by Joe Gazzam
Saying it out loud only solidified my decision. I couldn’t live with giving up. Not if there was even the tiniest chance. “I have the coordinates of Dad’s local contact. I’m gonna go find the guy.”
“And then what?” Mitch asked, leaning forward to look me in the eyes.
“I don’t know, I have no freakin’ idea. Okay?” I shouted. “Find out what happened, I guess. Maybe find out where Dad is. See if there’s any way...”
“To what? Save him? You’re just one person.”
I combed my loose bangs back over my head, stress knotting up my tight shoulders. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. All I know is what I can do. What I feel like I should do. At least it’s a starting point.”
“I get that, I do. But starting point for what?” Mitch asked as a semitruck barreled by and shook the car. “You have no idea what you’re getting into.”
“You’re right. But I know what disavowed means. It means no one’s going to help Dad. Ever. I also know there’s only one reason guys take time before killing someone. If he’s alive, they’re gonna torture him. They’re going to bleed whatever info they can get out of him...then they’re gonna kill him,” I said, gripping the steering wheel so tightly the blood receded from my knuckles. “So, yeah, this is probably another of my long string of horribly bad ideas. But I’m still going. I can’t sit here and do nothing.”
Mitch stayed quiet.
“Where can I drop you off?” I asked.
He tapped his fingers against his shorts and finally turned to answer. “If you’re going, I’m going with you.”
“No.” I shook my head. “You’re getting lost somewhere.”
“Let’s not start playing the protective big sister all of a sudden.”
“I’m not protecting you,” I answered honestly. “I just can’t have you getting in my way. You’re not built for this. I love you, but you’d only hold me back.”
“Yeah?” The nostrils of his sharp-edged nose flared in anger. “Well, if this is about getting down there and figuring stuff out, I’d say I’m exactly built for this. One of us in this car is in Mensa, and the other can’t spell it.”
I stared at him, but didn’t answer, not because I agreed with him, but because another thought surfaced as he was ranting. The idea of leaving him behind for Sasha’s men to find and do who-knows-what to was the only thing that tipped the scale in his favor.
“Trust me,” Mitch continued, “the last thing I want to do is spend any more time with you than I have to. If this was any other scenario, I’d bail on you in a second. That’s what we do in this family, right?” Mitch held my gaze for a beat before continuing. “But if I can add a few percentage points to whatever chance there is to save Dad’s life...I’m going.”
I thought for a moment, trying to calm down. “Fine.”
“Okay, so...,” Mitch nodded, thinking. “...what about Sasha? What if they’re waiting for us at the airport?”
“We’re not going to the airport.” I laughed. “You don’t just fly to Cuba.”
“Right, of course. So...how are we getting there?”
“Put your seat belt on,” I said, looking over my shoulder as I reentered the freeway. “We’ve got a bit of a drive ahead.”
“Drive? To where?”
I set my eyes on the road ahead. “The Keys.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
I DROVE ALL NIGHT. By the time I finally steered the car through the narrow, stick-straight streets of Key West, my eyelids hung like heavy curtains ready to close. Mitch slept most of the dull ride, crashing hard after taking down two drive-thru cheeseburgers, which gave me more time to think. That was both a good thing and a bad thing. I was able to come up with a hypothetical plan, but once that was in place, there wasn’t much left to do but tear myself apart.
The moment they’d gotten those calls I knew something wasn’t right, and still, I’d let him go. If I would have insisted he tell me the truth, maybe I could have gone with him. At the very least I should have followed. A dozen different “what-ifs” tortured me as I drove, but none of them mattered. The reality was one of two things: he was either being tortured for information or he was already dead.
As I conjured nightmarish visuals, my foot sank into the gas petal. My chest felt like it might cave in.
Just focus on the plan, I told myself, trying to relax my shoulders.
I was pretty sure I could get us to Cuba. It was only ninety miles from the tip of Key West. If families coming in this direction could make it on a raft, I could pull it off going the other way with the right kind of boat. The biggest problem would be the Cuban patrols. While they were set up to keep people from getting out, not in, they were known to shoot first and ask questions later.
