by Matthew Rief
The biggest guy in the group, a hulk of a man who looked like The Rock, came after me next. He threw a frenzied succession of left and right punches. I blocked and redirected them as best I could but took a strong blow to the shoulder that hurt like hell.
While I was dealing with the wild attack, the Aussie ran over and came at me from the side. He had a battle rope in his hands and tried to wrap it around my neck. Needing to make a move, I stomped a heel down onto the biggest guy’s closest foot, then grabbed the Aussie’s rope and used his own momentum to throw him to the floor.
By the time I turned back to the behemoth, he hit me with a strong front kick that launched me to the ground. I went with the blow as best I could, rolling under the power rack and coming to a stop on my hands and knees.
The massive guy yelled out, grabbed hold of the power rack, and grunted as he shoved the entire thing over. The heavy piece of workout equipment toppled toward me, and I just managed to roll out of the way before it squished me against the rubber floor. The metal bar rattled to the floor along with a stack of plates of various weights.
Looking up, I saw that the old guy was coming after me with a switchblade. Instinctively, I grabbed a five-pound plate from the floor beside me. Rising onto one knee, I hurled it toward the old guy. The solid metal struck him hard in the side, causing his body to spin and his hand to let go of the knife. He fell hard onto his back and groaned in pain.
Meanwhile, the biggest guy in the group had shuffled his big body around the fallen power rack and was zeroing in on me. He yelled as he bent down, trying to grab hold of me for his finishing move.
I reached back, pulled my dive knife from its sheath at the back of my waistband, and slashed his Achilles tendon. The ligament sprang up under his skin like a broken guitar string, and his leg gave out. The big guy shrieked as he fell onto his backside and reached for the damaged area.
I jumped to my feet and kicked him across the face, knocking him unconscious. The second guy I’d engaged, the one with the shades on, came at me from the right with a knife of his own. I reared back and threw mine through the air, lodging the blade center mass and stopping him in his tracks. He shook, blood flowing out and soaking his shirt, then collapsed.
That left only the Aussie.
He made his presence known in an instant with the cocking of a shotgun.
I spun around to look toward the sound. He was standing between the door into the main section and the bathroom. He had a blacked-out twelve-gauge aimed straight at me and looked angry as hell. His left index finger flexed on the trigger. The slightest bit more effort and a storm of lead pellets would burst toward me and shred my body to pieces.
He was staring right at me, about to speak when suddenly there was a distant mechanical sound.
In an instant, all the overhead lights shut off, sending the room into blackness. This was my chance, and I wasn’t about to let it go to waste.
Darkness is a SEAL’s best friend.
The moment the room went dark, I dove to my left as far as I could. I landed and reached for my Sig just as a powerful boom and a flash indicated a fired shotgun shell. I felt a sharp pain in my left leg but ignored it.
Just as I stabilized myself, the lights came back on. The Aussie looked spooked as I took aim and put a 9mm round into his left thigh. He fell to the floor, and I sprinted over and kicked the shotgun from his hands.
Banging erupted against the heavy doors behind me. I spun around with my Sig raised and saw Ange looking at me through the dirty window.
I put a round into the guy’s right leg as well, just to make sure that he wouldn’t move. He yelled and cursed me as I walked over to the door, unlocking it and swinging it open for Ange.
She stormed into the room with her Glock raised, then scanned every inch of it. We went around the room, making sure all our enemies were subdued and relieved of any weapons. I pulled my knife out of the chest of the guy who’d been wearing sunglasses, wiped the blood on his pants, and slid it back into its sheath.
“You had all the fun without me?” she said.
I shrugged.
“I had no choice. Thanks for cutting the lights. I’d be lying in pieces right now if you hadn’t.”
She holstered her Glock.
“That old guy locked me out just as I got to the doors,” she said. “I was looking for a way to bust in when I saw the breaker panel.” She looked me up and down, her eyes freezing when they reached the bottom part of my left leg. “Dodge, what the hell happened?”
She bent down, examining my left leg. I looked and noticed a circle of dark red at the bottom of my left calf, blood dripping down toward my sock.
“I guess I got hit,” I said, remembering the sharp pain I’d felt just before I’d drawn my Sig.
In the heat of the moment, with my adrenaline pumping, I’d neglected to notice the wound. But once Ange had brought it to my attention, the pain resonated up my body. It wasn’t a serious injury, but it hurt and it would require some attention.
I stepped across the room and grabbed a towel from a folded stack. Kneeling down, I wrapped it around my leg, but Ange stopped me.
“Let me do it,” she said.
She knelt down, wrapped the towel carefully around the wound, then tightened it to slow the bleeding. It was as makeshift as it gets but would have to do for the time being. We had important business to attend to.
“It’s okay, Ange,” I said. I motioned toward the Aussie. “We need to find out what he knows and get out of here before backup arrives.”
She rose to her feet, and we turned our attention to the Aussie, who was sitting against the bathroom door, blood pooling beneath him. His half-burned cigarette lay on the floor beside him, letting off a thin line of smoke.
Ange bent down in front of him, stared him straight in the eye.
“You remember me?” she said. “I’m the girl that you never should have messed with.”
