“Now you know why they call ’em ‘banana republics,’ ” Stoke said. “Damn commie guerillas down there all went bananas in the sixties and they ain’t got their shit back together yet.”
“Castro’s outlasted ten American presidents,” Ross pointed out.
“True. But old Fidel, he’s more movie star than Communist. He only shoots people to keep them from walking out of the theatre before his movie’s over.”
Ross was standing at his side now, both of them watching the Cubans. Stoke had dosed Ross up pretty good with morphine from the Cuban’s medical kit. Ross said the leg wasn’t broken anyway, just a torn tendon he got when the museum roof fell down on top of him. ’Course, Ross would say just a scratch even if there was a big white jagged thighbone poking out his skin.
The first of the three Cuban commando boats to arrive in Stiltsville ghosted up to the black-hulled Cigarette. When nobody killed them instantly, two men scrambled aboard the speedboat’s bow and sprayed the cockpit with automatic fire, blowing out the windshield and ripping up a whole lot of very expensive fiberglass. One guy jumped down into the cockpit and tossed a flash-bang grenade through the open companionway, on the off chance the guy Rodrigo was chillin’ down there, whipping up a pitcher of rum Cuba Libres or something.
No reaction from the shot-up speedboat with Diablo in blood red letters flaming down the sides, none from the stilt house where she was tied up, not a peep from any of the other six houses in the ghost town.
Nada.
Surprise, surprise. Nobody home, just like I told you, Pepe. So, where is the legendary Scissorhands? Split already for the Keys on another boat, the way Ross had it? Maybe. Man had put a lot of thinking into his exit strategy. Boy liked drama. Liked to stick around see how it all played out. Plus, he’s got to stay close enough to Stiltsville to pull the trigger when the time was right, at least the way Stoke saw the thing unfolding.
The squad split into three teams, each team going up the rickety wooden ladders to clear a different deserted house. Looked like Pepe and his boys would make it over there for the fireworks. Stoke saw the swimmers reach the ladder of the nearest stilt house. Pepe, the fearless leader himself, in the lead. With the night-vision binocs, Stoke could see he was swimming with his head above water, the assault knife clenched in his teeth, Rambo-style.
Like all the houses in the deserted community, Pepe’s objective was a handyman special. The house was sitting on top of four stilts at a weird angle, like an old dog with one leg shorter than the others. No windows left, just lopsided holes with rotted pieces of fabric fluttering in the wind. No doors, just more black holes. This forgotten town had seen too many hard times, too many hurricanes. Tough to believe this many houses still standing.
Probably not a bad life out here at one time. Row over to your buddy’s house, drink beer and fish off his porch all day. Sun go down, you drink rum and play gin rummy by gas lantern light all night. No horns blowing, no TV going, no phone ringing. Little woman rags your ass, you come home late, just tell her to take a long walk on a short pier. Yeah. He could see the original Stiltsville attraction. A blind man could do that.
The littlest Rambo went up the rickety ladder first, and fearlessly signaled his squad to follow. What the hell Pepe planned to do next, if that guy del Rio actually happened to be up in the house, was unclear to Stoke. Attention! Operation Total Goatfuck is now about to commence! Shit. Warning! I have an assault knife! He saw Pepe dive through the open door, going in low, four more guys right behind him, rolling left and right. Least they got that part right.
Anyway, all five of them got safely inside and that’s exactly when the little tinderbox house blew sky high, nothing left but blackened and burning stilt poles poking up in the sky like four big Tiki torches.
Then the fancy black Cigarette blew, all that expensive gasoline and pricey plastic going up with an explosive whoosh so hot Stoke could feel the heat on his face and forearms at a thousand yards. He’d seen a Cuban commando in a window just before the explosion, one from the first wave of armed Cubans who’d sped away. Guy had fired an RPG grenade into the Cigarette’s stern, where the big gas tanks were, just for the pure hell of it. Last stupid thing he did, too, because a second later the house he and his comrades were standing in wasn’t there anymore, just a huge fireball climbing into the dark purple night like a little A-bomb mushroom.
