by Tripp Ellis
Cabs were easy to find. They were mostly classic American cars from the ‘50s, painted in vibrant colors. I hopped into a sea-foam green ’57 Chevy. The driver spoke English. I told him I wanted to go to Old Havana. We negotiated the fee upfront—always a good idea.
He smiled and mashed his foot to the floor. The engine rumbled, and the car zipped through the old world.
41
Founded by the Spanish in 1519, Old Havana served as a waypoint for the treasure bearing Spanish Galleons. I couldn't help but think of Jack, and his quest to find the lost treasure of Jacques De La Fontaine. I hoped that he would return to the hunt soon.
The city was like stepping into a time capsule. The architecture was a mix of Spanish Colonial, French, and Baroque. Many buildings were painted in vibrant hues of yellow, teal, and pink. This was the Havana meant to be seen by tourists. It was very different from the real Cuba that suffered more than half a century under an oppressive regime. This was the Havana that was broadcast to the world as a tourist destination by social media mavens and travel bloggers.
The Hotel Castillo was located at the edge of Old Havana near Parque Central. It had convenient access to the tourist sites. As one of the oldest hotels in Havana, it was full of history. The long list of famous guests was staggering. Though dated, and a bit run down, the colonial-style hotel had its charm—a street-side colonnade, high vaulted ceilings in the lobby, working elevators, air conditioning, and a complimentary breakfast that was out of this world. The three-story building had a rooftop pool and bar. Salsa music started at 9 PM and played throughout the night. The price was decent, the staff was friendly, and the food was good. Stepping into the lobby was like stepping onto the set of a movie from the 1950s.
I glanced around, scanning for my target. The lobby was filled with tourists from all over the world, though there weren't many Americans these days since the restrictions on travel had been reinstated.
The front desk didn’t have a record of Gardner’s stay. He had probably checked in under an assumed name. I took a seat in the lobby and watched the flow of visitors coming and going. I knew if I sat in the lobby long enough, I’d see my prey. Despite hotel records, I knew Gardner was somewhere in this hotel. Isabella had confirmed it with the cellular data from his burner phone.
Within 15 minutes, Gardner had stepped off the elevator and strolled toward the restaurant for breakfast.
My heart pounded with anticipation.
I waited for another 30 minutes as he ate.
When he emerged from the restaurant, I followed him to the elevator bank as he returned to his room.
"Could you hold the door?" I shouted, slipping into the elevator before it slid shut.
Gardner pressed floor number three, and the button lit up.
"What floor?" he asked.
“Three,” I said.
We rode up in silence for a moment.
"Such a great hotel, isn't it?" I said.
Gardner flashed a courteous smile. "It is. My favorite in all of Havana."
The bell dinged, and the elevator doors slid open. We stepped into the hallway. Gardner went one way, I went the other. I walked slowly toward the end of the hall, pretending to fumble for my keys.
I heard Gardner's keys jingle, and I looked back over my shoulder to see him entering suite #305. He closed and latched the door behind him.
I plotted my next move.
I jogged down the hall and stood outside of Gardner's suite. I used an infrared attachment on my phone to get a view inside the room. An orange and red blob appeared on the screen. The darker areas appeared in tones of blue and violet. Gardner stepped into the bathroom and took a seat. The coffee had done its work.
The elevator bell rang again.
A couple stepped off the lift and strolled down the hallway, talking about their plans for the day, speaking in German.
I tried to act casual as they passed by.
They slipped into a suite at the end of the hall.
I pulled out my phone again and scanned Gardner's room. It faced the street, overlooking the park. There was a small balcony. Gardner finished his business, then stepped to the bed. He grabbed something from the desk and headed for the door.
I stuffed the phone in my pocket and flattened my back against the wall.
The door handle twisted, and Gardner pulled open the door. As he stepped into the hallway, I elbowed him in the face, shattering his nose. Blood spewed all over his white linen suit.
I pushed into the suite and slammed the door behind me. Gardner tumbled back clutching his broken face.
