He was still on what looked like a main street, with scattered pockets of people walking along the sides of the road, past brightly colored shops. The only good thing so far, he thought, was that no one seemed the least bit interested in assisting the police in stopping him. Marcus bolted into an intersection and heard the blast of a horn as a pristine 1959
purple-and-white Chevy screeched to a halt, its chrome bumper mere inches from his leg.
In for a pound, in for a ton, he thought. Although he knew that car theft was a serious offense in Cuba, it was better than the absolute jail time he’d get if caught right now.
Going to the driver’s door, he yanked it open and grabbed the driver by the hair, pulling him out with a startled yell.
“Sorry,
He heard the rising siren of the police car, and concentrated on losing the cops as quickly as possible.
He crossed the intersection and drove for another block, then turned left onto a smaller street, praying that he wouldn’t encounter another vehicle coming the opposite way, as there was barely enough room for his car. At the next corner he took a right, then went two more blocks and turned left again, heading deeper into the decaying heart of Old Havana. He slowed, trying to maintain the speed limit and look as if he was driving casually. The siren mocked him with its closeness, but he hadn’t seen the police car behind him yet, and figured he was about to make his escape.
But as he turned right down a narrow street, he found the way blocked by another white Peugeot, its lone blue light whirling as it slowly advanced. Marcus heard the howl of an approaching siren from behind him, and slammed the accelerator to the floor. The engine groaned in protest, making the entire car vibrate as it was pushed to a speed it probably hadn’t seen in decades. The two officers’ jaws dropped as he approached. They held up their hands as if they could stop his charge by force of will alone. Marcus said a silent apol-ogy to the car and its owner again as the distance rapidly shrank between the two vehicles.
With a jarring crunch of glass, plastic and metal, the speeding Chevy rammed into the French hatchback, sending the lighter car careening back into the intersection. Other than the bone-shaking impact, the Chevy didn’t seem remotely affected by the crash, although Marcus was sure he had caused some cosmetic damage. He wrenched the wheel sideways, breaking his car free from the police vehicle, and took off down the street. At the nearest intersection he turned left, then right at the next, then left again, driving into an even seedier part of town. At the first street that didn’t have anyone on it, he pulled into an alley so narrow he couldn’t open the car doors. He turned off the car, rolled the window down and slid out. He waited a few minutes before walking down the alley to the other end and strolling casually away.
He tensed as another police car sped past him, its siren wail-ing, but it didn’t slow down or give him a second glance.
That was too close, Marcus thought. He scratched his head, thinking he’d have to change his appearance to avoid suspicion, as enough people had gotten a look at him to put out a general description to the police. But first he had to put as much distance between himself and the scene as possible.
As he walked, he palmed his cell phone and scrolled through the information he had gleaned from the hotel’s computer. On the next-to-last file was Major Damason Valdes’s personal information, including his parents, father unknown, mother deceased, along with a home address in Havana.
Marcus smiled as he read the information. I wonder if Ms. Uptight would have thought any of that fell under my mission parameters.
I have to admit, a man could certainly get used to this, Jonas thought.
He stood on the sundeck of the
“Nice view, isn’t it?” Karen appeared behind him, clad in a stunning one-piece white swimsuit that revealed enough of her slender body to start any man’s thoughts drifting. She held another highball glass, which she clinked against his.
“An ill-gotten penny for your thoughts.”
Jonas was dressed for his role, too, wearing a cream linen shirt, beige linen slacks and hand-woven Italian loafers. His sunglasses were the same Christian Diors and around his wrist was a sleek NOMOS Glashutte watch. “I was just thinking if this is what the criminals are enjoying, I may have chosen the wrong profession.”
“Are you suggesting that saving a nation, or the world, doesn’t have its perks?” Karen asked with a sly grin.
“So far, I think working with you has been the best thing about this mission.” Jonas’s grin faded as he saw a white dot appear on the horizon. It quickly grew into the same Tiara yacht he’d used to drop Marcus off near Cuba two days earlier.
He saw three men and one woman on board. “Almost show time.”
Karen pressed one side of her pair of designer sunglasses.
“Target is approaching. Everyone assume their positions.”
The entire nine-person crew of the
The pleasure boat approached the rear of the larger vessel, and was met by two crew members in white shirts and navy shorts. In the cockpit was Rafael Castilo, his bodyguard and two more members of the crew, a young man and woman.
Jonas had requested that this particular pair pick up the businessman to set his mind more at ease. He was sure that either of them could have handled the bodyguard, if it had come to that.
The massive man exited the boat first, inspecting, checking everywhere, one hand near his holstered side arm without being too obvious about it. Jonas raised his appraisal of the man another notch. “I’m surprised he allowed Castilo to come here at all. They’re outnumbered five to one, with limited escape or evasion avenues,” he said quietly.
“Maybe he’s just that confident,” Karen said.
“Maybe. Would you do me a favor and see about dinner?
I should greet our guest.”
“You just want me to make a suitably distracting entrance later, don’t you? On the upper deck?”
Jonas smiled. “Right. That’s why men will never win the gender wars—women are too adept at reading our simple minds.”
Jonas walked down the narrow set of stairs to the aft deck. “Rafael, so good to see you.” He nodded at Castilo’s protector, as well. “I trust the ride over was pleasant.”
Castilo sighed, glowering at his bodyguard. “Once we got aboard, things were very comfortable, but nothing like this.”
The businessman looked around with the nonchalance of the very rich. “This is a magnificent vessel.” His comment was more of a formality than anything else.
“I’m sure she must pale in comparison to others in the area, and in the Mediterranean she’s practically a rowboat,”
Jonas said.
“I’m sure she holds her own. What’s her speed, twenty knots?”
“Twenty-one is the standard. Perhaps you’d like to enjoy a short cruise after our meal. It’s a bit late for the sunset, but I’ve had a light supper prepared.”
“We’ll see. I noticed that your boat hasn’t docked in the harbor over the past few days.” His tone made the statement more of a question.
“I find the harbor a bit claustrophobic when I’m here.
Also, I don’t wish to draw too much attention to my comings and goings, which is why I prefer to stay out here and com-mute in when necessary.”
“Of course—the better to discuss business, yes?” Castilo said.
