Abducted in the Keys

by Matthew Rief

  We fell silent. Ange and I glanced at each other. Maybe they were right. Maybe it was pure hubris to try and do everything on our own. I knew Wilson well enough to know that he didn’t throw around his trust lightly. He couldn’t afford to, given his position.

  “Alright,” Ange said, answering for us. “Send over her number. We’ll give her a call.”

  “Will do,” Wilson said.

  “You guys have anything else?” I said.

  As always, Scott reminded us to be careful, then we ended the call. I didn’t like fighting with one of my oldest and most trusted friends, but he didn’t know how attached we’d grown to the girl, even in just the few short days we’d known her.

  “Richard Wake,” Ange said, shaking her head.

  First the gang leader nephew of Benito Salazar, and now Richard Wake? Two of my biggest former adversaries. Things were just getting better and better.

  Ange glanced out the window beside us, then rose to her feet for a better look.

  “There’s more now,” she said, motioning down the street.

  I rose and peered through the break in the white curtains as well. In addition to the black Chevy, there was a white van pulled over right behind it. I glanced at my watch. With it nearing 2000 and the sun beginning to set, it was time to move on. We needed a vehicle, and we needed to get our butts to the farm.

  We packed up our stuff, peeked out through the door, then headed for the stairwell. Keeping a sharp eye out for anyone suspicious, we kept our heads on swivels as we headed upstairs. We barged through a door at the top and came out onto the roof. It was empty. There were a few lines of clothes swaying in the wind and a few scattered plastic chairs. But there was no movement.

  Moving toward the back, we vaulted the narrow gap to the adjoining building, then climbed down the fire escape and hopped into a taxi.

  “Mario’s Four by Fours,” I said.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I glanced back through the rear window just to make sure they weren’t following us. After two turns and a long straightaway through the downtown traffic, I relaxed a little. No sign of the black Chevy or the van.

  Much like our home of Key West, the city seemed to come more alive the darker it got. They were also prepping for the festival that our first cab driver had mentioned. It sounded fun, but unfortunately we had other plans.

  He dropped us off at the rental place a few miles south of the hotel. As much as we’d appreciated the convenience and the knowledge we’d gained from taking taxis, it was time for us to get our own set of wheels. And if we were going to be driving to a rural region during the rainy season, I wanted something that could easily handle off-road conditions. Especially given the incident earlier that day.

  We picked out a black Jeep Wrangler hardtop with a four-inch lift, off-road tires, a snorkel, and a winch. Not wanting to have to give the guy our credit card information, I handed him five hundred Cuban Convertible Pesos, which is equivalent to US dollars.

  “El depósito?” he said.

  “Sí,” I replied.

  He thought for a moment, so I set five hundred more on the table to help him make up his mind.

  “Gracias, señor.”

  He handed me the keys. Just as we hopped into the Jeep, a few lone raindrops splattered against the windshield. By the time I had it started and drove us onto the cross street, it was pouring in thick sheets. Fortunately, I was used to the tropical climate. One second it’s dry, the next you better get underneath something or you’re gonna be soaked.

  We put our destination back into the GPS and headed out of the city. Traffic wasn’t as bad as I’d expected, and once we got beyond Havana it was full speed down a three-lane highway.

  Half an hour into the trip, the rains finally died off. But the damage had been done. A layer of water covered the roads, puddles filled the ditches, and roadside ponds crept up the banks.

  The sun sank far in the distance behind a shroud of clouds. I took in the countryside by the remaining light. The landscape was a drastic shift from Havana. Most of the countryside was flat green-and-brown farmland. Aside from the occasional city we passed through, it felt like a trip even further back in time. I assumed that many of the farmers we spotted were doing the same work that their families had done on that land for generations.

  I didn’t know a lot about Cuba’s history, but I did know that just a few years following Columbus’s arrival in 1492, nearly the entire native population of Cuba had been wiped out by a combination of disease and confrontations with the Spanish. Wanting to utilize the rich soil and incredible climate, Spain shipped African slaves to work the sugar plantations. It wasn’t until the Spanish-American War of 1898 that Cubans had retaken control of their land and lowered all Spanish flags for good.

  The modern-day citizens of Cuba were the sons and daughters of some of the most ardent and passionate revolutionists to ever walk the earth, born into a nation built on struggle and ever-optimistic ideals, despite gloomy circumstances. It was a past to be proud of. But every society has its stains, every respectable group its exceptions. We were on our way to confront and rectify such an exception.

  After another half hour passed, and the sky turned dark, I slipped my phone from my pocket.

  “I think it’s time we gave this Consuelo Sanchez a call,” I said.

  “Is Logan Dodge about to ask for help?” Ange said with a smile. “What’s next? Key West freezing over?”

  I chuckled. “Get your camera ready.”

  I dialed the number Wilson sent me, pressed call, then put it on speakerphone

  “This is Sanchez,” a strong female voice said just moments after the first ring.

