A King's ransom

on Livan.

“Julio Iglesias,” said Hector.

“You think this is a joke?”

“You don’t want the boy. He’s Nicaraguan, not American.”

“I said, who is he?”

“My son.”

The guerrilla delivered a quick blow with the butt of his rifle. Livan’s head jerked back, and then he stumbled backward and fell to the deck, his face bloodied.

Hector rushed to him. “Livan!”

The guerrilla stood over them, his tone louder and more threatening. “Once more, where is the American?”

“You broke his nose!”

“And with the next shot I kill him. Where’s the American?”

Matthew had to do something, but what? Five men with automatic weapons, and he was unarmed. Just then he caught sight of one of his workers on the Pinta, the one the guerrillas had not yet accounted for. He was crawling toward the rail, armed with a shotgun that was kept aboard for emergencies. Quietly, he took aim.

Matthew sensed disaster. If the shotgun discharged, they’d all be killed. He had only one choice: reveal himself. He was sure they’d take the American alive and spare the others.

“It’s me you want!” he shouted in English, but it was too late. The shotgun blasted. One of the guerrillas was hit, his chest exploding in red. His body dropped through the open hatch and into the hull. The other four immediately returned fire with fully automatic assault rifles. A barrage of bullets rained down on the Pinta, bits and pieces of the wood trim splintering into the air, the windows shattering. Paint cans exploded, ruptured cans of mineral spirits spilled onto the deck. One of the workers was bleeding from the head, his body motionless on the deck. The others leaped off the boat and into the harbor.

It was all happening at once, but in Matthew’s mind the sequence seemed to unfold separately, as if in slow motion. His panicked workers diving off the Pinta into the bay. The guerrillas scattering and firing wildly. And finally, in one cruel and senseless act, the tough guy in the Australian hat spraying the deck of the Nina with a shower of bullets. Dozens of crimson welts exploded across the bodies of Hector and Livan.

“No!”

It crushed Matthew’s spirit, as he knew instantly that his friends were dead. The guerrillas turned their guns toward Matthew, two boats away, but they didn’t shoot. The three surviving crew members who’d abandoned ship were swimming away in the darkness, but the guerrillas didn’t pursue them. They obviously wanted only Matthew- alive. The guy in the hat shouted; then the others shouted, too. All five took aim and commanded him to surrender.

No way, thought Matthew. Not to these murderers.

Two guerrillas started toward him, cautiously crossing the middle boat on their way to Coco Loco. It was decision time. He could resist and surely end up dead. That wouldn’t bring back Hector and his son. He saw only one way to avenge the murder of his friends-live to fight another day.

“?Manos arriba!” their leader shouted.

Matthew took a long look, memorizing those cold black eyes behind the mask. He raised his hands to feign cooperation, then took one slow step back and suddenly tumbled over the rail. He splashed headfirst into the warm, black waters below, holding his breath as long as he possibly could, fighting to stay down without air, swimming deeper and farther than ever before, knifing his way beneath the surface with long strokes and powerful kicks.

He was diving like a Miskito, the way his good friend Hector had taught him, thinking only of escape.

2

I was seated at the long, polished mahogany table in the main conference room on the thirty-first floor, ostensibly assisting my supervising partner in a morning settlement conference, in reality staring out the window at the cruise ships in the Port of Miami while thinking about Jenna. More precisely, thinking about the last time I’d seen Jenna.

It was a month ago today. We were engaged at the time. She’d invited me to take a long walk on the beach, said she’d meet me there. Any dolt could have seen what was coming, but I was so wrapped up in my own world and oblivious to our relationship that I’d actually shown up with a Frisbee, a radio, and a bottle of wine. This was going to be one of those talks that wasn’t really a talk, more of a speech with a few permissible interruptions. It was so overrehearsed that Jenna had lost all sense that it would hit me like a five-iron between the eyes. The way she looked on that day would never leave my memory, the sad smile, her sandy-blond hair blowing in the gentle breeze, those big eyes that sparkled even in the most dismal of circumstances. I was speechless, the way I was the first time I’d ever laid eyes on her, only this time for far less enchanting reasons. The silence was insufferable once she’d finished, both of us waiting for me to move my lips and say something. Nothing came, and then it started to rain. At least I’d thought it was raining. I felt a drop on my head, and Jenna promptly lost it right before my eyes. She was embarrassed to be laughing, laughing not at me but at the absurdity of the situation, yet laughing nonetheless. It was then that I heard the shrill screech above me, saw the winged culprit swoop down from the sky in one last mocking pass. A seagull had shit squarely on my head.

This, of course, we took as an omen. I got my diamond ring back and hadn’t seen her since. It wasn’t a bitter breakup, but I surely would have understood a few hard feelings. We’d met five years ago as students at the University of Florida and had been virtually inseparable. She was from Tampa, hated Miami, and agreed to move here for me. I moved here for Coolidge, Harding and Cash. With me working sixty and seventy hours a week in the Miami office of a Wall Street law firm, it was inevitable that someone with whom I was supposed to share the rest of my life would eventually ask, “What life?”

“Can we try a different approach?” Duncan Fitz suggested.

Duncan was my supervising attorney. I was at his side, as usual. Seated to his left was our client, a regional vice president from Med-Fam Pharmaceuticals. On the other side of the table was Teesha Williams, the plaintiff’s counsel, along with her client, Gilbert Jones, an overweight former police officer who was now on permanent disability. Two years ago he’d been told to drop thirty pounds or retire from the force. He’d turned to a drug manufactured by Med-Fam. He lost the weight and, in the process, shaved about thirty years off his life. The drug had so damaged his heart that he needed a transplant that would never come, not with the inherent surgical complications presented by his weakened condition and obesity. His remaining time on this earth could be measured in months, perhaps weeks. He wheezed with each breath, walked only with the aid of a cane, and kept a portable tank of oxygen at his side for intermittent moments of extreme difficulty. It was hard not to feel sorry him-something I didn’t dare admit to Duncan.

“Try whatever approach you like,” said Teesha, her tone less than amicable. “If this case doesn’t settle today, we’re going to trial.”

Duncan smiled thinly and said, “Let’s make a deal.”

“I’m listening.”

“That is my proposal: Let’s make a deal. As in the old television game show from the seventies. You know, Monty Hall, Carol Merrill.”

“Are you on drugs?” she said.

I was no longer thinking about Jenna. This was actually getting interesting. For twenty minutes these two lawyers had been trading self-righteous speeches to impress their clients. I’d said nothing, which was exactly my job. Watch and learn. That was the Cool Cash method of training its young lawyers, and Duncan Fitz was regarded as one of its best teachers. Duncan was a seasoned litigator whose two favorite forms of recreation were boxing with men half his age at the gym twice a week and, whenever possible, depriving an unprepared plaintiff’s lawyer of a nice, fat contingency fee.

Duncan said, “Clearly we’re at an impasse. Med-Fam has very generously offered to settle for fifty thousand