by Cliff Ryder
Part of Jonas’s thoughts screamed that he was out of his mind to even think he could bring this man out of the jungle alive.
He didn’t consider the very logical arguments for leaving Marcus behind, but concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, staying in the tree line and moving as fast as possible.
After about one hundred yards, he crested a small rise and ducked behind it, then cut north and trotted as quickly and quietly as he could, listening all the while for sounds of pursuit.
With each step he saw brighter glimmers of sunlight creeping over the horizon, and knew they were really racing the break of day, with more than ten miles to go before reaching safety.
“How you holding up back there?” he asked.
“I think I’m gonna be sick from all the up and down but otherwise, I’ve been worse. How ’bout you?” Marcus said weakly.
“No problems—we’ve only got about ten miles to go.
Piece of cake.”
Jonas didn’t hear anything behind him yet, but he knew that didn’t mean much. Crossing the highways would be the most dangerous. He figured he had covered another half mile when he heard the roar of a racing engine. Whirling around, he saw an old pickup truck with a man standing in the back behind a light machine gun that had been mounted on the roof. It was barreling down the road on a parallel course to him.
“Company coming, got to set you down for a minute.”
Jonas dropped to one knee and rolled Marcus off him. He unslung the M24, aimed at the engine, then changed his mind and put a bullet into the gunner and more in the windshield. The sound suppressor made it seem as if the shots had come out of nowhere. The truck lurched forward, then drifted right and rolled off the road into the ditch, where it stalled.
“Marcus, you’re not gonna believe this, but we just got ourselves that ride you wanted,” Jonas said.
Slinging the rifle, Jonas lifted the younger man, trying to ignore the dark red mess his shoulder was turning into, and carried him to the truck. Depositing Marcus a few yards away, Jonas wrenched open the door, pistol out to finish off anyone wounded. The two men in the cab were both dead. One had taken a hit in the head and one in the neck. The gunner gurgled in the bed of the truck, his upper chest a bloody pulp. Jonas finished him then pulled him out. He smashed out the rest of the shattered windshield, dumped the other two bodies on the ground, started the truck and gunned it back on the road. He hopped out just long enough to hoist Marcus into the front seat, then jumped behind the wheel and floored the accelerator.
“Looks like you got your wish, buddy. The boat’s just a few minutes up the coast, and then we’ll be out of here and back to the States, where they’ll get you patched up and as good as new.”
Marcus coughed, the effort shaking his body. “Jonas, my glasses. On the boat—Valdes had a family. Found them in Havana.”
“Hey, don’t worry—you can give it to me soon enough.
But you’ve got to stay awake for a little bit longer now, all right? Hey, you got a family? Tell me about them,” Jonas said.
“Oh, yeah, do I ever…” As Marcus rambled on about his parents and younger brothers, Jonas kept a sharp eye out for any sign of the army or police on the road. The landscape was quiet, although Jonas knew the locals would be out soon, and a truck like this would attract a lot of attention.
Driving cross-country was also bound to raise a few eyebrows, but Jonas was more concerned about not breaking an axle or blowing a tire and leaving them stranded.
After several miles, Jonas reached the first road they had crossed on foot a few hours earlier. He turned right, knowing that it would connect with the main highway in the region.
A few minutes later, he came to the bigger highway and slewed onto it with a squeal of the aged tires. Jonas slowed to the speed limit as he headed toward the boat.
At last he came upon the coast, and followed it to where the road met the bridge. Marcus had fallen unconscious, but a quick check revealed he was still breathing. Peeking out of the cab for trouble, Jonas found he had company.
Three kids stood on top of the bridge, staring off the side at the long cigarette boat bobbing in the swells. Jonas made sure his mask was securely over his face, then hoisted Marcus over his shoulder, grabbed the rifle in his other hand and waded into the water, causing the children to chatter among themselves.
“Hey, your friend looks hurt! Is he gonna die?”
