Ray ran down a mental pre-flight checklist. He moved the flaps, rudder, and checked the various antiquated gauges on the instrument panel, batteries, and magnetos. My eyes were locked on Nina, who’d backed inside the barn and continued to stare out at us. She was beautiful in all conditions—wind-blown, sleep-deprived, hunted by the Secret Police ….
My heart pitched again: what would Gutierrez do if he learned she’d helped us?
“Based on the wind, we’re going to have to taxi to the end of the runway and take off back up hill,” Ray shouted over the noise of the engines.
I tried to focus. We were about to take off in an ancient pieced-together plane with operating concerns that could result in our facing the same fate as the Goose’s last flight crew. As we tumbled down the dirt path, the tires crunched over stalks of fresh-cut plants that jostled us in an irregular line. I watched the port wing, cut from Betty and welded to the three-foot stub that remained after we removed the crumpled wing from the Beast. The wing bounced with each bump but looked solid, and the flaps were working just fine, so far. I searched for sparks under the instrument panel, checked the brake and hydraulic lines for leaks, the gauges for erratic behavior, but everything looked, sounded, and felt secure.
There was a slight dip to the dirt runway, then it began a gentle climb up a low rise. When we got to the end, Ray used the throttles to maneuver the Beast around to face into the wind. As we turned, I noticed that the end of the runway was perpendicular to the road that led to the farmhouse, and that a long straightaway to the south could be seen from our vantage point. I wondered how far—
Lights flashed in the distance. They were moving fast, headed our way.
“All right, Buck, you ready?” Ray said.
The lights headed toward us were mounted on top of a truck.
Could it be?
“I wish they’d come with us,” I said.
“Tradition is the cathedral of the poor,” Ray said. “Cross your fingers, here we go!”
He pressed the throttles forward and the plane began to vibrate with anticipation.
49
Ray released the brake and the Beast jumped forward.
“Stop!” I yelled.
He flinched, then yanked up the brake and whipped the throttles back.
“What’s wrong?”
He looked around the cockpit as if he expected a malfunction.
“Look.” I pointed to the truck speeding up the road toward us.
“What the hell’d you stop me for? A truck? We gotta get outta here!”
I swallowed hard and looked up the hill. Nina and her grandfather would be waiting to see us take off. But there was no way to avoid the truck with the flashing lights seeing us, too. Ray grabbed the throttles.
I undid my safety belt and jumped out of the seat.
“Where the hell are you going?”
When I told him, he said I was insane. There was no time for debate. I cracked open the hatch, jumped out, slammed it shut, and dove into the uncut tobacco. The engines revved loudly—and unevenly, one having six and the other nine cylinders—and I said a quick prayer for Ray’s safety.
The Beast rolled forward at what seemed an impossibly slow pace. I lost it for a couple of seconds in the dip between hills, then heard rifle shots from the road. The Beast appeared from the gully and was going much faster. Finally she lifted off, and from my angle appeared to just clear the barn.
Ray kept her on a straight course as she ascended, listing heavily to starboard, and I could almost hear the sound change as he calibrated the RPM’s on the engines until there was a harmonious balance between them. The Beast leveled off and continued north at a low altitude until she vanished on the horizon. The rifle fire stopped, replaced by the sound of the truck roaring up the road. I took off through the tobacco, whose broad leaves slapped my chest and legs. The ground was uneven but the rows ran parallel to the runway, so I found a groove and picked up the pace.
Would the truck stop at the farmhouse? Given the rifle fire, that seemed certain.
Had Ramón found Gutierrez, or his people? The truck was different from the one that had come earlier. Was there more than one? I couldn’t tell from the angle on the road, as it had been headed straight toward us. The rough ground kept me from doing much more than concentrating on not twisting my ankle, and I had no plan other than to get to the top and see what was going on.