The good doctor apparently had some martial arts training.
He took a combat stance, then did a roundhouse kick as I advanced.
I blocked the kick, then planted my heel into his groin. He buckled to his knees with a groan. Then he yanked his leg free and scampered toward the desk. He grabbed a letter opener, sprang to his feet and twisted around, squaring off again.
He charged at me with the makeshift weapon, slashing wildly.
The edges were dull. The only thing I had to worry about was the point.
He advanced, pushing me back toward the French doors which led to the balcony.
He stabbed the tip toward my abdomen.
I twisted to the side, grabbed his arm, and pinned it against my body. I punched two hard lefts to his rib cage, then kneed him in the groin again.
He doubled over in pain.
He came up with a hard left hook that smacked the side of my face.
It wrenched my neck aside.
We twisted around as we struggled. I still clutched his arm tight against my body, neutralizing the weapon.
He continued to pummel my cheek with his fist. His knuckles smacked into my cheek.
I continued to hammer his kidneys.
We traded a few punches, then I felt a searing pain in my lower right quadrant. The tip of the letter opener had jabbed into my belly.
My jaw tightened. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, and rage swelled within. I summoned all of my strength and drove him back. I shoved Gardner onto the narrow balcony, through the French doors that were wide open.
Gardner tumbled back, hitting the hundred-year-old wrought-iron railing. His momentum carried him over.
He tumbled through the air, and a terrible scream escaped his lungs as he plummeted three stories to the street below.
I stayed inside the hotel room. There was no need to look. I heard the wet slap of his skull against the sidewalk.
There were shrieks and gasps from tourists below.
I glanced down to my stomach. It felt like I had been jabbed with a hot poker. Crimson blood blossomed on my shirt.
My hand clutched the wound, applying pressure, trying to stem the tide.
Son-of-a-bitch!
An abdominal wound was the last thing I needed.
Blood seeped through my fingers. I glanced around for something to mop it up with. There wasn’t anything readily available, so I staggered to the bathroom and grabbed a washcloth. I folded it up and mashed it against my belly. Blood stained the white rag quickly.
I lifted my shirt and dug my finger into the wound, feeling around for damage. The tip of the letter opener was dull in comparison to a tactical knife. It penetrated my skin and muscle belly, piercing through my external and internal oblique. It seemed to stop at the transverse abdominis. From what I could tell it didn’t puncture the peritoneal cavity.
That would’ve been bad.
Abdominal wounds are at high risk for infection.
I threw the blood-soaked washcloth in the trash, then grabbed another and sopped up more oozing blood from the wound.
I didn’t have time for this. I needed to get the hell out of there.
I grabbed a coat from the closet. It was a little tight, but it wasn’t stained with blood, and would cover the wound at a glance. I kept the washcloth between the wound and the coat and squeezed my arm against the fabric to hold it all together. Then I grabb
ed a white Fedora that was sitting atop a bed, put it on my head, and pulled the brim low.
I stepped out of the hotel room, strolled down the hallway, and pushed into the stairwell. I spiraled down to the first floor, casually strolled across the lobby, and exited onto the sidewalk.
A crowd gathered, circling Gardner's mutilated body that lay amid a pool of crimson blood.
I gave the body a passing glance, like every other morbidly obsessed tourist, then strolled down the street like nothing had happened.
I would have much preferred to see Gardner sit in a cell the remainder of his days. But I couldn't complain about his ultimate demise.
I flagged down a red convertible Chevy, and the taxi driver whisked me away from the scene. I didn't even get to enjoy breakfast at the Castillo.
I grimaced as I sat in the back of the cab bleeding. My skin was pale, and a cold sweat broke out on my face.
“Are you okay?” the cabdriver asked, looking in the rearview mirror with concerned eyes.
The wound needed attention. There was no denying it. The question I needed to answer was, could it wait until I got back to the States?
