by Matthew Rief
We settled in the backseat and gave the name of our bed-and-breakfast to the driver. He nodded and hit the gas. We were about ten minutes away, so we needed to use our time well.
I turned to look at Ange as she pulled the pack of cigarettes from her pocket.
“You don’t recognize the label?” she said before I had a chance to ask another shot-in-the-dark question.
She handed me the pack. I opened it, pulled out one of the cigarettes, and examined it closely. They were all gray with thick parallel gold and white stripes. I was about to hand them back when an image appeared in my mind. I’d seen that same design less than an hour earlier. It had been half-burned and resting on the floor inside the gym beside Flynn.
“Flynn was smoking one of these,” I said.
Ange’s lips stretched to form a slight smile. “Yes. And Duke had been smoking the same brand. I saw it floating in the upturned car beside him.”
I thought for a moment.
“So Flynn and Duke both smoke the same brand,” I said. “I don’t see the significance of that.”
“These guys both smoke the same brand for the very same reason that you eat at Salty Pete’s practically every day,” she said. “Why pay for something when you can get it for free?”
“Hey, they serve some of the best food in the Keys, that’s why.”
She was right, though. Even though I offered to pay every time I went, I’m sure I wouldn’t go quite as much if I knew they’d accept my offer.
“Well, let’s go over what we know,” she said. She eyed the driver, then lowered her voice. “We’re looking for a farm. Tobacco is one of the largest exports in Cuba. And these guys both smoke the same obscure brand. You saw the shelf back at the store. This pack was one of maybe five like it and they were in the bottom corner of the section.”
She had a good point. Certainly one worth looking into, especially given our lack of options.
“Let’s see what we can find out about this farm,” I said. I picked up the pack and read the label. “Gold N Ivory.”
Ange nodded and went quickly to work. Within seconds, she found an information page.
“The farm is located in western Cuba,” she began. Her eyes scanned a few lines, then she continued, “It is owned by…”
She froze, blinked a few times, then looked over at me.
I shrugged. “Who?”
She looked back at the screen, her mouth open. She’d officially grabbed all my interest.
“His name is Dante Salazar.”
The name struck a chord deep within me. Back in the summer of 2008, just a few months after moving to the Keys, I’d stood between a helpless family and a Cuban gang hell-bent on murdering them. The gang had been led by a notorious criminal named Benito Salazar.
“You know of Dante?” the driver said, waking me from my thoughts.
It was the first time he’d spoken since we’d entered the cab.
I came up with a quick answer and alibi.
“Never met him, if that’s what you mean,” I said. “We’re with a Canadian missionary team. We’re trying to help the victims of sex trafficking. This guy’s name popped up.”
I left it at that and waited. I’d merely mentioned the guy’s name and sex trafficking. I wanted the driver to let us know if there was some kind of connection. Good or bad.
Over my years of traveling, I’ve found that cab drivers tend to know things about their cities that few others do. They see so much, driving around and giving people rides all day. And they communicate with their driver friends. If there was something going on at the Gold N Ivory tobacco farm, there was a good chance this guy knew something about it.
After about a minute without a reply, it was clear that he’d need some prodding.
“Is he related to the former gang leader Benito Salazar?” Ange asked.
It was the million-dollar question.
“He is nephew,” the driver said. “Benito was a very bad man. Very hard, very bad. He kill many. When he die, the gang break apart. For a while, tensions were thick all over Cuba. Shootings and other violence were weekly news. But now things have settled, like ash after volcano eruption. The gang is now split, east and west. Dante runs the west half, as far as I know. Of course, some believe Benito is still alive. That he fake his death.”
I couldn’t help but smile at that.
There was no faked death. I’d killed Benito myself. His body was at that very moment chained under three hundred feet of ocean west of Dry Tortugas. Whatever was left of it anyway.
“And Dante’s involved in sex trafficking?” Ange said.
The driver paused. He eyed us through the rearview mirror.
“I have already said too much,” he sighed.
“No, it’s okay,” I said. “We’re only here to help.”
Without another word, he reached forward and clicked on the radio. A host’s voice came on in Spanish, broadcasting a soccer game.
“I think it might rain later,” he said, changing the subject faster than he changed lanes.
I shot Ange a sideways glance, then we both went quiet. A few seconds later, the driver pulled over in front of the hotel. We paid him, then hopped out.
“You know,” he said, through the open passenger window, “you two don’t look like missionaries.”
He adjusted his sunglasses and drove off.
Glancing left, we both noticed that our tail had managed to keep up just fine. He was about fifty yards from us when he pulled over.
In sync, we turned and headed inside. Maybe he wasn’t aware that we knew he was following us. If that was the case, we wanted to keep it that way.
TWENTY-FIVE
Dante Salazar stared down his assailant with the fiercest gaze in his arsenal. He held up his red-gloved hands at the last second, protecting his face from a barrage of jabs and uppercuts. His enemy was big, but Dante had fought much bigger. And he always came out on top.
At six feet tall, Dante had a rare combination of speed and strength. He had long black hair that he kept in a loose ponytail. He also had a thick beard and mustache. Much of his lean muscular body was covered in tattoos.