Sweat soaked my shirt. My lungs, quads, and calves were aflame as I reached the end of the tobacco field. The barn lay ahead, but the large doors that led into the basement were now closed. I listened, and heard nothing inside. I worked my way up the steep hill, stopped periodically to listen for any sounds but heard nothing beyond the birds buzzing, singing and cackling, unconcerned with my predicament or the Maceo’s fate.
Once across the gravel drive I was back on the animal trail toward the house. I snaked my way up and at the peak spotted the same truck that had been coming up the road now parked across the driveway to block any other vehicles from leaving.
Damn!
Inside the truck were two men, at least, but I couldn’t tell if there were any troops in the back. Time was of the essence. If Gutierrez was inside, he’d assume that Ray and I had escaped. His vengeance would be swift and brutal.
I crouched in the woods, my shirt stuck to my skin, and my hands and pockets were empty. With no weapon and outnumbered at least three-to-one, the odds sucked. I’d been on the Beast at the end of the runway, seconds away from being airborne and on my way back to Key West.
And now here I was.
Son-of-a-bitch.
But damnit, what choice did I have? I couldn’t just leave these people alone to face the consequences of helping us. If my end were to be at the hands of Gutierrez and his goons, then I’d rather go with my guns blazing.
If I only had a gun, that is ….
I hurried around the to back of the house, beyond where I’d stopped before on the trail. It ended in a copse of trees and brush. I kept pushing my way through toward the road, then curved back toward the driveway. I crossed to the other side of the drive, crept to the top—and saw the truck. It was more like a van, the back enclosed. I didn’t see any other police or troops, and my guess was the two guys up front were alone. I glanced around but saw nothing I could use as a weapon. I continued ahead until I was just off the back corner of the truck. Sweat dripped from my face, or was it adrenalin seeping from my pores?
Now what?
A minute passed and just as I was about to blunder out and make a bare-fisted frontal assault, the passenger door opened and a man dressed in khaki got out. He said something over his shoulder, slammed the door, and stepped into the trees. He was six feet away from me. I remained as still as the forest. The man unzipped his trousers and began to urinate. He lit a cigarette and started humming a tune.
I launched toward him in one swift move. He froze for an instant, unable to see what was coming through the trees, and held his hands out as I burst through the bushes with a roundhouse that caught him on the side of the jaw. It wasn’t a very solid connection, but he fell to the side, probably more off balance than hurt, but he didn’t make a sound, which was the best break I could have hoped for. His feet caught and he was off balance when I connected with a stiff jab that dropped him onto his face.
No movement.
Whether his friend saw us from the side mirror or heard the sound of bone on bone I couldn’t tell, but I grabbed the man by his ankles and dragged him into the trees. I used the drawstring from my pants to tie his wrists together, my belt to secure his legs. He started to moan, so I tilted his face toward the sky, rubbed my knuckles, and nailed him again from the side. A loud crack sounded, which based on the sharp pain that shot up my arm, could have been his jaw or my knuckles. Either way, he was out cold.
I tried to catch my breath, but my heart rate made it impossible.
I felt around his pockets but found no weapons.
Great. Now what? I heard the
driver’s door open and the man shouted something in Spanish.
Crap.
He repeated himself, then called out: “Enrique!”
Crouched down, I watched his feet as he stepped out of the truck.
“Enrique?” He said again.
Silence.
I crawled under the truck, slowly and quietly. I was three feet away from his boots. I saw the flash of a rifle butt as he pulled it from the cab and shut the door softly. He didn’t call Enrique’s name again.
I watched his boots move toward the back of the truck, where he paused, then jumped around the end. Definitely ready to shoot first and ask questions later.
I grabbed a handful of gravel and threw the largest pebble toward where Enrique was tied up in the woods.
The soldier jumped around the corner again but this time hurried along the passenger side, heading toward the woods. When he ran past me I reached out and grabbed his foot, which caused him to pitch forward.
I held on tight.