I glanced at Mitch as he began to stir and looked away when he sat up. Having him with me was going to make this a lot harder, but I had to admit it was comforting to not be completely alone. He was the only one who knew how desperate I was, who understood why I had to do this.
As I turned down Sunset Key Drive, Mitch ogled the houses lining the streets. They were enormous and beyond opulent. Their towering facades and manicured front yards sparkled with accent lighting that gleamed like gold in the night. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“Key West,” I answered.
“Yeah, I know that, but why are we in this specific area? Do you know someone around here?”
I didn’t answer. Mitch was on board in theory, but chances were he wasn’t going to like my plan. I slowed the car a bit as I glided through the exclusive neighborhood. According to Google, this street was supposed to hold the most expensive houses in Key West. Five, ten, sometimes fifteen million dollars each. They were all nauseatingly lavish and well groomed, with yards that backed right into the water. Quarter-million-dollar cars sat in the driveways, which meant million-dollar boats in back. Some would be large boats, but most would be very, very fast. Because there was nothing a tubby, balding, middle aged rich businessman loved more than going fast.
Mitch started fidgeting with the old-school window crank, endlessly spinning the knob until I gave him a look.
“Did you know Key West was originally called Cayo Hueso or ‘Island of Bones’?” he finally blurted out.
I kept my focus on the houses as I drove. “No.”
“It was a Spanish settlement early on, but when Key West’s first white settlers arrived, they found it littered with skeletons. Either from a battle or maybe a Calusa Indian burial ground.”
“That’s fascinating, Mr. Wikipedia, but I’m trying to concentrate. Help me look for a house with side gates.”
“Side gates? Why?”
Just as he asked, I found one and parked under a thick sea grape tree. As I reached over Mitch to grab the gun out of the glove box, his eyes locked onto it.
“Are we really going to need that?”
“Mitch,” I said, letting out an exasperated puff of air, “we’re not picking him up from the airport.”
He shook his head as if acknowledging the stupid question. “I know, I know.”
“If you want to back out, this is the time.”
He shook his head again, and we both stepped out of the car.
“Are—” he started, but I silenced him with a finger to my lips, and tucked the gun into the back of my shorts.
Waving him forward, I darted between two enormous houses. As expected, the side gate to the one I had zeroed in on was open. It was something I’d learned in my breaking-and-entering days—people always forgot to lock their gates. I headed toward the backyard and Mitch trailed behind. There were no lights on in either house, which was typical. These enormous, beautiful houses sat empty for ten months out of the year. The thought of it made me sick. During my time in Iraq, I’d seen people starving, barely existing in squalor. I wondered how the uber-rich lived with themselves.
I’d read a book in the juvie library once that said nearly half of the Forbes fou
r hundred richest Americans inherited the majority of their wealth. And less than twenty percent started out as upper-middle class or worse. To me that meant a whole lot of rich people born on third base, thinking they hit a triple. Which only made what I was about to do that much easier.
With the coast clear, I led Mitch across the spacious backyard, past a giant infinity pool and down to the dock. There, up on a mechanical lift, sat a brand-new 28-foot Outerlimits go-fast boat. I walked up close and looked it over, running a hand across its hull and barely refraining from giving an appreciative whistle.
Besides boosting cars, I’d done a little boat work on the side. Not much, but enough to know my away around watercraft. This boat had a 5-stepped deep-V bottom, light carbon fiber deck, and epoxy e-glass hull with a high-performance Mercury motor, capable of 1300 hp. All in all, it was built for speed and exactly what I was looking for.
My cheeks lifted into a grin. “This’ll do.”
Mitch looked around nervously. “We’re just gonna steal this guy’s boat?”
“More like borrow.”
“We’re just gonna borrow his boat?”
I shrugged. “If he doesn’t get it back, his insurance will cover it.”
