Andrew Towning
Dead Men Don't Bite
Andrew Towning
Andrew had his first Jake Dillon adventure thriller, The Constantine Legacy, published in 2006. His writing is a reflection of his extensive travels and inherent interest in national security and covert operations. Andrew lives with his family in Dorset, where many of Dillon’s tours take him. Andrew is currently completing yet another in the Dillon series of adventure thrillers.
Chapter One
Dillon pulled the Jeep over to the side of the road and switched on the interior light to check his map. It was just after four-thirty in the morning, outside the temperature was still in the high seventies and uncomfortably humid. Tampa was three hundred and eighty miles back up Florida State Highway forty-one, which meant that Key Largo, must be very close now. There was a crossroad about half a mile away. Selecting drive, Dillon spun the all terrain vehicle off the dirt and back onto the tarmac in a cloud of dust. The signpost showed the small town of Homestead to be no more than a couple of miles up ahead and Key Largo ten miles further on from there. Taking a cigarette from the open packet on the passenger seat, he lit it with a solid gold lighter.
It was raining very heavily. The road stretched out before him, a fork of lightning shot out of the low cloud to his right and he selected a station on the radio listening to a little night-time jazz music, occasionally humming the tune until he came to gates on the right and slowed to read the sign. Flaking paint and years of weathering made it difficult to read, but the inscription was clear enough. Johnson’s Field. He went through the gates and followed the dirt track to the edge of the grass runway.
Switching off the lights he paused thinking what a remote sort of place this was. A couple of wooden huts to one side and a large 1940’s Nissen type hanger but no control tower although there was a wind sock of sorts and light streaming out of the partially opened hanger doorway as well as from the window of the nearest hut. He gently eased the Jeep forward and across to the far edge of the field; keeping to the blind side of the buildings, he sat there in the dark, taking stock of his surroundings for a moment and then took the Glock from the holdall on the seat next to him. He checked the black 10mm automatic and slipped it into the shoulder holster then pulled up the collar of his flying jacket as he started towards the hanger in the rain.
Johnson’s Field is a crop duster’s strip, the overwhelming smell of Avgas drifted in the damp night air across from an old hand operated bowzer. Two antiquated aeroplanes stood to one side in the old run-down hanger but the aircraft that stood on the other side in the dim light looked well enough, a Cessna Skyhawk with a single prop piston engine. A young Hispanic looking mechanic in overalls had his head inside the open cowling. The cabin door was open and another much older man with a clipboard sat in the pilot’s seat.
The man inside the cabin climbed down and the mechanic closed the engine cowling, and as they emerged the older man called. “We’re finished over here, Mr Parker.”
A tall-distinguished looking man in his late fifties emerged from an office doorway at the side of the hanger. He wore a smart charcoal grey business suit and a white shirt and dark tie loosened off around the neck. “All right, you fellas can go.” As they walked away he said to the young mechanic in Spanish, “Any problems, Fernandes?” “No problems, Senor Parker, just a little fine tuning.”
“Let’s hope, Senor, that this Englishman Dillon turns up on time or else I will have been wasting my time.”
As Parker turned, a bearded man in his mid thirties came in, the baseball cap and waterproof bomber jacket he wore beaded with rain.
“He’ll be here,” Parker told him. I’ve been reliably informed that this is one party he’ll not want to miss.”
“An English thrill seeker” the young man said with a sneer. “That’s what we’ve come down to. The kind of man who is nothing more than an adventurer.”
“Listen up sonny, if you want to go instead of the Englishman, then what are you waiting for? The plane’s over there, be my guest. But the odds of you coming back at all are pretty slim. The DA’s department is all over us on this one and boy do they want a result. Hell; I’d deal with the devil himself to get this one in the bag.”
“Which you’ll probably have to, Senor.”
“Now that’s not a very nice thing to say — is it?” Dillon called in fluent Spanish. “Not nice at all,” and he stepped out of the darkness from behind a stack of old rusty fifty-gallon pesticide drums at the rear of the hanger.
The bearded man put a hand inside his jacket, and Dillon’s gun appeared instantly. “Hands high above your head, that’s it, nice and easy now.”
Dillon walked out into the middle of the hanger and ordered the bearded man down onto his knees extracting a Smith & Weston from his right hand jacket pocket. “Well look at this, you really can’t trust anyone these days, can you? Tut — tut, didn’t your mother tell you that you can pinch your fingers in these nasty noisy things?”
Parker said, “Mr Dillon? Jake Dillon?”
“That’s what it says on my passport.” Dillon slipped the Smith & Weston into his belt, took out a packet of cigarettes from his inside pocket and managed to remove one while keeping the Glock trained on the man with the beard. “And you are?” His speech was clear with a very English public school accent.
“I’m Dan Parker of the FBI, and the man you have on his knees is Steve Rainer, head of our Miami office. He arranged the plane and just about everything else around here.”
“Did he now? Well that’s something to be said in his favour.” Dillon took the Smith & Weston from his belt and handed it back. “Perhaps, Mr Rainer here would feel far happier behind a desk. Playing with guns is a mug’s game, especially when you leave the safety on.”
The bearded man flushed deeply; took the Smith & Weston and put it back in its holster as he stood up. Parker said mildly, “Mr Rainer is far happier using a high velocity sniper’s rifle, and he is an expert shot as well as a first rate field operative. Who, I might add, has flown covertly into Cuba many times over the last three years.”
“Then why isn’t he going this time?” Dillon asked, slipping the Glock back into the shoulder holster.
“Because, I asked for you personally.” The accented feminine voice came from the hanger entrance. Only her silhouette could be seen in the powerful headlights of the vehicle that she had just stepped out of. The tall ravenhaired young woman walked slowly into the building and across to where Dillon was standing. With every confident step, her well fitting stone washed denim jeans, showed off long slender legs to full effect. “You — Mr Dillon are late,” she said in Spanish.
Parker quickly stepped forward. “Let me introduce you to Miss Catalina Romerez, Mr Dillon, our agent in Havana and your guide.”
“Is she now?” Dillon said. “So, tell me Agent Romerez, why choose me? Why not one of your own people, here in Florida or Cuba?”
“Because, Mr Dillon, I’ve been reliably informed by London that you are the best. I’ve also read your record and I must say it’s very impressive; public school education, university honours degree in psychology, and then from there into Army Intelligence where you made quite a name for yourself. Since resigning your commission you have worked covertly on many assignments both in the UK as well as overseas.”
Dillon walked over to the stack of rusty old drums, and sat on one, he didn’t interrupt or make any comment, he just let her talk.
“Speaking to Mr Levenson-Jones in London, he informs me that you have been suspended from active assignments with his department indefinitely, and that your employers Ferran & Cardini have been advised by the British Secret Service to terminate your contract with immediate effect.” The twenty nine year old agent, with the pussycat like eyes, paced slowly around the hanger in a large circle while she demonstrated that she had done her homework. “I would have thought, Mr Dillon. As it was that unfortunate incident in Dorset which caused your present predicament, that this unofficial assignment would be just the kind of opportunity you’d be looking for? You also know Harry Caplin; what he looks like, how he operates and in particular his weaknesses. In fact I believe it was you, whom he, what is it you say in England? Ah yes, led up the garden path. Is that not correct?”