After blocking a hefty blow, he danced to the side, punched his assailant in the shoulder, then kicked him so hard in the side that he lurched and tumbled to the mat. Without a second’s hesitation, Dante dropped and grabbed him from behind, putting him in a rear naked choke. The big Jamaican guy had no choice but to tap out.
He gasped desperately for air as Dante jumped to his feet. Reaching down a hand, he helped the big guy up, then patted him on his sweaty muscular back.
“The bigger they are,” Dante joked between breaths, “the harder—”
“Rematch tomorrow, boss,” the big Jamaican guy interrupted.
Dante eyed the big guy angrily. He lunged toward him and smacked him across the face with a powerful roundhouse kick. The guy flew off the mat and slammed hard onto his back, unconscious before he’d landed.
He stood over his conquered opponent, breathing heavily. He looked to a few of his gang members that were watching silently from the sides of the ring. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to. His point was loud and clear.
Nobody fucking interrupts me. Ever.
A middle-aged man wearing a polo shirt and a fedora handed Dante a towel and a full water bottle. Dante wiped the sweat from his face, then let the towel dangle over his shoulder as he quenched his thirst.
At thirty years old, Dante had been fighting since he could walk. His uncle had taken him under his wing, taught him the harsh realities of life and that men are required to be harsh back in order to claim success.
“Fear from your subordinates should rival that of your enemies,” his uncle had told him so many times that he could hear it clear as a summer day in his mind.
Suddenly, the pair of double doors leading into the wide-open living room of his house slammed open. A commanding guy in a black suit walked through.
“Dante, there’s been an inc
ident,” he said.
The gang leader took another swig, then wiped his mouth with the towel.
“What kind of incident, Kemar?”
Kemar stopped and turned back toward the door he’d entered from. Two guys walked through behind him. They were holding the beaten Flynn under his shoulders and sliding him along the marble floor. They sat him on a wooden chair facing the ring. He groaned in pain and adjusted his legs.
“Flynn was found like this at the gym,” Kemar said. “Everyone else was either dead or unconscious.”
Dante looked up, his nostrils flaring.
“How many dead?” he asked.
“Two. And two more were taken to the hospital. They all took a hell of a beating. Even Old Man Mauricio.”
Dante cursed in frustration, tossed his towel to the floor and stormed to the side of the ring.
“I’m getting sick and tired of the Traidores’ petty actions,” Dante said, referring to the eastern half of the broken crime syndicate. “It’s time to teach them a lesson.”
“It wasn’t the Traidores,” Flynn said, opening his mouth for the first time. “It was someone else.”
“Someone?” Dante said, raising his eyebrows. “One guy took on all four of you?”
“There was another at the end.” He adjusted the ice pack. “A woman.”
Dante nodded sarcastically and climbed out of the ring. He towered over Flynn, who was battered and hunched over in the chair.
“Let me get this straight,” Dante said. “The five of you were taken down by a mysterious man and woman?”
“That’s not all,” Kemar cut in. “We also lost two of our guys earlier this afternoon. It was a car accident, but we believe it was also caused by these two.”
Dante snarled.
“Who are they and what the hell do they want?”
Flynn coughed. His jaw still hurt like hell from the blow he’d taken across the face, and though he’d been injected with morphine, his shot-up and broken legs still hurt as well.
“They’re Americans,” Flynn said. “The woman was on the boat when we took that girl off the coast of Florida. They want her back.”
Dante sighed and looked away. He cracked his neck, shook his head, then looked over at Kemar.
“You told me you had this under control, Kemar. You said you’d handle it after the initial issues with the grab in Florida.”
The big, intimidating man didn’t hesitate or flinch. He’d been friends with Dante since they were kids. They’d risen through the gang ranks together. Had fought side by side for years. He didn’t fear his leader nearly as much as the others. But he had a profound level of love and respect for him.
“I underestimated them, Dante,” he said. “This guy, Logan Dodge, he’s apparently former special forces. And he’s a bit of a local hero. Gets into scrapes and comes out on top on a routine basis. And his wife’s just as dangerous.”
“I don’t give a fuck who they are,” Dante snapped. “You will track them down and kill them. Pease tell me that you’ve got something to go on here.”
“We have a tail on them and were formulating a strike,” Kemar replied. “But I’m not convinced this tactic is best.”
“If you have something to say, I suggest you say it.”
“He’s just after the one girl,” Kemar said. “Maybe we should just give her to them.”
“Excuse me?” Dante said, stepping toward the much taller guy and staring him in the eye.
“Might be what’s best for business. Look what they’ve done. Four of our guys are dead already. Two more were beaten so badly they’ll be out for months. I know she’s already been paid for. It looks bad for us to back out, but these things are to be expected in this line of work. There are no guarantees.”
Just as the words left Kemar’s lips, Dante closed in and grabbed his left wrist as fast as a striking cobra. He slid behind the big guy and pulled his arm back behind him.
“One more word like that, and you and I’ll step into this ring with no gloves and no taps, understand?”
