Out of Luck

by Kendall Talbot

  She nodded and flicked a wad of hair over her shoulder. “Si. Trabajé en el bar.”

  Daylin had worked the bar at the social club, and after a few fruitless questions about Charlene, about whom she claimed to have no knowledge, he changed tack and asked if anything unusual had happened. He’d hit pay dirt. Apparently, a young American woman had stolen one of the pictures off the wall. Despite Daylin’s obvious disapproval of the American’s actions, the incident was music to his ears.

  Five minutes later, he’d learned that the bar supervisor had left with the woman. But even with that knowledge, he still had nothing other than the supervisor’s name.

  Daylin had no idea where the supervisor lived nor how Marshall could contact her.

  Chapter 18

  The first sign of daybreak came with a series of shouts that had Charlene jumping to her feet and searching the derelict building around her. The remains of the Hershey factory looked even worse in the mushrooming daylight. She’d spent the night dozing in and out while huddled between the front brick fence and a pile of rubble. She stepped around the loose bricks and walked into a large central courtyard that’d once been laid with rust-colored pavers. The large expanse was dotted with overgrown weeds, both alive and dead, and bits of the crumbling building. The courtyard was surrounded by dilapidated buildings that jutted up from the ground like broken molars.

  On the right-hand side stood the remains of a building that stretched the length of the area. The brick walls had crumbled away, and what was left was just a rusted skeleton of broken girders and fallen beams. Barely a third of the original construction was still standing.

  To her left was an equally large building. This one at least had a front façade; however, it had no roof, and the windows were either shattered or missing altogether. The sign over the door said: Welcome to Hershey Town, the sweetest place on earth. Above that, Est. 1916, was carved into the brick. Over a hundred years old. She glanced through the gap where the doors had once been, and based on what she saw—broken glass-topped counters and empty shelving—she imagined it was once a shop selling everything Hershey.

  Shouting cut through the silence, and crouching down, she searched for the source of the voices. She stared in amazement when lights came on in the distant building. They weren’t direct lights, but more a dim glow emanating from somewhere inside. It was impossible to believe people lived in there. She’d spent the entire night grappling with a serious bout of failure. Sometime during the early hours, she’d decided that Kamila had deceived her. Just like the taxi driver.

  But now, as she watched a few more lights flicker on, she became hopeful that Kamila did actually have good intentions. Charlene dusted off her backside, straightened her dress, clutched her bag and her cane and stepped across the broken pavers toward the building. The only sound was her feet crunching on dead weeds and a blackbird that made a noise like it was crying.

  Her brain fought simultaneous urges to run away and keep moving forward. Each step came with a forced affirmation.

  Step… I have to do this.

  Step… nobody will do it for me.

  Step… if I don’t do this, I’ll be forever wondering who Peter was.

  Step… if I don’t get answers, I may never find out who I am.

  The bird’s mournful tune sent shivers up her spine, and she gripped the cane tighter. A glint of light shimmering off a broken upper window confirmed that the sun had pierced the horizon.

  The building at the end of the central courtyard had once been a grand Georgian construction, with giant pillars marking the entrance. Its front façade had survived the decades, but a long-dead vine was the only thing holding the peeling paint in place. Crumbling plaster humped in chalky piles at the base of the front wall, and the only remains of the windows were dangling frames. The far right of the building had a huge chunk missing, as though a giant monster had taken a bite out of it. The lights, however, were at the opposite end, and they appeared to be in the back.

  A yellowed sign on a building signaled the entrance to the Hershey museum and restaurant. It didn’t seem possible that someone lived in the building; yet the lights indicated otherwise.

  Two huge doors marked the entrance. Both were bare of paint, and the original wood was splintered and cracked. What was left of the handles were just four holes in each door. Charlene stepped through the gap and paused at what was obviously once the foyer of a very grand building.

  A large, two-story, open-air void marked the entrance. Remarkably, this building still had its roof. The marble floor was covered in all manner of debris, and two grand sets of marble stairs curled up either side to what was once another level. But that level had crumbled to the floor below, so the stairs went nowhere. A small amount of graffiti dotted the walls, including a couple of very accomplished line drawings of a man with shaggy hair, a thin mustache, and a beret with a star in the middle.

  Between the two sets of stairs was a burnt-out car with no tires. The hairs on Charlene’s neck bristled as she contemplated its existence. A tangle of vines had taken over the far wall, smothering it in a field of green and brown. Among the foliage, a flock of birds flitted back and forth.

  A man’s shout had the birds taking flight and Charlene racing for cover behind the charred wreck. The noise was gone before she ducked behind the rusted trunk. She remained there for an eternity.

  Waiting for her pounding heart to settle.

  Waiting for another sign of human existence.

  Waiting for courage to return to her limbs.

  Water dripped somewhere, and the echoing sound created a creepy heartbeat for the soulless surroundings.

  With each passing minute, the darkness that’d draped the walls in a morbid tapestry faded, allowing Charlene to see more of her surroundings. Peter had taught her to look for idiosyncrasies when she walked into a room. What or who was the odd man out?

