Havana Run

by Les Standiford

  Whatever the reason, he never saw the kick coming, though he certainly felt it. As her knee drove up between his legs, he felt his grip loosen, his arms fold in reflex over his gut. The cruelest blow of all, he was thinking, as he doubled over. Her footsteps were already receding down the hall.

  “Driscoll…” he managed. He heard a groaning noise, saw the gallery’s front door swing open and the silhouette of the little man dash outside into the street. A bulky shadow cut across the newly entered slice of moonlight—Driscoll in thundering pursuit.

  Russell might have called out something more, but the sudden explosions from the street outside stopped him. One of the front windows of the place dissolved in a shower of glass. There were more shots and he saw a shadow spin about on the sidewalk outside, then tumble in through the shattered frame. The man’s body lay inert, one hand upflung, still clutching a pistol.

  “Fucking-A,” he heard from Driscoll as another volley of shots chewed across the front of the gallery. The big man dove for cover between the edge of the door frame and the blasted window, his head tucked as more shots blasted through the open doorway where he’d nearly run.

  Russell gave one longing glance back down the hallway where Delia had disappeared but knew he couldn’t do it. He cursed softly to himself, then ducked through the gap in the curtains and rolled across the moon-striped floor of the gallery, coming up with his hand clutching that of the little man who’d been blown in through the shattered window.

  He did his best to ignore the whine of shots that cut the air above his head, prying the pistol from the dead man’s hand. With the grip finally clutched firmly, he scrambled toward the far end of the window, then popped up and emptied the pistol in one rapid volley, spraying the second-floor balcony across the narrow street where he’d seen a series of muzzle flashes.

  There was a cry, and a form toppled over a railing, then crashed to the cobblestone street. Russell heard the clatter of a weapon on the stones and thought briefly of diving out after it, but Driscoll was on him then, pulling him roughly toward the thick curtains.

  “Out the back,” Driscoll growled, as shouts echoed in the darkened street outside.

  Russell didn’t have to be told twice. In seconds he was up and through the curtains, leading the way back down the narrow hallway.

  More shouts echoed behind them, along with probing gunfire. Russell, the sick pain in his groin long forgotten, hit the back door with barely a pause, his shoulder slamming the heavy steel aside as if it were made of balsa. Driscoll was on his heels as they flew out into the street, a figure backpedaling away from the two of them in surprise.

  “What the hell?” a familiar voice called.

  “Vines?” Russell said. He caught the man before he’d steadied himself, jerked him close by the lapels of his coat. “Is that your guys firing out front?”

  “Let him go,” Russell heard from behind him, then felt the press of steel at his cheek.

  He released Vines, kept his hands frozen high.

  “It’s not us,” Vines said. He turned to the man who held the pistol beneath Russell’s ear. “It’s all right, Belsen.”

  Russell felt the pressure release from his ear, had to restrain himself from striding forward, dropping Vines with a shot. There was another muffled gunshot from the far side of the building, then a second.

  “Who is it, then?” Russell said. He glanced over his shoulder, saw that Belsen still had a pistol leveled his way. A second shadowy figure stood with a pistol trained on Driscoll.

  “Our Cuban friends, I’m afraid,” Vines said. “That’s not good news.”

  “No shit,” Russell said, glancing back the way they’d come.

  “See if you can get that door locked,” Vines said to the man who’d been covering Russell. “Jam it if you have to.” The man nodded and went to work.

  Vines turned back to the two of them. “Command has had a fix on the bug in Vedetti’s gallery for a few days now,” he said. “When they picked up signals from a transmitter that was moving and seemed to be approaching this place, I got the alert. I decided we’d come have a look, in case Deal showed up.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the Cadillac. “We just got here, and realized the bug was in Fuentes’ car. It was jammed beneath the rear seat cushions. That’s why it wasn’t picking up audio.”