Ange grabbed her Glock and slammed the grip into the guy’s ear. He yelled out and gritted his teeth.
“Where’s Scarlett?” she said.
I slid a forty-five-pound plate off a nearby rack and walked over.
“Remember when you mentioned how many drops it would take to crush a skull?” I said. “I’m thinking I’d rather start with your fingers. See how they hold up.”
I pulled his left arm out, pinned it down with my foot and dangled the plate right over his hand.
He slouched his head down and panted for air. Shaking his head, he closed his eyes, then they sprang open.
“What the hell does it matter?” he said, struggling to get the words out through the pain. “We’re… we’re all dead now anyway. It’s over. There’s no coming back from this.”
Ange and I looked at each other. We didn’t say anything. He was talking, and we wanted to see if he’d keep running his mouth.
“They took her to the Ranch, alright? That means it’s already over. Your being here was all for nothing.”
“The Ranch? Where is it?” I asked.
“I… I don’t know where it is.”
“Is it in Cuba?”
He shook as he nodded.
“What is it for?” Ange asked.
“It’s a processing depot.”
“What? Like a meat processing plant?”
He shook his head.
“It’s not for processing animals. It’s for processing women.” He paused a moment, and we let him catch his breath. “Women from all over are taken there to be processed.”
“Processed?” I asked.
I’d had enough experience with sex traffickers to know what that meant already.
“Better suited for slavery,” he said. “The Ranch makes them submissive. By the time they leave the farm, they lose any desire to resist or fight back. They give in to their lot in life.”
I glanced at my dive watch. He was lying, and by the look in Ange’s eye, she knew it too. This guy knew where the Ranch was, but he wasn’t going to tell us, and
we were running out of chitchat time.
I dropped the metal plate right beside his hand, snatched my Sig, and aimed it at his forehead.
“Tell us where it is or you’ll die right here right now,” I said.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said between struggling breaths. He’d lost a lot of blood. “If you leave me alive, they will kill me anyway. You do not know our operation. You do not know the danger that you are both in now.”
I squeezed the grip hard, then loosened and lowered it.
“Well, then, I guess I’ll let them do the dirty work,” I said, holstering my Sig.
“This is your last chance,” Ange said. “Tell us where this Ranch is and we might be able to get you out of here.”
He narrowed his gaze, then turned and looked away from us. We’d gotten everything we could out of him.
Ange stepped toward him and smashed her foot across his face, causing his neck to whip to the side and putting him to sleep.
TWENTY-FOUR
With all our enemies either dead or unconscious, it was time to get out of there. Before heading for the door, Ange searched the room and then moved into the adjoining office.
“Ange, we need to—”
“Not before I take care of that,” she said, raising a first aid kit and pointing at my wound.
“It’s just a scratch,” I said.
She shook her head.
“No need to play tough guy with me. I know it hurts like hell.”
I winced as she touched the towel.
“Alright,” I said, grabbing her hand. “But let’s put some distance between us and this place first.”
She reluctantly agreed, and we slipped out the back door of the gym. Keeping a sharp eye out for reinforcements, we walked along a back alley for a block before reaching the parking lot. I made brief eye contact with a guy sitting in a black idling Chevy. I watched as he looked away from me, scratched his thick mustache, then lit up a cigarette. He looked… off. Slightly flustered.
I filed away the thought, then we cut a right, followed by a left into another alley that was empty aside from a few dumpsters.
We sat on the concrete steps at the side of what looked like an apartment building. Ange pried open the first aid kit and quickly went to work.
“Where do you think this Ranch is?” she asked, trying to take my mind off what she was doing as she carefully unwrapped the towel.
The blood hadn’t dried yet, but it still stung. Especially when she doused it in antiseptic.
“No idea,” I said. “And I doubt we’ll hit anything but dead ends if we try searching for it.”
“Ranch must just be their name for it. I’m sure it’s not actually called that.”
“Right.”
I gasped as she moved in with the tweezers, grazing sensitive exposed flesh.
“Sorry,” she said.
She was able to get the pellet, but if she’d been playing Operation, more than one buzzer would’ve gone off for sure.
With a smooth movement, she removed the bloody projectile and lifted it up.
“Souvenir to remember our trip?” she asked.
“I’d prefer a box of Cohibas,” I said. “But only when the fat lady sings.”
She dropped the pellet into a plastic bag, then finished cleaning the wound. Once it was ready, she stitched me up with the smooth and meticulous movements of a seamstress. When the stitches were in place, she ripped open a square Band-Aid and stuck it over the wound.
“Alright, well, it looks like you might get to keep your leg,” she said as she helped me to my feet.
“Thanks to you and your breaker-opening abilities.”
We tossed everything into the nearest dumpster, including the bag with the pellet in it, then took off down the alley. Less than a minute later, we turned right onto a busy street and hailed a cab.
“Take us to the best restaurant nearby,” Ange said.
It was a good idea. As much as I wanted to stay hot on the trail and track down Scarlett as quickly as possible, we were running on fumes. Plus we needed to figure out where the Ranch was, and a good meal would help us think better.