  She eased up from behind the rusted carcass and examined the foyer. At first, she saw nothing, but soon tiny aspects began to stand out. A faint path that wove through the debris on the floor. Cigarette butts dotted about on that debris. Candy wrappers and Coke cans.

  And then she saw the bullet holes in the mottled plaster walls.

  Charlene didn’t think. She just clutched her bag across her chest, gripped her cane, and bolted toward the front doors. Her pretty sandals slipped out from under her, and she fell full force onto her backside. She hadn’t meant to scream; it’d been involuntary. But it was too late. Her scream was matched with shouts coming from somewhere inside the building.

  She launched to her feet, and her heart was in her throat as she aimed for the door. The more she ran, the more the shouts increased, and she imagined crosshairs aiming at her back. Her sandals were no match for the jagged pavers, slowing down her usual sprinting pace.

  “¡Detente!”

  “¡Detente!”

  The voices behind her were loud and angry, but she didn’t stop. More shouts joined the first, and she pictured twenty men chasing after her. The loudest sound she’d ever heard boomed from behind her, and when a hole punched into the brick fence ahead of her, she fell to her knees. Her heart invaded her throat, and she shot her hands up, still gripping the cane. “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, praying this wasn’t the end.

  Feet pounded behind her.

  A shove to her back sent her tumbling face-first to the pavement. A brick carved a slice out of her cheek, and her only weapon was torn from her grip. “Por favor, don’t hurt me. Por favor.”

  She stayed on the ground, her face downward, and the men kept their distance. They spoke over each other, and there didn’t seem to be a clear leader among them. For some reason, that gave her hope, as did the fact that they hadn’t shot her already.

  None of them spoke English, yet their tone indicated confusion rather than anger. After
a couple of thumping heartbeats in which they didn’t shoot her, she turned her head to the side. Her breath caught at the sight of the first man. He was dressed exactly as the men in her childhood nightmares. Khaki-green uniform, shin-high boots, and a long weapon. If that wasn’t enough, the gun was pointed directly at her.

  “Por favor. Help me, please. Por favor.”

  There was a moment’s silence in which the crying bird was the only sound. Then before she knew it, Charlene was dragged to her feet. The adrenaline that’d coursed through her body just moments ago was completely gone. Her legs had become Jell-O. Her captors’ grip on her biceps was the only thing keeping her upright as they dragged her back into the dilapidated Hershey museum.

  Charlene had seen many soldiers in her time. If these guys were soldiers, then they were light on both training and health. They were gaunt and disorganized. They had missing teeth, dirty hands, and bad body odor. She spied gaffer tape on the weapon held by the man to her left, and the man on her right was missing an eye. Besides the two holding her, she counted another five. But that was just the ones in front of her; she had no idea how many were behind.

  “Por favor, do you speak English? I need help.”

  None of them spoke. Instead she was manhandled through the foyer, over a threshold, and into a long corridor dotted with doors that’d seen better days. The corridor offered little light, but they were heading toward a glow at the end. Her heart pounded out a frightful beat with each yard of debris she was carried over.

  They had trouble working out how to get her through the final door and opted to shove her forward. She fell to her hands and knees at the boots of a man who was standing with his feet planted shoulder width apart.

  Charlene pushed back to look up at him and knew instantly she was looking at their leader. With his chiseled jaw, crooked nose, and black eyes that glared with hate, he commanded attention. Where the other men looked to be starving, this guy looked like he always took his share first.

  Charlene snapped her hands over her head. “Por favor, don’t hurt me.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Oh, you speak English, thank God.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Charlene Bailey. Are you Diego?”

  The muscles along his jaw line clenched, but he didn’t reply.

  “I need to talk to Diego about my father, Peter, I mean Pueblo García. Here, I have a picture.” She reached for her bag, and the men shouted and lunged with their weapons.

  She gasped and snapped her arms up. “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot. I have a photo. Por favor.” Sweat trickled down her back.

  The leader did a little head shuffle, and the men backed off.

  Charlene plucked the photo from her bag and unfolded it. “Here. This is Pueblo García. Do you know him?”

  A flicker of recognition crossed his eyes. He snatched the photo, stared at it for three seconds, then burst out laughing. The remaining men laughed too, and when he said something to them in Spanish, their laughter increased a notch.

  Charlene had played this moment in her head a dozen times, but not once had she considered this reaction.

  “This man your father?” He pointed at the photo.

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “Si. Si. Come, we will talk.” He offered her his hand to help her up, but declining his grasp, she climbed to her feet and dusted off her hands.

  “I apologize for my men. They are, how do you say… eager.”

  She scanned the faces of the seven other men around her. They didn’t look eager; they looked more exhausted than anything. “It’s okay. It was my fault. I was trespassing.”

  He eyes flared. “Si. You were.” He burst out laughing again, and Charlene had no idea why. She used the moment to dust off her dress and scan the room. It looked like some kind of headquarters—in the crudest form. Maps and spreadsheets scrawled with numbers were pinned to one of the walls. Another wall was pockmarked with bullet holes, which Charlene decided was damn stupid considering the fragile state of the building. Along another wall, a couple of decrepit sofas with stained purple jacquard fabric faced each other; a coffee table loaded with empty beer bottles was nestled between them.