Kemar winced as Dante forced his arm into an unnatural and incredibly painful position.
“We do not give in to anyone’s demands,” Dante declared. “You will rush her processing. Whatever you gotta do, but I want her out of the ranch and ready for delivery as soon as possible. Do you understand?”
Kemar nodded. It was an unheard-of demand. Girls usually spent at least a week at the Ranch before they were ready. Scarlett had only been there for a few hours.
“Yes, Dante. I understand.”
Dante pulled harder, just to make sure his message had struck home, then released his second-in-command.
Kemar rolled his shoulder a few times, stretching it out to relieve the pain.
“And the Americans?” he said as Dante stepped away.
“We still have a tail on them?”
Kemar nodded.
“Kill them in their sleep.”
TWENTY-SIX
Ange and I entered our hotel room, locked the door behind us, and did a quick scan of the room before plopping down on the couch. We opened the laptop and went to work researching the Gold N Ivory tobacco farm while taking intermittent glances out the front windows to make sure that our tail was still there. His car was still pulled over and we could barely see his outline through the windshield.
We’d followed many targets in our lives and been followed ourselves more times than we could remember. This guy was standing by. Keeping an eye on us and waiting for the order to make a move. My guess was that he’d get the order once nightfall came. Engaging an unknown enemy can be risky, and minimizing that risk is key. They’d most likely try and attack while we slept.
While learning about the farm, I shot a message to Scott and Deputy Director Wilson, giving them the status and asking for any info they could provide.
We discovered that the farm was located west of Havana in the Pinar del Río province, just a few miles outside the town of Vinales. It was a rural province, known for farming and processing the best tobacco in the world. A nature lover’s paradise, and much more laid-back and rustic than the big Cuban cities.
We brought up satellite imagery of the farm. Zooming out, we saw massive fields with rows of green tobacco plants. Structures, trees, and steep mountains also dotted the beautiful landscape. The farm was situated with most of the structures on the western side, right at the base of the mountains. A dirt road cut through the greenery and led to what looked like the only entrance on the northern side.
We checked the GPS and saw that we were about two and a half hours away from the location. It was already after 1900, which meant that it would be dark by the time we got there even if we left right away.
My phone vibrated. I grabbed it and answered the call. Scott and Wilson both answered. They had us on a conference call on a secure line.
“This guy Dante Salazar is bad news,” Scott said after a quick greeting. “Heads that gang whose leader we brought down a few summers back.”
“I got that much from a cab driver,” I said. “The reason he’s not behind bars?”
“Big money buys big favors. You know that story well.”
“Rap sheet?”
“Just a few charges,” Wilson said. “Assault. Drug trafficking. None of them stuck. Oh, and get this: we ran a check on his business partners. Turns out his tobacco farms work closely with the Wake Corporation.”
The mention of the name caused my blood to boil.
Richard Wake had been the puppet master behind Carson Richmond and her oil rig corruption back in April of 2009. He was one of the most wealthy and powerful men alive. He also had a knack for being involved in scandals around the world, and for somehow wriggling free of them. He owned many major companies, including one of the world’s largest fleets of commercial cargo ships.
“Richard Wake’s involved in this?”
“It appears so,” Scott said. “All the more reason to always watch your back. You two run into any troub
le today?”
Ange and I glanced at each other.
“Nothing major. A few unfriendly confrontations. That’s how we were able to learn about the farm and Salazar.”
I chose not to mention the car chase, the gym fight, and the fact that I’d been struck by a shotgun pellet.
“Nothing major, huh?” Scott said, his voice dripping with disbelief.
“You guys dig up anything else on the farm?” Ange said.
“It’s clean,” Wilson said.
“Nothing owned by Salazar can be that clean,” I said.
There was a short pause in the line.
“Look, Logan,” Scott said. “There’s a police task force in Cuba that we think you should get into contact with. They specialize in sex trafficking prevention. If you two are thinking about heading west and taking a closer look at this farm, I suggest you do so with their help.”
Neither of us wanted help. We didn’t know who we could trust, how deep this rabbit hole went. If we told the wrong person what we were up to, we could be led into a trap and killed. Both of us dead and Scarlett taken away into slavery forever. An outcome that was unacceptable.
“We’ll call you later for their contact info,” I said finally.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Scott, there isn’t enough time!” Ange exclaimed.
“Dammit, you two,” he said. “You can’t do everything on your own. You need backup and we can’t provide it. You understand? If you go snooping around major gang-owned compounds, there won’t be anyone to call if shit hits the fan. Or I should say, when it hits the fan.”
We were going to do a lot more than just snoop. Call it reckless or anything else you wanted to call it. We were going to find Scarlett, and we were going to bring her back.
“Logan,” Wilson said in a calm voice once the tension settled, “I can personally vouch for this task force. I’m sending you the number of a woman who’s been fighting sex trafficking all over Cuba for years. She’s based out of Havana. Her name’s Consuelo Sanchez.” He paused a moment, sighed. “Look, I know it’s hard to know who to trust. But just know that I’d put my life in Sanchez’s hands any day of the week and twice on Sunday.”