  “Officer Sanchez, my name is Logan Dodge. CIA Deputy Director Wi—”

  “He told me to be expecting your call,” she cut me off. “He said you and your wife snuck into Cuba earlier today to track down a stolen girl. I’m guessing I have you to blame for the high-speed chase and the dead guys at the gym earlier today.” She paused a moment, then added, “Really, I don’t know whether I should thank you or arrest you.”

  “You gotta do what you gotta do, Sanchez.”

  “Oh, great. How refreshing. A cocky American.”

  “I got no time for banter. I was told that you lead a police task force that fights sex trafficking.”

  “Go on.”

  “We have reason to believe that Dante Salazar is using a tobacco farm near Vinales to hide abducted women.”

  “What farm?”

  “One that was formerly owned by his uncle, Benito Salazar. It’s called Gold N Ivory.”

  Sanchez paused a moment.

  “What evidence do you have of this?”

  “Nothing hard yet. But we’ll have it by later tonight if our suspicions are correct.”

  “Later tonight? What the hell are you talking about?”

  I changed lanes to avoid a guy on the side of the road. He was walking beside a donkey that was pulling a wooden cart.

  “We’re going to pay this farm a visit. Give ourselves a private tour.”

  She gave a cold laugh. “Sounds like you two are all set to take on the whole gang single-handedly. What did you call me for, then?”

  Ange and I exchanged glances. She was as hardheaded as people get.

  “Because we need your help,” I said. “Not with the sneaking in part. We got that covered. But I’m guessing that once we’re inside, there’ll be a handful of girls needing help. That’s where you come in.”

  “So, let me get this straight. You two sneak into the farm. Then I show up with a handful of officers once you’ve done your thing? Do you have any idea how much trouble I could get in for letting you do this? You’re in our country illegally.”

  “Then don’t help us,” Ange snapped. “No one’s forcing your hand here. We called you as a courtesy, not to ask permission. We’re here to get a girl back who was taken from us, and we won’t stop until we have her or we’re dead.”

  A short silence f
ollowed Ange’s words. I admired her more than I could describe. She was tough as nails when she needed to be. Didn’t take crap from anyone. Never backed down.

  “You two are out of your minds,” Sanchez finally said. I was about to hang up when she added, “But I can’t help but admire your courage and resolve.” She sighed. “Where are you now?”

  “Little over an hour from the farm,” I said.

  “Okay. I’ll assemble my team as well as a few ambulances and start heading that way. Keep me updated on what happens once you’re inside.”

  She paused a moment, then told us to proceed with caution. She explained how Benito had owned a handful of properties in the western region of Cuba. Farms, houses, and various other scattered properties. All of which had fallen to his nephew Dante upon his death. She told us that he’d most likely have backup nearby in case something went wrong at the farm.

  “We’ll be cautious,” I said.

  She paused again, then said, “I want you both to know that the only reason I’m doing this is because the CIA deputy director holds you in such high esteem. We go way back, Wilson and I. If it weren’t for his vouching, I’d place a call out for your arrests as soon as we hang up.”

  “And if it weren’t for his recommendation, we wouldn’t have called you in the first place,” I said. “Over and out.”

  We ended the call and I slid my phone back into my pocket.

  “I like her,” Ange said.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Five miles out,” Ange said. She had the GPS up and glanced intermittently between it and the road ahead of us.

  The sun had already set. By the light of the moon, I caught glimpses of the mountains we’d seen while researching back at the hotel. We’d read that they’re called mogotes, and that they’re giant karst formations, some extending over 1300 feet into the air. They tower over the fields and scattered farmhouses like soldiers on watch.

  I followed Ange’s instructions, and it wasn’t long before we found ourselves on a dirt road. More mud than dirt, given the recent rain. But it was flat, with fresh sets of tire tracks heading in both directions.

  Then we turned onto another dirt road. It was narrower. Had fewer tracks.

  We soon reached a large wooden sign. It was dark and the sign wasn’t lit, but I instantly recognized the name and the gold-and-white color scheme.

  I drove past the entrance, and both Ange and I surveyed everything we could see. It wasn’t much. The border was lined with tall, widespread trees. The gaps were filled in by a wooden fence that had to be at least eight feet tall. All we could see were small glimpses of the distant roofs of structures.

  I’d planned to stop a few hundred yards from the entrance and hop out for a better look, but Ange told me to keep my foot on the gas.

  “There’s a sentry,” she said. She’d crawled in the backseat and was peering through the left side window behind me. “Scratch that. There are two sentries.” She moved back into the passenger seat and added, “And they’ve both got rifles.”

  “Two highly armed guards at the entrance?” I said. “Seems a little excessive for a tobacco farm, don’t you think?” I looked through my open window. “And these tall trees and the fence. None of the other farms we saw on the way here had them.”

  We continued for half a mile, then reached the edge of the farm. Not seeing anyone around, I pulled over and put the Jeep in park.

  “What do you think?” I said. “Hide the car and climb over the walls for some recon?”

  Ange paused a moment, then leaned over the dashboard. She looked across the road, across the edge of the farm, up toward the pillar-shaped mountains that were quickly becoming solid black silhouettes.

  “Maybe we don’t have to jump the fence yet,” she said. She motioned toward a tiny dirt road that cut to the left just beyond the corner of the farm. “I’m sure we’d have a nice view from up there with the night vision scope. I mean, we do have a winch.”

