by Joe Gazzam
I slid myself into a sitting position, shading my eyes with my hand. The sun blazed so hot it reduced shadows to mere spots of ink, and the ocean air carried the scent of magnolias as foamy waves tumbled onto the quiet beach. But I didn’t have time to enjoy the view.
I nudged Mitch in the side. After a couple of loud moans, he finally propped himself on his elbows and scanned the sunlit sand with nervous eyes.
“You okay?” I asked, removing my tennies and peeling off sand-caked socks. I shook them clean, then quickly put them back on.
“Yeah,” Mitch mumbled, doing the same.
The wet-bag from the boat sat half-buried at my side. I opened it, grabbed the gun, and racked the chamber several times, checking that it was dry and free of grit.
“Come on,” I said, getting to my feet. I tucked the gun into the back of my shorts and tossed Mitch his wallet and phone. “Got to keep moving.”
“Wait,” Mitch stopped me. “Shouldn’t we ditch this?” He held up his cell. “What if they trace it? Follow us here?”
I sputtered out a laugh and looked back at him. “Don’t count on it. If they were willing to get their hands dirty and come to Cuba, they wouldn’t need people like Dad. And even if they did come...let ’em. We need all the backup we can get.”
I brushed off my shorts as best I could, and ambled onto the main street with Mitch close behind. As I hit a large crosswalk, I finally got a look at the city of Havana. It was a living, breathing dichotomy, partially frozen in the past with horse-drawn carriages and crumbling colonial buildings. Yet, at the same time, a modern marvel with art deco architecture that rivaled Los Angeles and New York.
I paused, thinking through the next part of my plan. We needed cash and possibly a vehicle. I looked around, trying to decipher which direction would lead me to a slum, and then motioned to Mitch. “This way.”
Within the next few blocks, the scenery grew shockingly seedy. I took a hard right and headed down a pothole-strewn street. The surroundings in this part of town looked more like war-torn Beirut with burnt cars and heaps of trash collected in corners. An entire meal—box, plastic fork, cup—sat on a curb, abandoned by the eater.
We passed a pair of drugged-out men who sat on the curb and stared out at the traffic, each of them transfixed as if watching TV. Their yellowed, blood-shot eyes followed us as we turned another corner.
The heat was thick and heavy. My whole body suddenly felt wet. I shook my shirt and wiped a stream of sweat off my forehead. It dripped onto the parched street dust before instantly evaporating.
“How’s your Spanish?” I asked Mitch.
“Took three years, two of them were AP.”
“Good.” I nodded. “Most people speak English here, but we might need it at some point.”
We passed a long row of broken-down, three-story stone town houses, transformed at some point by the Revolution into a colorful backdrop of ruin and decay. Large, marble colonnades were refaced with whatever color was available—green, red, bright yellow. It was a beautiful, yet tragic kaleidoscope.
A small bus station sat to our right. It was a run-down sad affair, like most of the nearby structures. The terminal was surrounded by a bundle of ramshackle booths fashioned from tarps and cast-off wood, a foul tent city with vendors pushing questionable food and second-hand clothing. An ancient Greyhound bus staggered into the lumpy parking lot, its tired air brakes hissed in protest as it stopped and disgorged a few elderly passengers, but none of them matched the personality type I was looking for. I needed someone who carried lots of cash, which meant we had to look someplace more secluded.
The bus’s rusting, graffiti-covered shell shuddered in time with the engine, and after its doors squeaked shut, it rolled on down the road.
Up ahead I spotted an open weed-choked lot full of decaying junk and started in that direction.
“What are we doing here? Shouldn’t we be heading to the coordinates?” Mitch asked, his head on a swivel. “I thought we were going to try and find Dad’s contact.”
“We are.”
The lot was scattered with bundles of randomly strung wire, bald tires in ditches, and old refrigerators that lay dead on their backs. On the other side stood a row of apartments with yellowed cloth curtains that billowed from windows. On each balcony old men chewed on blunt cigars, comatose in canvas chairs. Their tan bellies winked from open shirts and their beer cans sparkled in the sun.