Along the edge of the dock, I found a small white, cylindrical control panel. I lifted the lid and pressed the button to lower the boat into the water, but nothing happened.
“What makes you think it’s a guy?” I asked, squinting at the panel.
“Quit screwing around, you know what I mean.”
I pressed the lift button again, but it still didn’t work. Resisting the urge to kick the cylinder, I tried the other buttons.
“Like I said, this is as good a time as any for you to back out. Chances are, we’re gonna be doing a lot worse things than this, and the last thing I need is you questioning my every move. So, if any of this upsets your delicate sensibilities, the car’s right out there.”
Mitch stood there for a beat, and I silently hoped he’d listen as I tried to mash the lift button one more time. It was finally dawning on me that he could actually get hurt. Not to mention, his entire future, everything he’d worked for, could be hanging in the balance. Even if I could keep him safe in Cuba, we were about to enter a foreign country illegally. That had to be frowned upon by the deans at MIT, and that was just for starters. Although running back home to Sasha didn’t exactly feel like a full-proof plan either. I opened my mouth to revisit the options, but he stepped up and slapped my hand away.
“What the hell?” I snapped at him.
He walked to the other side of the dock to a circuit breaker, popped it open and flicked it on.
“Helps to have electricity.”
I held back a smile, and then hit the lift button. Maybe it would be good to have him along. With a mechanical whirl, the go-fast boat immediately descended, splashing gently into the water.
I nodded to Mitch. “Get me something to pry open the ignition box.”
After looking around, Mitch came back with a rock the size of a cantaloupe. “This is all I could find.”
I hopped into the boat and smashed the ignition box, but as the bundle of wires fell out, lights flickered on inside the house.
“Ummm, I’d get in the boat if I were you,” I called down to Mitch.
“There’s someone home,” he gasped as more lights came on. The back door scissored open. “Someone’s coming.”
“Like I said, get in the boat!” My hands worked, pulling and twisting. Finally, a spark arced between wires and, as the giant motor rumbled to life, I turned to see a bald, pasty white man charging toward them. His robe slipped opened as he ran, his enormous belly flopping up and down.
“Hey! That’s my boat!” the man screamed as he fumbled to put on glasses.
“Time to go,” I said. Mitch hopped in, and I backed the boat clear of the lift just as the man made it to the dock. I jammed the throttle, launching us forward. With the wheel pinned, the boat fishtailed around, unleashing a giant wake that drenched the man and knocked him onto his butt.
THANKFULLY, IT WAS a calm night. I piloted the go-fast over glassy water that reflected the moon like a spilled puddle of liquid mercury. With the nose of the boat angled perpetually in the air, I rocketed toward Cuba without looking back. The only thing that mattered was moving forward. Wind slammed against my face, chilling my cheeks, my dark hair lifting and swirling behind me. I narrowed my eyes, trying to decipher the direction of the wind so as to compensate for any drift, and kept a firm grip on the wheel. If I continued south, there would be no missing the curved hip of land that hugged the Florida Keys.
As soon as I was on my way, the gravity of what I was doing set in. There was no military to back me up. I was going in alone, unprepared, and ill-equipped. But I couldn’t let that sway me. I’d trained for situations far more dangerous than this. I’d been on missions I didn’t think I’d live through, felt bullets rip through flesh, and looked dead men in the eyes.
Still, no matter how determined I felt, fear rose in my stomach like a flock of birds bursting into flight. This was different. Dad’s life was on the line. And I had Mitch to watch out for, which was its own knot of worry sitting tight in my chest.
In just over an hour, the distant rim of Cuba’s expansive coastline became clear. I kept the boat full throttle and took in the view. Something about it seemed unearthly. Stars gleamed against night’s blackened canvas, and the subtle light that streamed through the shore fog turned the horizon into an impressionistic painting. I glanced at Mitch pressed against his seat, a white-knuckled death grip on the handrail. His eyes pinched as the wind buffeted them nearly shut. He looked so young, and I immediately felt guilty. He shouldn’t have come.