  Another shot rang out in the darkness. “So maybe you’re not the only ones picking up signals from those transmitters,” Driscoll said. “Maybe El Comandante has more electronics capability than you give him credit for.”

  “So it would seem,” Vines said. There was a grinding noise from behind them as the door to the rear entrance of the gallery slammed shut.

  “It’s locked,” Vines’ man called.

  “Time to go,” Vines said. He turned away as though they’d just had a casual meeting during an evening’s stroll.

  “That’s it?” Russell said, glancing around the narrow street. “There’s a guy shot dead in there. And what about the girl?”

  “What girl would that be?”

  Russell glanced around the darkened street. “Delia, she called herself. She came out just ahead of us, a bunch of papers under her arm.”

  “We didn’t see anyone,” Vines told him, starting away. “And we’re out of here. Direct engagement with our Cuban friends is way up on the no-no list.”

  He waved the two men with him back down the alley-way and had turned to go, when a strange chirping noise arose from somewhere. Vines thrust his hand inside his coat and came out with a satellite phone. He was still hurrying back down the alleyway, phone to one ear, his hand against the other, when suddenly he stopped.

  “You’re sure?” he said, his voice rising in the darkness. He cursed and jammed the phone back into his pocket, then broke into a sprint.

  “What is it?” Russell called, snatching at Vines’ arm. Vines shook him off, ducking sideways past the hulking Cadillac.

  “Fuentes’ boat,” he said. “They think they heard John Deal come on board.”

  At that moment a car engine roared into life just across the narrow intersection where the Caddy was parked, and a pair of headlights blossomed, filling the passage with light. Russell threw up his arm to shield himself from the glare.

  “Is that someone with you?” Russell called to Vines.

  “I’m afraid not,” Vines said.

  “Everybody in the Cadillac,” Driscoll called. “Show us your stuff, Russell.”

  He flung open the passenger’s door of the Cadillac and slid inside, just as Russell mirrored his actions on the opposite side, Vines and his men piling into the back.

  Russell jammed the key into the ignition, pressed the starter button and felt the big engines surge when he hit the accelerator. He levered the Caddy into reverse and floored it, disregarding the tinny sound of the horn behind them and the frantic flashing of headlights from dim to bright and back again.

  “Hang on,” he called, his hands clamped to the wheel.

  There was a crash then, and an impact that sent all of them rocking wildly in the deep-cushioned seats. Russell jerked the transmission into drive without missing a beat. There was a rending shriek of metal, then the Caddy lurched free. He twisted hard on the wheel and the Caddy bounded up over a curb, starting away down a lane that ran perpendicular to the intersection.

  “That’ll teach them to tailgate,” Driscoll said, casting a glance through the rear window.

  Russell checked his rearview mirror. A man struggled out from the driver’s seat of a greatly foreshortened and steaming Fiat, its front bumper torn loose, and tumbled to the pavement. He saw muzzle flashes and heard the explosion of shots, but the Caddy was well away by now, swinging out onto the broad avenue that led back toward the Malecón. Russell pressed down even harder on the Caddy’s accelerator and gave the big car its head.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  “How fast are we going?” Driscoll said. He had one arm across the top
of the seat between them, his other folded with his elbow out the window. Maybe he was trying to look casual, Russell thought, but his voice gave him away.

  “You worried?” Russell asked above the groan of the Cadillac’s mighty engine.

  “No,” Driscoll said. “I figure you for at least half a dozen instances of grand-theft-auto.”

  “You’ve seen my sheet,” Russell countered. “There’s no such entry on there.”

  “And now I know why,” Driscoll said. He was trying to keep himself from leaning as they blew around the big curve just past the U.S. Interests Section.

  “You want to stop and pick up reinforcements?” Russell called into the back, where Vines and his men sat silently.

  “You can forget that,” Vines called. “So far as the Section’s concerned, none of us even exist.”

  “That’s a comfort,” Russell said. He glanced down at the Caddy’s speedometer. Eighty-five, it said, but the heavy car gripped the pavement like a freight train.