“The coordinates are at the beach, not this dump.”
“We need to pick up a few things first,” I said, my eyes scanning the alleyways for lone, sketchy-looking men.
“Things? Could you be a little more specific?”
I glanced back at Mitch, knowing he’d completely flip over my plan.
“No.”
Before he could respond, I pulled him behind a row of rusting metal barrels and ducked into a crouching position.
“Stay here,” I said, pulling the gun from the back of my shorts.
I peered between the barrels and caught sight of the guy I had my eye on. Hopefully, he’d had a good day. I checked the clip for bullets and slammed it back in, then chambered a round. The click and snap of the gun got Mitch’s attention.
“Wait,” he stopped me. “Why do you need that?”
“Look, I can’t have you questioning everything I’m doing. I’m here to get Dad, no matter what it takes. Trust me, or go find a hotel and let me do my thing.”
Mitch’s nervous eyes danced back and forth between me and the gun.
I sighed heavily and wiped my damp forehead. If this were any other operation I’d include him, we’d discuss a plan. “Fine.” I nodded toward the shady-looking man a block ahead. “One block up, left side. See that guy? He’s a dealer, probably meth.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We might have to bribe Dad’s contact, and dealers have cash.”
“So, what? You’re going to rob him?” Mitch scoffed, laughing at the absurd idea.
I didn’t smile. “That sweet, kindly drug dealer? Uh, yeah.” I tucked the gun back into my shorts. “He’s gonna take me into that alley. I’ll ask to buy whatever he’s selling—”
“Hold on—”
“If I’m not back in ten minutes...” I shook my head. “I’ll be back.”
I took off before Mitch could say anything else. As I got closer, I could make the man out more clearly. He was tall with a shaved head and the shiny coating of someone on too many pills. The dealer finished a cigarette in one aggressive pull, stomped it out and leaned against a wall with a faded mural of a skeleton dressed like Uncle Sam, holding a knife. Under it read: “No Imperialismo.”
I slowed as I approached, and the tall man nodded, lifting an eyebrow.
“Do you speak English?” I asked.
The dealer smiled, revealing a mouth full of chipped, stained teeth. “Of course, beautiful girl.”
Five years ago, a guy like this would have made me nervous, but carrying a gun and knowing how to use it builds confidence.
“Uh, what do you have?” I asked, acting naïve and tucking my hair behind my ear.
“Anythin’ you need.” The dealer’s pupils jittered back and forth like he was following a hummingbird. “Not here. Police. Follow me.”
“Okay.” I kept my eyes wide and innocent, trying to seem unsure. “Just not too far.”
The dealer led me down a trash-strewn alley. He finally stopped and pulled out a tiny bag with a tinfoil ball inside. “Bueno rock, eh?”
I reached for the bag but the dealer pulled it away. As his arm lifted, I saw the black handle of a gun hidden under his coat.
“That’s fifty, American dollars...but hay otro ways if no money.”
He moved closer and ran a rough hand with dirty fingernails down my bare arm.
God, I wanted to punch him in the face so badly, but his gun meant I had to be more careful. The dealer moved in, his stained teeth and old-sock smell made me want to gag. I pulled away, and his lip curled into an angr
y snarl. Screw it, I thought. My fist connected with his nose in a quick pop.
“Puta Madre!” he shouted.
Blood gushed from his nostrils, and he instinctively covered his face with his hands. My opportunity. I reached behind my back for the gun, but someone else caught my arm before I lifted my shirt.
“Estas loca, pretty girl?” the other man breathed as he wrapped my neck in a chokehold.
I pressed my chin into the thick crook of his elbow and struggled to break free. The dealer’s friend was big, but a quick heel to the nuts and an elbow in the gut...
It was a good plan, until I had a Glock pointed at my head.
The dealer’s eyebrow twitched and he ground his teeth back and forth. “You wanna play, little mama?” He dragged the tip of his gun along the side of my cheek, wiping blood from his lips.