“Is that your boat? How fast does it go?”
“My father called the border guard! They’ll come and take you away!” one of the kids shouted.
“¡Viva la revolución!”
The chant was taken up among the other kids, making a chorus that could be heard all along the shoreline.
Jonas ignored them as he heaved Marcus aboard the boat, then climbed in after him. He took a moment to tear his sleeve off and make a rough compress for the other man’s shoulder. It was a nasty-looking mass of flesh and blood.
Jonas hauled up the anchor, made sure the prop was clear and started the engine, reversing it until he was able to turn the boat around.
Scanning the horizon, he had just started to plot a path to get out to the open ocean when a man’s voice yelling through a bullhorn reached him even over the roar of the twin engines. Jonas didn’t look up, but shoved the throttle down, making the boat leap forward, its sleek bow rearing out of the water as he aimed it north.
Shooting across the water, the powerful boat easily left the shore patrol boat behind. However, as he aimed for the gap that would lead to open water, he saw the large bow of a Soviet-built Zhuk-class coastal patrol boat coming toward him on an intercept course. Although it was no match for his vessel in speed, and Jonas knew that the border guards weren’t normally authorized to use force to catch people on the sea, if someone enterprising had called ahead, they might suspend those rules for a suspected killer. And any one of those four 12.7 mm machine guns could easily chop his boat—not to mention him—to little shreds floating on the tide.
He turned the wheel right, speeding parallel to the long bridge and into the cluster of small, coastal islands surrounding it. Bringing down a map of the area on his HUD, Jonas plotted a course that would take him away from any boats, and hopefully right into the arms of the patrolling U.S.
Coast Guard. Even with Marcus aboard, he’d be able to handle them much more easily.
But the Cuban Border Patrol wasn’t done with him yet.
From the east came yet another vessel, a smaller go-fast boat that was gaining on Jonas. There were two soldiers in the cockpit, and one shouted at him to power his watercraft down and allow them to come aboard.
Screw that, Jonas thought. The smaller speedboat pulled up alongside. Jonas swerved his boat in a controlled ram, smacking the side of their vehicle in a crash of fiberglass, sending them careening away. Knowing that they would be back like a persistent mosquito if he didn’t stop them per-manently, he throttled down and got out the rifle, steadying it across the top of the windshield as the other boat circled around to come at him again. Jonas rapidly estimated the range and the windage, then emptied the last five shots in the rifle’s magazine, putting all of them into the driver’s side of the boat. He saw the driver hunch over, and figured that he had tagged him with at least one bullet. Although the second soldier raised his rifle, Jonas was already speeding away, juking back and forth to avoid any incoming fire.
The Zhuk fell away in the distance as Jonas rocketed into the maze of islands, navigating his way through the watery labyrinth until he hit the Atlantic Ocean and freedom. Once he was sure he was clear, he turned back.
“Hey, Marcus…we made it!”
There was no reply from the still body lying on the seat in front of the engines, a smear of blood slowly growing larger underneath him. Jonas throttled down and stepped over to him.
“Marcus?”
He checked the younger man’s wrist, then his pulse in his neck, and found no beat in either place.
&nb
sp; “Goddamn it, Marcus, I didn’t bring you all this way just to have you die on me, too.” Jonas slipped to the deck and held the lifeless body, tears streaming down his face as the sleek cigarette boat rocked gently in the ocean swells.
Kate barely kept a lid on her emotions as the limousine wound its way through the colorful streets of Little Havana. Jacob was in the driver’s seat, taking in everything as he delivered them to their destination. He pulled up in front of a modest two-story yellow home with a small yard, flanked by two palm trees.
Smoothing her suit jacket as she got out of the car, Kate was hit by the oppressive heat after the air-conditioned interior, but the mingled scents of hibiscus and ocean air were refreshing. On the other side, Jonas got out, as well, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.