  “You’re not worried about getting us picked up?” Driscoll asked.

  “Not in this car,” Russell said. They were approaching the tunnel that ducked under the river to the suburb of Miramar. There was a flashy restaurant just on the other end, and he slowed a bit as they emerged just in case a carload of drunken diplomats might be pulling out in front of them.

  He needn’t have worried about drunken patrons. It was past midnight, and the restaurant’s parking lot was virtually empty.

  There did happen to be a motorcycle cop there, though. The guy was leaning against the seat of his bike, his arms folded, his chin on his chest. He glanced up when he heard the Caddy’s approach, had a closer look, then turned away as they sped past.

  “What’d I tell you?” Russell said.

  “I’m just glad we didn’t have to run over him,” Driscoll said.

  They were approaching the entrance to the Marina Hemingway now, and Russell brought the Caddy down to a speed approaching normal as he prepared to turn.

  “What the hell is that?” Vines called from the backseat. He leaned forward to point at something approaching from the direction of the guard’s shack.

  Russell slowed even further, staring in disbelief. It was a guy in khakis who’d been gagged and bound to a wheeled office chair, he realized. The guy was pretty well taped up, but he had managed to work one leg free and must have pushed himself out from the guard shack and down the little concrete ramp that led from its open doorway. Now he was kicking himself frantically along the rough asphalt pavement of the access road, desperate to make the highway, Russell supposed.

  It looked like the process would have taken a while, even if they hadn’t come along. Every kick sent him in a spiraling turn that lost him almost as much yardage as he gained.

  When the guy saw the lights of the Caddy, his eyes bugged and his checks bulged as if he were trying to call out to them. “He probably thinks we’re Tomás,” Russell observed.

  “I’ll bet he does,” Driscoll said.

  Russell eased the Caddy up to a near crawl as they approached the man in the lurching chair. “Hold on tight,” he called out the window, then gunned the engine.

  The Caddy bumped into the guy and his chair and began to push him forward. The guy was staring at them in disbelief, his eyes going frantic as the Caddy picked up speed.

  “You really going to do it?” Driscoll asked, as the edge of the seawall loomed up ahead.

  “Why not?” Russell asked.

  “He’s just a slob like you and me,” Driscoll said.

  “I know,” Russell said. “I couldn’t do a thing like that.”

  He swung the wheel away from the water, and the guy in the chair shot away from the front of the Caddy like a puck from a mechanized stick. The wheels of the chair hit a tangle of cable beside a remote storage building, then went over sideways with a crash. Even if the guy got himself upright, he was looking at maybe a year’s worth of circling back out to the highway.

  Meanwhile, Russell was scanning the far reaches of the marina, his eyes searching for the distant slip where the Bellísima had tied up. He hadn’t paid all that much attention when they’d left the place. He never did when someone else was driving. A bad habit, he was thinking. Something he would have to work on.

  They approached a fork in the narrow service road, and Russell chose the path where the weeds poked up heaviest from the gaps in the cracked pavement. The road made a sharp left between a set of pillars where there might have been a chain stretched once, then hooked back right to run alongside an oily looking channel where trash bobbed up thickly at a dead end.

  “Look out!” Driscoll called at his side, and Russell slammed on the brakes as three figures emerged from behind a stacked pile of conduit and hawser rope on the opposite side of the narrow road.

  “Sonofabitch!” Russell said, rocking backward as the Caddy stalled and slid to a halt.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Vines said, staring out at the two women and the big man in hospital scrubs, caught there in the Caddy’s headlights.

  “Not exactly,” Russell said.

  His hand was already clawing at the Caddy’s door. In the next moment, they were out into the muggy night at the side of a sloshing boat slip where the Bellísima had once been berthed, listening as the throbbing of heavy boat engines receded in the distance, a sound that battered at them all.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  “Steady as she goes, Fuentes,” Deal said. He had the pistol leveled on his former host, who stood now at the wheel in the pilothouse of the Bellísima, all his practiced bonhomie vanished. They were well past the end of the breakwater now, the boat beginning to pitch as it hit the swells of the open sea. Maybe ten more miles to international waters, Deal thought, with a glance at the rapidly receding lights on shore. Less than a hundred to Key West.