His forward momentum pulled me out from under the truck, and whether he tried to use the gun to try and break his fall or not, its barrel ended up stabbed in the dirt. He hit the ground and rolled toward it, I crawled on all fours at high speed and dove toward him.
He was young and muscular. There was no fear on his face, only the expression of one predator evaluating another. In the split second I was in the air, he coiled his leg back and kicked out, catching me square in the chest, which knocked me to the ground.
When he tried to slide out to the side, my high school wrestling moves came back to me in a flash. I lunged again and hooked him in the armpit, spinning him back the other way. He tried to roll and swung a roundhouse left that caught me in the ear and launched a loud ringing in the depths of my brain.
No words had been spoken. Maybe he instinctively knew I couldn’t understand him or felt confident he wouldn’t need help from inside the farmhouse, which caused me a stab of doubt.
He coiled on a knee, then pounced.
I rolled away and heard him hit the ground, hard. I flung myself backwards, threw all my weight onto my elbow, and thrust down hard. It hit something soft that made a crunching sound, and we collapsed together.
He writhed wildly beneath me, which felt odd, not like he was trying to counter-attack but like he was squirming for … what? I spun, ready to deflect his next blow, but found him clutching his throat with both hands and rolling from side to side.
A gurgle from his mouth and eyes bugged halfway out of their sockets told me he couldn’t breathe. I bent down and pulled his hands away.
His throat looked concave.
My elbow had crushed his larynx.
I watched him, horrified, until he went still.
Oh my God, I’d killed him.
Oh my God! I jumped to my feet, weaving, and swallowed a rush of bile.
My hands shook as I dragged him into the woods and placed him next to Enrique, who was moaning and starting to move. I knew I should hit Enrique again, but I couldn’t. My legs trembled, my throat burned. I knew I wasn’t finished yet, either.
Back on the driveway, I picked up the rifle and hurried toward the side door.
From inside the house I heard a scream that sounded like an enraged animal.
It was Señor Maceo.
50
From the window I saw Señor Maceo with his arms wrapped around a man he held from behind. In the moment it took me to get to the door I heard a gunshot inside.
I kicked the door open and lifted the rifle toward the crush of three people just as Señor Maceo dropped to the floor.
Manny Gutierrez was standing over the kitchen table, and Nina was prone on top of it, her blouse torn open and her jeans partially pulled down. I hesitated, the urge to shoot him put off because he was so close to Nina.
“Freeze, Gutierrez!”
His face went from bunched tight to wide eyes and an open mouth, then back to slit eyes in less than a second. He lowered the pistol to Nina’s head. She hadn’t moved. Face down, Señor Maceo hadn’t stirred either, but a stream of blood flowed out from under him along a groove in the wood floor. The room smelled of burnt cordite, and faint smoke lingered around the light.
“Buck Reilly. I thought you’d escaped me, again.”
“Drop the gun, Gutierrez.” I shouldered the rifle. “I should have killed you last time I had the chance.”
He laughed, and I saw his teeth were still as white, his moustache as perfectly groomed, and his skin as brown and buffed as it had been when he lived in Key West. He was still as cocky, too.
“No, Reilly, you drop the rifle or this beautiful young lady gets a bullet to the head. Which would be a shame, since I haven’t finished with her yet.”
“Leave her alone!”
“Ahh, touched a nerve, eh? It seems I’m always taking what you want.” He shoved the pistol into her throat and she flinched for the first time. “Drop the rifle, NOW!”
Shit. I lowered the rifle and leaned it against the counter.
“Kick it to the floor!”
I tapped it with my foot and it fell with a crash.
Señor Maceo hadn’t moved. Nina covered her chest with one arm and struggled to pull her pants up with the other. Gutierrez took a step away from her, turned the gun on me, and kicked one of the chairs forward.
“Sit,” he said. “How did you get in here? What happened to my men?”
“Those two outside? Siesta time.”