“Remember, let me do the talking,” Kate said. Like his responses to her other questions or comments, all he did was nod his head. The only thing he had been vocal about was that he was coming with her for this visit, and not even Judy’s steeliest glare could dissuade him.
Kate had relented, thinking that it might give him some closure. But the fact was that what should have been a rela- tively simple operation had turned into a fiasco with three operatives dead and two wounded, all to stop one man.
At least the Stingers have been recovered, she thought.
Theodore and his men had been intercepted while trying to head out to sea. The missiles were safely back under Room 59’s control.
Under interrogation, Theodore had revealed some surprising things, like the fact that the entire operation had been masterminded by TEAR, and been in the works for more than a year. Their ultimate goal seemed to have been to destabilize Cuba, loot key areas and pull out, leaving the rest of the country to fend for itself. Blinded by patriotism, the Cubans had signed on without knowing the real story.
Everyone had underestimated the ruthlessness of the mercenaries, and people under her command had suffered.
Kate vowed that wasn’t going to happen again, not if she could help it. She had already tasked Judy with working with the department heads to revamp the training, making it even more stringent. Kate knew operatives would be killed in the future, but it wouldn’t be because they weren’t prepared.
Taking a deep breath, Kate strode up the neatly groomed walkway, steeling herself to deliver the news. She raised a hand to her head, but resisted the urge to scratch the red wig covering her blond hair. She had done this several times since she had taken over as director, and hated it each time.
But there was no way she would delegate this to someone else. Like it or not, these people had died on her watch, and she felt that responsibility all too keenly.
With Jonas beside her, she knocked on the door, which was answered a minute later by an attractive, heavy-set woman in her early fifties. Her black hair was bound in a colorful scarf.
She stared at them with surprise that turned to sudden trepi-dation.
How is it that they always know? Kate wondered.
“Mrs. Ruiz?” Kate adjusted the rimless glasses on her nose.
The woman nodded.
“My name is Donna Massen, and I’m here on behalf the U.S. State Department. It is my sad duty to inform you that your son, Marcus Ruiz, was killed in the line of duty.” She had fought hard with the Room 59 board for this, and they had reached the compromise of creating Ms. Massen after protracted negotiations. Even though Kate had to disguise herself to deliver the news, the Massen persona remained viable for all of the families of those who had died while in the service of Room 59, to contact in case they ever needed anything. Although Room 59 would make sure that the relatives would be well compensated for their loss, it would never replace a missing husband, wife, son or daughter.
Mrs. Ruiz sagged against the door, clutching it for support. “I knew it… I knew as soon as I saw your faces.”
“We’re very sorry to have to deliver this news, madam.”
The first time she had done this, Kate almost broke down herself, but had managed to keep it together long enough to make it back to the car. Today she remained composed, but her heart was breaking along with the mother who stood before her, tears streaming down her face.
“All Marcus ever wanted to do was serve his country and help people. Tell me, if you can. How did he die?”
“I’m afraid—” Kate began, but was cut off by Jonas, his voice surprising her into silence.
“Ma’am, I had the honor and privilege of working along- side your son, and I can tell you that he gave his life so that thousands of other people would not die instead. He made the ultimate sacrifice, he did it without hesitation and he saved an entire nation.”
Mrs. Ruiz wiped her eyes and looked up at him. “Will we have the chance to see him once more?”
That one Jonas couldn’t handle and Kate stepped in again. “Yes—we were able to recover his body. There will be a full military funeral at Arlington National Cemetery, and we’ll make sure that you are there, all expenses paid.”
What a great trip—come to Washington, D.C., and bury your son there, Kate thought.
Marcus’s mother sobbed loudly, bringing two boys to the door, asking her what was wrong. She pulled herself together with an effort, looking as if she had aged ten years in the few minutes she had talked to them, and shooed the two children back inside.