A few minutes into the trip, the driver took us right past Havana’s Revolution Plaza, the political heart of the country. Massive paved walkways surrounded by large buildings and monuments. Beyond the massive Palace of the Revolution, I spotted the star-shaped marble tower and statue erected in honor of the famous writer, Jose Marti, who’d advocated for independence from Spain.
Opposite the memorial are the offices of the ministries of the interior and communications, whose facades feature two matching steel memorials of arguably the most important heroes of the revolution: Che Guevara and Camilo Cienfuegos.
The driver stopped at the curb in front of a café, then leaned back to look at us both.
“Best ropa vieja in the city,” he said. “Trust me, my friends, you will not want to leave.”
We thanked him, handed him the fare along with a generous tip, then stepped out. The café was well appointed, with gray suede seats, black hardwood tables, and a clean atmosphere. There was also an old piano beside the bar and a few classic bicycles up on the walls.
A well-dressed man greeted us, then ushered us to a spot two tables from the door along the side. The entire north-facing wall was open to air, putting the sights and sounds of the street life on full display.
Neither of us glanced at the menu. By the way the place smelled, we knew we couldn’t go wrong. We each took the driver’s advice and ordered a big plate of ropa vieja. To wash it down, we asked for a pitcher of water and two glasses of watermelon agua fresca. I also asked what else the place was known for, feeling more hungry than usual. I was surprised when the waiter said pizza and ordered one with sausage, pepperoni, and mushrooms to ensure I’d get full.
As we waited for our food, we looked out toward the street and leaned back to relax for a bit. The place was abuzz with activity. Everyday life in Havana in the rainy season. Looking around the restaurant, I only saw one other person sitting down, and he looked like he’d been there reading his newspaper all day.
It didn’t take long for our food to arrive. We could smell it from the moment our waiter stepped out of the kitchen. He set down the two plates of ropa vieja, a traditional Cuban dish consisting of shredded braised beef, onions, peppers, olives, and a side of white rice. He told me that the pizza would be a few more minutes, and we both dug in.
It was delicious. Savory and flavorful tenderized meat that combined with the vegetables to create a taste that was both unique and incredibly enjoyable. By the time I was halfway through the pizza, I was toast and asked if he could box up the rest for me.
When we finished, we drank more to stay hydrated and began discussing the Ranch. Internet searches and forums produced nothing. I wasn’t surprised. It was a very general term, after all.
What ranch?
That was the key question.
I thought back to the interaction with Flynn. I closed my eyes and replayed every word he’d said in my mind, hoping to find some kind of slip-up on his part. Then I stumbled upon it.
“Farm,” I blurted out just as the word entered my mind.
“Farm?” Ange said, looking at me with confusion.
“Yeah. At one point, he used the word farm instead of ranch.”
Ange chuckled. “Well, that really narrows it down. I’ll just search for ‘The Farm’ instead and I’m sure we’ll find our place. Señor,” she said to our waiter. “Cuántas granjas hay en Cuba?”
The man looked caught off guard by the question. He stepped over, stroked his chin with a few fingers, then thought of an answer.
“Muchas.”
She thanked him and he walked off.
“Many farms in Cuba,” she said.
I thought for a moment.
“What are the main exports from Cuba?” I asked Ange, who had her smartphone on the table.
She tapped the screen with her thumbs a few times.
>
“Sugar, tobacco, hard liquor, nickel mattes, crus—”
She paused, cutting off the last word. I could tell that she was mulling over something in her mind, and I hoped she had something.
“Tobacco,” she said quietly. Almost a whisper.
She closed her eyes for a few seconds, then opened them again. Leaning forward, she looked up and down the nearby street.
“Anything you want to share, babe?” I said.
She looked at me, then paused. Grabbing her phone, she ignored my question and tapped the screen a few more times. She was in the zone and trying to work something out. Having known her for nearly seven years, I was well acquainted with the look. It was best to just sit back and let her do her thing. Disturbances wouldn’t help.
She looked up at me from her phone and said, “Come on, let’s go.”
We paid, thanked the waiter, then rose to our feet and headed down the street. After walking for half a minute, I noticed a black classic Chevy that caught my attention. It was identical to the one I’d seen idling in the parking lot back near the gym. This one had a guy leaning up against it with sunglasses on. He was trying to look inconspicuous. Trying a little too hard.
“We’ve got a tail,” I said.
Ange scanned up and down the street. “Shit. The Borat-looking guy at ten o’clock?”
I nodded.
I kept a close eye on him in my peripherals while following Ange. We soon came upon a small corner store and I followed her as she headed straight for the tobacco section.
Her eyes scanned row after row of the packs behind the glass case. Then she settled on a brand in the middle and pointed her finger up to the glass.
“There you are,” she said.
A worker opened the case and handed Ange her desired pack. Then we walked over to the cashier.
“Ange, don’t tell me you’re picking this habit up again?” I asked with a smile.
After paying, she pocketed the pack and we stepped outside. I glanced over my shoulder. The guy was still beside his car, and he’d turned to face our new position.
We continued down the street, then hopped in a cab. I was sure that the guy would be able to follow us but didn’t care. I wanted to deal with one thing at a time. First, I wanted to know what was going on in Ange’s head.