Nina rolled off the table. Her left eye was swollen and her cheek had begun to turn purple. Gutierrez hadn’t wasted any time exacting his revenge. She pulled what was left of her blouse around her and knelt over her grandfather. She put her hand on the side of his neck.
I turned the chair backwards and sat facing Gutierrez so the chair back protected me.
“He’s dead.” Nina’s voice was a whisper.
My heart broke for her—
A loud crack preceded excruciating pain and blackness.
I CAME TO ON the floor. Gutierrez had cold-cocked me with his handgun.
“Get up!”
I rubbed the side of my face, which had gone numb. There was blood in my palm.
“Back in the chair!”
He gave a sidelong glance at Nina, but she was hugging her grandfather and crying quietly.
“I want the treasure you stole in Panama, Reilly. You should have crashed in the water—my men were ready to dive on your plane and my former speedboat to get the treasure and maps all at once. But somehow, you made it to land.” He jerked the gun toward me. “So where is it?”
“You better worry about your boss, Director Sanchez. He wants to know where you stashed the other half of the treasure.”
The look on his face was priceless.
“What are you talking about?” His voice was barely a whisper.
“I met Sanchez this morning, at the Hotel Las Jasmines. You know, the one in Viñales where he set up camp to look for you?”
“You’re lying! He’d shoot you on site.”
“We had a couple drinks together. He was most interested in what I had to tell him.”
“He’d never let you go!”
“I have no value to him, Gutierrez. You have all the treasure. At least, that’s what I told him. If I were you, I’d quit worrying about the other half, go to Viñales, and make peace with your boss. You’ll never be able to enjoy it if you run.”
Gutierrez bit his lip. “The treasure was on that plane that just left, wasn’t it? Where did that come from? There’s an old local legend that an amphibian plane crashed somewhere in western Cuba during the Bay of Pigs. Was it here? Is that what you did with the parts you took from your plane?”
I again looked at Nina. Sorry that fate had brought us all together.
An evil smile curled Gutierrez’s lip. “Now your beloved Betty’s just another hunk of garbage on the beach.”
“I never had the treasure, Gutierrez. It’s still on the Sea Lion, now safe under the Coa
st Guard’s wing. Along with the captured Peruvian thieves who’ve already given your name as the man they delivered half the loot to. Should be on the news by tonight. Worldwide.”
His eyes opened wide and his nostrils flared. “What about the maps you took from my boat?”
“You mean my maps? The ones you stole from me?”
“Semantics. You stole them from others first.” He pointed the pistol toward my face. “Where are they?!”
“A place that would welcome you with open arms. And leg irons.”
It was my turn to smile. Nina started to get up, and sensing her movement, Gutierrez kicked back and caught her on the shoulder, which sent her into the wall.
He turned the gun toward Nina. “Now, Reilly!”
“Should be in Key West by now too. Come back with me and I’ll be happy to bring you copies in jail.”
He raised the gun—
“Why do you care about old maps, Gutierrez?” I said.
He held the gun straight toward me.
“You have half the Atocha treasure,” I said. “Reconcile with Sanchez and you’ll get your cut. Otherwise, either he or the Peruvians will find you. Both think you double-crossed them. Then there’s the half-crazed mercenary who brought the Peruvians along from Panama. Sanchez has confiscated his thirty-million-dollar G-IV and he’s desperate.”
His eyes opened wide and I knew I’d scored multiple hits. He started to nod his head, then glanced toward Nina, who had inched across the floor toward us.
He swung the gun toward her.
I launched forward on the balls of my feet and jammed the back of the chair into Gutierrez’s chest, sending him backwards but he didn’t go down.
He spun on a heel and hit me with a kick to the side of my head.
I crashed into the counter, but the momentum of his kick threw him sideways, off balance. The room became a blur of motion.
I lunged and caught him by the waist and tried to flip him over.
My grip didn’t hold and I rolled over top of him, then he swung the gun and connected with the side of my head. A kaleidoscope of colors flashed behind my eyes.
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