42
The Clínica Central Cira Garcia Hospital was the facility that treated all tourists with health insurance. My mind ran through all the possibilities. Showing up in a hospital with a stab wound might draw unwanted questions. And I needed to get out of the country as fast as possible before someone connected me with Gardner.
I told the cab driver to take me to the marina. I called Steve Cannon and told him we'd be making a hasty departure. 20 minutes later, the cab driver dropped me off, and I staggered down the cracked concrete dock to the Go Fast boat, trying not to look like a zombie. The blood flow had slowed, and the jacket did a good job of hiding the wound.
I grimaced as I climbed aboard the boat.
"You look like shit," Steve said.
"Thanks,” I muttered.
He cranked up the massive engines, and the exhaust burbled. I cast off the lines, and Steve idled the sleek boat out of the canal. As soon as we hit open water, he throttled up and brought the boat on plane. I winced every time the hull slapped against a swell.
A little over an hour later, we pulled into the marina at Diver Down. By that time, I looked like death warmed over.
"You should probably get to a hospital," Cannon said.
I nodded. My eyes were droopy, and it felt like my life-force had been sucked out of me.
Cannon dropped me off at the dock, and I climbed from the boat and staggered toward the Vivere. My side burned. My shirt and the top of my pants were stained and crusty. I pulled out my phone and arranged for an Uber.
The Go Fast boat burbled out of the marina behind me as I made my way to the parking lot. A few minutes later, a four-door silver Honda pulled into the lot. I hopped into the backseat and told the driver to take me to the hospital.
He did a double take when he looked at me. “What happened?”
“Fishing accident.”
He didn’t buy it. His foot mashed the gas, and the car peeled out of the lot. We raced across the island. "You're not going to die in my car, are you?"
A weak chuckle escaped my lips. "I don't have any plans on it."
He pulled to the curb at the ER, and I staggered out of the backseat. I wasn't sure if I bled on his seats.
Inside the ER, the receptionist looked me up and down, unimpressed. She’d seen way worse on a daily basis. She called to the nurses, “We’ve got a bleeder.”
A nurse rushed to me and escorted me to the triage area where they took vitals and asked a slew of questions. I didn't have to wait long for a room.
A nurse started me on IV antibiotics, and a technician rolled in an ultrasound machine and scanned my abdomen.
“Tell me what’s going on?” Dr. Parker asked as he strolled into the room, snapping on a pair of blue nitrile gloves.
I made up a story. "I was mugged. I should have let the guy take my money, but I decided to fight.”
He seemed unimpressed. "How much did he get away with?"
"100 bucks," I said.
"Well, that sure was worth it, wasn't it?"
“Clearly,” I said.
The doctor examined the wound, digging around the laceration with his gloved finger. "Looks like you got lucky. Just a few layers of muscle damage. The peritoneum is intact.”
He numbed the area with lidocaine, then stitched the wound. “I’m putting in a few dissolvable sutures. Ultrasound looks good. No fluid in the abdomen, and no internal organs were damaged. I'm going to give you a course of antibiotics and something for the pain. Other than being a little sore for a few days, you'll make a full recovery. If you have increased tenderness, or swelling, come back and we’ll do further diagnostics. Right now, I'm not concerned." He smiled. "I'll get your discharge papers ready."
I was relieved the damage wasn't worse. Nearly half of all abdominal stab wounds are managed conservatively without the need for surgery.
The bag of IV fluids helped perk me up a bit, and I wasn’t feeling nearly as light headed.
Parker tossed the gloves, washed his hands, and left the room.
The nurse gave me a stern look. "Don’t think I don’t recognize you. You need to stop coming in here!"
I laughed. "I'm trying.”
"Try harder." She arched an eyebrow at me. "I mean, you're cute and all, and Lord knows we need the eye candy around here, but it would be a shame if something serious happened to you."
I smiled and thanked her for the compliment.
It took an hour to get discharged. When I finally hobbled out of there, I went straight to Neuro ICU to see Jack.
