It was a calm, but humid night in South Florida as the luminous moon shone brightly amongst the starlit sky. A gentle breeze blew through scattered palms trees along a remote public use landing strip in the Everglades.   .
    At nine p.m., a twin-engine Cessna Turbo Stationair, arriving from Haiti’s Hugo Chavez International Airport touched down on the single 10,500-foot paved runway.  
    Ransom Oliver frequently used it because the airfield, built in 1968, was planned to be one of six runways that would make up the largest airport in the world. Construction essentially ceased in 1970 when environmentalist convinced the local government the operation of a major airport would bring unacceptable harm to the Everglades. But it was determined that removing the one already-built runway would cause worse environmental harm.  The single runway remained as built, but strangely isolated. 
     Subsequently, the airport was renamed the Dade-Collier Transition and Training Airport to support infrequent civil flight training by heavy airliners, US Coast Guard practice drops and general aviation IFR practice.  It was typically closed from sunset to sunrise, except for access approved by the Dade-County Aviation Department.  But with the right payoff of officials on the take, exceptions were made.  One had been arranged for the night the Haitian flight arrived.
    The Cessna taxied toward the parking ramp near the tower as the co-pilot radioed the driver of a black stretch limo to proceed to the ramp to receive four passengers.  Mob boss Ransom Oliver and his three-man entourage scurried to their transportation.
    Moments later, the four men sat in the limo with Ransom Oliver sitting on the driver’s side facing forward.  Oliver’s Haiti escort, Juan Pierre sat next to him. Joining them was his head of the local Miami syndicate, a middle-aged, well-groomed man of Cuban decent named Carlos Rendon.
    Rendon ordered the limo driver to pause momentarily so he could observe the departure of the Cessna for its return trip to Haiti.  
    As the plane gracefully made a 180 turn toward the runway, Rendon ordered the driver to bring the limo around so he could ensure the Cessna was airborne before they departed the grounds.  If anything were to go wrong, such as a surprise police arrival, the plan was for Oliver to be whisked out of the limo and onto the turbo prop plane before it raced down the runway for an abrupt escape. 
    As the Cessna’s turbo engine noise increased, the plane sped down the runway, lifted off the ground, executed a quick left bank toward the south, and ascended into the cumulus clouds. 
    Once the aircraft was out of view, Rendon nodded for the driver to pull away from the tarmac.  The driver took a quick right around the tower and drove in the direction of a wooded service road on the east side of the complex. 
    Along the road was a set of hangars and several supply warehouses on the east side of the airport complex.  The furthest warehouse from the road contained eleven crates of weapons smuggled into South Florida from the Caribbean.  It was covertly guarded by Rendon’s men around the clock.  
    A hundred meters past the buildings, the road led to the mostly unused, unguarded back gate secured with a chain and a rough service, heavy-duty padlock. 
    As the limo traveled with dimmed headlights, Rendon addressed Oliver.  “How was your stay in Haiti?”
    “I wasn’t there for a vacation,” Oliver replied. “We got done what we sat out to do.”
     The man swallowed hard.  It was late and Oliver appeared annoyed and tired. 
    Rendon knew irritability could lead to an aggressive action from the volatile leader. He took the hint and discontinued any attempt at trivial conversation.  He then snapped his fingers to gain the driver’s attention through the rear-view mirror, then pointed his thumb upward.  The driver then activated the privacy divider.
    “Need a drink, sir?” Rendon asked Oliver as he reached to open the limo’s well equipped mini-wet bar.
    “A martini, stirred,” Oliver ordered.”
     Rendon grinned and said, “We serve at your pleasure, sir.” He opened the hutch and grabbed two goblets, retrieved bottles of gin and vermouth, filled a metal shaker with two cups of cracked ice, added the liquors, gently stirred the martinis with a long spoon for forty-five seconds, then poured them both a drink.
     As they approached the back gate to the airfield, one of Oliver’s local henchmen used his key to open the padlock, remove the short chain, and swung the gate open.