  She had a decent point. It couldn’t hurt to try, so long as we didn’t draw attention to ourselves.

  I shifted back to drive, then hit the gas and cut a left down a narrow dirt path. I doubted it had been used by anything more than horses for years. It was slow going, and we splashed our way through more than one deep pool of muddy water before reaching the base of the nearest mountain. I stopped at the base of it, then looked up. We were just a stone’s throw away from the farm’s border. Ange was right—from up there we’d have a clear view of the entire place.

  I hit the gas, following what looked like it could be a path that cut along the edge of the mountain. I made it halfway up the slippery, muddy slope before having to hop out, grab the winch, then climb my way up and secure it around a wide tree trunk.

  I powered it on and rumbled us up the steep and slippery side of the mountain. When we reached the top, I found a cleared flat spot to park the Jeep and killed the engine. I grabbed my backpack, then we hopped out and headed for the edge for a better view. After a few minutes, we found a good spot on a large rock and took in the scene below.

  It was a good thing we’d decided on higher ground. The trees and fence completely enclosed the entire farm. Impressive considering I estimated it to be around a thousand acres, or about the size of Central Park.

  Most of the farm was dark, the rows of green leaves reflecting the glimpses of moonlight through the occasional breaks in the clouds. Off to the east, there were pens filled with horses and various livestock. There were also rows of small huts and sheds with carts and various farming equipment.

  Only a few lights glowed in the darkness, and they were near the farmhouses. I grabbed my night vision monocular from my backpack and powered it on. Focusing through the lens, I scanned every inch of the structures and spotted three more guys with guns. Two of them were standing beside the front of the largest structure, and the third was patrolling around the back of it.

  After a few minutes, I handed the monocular to Ange. “That farmhouse is the most heavily guarded,” I said.

  She held it up to her right eye and scanned the scene below us. After looking over the farmhouse, she directed her gaze down along the southwestern edge of the farm.

  “There’s a creek with trees and thick bushes along its shores,” she said. “It runs along the backside of the farm. Travels right beside the back of the farmhouse.” She paused a moment, then nodded. “Looks like our best bet.”

  Suddenly, the distant groan of a big diesel engine tore through the still night air. It was coming from the main dirt road that ran along the front of the farm. We looked toward the sound and saw the bright headlights of a truck as it pulled into the entrance. We were far off, but the zoom of the scope allowed Ange to see the interaction at the gate.

  “Looks like the sentries know the driver,” she said. “They just waved them in.”

  The large gate opened and the truck rumbled through. It motored on the dirt road that cut straight through the heart of the farm and slowed in front of the largest farmhouse. The two guys who’d been standing idly by pushed open the large doors, and the truck disappeared from view.

  I rose from my kneeling position and stretched.

  “I’ve seen enough,” I said. “From what we’ve read, this is a very peaceful province. I see no reason for the walls or the armed guards if it’s a normal farm.” I glanced back at the Jeep, then added, “You get set up with your sniper up here and cover me. I’m going in.”

  “Yeah, right.” She lowered the monocular and rose to her feet beside me. “Twice today you’ve gone in without me. The second time you nearly ended up looking like a piñata at the end of a party. We’re going in together this time, and that’s final.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  We parked the Jeep along the base of the mountain where it was concealed from view by thick trees. Then we donned our bulletproof vests and trekked the quarter of a mile around to the southwest corner of the farm. It was quiet and dark, and we saw no movement as we climbed up into a baobab tree and
stepped out onto one of its thick branches.

  The top of the fence had loops of razor wire, so we brought one of the Jeep’s floor mats and draped it over to prevent getting sliced to pieces. Some ideas are the product of training, some personal experience. I had Tyler Durden from Fight Club to thank for that one.

  We landed softly inside the farm. Keeping to the shadows, we moved toward the creek and used the trees to cover our approach to the big farmhouse.

  When we were within a few hundred yards, we stopped and took another look around. What I’ve found in my years of experience infiltrating enemy compounds, is that patience and surprise are key. We wanted to be as sure as we could of what we were getting ourselves into before we made our move. And we wanted to keep our presence a secret for as long as possible.

  We scanned the back of the farmhouse. The patrolling sentry was still walking back and forth and looked bored out of his mind. He wore fatigues and had good posture and a clean rifle. He looked up at the stars, then down at his feet, humming a song to himself. It was vaguely familiar but didn’t ring any distinct bells. Benny Moré, perhaps.

  We watched as he turned to show his back to us, then walked to a slow rhythm in the direction he’d come. When he was halfway down the back side of the farmhouse, we made our move.

  Quickly, quietly, and after taking one more look around to make sure nobody else had approached, we took off for the side of the structure. Once clear of the corner, we dropped down and waited for the guy to return. He did so slowly. Part of me wanted to just sprint over and take him down, but we wanted to be as quiet as possible. We didn’t know how many guys were on site or nearby waiting to be called in as backup, but I estimated that the number was high.

  The sentry came within one step of the edge when his radio crackled to life.