  In each of the corners, wooden crates were stacked to the ceiling, and in the middle of the room was a large metal table surrounded by ten chairs. Half-eaten bowls of food topped the table. This wasn’t the kitchen, though, so she wondered if there were more people in the building.

  “Please, sit. Are you hungry?”

  “No, thank you.” She lied. She was starving, but she didn’t want to waste any more time. Her mind flashed to Marshall. She was already well past her scheduled meeting time. He’d told her about two men who’d missed their rendezvous and how he’d returned to get them the following night. Her only hope was that he’d do the same for her. “May I have my cane back, please?” She nodded at her only weapon.

  “Si.” He turned to one of the men, barking an order at him, and he stepped forward to give it to her.

  “Please, sit.” The leader tugged a chair at the head of the table, angling it away from the table.

  Charlene accepted the offer, and the instant she did, her body seemed to melt. Exhaustion crept in, liquefying her limbs, but she had to fight it. This was far from over.

  Although the leader was being friendly, the remaining men peered at her like she was an armed alien, and not one of them had let go of his weapon. The man pulled out a chair, sat opposite her, and her stomach churned at the slow, creepy grin curling his lips. “Are you Diego?”

  His hand went to his chest. “My apology. Si, I am Diego Álvarez. You have heard of me, yes?” His dark eyes seemed to twinkle.

  “No. I’m sorry, I umm…” Charlene was about to say that she had only arrived in Cuba last night but quickly snapped that admission from her tongue. “Can you tell me how you know Pueblo?”

  “No, you first. How do you know Pueblo?” He plucked a tiny stick off the table and used it to rub his front tooth.

  “Oh, well, he was my father.”

  “Was?” Diego cocked his head.

  “Yes, he, umm, he died a couple of months ago.”

  He turned to his men and rattled off a series of sentences that had them all laughing. Her insides curled with disgust as she watched them cackle. “What’s so funny?” she demanded.

  “Peter was with us.” He glared at her, obviously keen for her reaction.

  She swallowed, unsure how to answer. After seeing these men, their uniforms, their weapons, she had no doubt that Peter had once worked for him. But acknowledging that would make her look like a fool who’d deliberately walked into the enemy’s lair. She didn’t mind them thinking she was a fool, as it might come in handy later, but she decided it would be better to look naïve. “No. I didn’t know that. He never told me.”

  “Do you know your mother?”

  A gasp left her throat. “No, do you?”

  His creepy smile strengthened. “Her name was Benita Álvarez. She my sister.”

  Charlene’s jaw dropped. “How do you know she’s my mother?”

  “You look exactly like her. When you walked in door, I thought I seeing ghost.”

  “Oh my God. Really? Are you certain?”

  He shoved back on his chair, scraping the metal legs over the concrete. “Come, I show you something.”

  “Oh my God. I can’t believe this. I’ve been dreaming of this day for years.”

  “Me too.” He smiled at her, but his smile didn’t reflect the same elation she was feeling. His smirk had tendrils of dread inching up her spine, and she had no idea why. He’d just declared himself as her uncle. As far as she knew, he was the only family she had. Charlene should be over the moon. But there was something about Diego and his men that wasn’t right.

  The other men were all weedy little rats
, simply following their leader. She knew she could outfight them. Outrun them too. But Diego was the problem. His sinister intelligence bristled just below his skin.

  He paused at the door and indicated for her to go ahead. “You first.”

  Clutching the cane, she stepped ahead of him and walked along the hall. The corridor wasn’t the same one she’d traveled earlier, yet it had a similar feel, with dilapidated doors and a dim glow at the end. The urge to run toward that glow was powerful, but not as powerful as the desire to know exactly what was going on.

  “In here,” Diego announced behind her, and she stopped to turn around.

  He opened a door and stepped through. She followed him, and the second she did, he gripped her arm. “Hey! Let go.”

  He drew her closer; his bloodshot eyes were wild, and she heaved at his rotten breath. “You should not have come back, Claudia.”

  Diego dragged her toward a large hole in the floor. She planted her feet and whipped the cane around fast and hard. It hit him square in the nose. His head snapped back, and blood burst onto his lips and chin. But his grip remained. She clawed at his face and put all her energy into reversing his direction.

  But it was pointless.

  Charlene screamed as he tossed her into the hole.

  Chapter 19

  Noah glared at the defense lawyer across the room, his animosity brimming to a boiling point at the smug look on Ledbetter’s face. Ledbetter had been wearing it all morning, and that had the hairs on Noah’s neck bristling. Normally by now the defense was a quivering mess. Not Randall Ledbetter. His unprecedented cockiness meant Ledbetter had something up his sleeve. Something that the defense obviously considered to be a bombshell. And that was an experience Noah was not accustomed to.

  Yet as much as he dreaded what his opponent was up to, he also welcomed it.

  Noah loved a challenge. And the tougher the better. He was born for this.

  The judge adjusted the glasses teetering at the end of his bulbous nose and glanced over the top of the rim at Ledbetter. “Please, call your next witness, Mr. Ledbetter.”