    Rendon laughed and bragged, “The head of airport security sold me a copy of the gate key for a hundred-dollar and a set of racetrack tickets.  I had a dozen copies made for the whole crew.” 
    Oliver wasn’t much for giving compliments, so he shrugged it off, and asked, “Did you take care of everything as I instructed? Oliver asked Rendon. 
    As the limo exited left onto an access road leading to the main highway, the gate closed behind them.
    “Yes, sir. Twenty grand up front for six weeks of nighttime access, flight plan clearance, radar grid intelligence, airfield security and surveillance,” Rendon responded.
    Oliver declared, “We may need access up to three months. The cargo loads now will be transported in three separate shipments on two different vessels. Add having to transit thru Port-au-Prince and it’s a more complicated supply chain and longer distribution time. Find someone we can trust in the local port authority and have them come see me after we get settled.  Spare no expense on this operation.  Is that clear?” The tone of the question sounded threatening.
    “Very clear, sir.”
    As they entered the interstate, Oliver took a sip of the martini and offered, “Nice mix on the spot.  I’m impressed.”
    “Tanqueray number 10 . . . three hundred dollars a case wholesale and tax free . . . best in the business.” Rendon boasted.
    Oliver downed the rest of the goblet’s contents, took a relaxing deep breath and then asked, “So, did you find adequate digs for me?
    “We’ve found the perfect spot for your headquarters, sir. It’s an abandoned church complex on Miami’s south side.  We’ve been able to acquire it covertly for a decent price.  It’s completely off the grid.  We’re headed there now so you can check it out.” 
    Oliver leaned back on the seat for a quick catnap. He had been up since five a.m., and had met secretly with several rogue sea and airport officials in Port-au-Prince.
    Rendon grabbed his burner phone and punched in the number to Raul Acebo, another Cuban immigrant who was head of the Miami syndicate security team.  He and six of his men were standing by at The Lady of Saints Cathedral, an historic but long vacated Catholic Church complex located on the outskirts of a seedy district on Miami’s lower south side.
    After Acebo picked up, Rendon said, “Ray, this is Renny.  Boss is on his way.  We’re twenty minutes out!”
    “All clear here!” Acebo replied.
    “Rendon ended the call immediately.
    As they traveled the final three miles, Oliver briefed Rendon on his plan. “Sixty million dollars is being transported to the South National Bank for the hurricane relief effort.  My inside intelligence sources tell me they are bringing it in on an armored truck on a Sunday morning to minimize attention and encounter minimum traffic.  We will access the bank through the underground tunnel system.”
     Oliver added, “I see they’ve scrapped the old ways of delivering funds to the people.  Too many people didn’t get their money-for different reasons: identity theft, hacking into bank accounts, checks stolen from mailboxes, etc.  Radical leftists in Washington are trying to deliver relief in cash to individual state regions.  That’s where we come in, to make sure it never gets there.”
    Rendon eyebrows raised, “So you want to commandeer the shipment, Mr. Oliver?”
    “Not exactly,” he explained. “I’ve got a bigger, more efficient and covert plan in mind.  I don’t want to discuss it yet, but we’ll meet next week, and then I’ll lay out my thoughts. Getting sixty million in my possession will fund my arms distribution nicely.  We will be the biggest dealers in the Western Hemisphere. I need Sicaro in on this, for a reasonable share of the take.  I need him to get the stash out of Miami, through the Caribbean and down to Haiti to get it laundered through their system.  The setup is ready to go down there, and we have three months to finalize our plan on how we’ll get possession of the money, plus any gold bullion being held in the bank vault while we’re inside.”
    “Sicaro’s coming tonight, Mister Oliver,” Rendon said. “He should be here no later than an hour or so after you arrive.”
    “Splendid,” Oliver said as he relaxed in his seat. 
    The conversation continued until Acebo’s team observed the approaching headlights of the stretch limo and asked for verification.