I turned my focus back to the water. Just stick with the plan and run through the steps, I told myself. One at a time. I would treat this, and Mitch, like any other operation. Get in. Get the job done. Get out. It was the only way to keep a clear head.
I steered the boat for another twenty minutes before I spotted the Cuban patrol boats. Seeing their lights sweep across the water was gut-sinking, but I’d expected them. Keeping the motor running, I glided to a stop.
“Why are we stopping?” Mitch asked, blinking moisture back into his eyes as he stared out at the now prominent coast of Cuba.
“See those spotlights in the distance?” I said, pointing to the right. There were several dots of light headed toward us. “That’s a Cuban military patrol.”
Mitch shot to his feet. “What?”
“I thought we might get lucky and avoid them, but we must’ve been spotted.”
“Which means?” he asked.
I stood and found the glove box near the passenger seat. “I’ve got a plan...but the owner of this boat’s not gonna like it much,” I said, rummaging through the storage compartment.
The Cuban military were still about a mile away, which meant we had at least another minute before we were in range of their weapons, even if they had a fifty-caliber machine gun onboard. I knew from countless hours in weapons courses that at two thousand yards, the accuracy of those guns dropped off dramatically. Which meant we were safe for now, but not for much longer.
“And the plan is...?” Mitch asked, squinting.
I held out a wet-bag, pulled the gun from the back of my shorts and dropped it inside. “We’re getting off. Put your cell phone and wallet in here. It’s waterproof.”
Mitch watched like a frightened puppy as I turned the boat at an angle, back out to sea. Using some loose docking rope, I tied the steering wheel into a locked position and throttled forward. It was an instant, easy, makeshift autopilot.
“What?” Mitch spun and looked out at the coast. “How far are we from shore?” he yelled over the sudden tear of the engine.
“’Bout a mile and a half,” I yelled back, leaving the wheel and pulling Mitch over to the side.
“We’re jumping? Wait, wait.”
“What?” my voice carried through the wind.
“Probably. Look, every second you don’t jump, the swim gets longer.” I motioned to the open sea. The boat was moving fast and diagonally away from the coast.
Mitch’s face flushed with fear, his tall, lean body jumpy with adrenaline, but he didn’t argue further. He simply turned, put one foot on the edge of the boat, and leapt. Without thought, I took a breath and dove in immediately after, my body skipping across the cold water like a stone at 30 mph. The force of the impact felt like being thrown from a moving car and drowning at the same time, but I gripped the wet-bag like it was my only lifeline. I must have bounced a good fifty yards before finally spraying to a stop.
Coughing and spitting water, I let out a hacking cough as Mitch surfaced beside me. He choked and groaned, but the plan had worked. The go-fast sped away, and after a few moments, the three Cuban patrol turned to chase the empty boat.
“I think I just got my first enema,” Mitch said, still coughing.
“Gross.”
“I’m serious, I—whoa!” Mitch jerked. “I’m pretty sure something big just bumped me!”
I swam over. “Stay close, focus on the shoreline. Nice, even strokes.”
Mitch looked back at the boat, but I grabbed his chin, pointing it forward.
“Just swim, and don’t stop.”
CHAPTER NINE
EARLY MORNING SUN FORCED its way through the fronds of a giant palm, casting striped shadows across Mitch’s face as he slept below. In my groggy state I imagined we were in the Bahamas. I glanced around, hardly remembering how I’d gotten to this small, secluded beach after last night’s swim. Then I remembered Dad.
I closed my eyes, trying to hide from the hollow ache in my gut. We’d made it, but I still didn’t feel any closer to saving him.
One step at a time, I reminded myself.
As I squinted out over the bright sand, I noticed the “neumáticos,” about a hundred yards off shore. Growing up in Florida, I’d heard about them, the Cuban locals who fished from inner tubes. With a fishing net spread over the tube, like a hammock, they’d float around the current and lazily try to catch lunch.