Just as I was about to spit in his face, the dealer’s head suddenly jerked sideways like someone had removed his spine. He dropped to the ground in a crumpled heap, leaving Mitch standing behind him with a brick in his hand.
The surprise was enough of a distraction that I was finally able to heel-kick my attacker in the balls, slide the dealer’s gun away with my foot, and draw my own from the waist of my shorts.
“I thought I told you to stay put,” I scolded Mitch as I held the big guy at gun point.
Mitch kept his eyes on the knocked-out drug dealer. “Or, how about ‘thanks for saving my life’?”
“Hey! You,” I ignored Mitch and focused on the dealer’s friend. “Money and keys.”
For the first time, I got a good look at the guy’s face. He wasn’t as strong as he was fat. His entire demeanor changed now that the gun was on him, his brown eyes were large with fear and the rest of his face sagged like a pouting bulldog.
He stared back at me and shook his head over and over.
“Oh, don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m saying. Keeeys! Moooneeey!”
“Tus llaves y dinero,” Mitch translated.
While the fat man dug in his pockets, pulling out loose change, I rifled through the dealer’s, finding a roll of money wrapped in a rubber band and a set of car keys with a Cadillac emblem on the chain.
“Ask him where the car is,” I said to Mitch as I snatched up the extra gun and stuck it in my shorts.
“Dónde está el carro? Qué color es?” Mitch asked.
I dangled the keys at the fat man.
He pointed, his voice whiney with panic. “En la calle de allá. El azul.”
“Got it?” I asked Mitch, keeping my gun trained on the two Cubans.
He nodded. “Let’s go.”
I walked the first few paces backwards, just to be sure they wouldn’t try to follow us.
“Son of a...” Mitch said, rubbing his face once we were far enough away. “That was intense.”
“I told you. I’m gonna do my thing,” I said, looking over my shoulder. Luckily, there was no sign of the men. “If you can’t handle it, get a hotel.”
Mitch followed quick at my heels. “Can’t handle it? I saved your life!”
“I was fine,” I said, secretly a little embarrassed that my nerd-boy baby brother had come to my rescue. “But thank you.” Chances were, I’d have gotten myself out of the situation, but I had to admit, it was nice to have backup.
“You’re welcome.” He nodded, a smug grin creeping into his cheeks.
I rolled my eyes at him. “Don’t get cocky.”
The two of us walked in silence, scanning the street for a blue Cadillac to match the keys. Sure enough, the whiney bulldog was telling the truth. I stopped next to a classic ’55, tried the key, and pop. The door unlocked. Hiding the second gun against my leg I looked back one last time. “Get in.”
Mitch obeyed without question and I fired up the car, hiding both guns under the old gray bench seat. It was ripped and worn down to the yellow foam stuffing, but the body of the vehicle was what mattered. It was the perfect camouflage. As I drove forward, it completely blended in with the other “Yank tanks” that roamed the streets.
The classic American autos seemed to be what most of the locals drove in Cuba. I remembered Vince telling me about how back in the sixties, the U.S. started an embargo against Cuba, cutting trade between the two countries. So almost all the cars around here were classics. I watched as a line of Yank tanks passed in front of us like an antique car parade.
“Got your phone?” I asked Mitch as I piloted down a large, traffic-choked road. The roads here were in horrible shape, cracked and pitted. The mere act of driving felt like rearranging my skeleton.
He nodded, pulling out his iPhone. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“To the beach,” I answered. “You wanted to go to the beach, right? Do you remember the coordinates of Dad’s contact?”
“Does E equal MC squared?”
I laughed. “Careful, your nerd brain is showing.”
“Shut up.”
Mitch placed the phone on the dash and I followed the navigation, my heart beating faster. The dealer holdup was necessary, but we were running out of time. I pressed harder on the accelerator, urging the car in front of me to speed up.
“You know,” Mitch said, leaning back. “You really do owe me one.”
I held back my smile. I’d never hear the end of the one time Mitch saved my life. “I told you. I had it—”
“Wait,” he interrupted. “Shouldn’t I have one of the guns?”