  “I can assure you that your weapon is not necessary,” Fuentes said, glancing nervously at him.

  “You’ve been assuring me of a lot of things,” Deal said, holding the pistol steady. “Let’s just say I’m more comfortable this way.”

  “I myself am not,” Fuentes replied, giving him a sour look. “Accidents are always happening where guns are concerned.”

  “That’s something you should keep in mind,” Deal said. “For every second we’re still in Cuban waters.”

  Fuentes might have been tempted to say something else, but Deal gave him a look that stopped him. He would have preferred to be at the helm himself, of course, but he hadn’t had much choice while they were busy casting off. Now, of course, Fuentes was theoretically dispensable, a fact that had surely not eluded the old con artist.

  Deal took a glance at his still-sleeping father curled up on a stack of deck cushions at the rear of the compartment. At that moment, the old man’s eyes fluttered open and he croaked something that Deal couldn’t quite catch over the rumbling of the engines.

  “What?” he said. He bent down close to his father, his eyes still on Fuentes.

  “…give a sucker…an even…break,” his old man said, the words coming in fits and starts.

  Deal turned at the last, found his father’s eyes closed once again. Dr. Aponte had assured him the drugs she’d administered would wear off soon enough, but there was no way of telling just when that would happen or how he’d behave when it did. That outburst in the hospital could have gotten them all killed, and even though there were none of Fuentes’ henchmen left on board, Deal wasn’t sure what he’d be faced with when the old man came around again.

  A pretty cruel joke, he thought. Get your father handed back after all these years, but look what shape he comes in.

  “Who is this man?” Fuentes asked, his tone slightly aggrieved. As if he might not otherwise have been kidnapped and forced to pilot his boat out of the Marina Hemingway at gunpoint.

  Deal glanced up, his finger tracing the edge of the trigger guard. One little flick of the finger, he was thinking;
that’s all it would take. Toss what was left of Fuentes to the fishes, hope his father slept through the ride across the Straits.

  “I am sorry,” Fuentes added hastily. Perhaps he had read his mind, Deal thought. Maybe that’s how Fuentes had lived as long as he had in the company he kept. “I was only wondering. In actuality, I do not care who it is.”

  Deal nodded, his eyes on Fuentes, his pistol still ready. “This is John F. Kennedy,” he said, after a moment. “He never died that day in Dallas. He’s been in Castro’s prison all this time.”

  Fuentes gave him an uncertain look. “Please,” he said. “I was only making conversation.”

  “Make some up in your own head,” Deal said. “Do a little life review. You might be finding it useful soon.”

  Fuentes nodded, though it didn’t look like he welcomed the prospect. Deal saw that sweat had come to bead on that normally unruffled brow. Good. It was about time someone else felt pressure.

  “What’s this thing make, flat out—about twenty knots?”

  Fuentes nodded, his eyes fixed ahead. “Twenty-two, perhaps.”

  “Good.” Deal glanced at his watch. “We’ll be out of Cuban waters in a few minutes. We can make Key West before morning.”

  “If all goes well,” Fuentes said.

  “It’s going to go well,” Deal said. “It is going to go unbelievably well.”

  Deal turned to glance at his father. It would go well, he told himself. There was no reason to think otherwise. Boats plied the route with impunity every day. They might run the risk of being stopped by a Coast Guard cutter close to the U.S. mainland, or find themselves approached by Customs or INS at the Key West docks, but certainly they had little to fear from Cuban officials now that they were out of port. Pleasure boats came and went from the Marina Hemingway by the score, their captains encouraged to come and scatter their tourist dollars like bread crumbs, no way to keep track of comings and goings…