43
Scarlett sat in a chair near Jack's bed. He looked the same. Terrible. The ventilator still wheezed, and an array of tubes curled out of his nose and mouth. I hovered in the doorway a moment before Scarlett noticed me. When she did, her eyes widened, and she sprang from her chair. She darted across the room to give me a hug, then halted halfway, seeing my blood-stained clothes. "Oh, my God! What happened?"
"It's nothing. I'm fine."
"Doesn't look like nothing."
"You should see the other guy."
Her eyes met mine with a curious gaze.
"I got the son-of-a-bitch."
A relieved exhale escaped her lips.
"How is Jack?"
She glanced to the bed and shrugged. "Stable, I guess. Maybe it's my imagination, but I think he squeezed my hand when I told him I loved him."
I forced a grim smile. "Hang in there, kid. He's going to pull through."
She replied with an optimistic nod, but I could see in her eyes she wasn't so sure.
Neither was I.
"I'm a little wrecked. I'm going back home. Chill out for little while. Let me know if you need anything."
"Take care of yourself, Tyson. I can't lose both of you."
"You not losing anybody," I assured.
We said our goodbyes, and I caught a cab to the pharmacy and filled my prescriptions. I got some waterproof bandages to put over the wound so I could take a shower. Parker had told me to follow up with my regular doctor in two weeks. The main thing was to keep the wound free of infection.
By the time I got back to the Vivere, I was tired, sore, and hungry. I had gone to Cuba and back and didn't even have a mojito. I stepped aboard the boat and into the salon. Buddy greeted me excitedly. I had to keep his paws and his nails away from my wound as he pounced. "Easy there, boy."
It hurt to bend over and pet him.
I made my way gingerly downstairs, peeled off my clothes, put on the waterproof bandage, and climbed into the shower. Once again, I let the hot water wash away the chaos. Afterward, I put on a change of clothes, popped a pain pill, and made my way to Diver Down.
I took a seat at the bar, and Madison eyed me curiously. "Are you okay?"
I smiled. "Just tired."
"Can I get you anything?"
"Beef burrito and a mo
jito."
"Coming right up." She spun around and sent the order to the kitchen.
Emma Steele came on the screen behind the bar with a breaking news update. "Sources have confirmed that Dr. Gardner, wanted for Medicare fraud in a bizarre murder for hire plot was killed today in a three-story fall from a balcony at a Cuban hotel. He had been granted political asylum by the government. In other news…"
Harlan gave me a knowing glance and a wink. "Fall from a balcony, eh?"
I smiled.
My phone buzzed. I pulled it from my pocket and swiped the screen.
“I heard you ran into complications,” Isabella said.
“Nothing serious.”
“That’s not what I hear. I need you fit. You are going to escort a client to Medellín, provide security, and ensure his safe return."
"I need a few days at least. Don’t worry, I’ll be tip top soon.”
“I’ll be in touch. Don't expect much notice. We're trying to keep the client’s movements as random and as unpredictable as possible."
"Holler when you need me,” I said. “Any more information on Esteban Rivera?”
“From what I can tell, he’s still in Medellín.”
“Good.”
"How is Jack?"
I was surprised Isabella asked. "The same."
"The same is better than worse."
"Agreed. Any word on my other predicament?”
“Hang tight. I’m digging. I’ll find dirt on Easton. Don’t worry.”
She hung up, and I spent the next few days anticipating an emergency phone call from her.
I had to be back in Los Angeles at the end of the month to face criminal charges. If she didn't come up with anything on Easton soon, this cozy little life I had built for myself here in Coconut Key would crumble.
I needed to let it all slide. There was nothing I could do about it, anyway. And the stress wasn’t doing me any good. I wasn't sleeping well at night because of it. That, and the fact that my belly hurt every time I flexed.
Haley moved back to her grandfather's house and contemplated putting it on the market. When we talked on the phone, she said, "I just wanted to thank you again for everything that you and Jack have done. If there's anything I can do to help you, or him, please let me know."