“Just slow down, Mr. Calculus. Just because you hit a guy with a brick doesn’t mean I trust you with a gun.”
“What if we run into trouble again?” he argued.
I imagined Mitch with a weapon, fumbling with it and accidentally shooting me in the leg.
“Practice making mean faces?”
CHAPTER TEN
THE COAST OF CUBA WAS an endorphin-releasing dreamscape. Clear water and sandy beaches provided an oasis for flocks of tan, beautiful locals. Flashes of coffee-colored skin, strong white teeth and long, smooth legs blurred past. A stark contrast to the rotting barrios we’d just left, everything here was shiny and new. Vendor stands lined the entire strand. Some peddled food and drink; others sold activities such as guided snorkeling, base-jumping, zip lines, and parasailing.
I clutched Mitch’s cell phone in my hand, following the beacon to the exact destination. “This is the location of the coordinates, but GPS on cell phones aren’t exact. I’d say we’re looking at a radius of a few hundred yards give or take. Do you remember what the contact looked like?” I asked, recalling the image of a handsome face with dark eyelashes and large lips.
Mitch nodded. “Yeah. Young and tan. Pretty much like every guy on the beach here.”
I waved an arm at the line of vendors. “He should be in one of these huts. Ideally, you want to meet your contact at a stationary location.”
“There’s a lot of beach and a ton of huts. Should we split up?”
I hesitated. We weren’t in any imminent danger, but still, the idea of letting Mitch out of my sight made me nervous.
“We could scan the beach in half the time,” he added.
“Okay,” I agreed, handing back his phone. “Call me if you spot him. And be careful.”
As Mitch headed in the opposite direction, I fanned the back of my neck with my hand. The heat and humidity made it feel like I was walking underwater. I looked down. Although I could use a change of clothes, I appreciated the fact that I wasn’t in full military gear while slugging through this particular stretch of hot sand. Thankfully, I was still wearing the cut-off jean shorts I’d slipped on yesterday at the house. The memory of painting the office felt like so long ago.
Dad’s only been missing for one day, two at the most, I reminded myself. Please be alive.
Sweat began to soak through the front of my shirt as I searched the beach. I flipped the bottom of my tank top up, then down through the neckline and pulled it tight.
Feeling a little cooler, I continued down the coast, my eyes ticking
along every vendor shack. After my second pass to the end of the line and back, I spotted him. The contact from Dad’s digital dossier stood beneath the grassy roof right in front of me.
I sat down on someone’s empty beach chair and decided to watch him for a moment. He was clean shaven, but his hair still hung around his cheeks like it did in the picture. He was striking up close, his skin shockingly smooth and the color so evenly tan it almost glowed. Instant annoyance washed over me. In my experience, overly attractive guys were either jerks or idiots. Or both. And I didn’t have time to deal with either.
I scanned the beach for Mitch, but didn’t see him. As I looked back, I noticed Dad’s contact staring. Immediately I turned away. Could he possibly recognize me?
That didn’t make sense. Dad would never have compromised us.
I looked back, just to be sure.
He smiled and gave me a slight nod, but I didn’t see any recognition in his eyes. He probably just saw a lost girl alone on the beach. Easy target. Guys like him were always trying to get laid.
I reached for my cell, ready to get this over with. After several rings, the sound of Mitch’s voice came as an instant relief.
“I found him,” I said. “About two hundred yards west of where we started. I’ll wait ’til you get here.”
I leaned back in the beach chair as I waited, letting the sun work its magic on my pale arms and legs. My eyes drifted to the water, but I was acutely aware of everything happening in and around the hut. I managed to catch his name, Andy, as a few teenage girls wandered by and giggled something to him in Spanish.
The stand where he worked sold excursions. From what I could tell, they were essentially guided packages such as scuba tours, zip line outings, and the like. As I waited, the two of us exchanged a couple of glances, and I decided it wouldn’t hurt to shoot him a smile. Flirtation might be a good angle to get him alone.
Just as I was about to give up on waiting for Mitch and head over, a local scumbag with a grown-out Mohawk and copious tattoos slid in front of the excursion shack.