“Mrs. Ruiz, I know this must be hard for you, and we don’t wish to intrude any more today. A representative will be in touch with you soon regarding some paperwork that will have to be completed.” The words, spoken like a dispassionate government official, tasted like ash in Kate’s mouth. “On behalf of a grateful United States of America and the world, we are very sorry for your loss.” Kate handed her a card. “If there is anything we can do to assist you, please let me know.”
Kate turned on her heel and walked back to the car. She got in and leaned back against the leather seat, exhausted.
Jonas went to the other side and slid into the darkened interior. Neither said a word as the car pulled away.
“Kate?” Jacob’s voice came over the intercom. “We’ll have to hustle if you’re going to make that flight to Idaho from Fort Lauderdale.”
Kate leaned forward and pressed a button. “Right. Do what you have to.” One down, two to go, she thought wearily, staring out the window at the bright, sun-soaked city all around her and feeling so very cold inside.
It wasn’t easy to find a deserted stretch of beach on the Florida coast, but after a bit of searching, Jonas had located a secluded site that was being developed for yet another high-rise. At the moment it now was empty, with no other buildings around for several hundred yards. He parked the Jaguar behind a rise and trudged up the hillock, the sand shifting beneath his feet.
Like so much else underneath me recently, he thought.
Cresting the dune, he saw the Atlantic Ocean stretched out before him, vast and dark and empty. This far up the panhan-dle, the small waves crashing against the sand were a muddy brown, not the deep blue of farther south. Rising and falling every few seconds, the endless waters could hide a multitude of sins, but tonight, Jonas hoped it would also help wash one away.
After the visit to Marcus’s mother, he had headed back for an intense after-action grilling by Denny Talbot, who was as serious then as he had been easygoing when Jonas had first put himself forward to head the mission. Although they had interrogated him extensively about his decision to approach Valdes, the question of his relationship to Valdes had never come up. He stated that he alone had made the decision to approach the Cuban major, and that Marcus had no part in it.
He wouldn’t think of staining the young man’s record post-humously.
The reports had been reviewed by the board, which had dressed him down for letting the mission almost get out of control, but had not recommended any disciplinary action except to disallow any more field operations for him during the rest of his tenure. Jonas didn’t care. He already carried the guilt of having overseen the deaths
of three operatives as it was, and as for what had happened to his son—for that he would never forgive himself.
After it was all said and done, Jonas had taken his mandatory month off, and followed it with a leave of absence, which had been approved without comment. He had suspended his game programming, saying he would be out of the country for a while, and then had flown back to Florida, settled in and begun the slow, careful process of bringing his plan to fruition.
Now, after months of planning, and tens of thousands of dollars changing hands, the last part of it was about to happen. As he waited, he remembered the end of the long chain of events that had led him to this beach in the middle of the night, so many years later.
June 19, 1973
JONAS LEANED BACK in the raft, still not sure what to say.
What had begun as a simple kiss had quickly turned into something much more, almost before he even knew what was happening. Although they both should have been exhausted by their ordeal, instead they had responded to each other’s hunger with rising passion, culminating in an urgent, wordless coupling that had left them both spent and gasping.
Marisa rested her head on his chest, her light breathing indicating that she had fallen asleep. It was probably for the best; Jonas wasn’t sure what he would have said to her anyway. Weariness was trying to overtake him, as well, but he fought against it, struggling to keep his exhausted eyes on the far shore.
At last he saw a red light flashing from the jungle. Reaching for the emergency light in the raft Jonas flashed the recognition code back, and was answered in kind.
“Marisa, wake up.” She stirred against him, then reared up as if shot, a small cry bursting from her mouth.
“Shh, it’s all right. The rest of the team is here. We have to go get them.” He looked down at his disheveled clothes with an embarrassed grin. She smiled, as well, looking away as they both quickly dressed.
“I don’t just— That isn’t usually—” she stammered.
“It’s all right, I know what you’re trying to say, and I understand. Um—this usually doesn’t happen to me, either.”