Stoke hit the throttles, and opened up another two thousand yards between him and what was left of Stiltsville. Seconds later, the remaining five houses exploded almost simultaneously. Night was day.
“Pepe, goddamn your dumb ass,” Stoke said aloud. Even if Alvarez was a dickhead moron, he hated seeing all those young kids die for no good reason. The stupidity and arrogance of the Cuban commander made him sick. He looked at Ross and shook his head.
“Scissorhands wired up all the houses, Ross. Long time ago. Dynamite, probably packed up watertight under the floorboards of each house. Disguised so all the tourista tour boats who still bother to come out to look at these empty shacks couldn’t see nothing. You think he’s waitin’ around to see this? I guess yes. I guess he wouldn’t miss these fireworks for anything.”
Pretty good contingency plan, Stoke thought. Blow the hell out of whoever is chasing you. Blow your own boat up while you’re at it, too, although the Cubans had beat him to that part. Coast Guard or Customs guys, cops show up, think you’re dead and gone, and you’re gone all right, already running for your back-up mansion somewhere down in the islands. So, how’d he do it? Fuses? Blasting cap timers? No. Couldn’t be timers or fuses. Too time-critical. Had to be radio detonators. Cell phone. Had to make sure everybody was at the party before he pushed the pound key and lit the candles. Make sure he was clean, leaving the scene.
Which meant he had to be an eyewitness. Which meant Scissorhands was still close by.
Ross was looking aft, scanning the horizon with the glasses. Had his back turned to the action, concentrating, didn’t even bother to look around when the really big explosions started. Three more houses went up, boom, boom, boom, huge, about five seconds apart. Might as well have been high noon out on the bay the way the sky lit up. Ross didn’t even flinch. Man knew how to focus.
“Good Christ, there he is, Stoke!” Ross said, handing over the glasses. He’d picked out the silhouette of another Cigarette, identical length to the one that had just burned and gone to the bottom. Different paint job, Stoke figured. Different name on the registration. New passport, ID papers and a couple million bucks in Ziplocs stuffed somewhere behind a fake bulkhead.
“Where?”
“Two o’clock! The cut between those two islands. See his rooster-tail? He’s moving south—”
“Diablo II! Let’s go get him,” Stoke said, cranking the two big 250 Yamaha outboards to life. Good thing he’d gotten this thing gassed up. He leaned on the throttles and the RIB leapt forward, arcing a wide flat turn to the southeast. The wind was down and so was the chop out on the bay. No extra weight on the stern now, slowing him down. Hell, two guys in a three-hundred horsepower Frisbee, man, you are one screaming cat skimming over flat water.
“What about survivors?” Ross screamed over the roar of the twin engines.
“No such thing as a survivor back there.”
Ross craned his head around, looking over his shoulder at the flaming remains of Stiltsville. Nothing left but twenty or so of the wooden supports, all burning like torches, sparks and licks of fire against the night sky. Stoke was right. Instant incineration. No one could have survived it.
“Boy got one big advantage on us, Ross,” Stoke said, flipping the wheel hard over and missing a clanging steel channel marker by maybe two inches.
“Namely?”
“Horsepower. Got at least twice as much.”
“That’s a big one.”
“Yeah, but he’s got a big disadvantage, too.”
“I’m waiting.”
“Brainpower. See how bad he’s outrunning us now?”
“I was going to comment on that.”
“He’s gone outside the intracoastal channel markers, see, headed for open water where he can totally lose our ass.”
“Smart move.”
“Maybe. Boy’s headed for the sawgrass flats out there just north of Sands Key. Usually ain’t but about a foot of water where he’s headed now. That big boat’s got props, not jets. She draws at least three, maybe four feet of water. We draw two, max, another advantage on our side.” The boat flew off a wave top and landed, hard.
