves pummeled against its sides. It made no attempt to escape or retreat. Maggie was definitely no expert but she couldn’t help wondering if the engines had been turned off and the steering house abandoned. Interior lights could be seen, but may have been automatically powered on by the darkening sky.
“It’s your call, Bailey,” Wilson finally said. “What say you?”
Chapter 3
R.J. TULLY THOUGHT HE HAD THE EASY part of this assignment until he met Senator Ellie Delanor-Ramos.
She had asked to meet him in the parking lot under Pensacola Beach’s famous beach ball water tower. Most of the spaces were empty. Still, he chose a corner closest to the water. He had seen the junior Senator from Florida in newspaper photos and on television news. She had become an outspoken proponent for immigration reform though pundits were always quick to point out that her own ancestry traced back to the Mayflower. She was hardly the poster child for such an endeavor and even her physical presence seemed to highlight that fact.
A strikingly beautiful woman in her forties, her skin was creamy white, her eyes a bright blue. She wore her mane of caramel-colored hair loose and just long enough to brush her shoulders when she walked. As Tully watched her cross the parking lot, flanked by two men, he understood immediately why this woman was regarded as one of the most powerful in Washington, D.C. She carried herself not at all like the model or beauty queen that she looked, but rather a Fortune 500 CEO, one capable of shoving aside or destroying anything – or anyone – who might stand in her way.
“You must be Agent Tully,” she said with her hand outstretched to him from four feet away.
“That’s correct, Senator.” Her grip was firm, long fingers, nails painted a blood red.
“For God’s sake, call me Ellie.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Do you prefer R.J. or Agent Tully?”
“Actually, just Tully is fine.”
He glanced at the two men who accompanied her. No introductions were expected. Both men stood silent and a foot behind her. Secret service? Bodyguards? They wore dark suits and sunglasses despite the gray sky. They looked more like federal agents than Tully did.
“I missed the helicopter?” She asked an obvious question, immediately betraying her cool, calm façade.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Any news?”
It had been less than thirty minutes. And Tully was certain the Senator would be alerted of any news long before he would, just like she knew the helicopter had already left.
Instead of answering and wasting time with pleasantries, he said, “Sheriff Langley said there was someplace
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