The Night Charter

by Sam Hawken

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  MATT COULD SMELL Chapado. The man had finally crapped his pants, and now he was sitting in it, unable to move because of the fresh bonds of duct tape that secured his hands and feet. Occasionally, Chapado would stir, as if testing the elasticity of the tape, but these moments did not last long. Chapado slept most of the time.

  Soto had not come back yet, and Matt did not know where he was. He considered calling Soto to find out, but he didn’t want the number of his new phone showing up in Soto’s records. Once they had both switched out to burners it would be a different story, but for now they had to be extremely careful.

  It was all the Cubans’ fault. If they had played along like they were supposed to, this wouldn’t be an issue at all. Sure, they were pissed about the change of plans, but this was a dangerous business they were in, and sometimes the situation didn’t always go their way.

  He found himself wishing that he’d had the time to pull Jackson’s body out of the auto yard. That was the key to the whole thing. As soon as the police found Jackson, they knew that Matt was into something because Jackson did not make a move without Matt’s say-so. That Detective Montellano would be all over his ass because of the pawnshop thing, and he wouldn’t step off until he had something to pin on Matt, rightly or wrongly.

  Thinking about all of this made Matt too angry. He looked to Chapado. “Hey, you,” he said. “Hey, asshole. Wake up.”

  Chapado roused slowly, or perhaps he was only pretending. The wound on his arm was inflamed, puffy, and red around the edges of the cuts. It was probably infected already, but that wasn’t Matt’s concern. He considered carving up Chapado’s other arm to make them match. That would be amusing for a little while.

  The man said nothing to Matt. He only watched. “What are you dreaming about?” Matt asked him.

  “No dreams,” Chapado said.

  “Bullshit. I bet you’re dreaming about a nice soft bed and a clean pair of pants that don’t have a pile of crap in the seat. I know that’s what I’d be dreaming about.”

  Chapado was quiet.

  “It won’t be too long now. A couple of days. I might even give you something to drink. Of course, that means you’re just gonna wet yourself again.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Chapado asked.

  “For money, dumbass,” Matt said.

  “My people offered you money.”

  “They didn’t offer me enough. As soon as I saw they were willing to pay out a hundred grand for you, I knew you were way more important to them than they let on. Anybody someone will pay a hundred grand for is worth twice that much, I figure. Turns out I was right. Minus a few complications.”

  Chapado slumped in the chair, as if the effort of holding his head up required more energy than he had. He said something under his breath.

  “What’s that you say?” Matt asked.

  “It is nothing.”

  “You better not be calling me any names! I’ll mess you up. Don’t think I won’t.”

  Chapado’s eyes were weary when he looked at Matt again. “I know.”

  Matt took out his knife and cleaned under his fingernails with the point. He could feel Chapado watching the blade. “So why don’t you tell me what it’s all about? You some kind of big deal in Cuba? Government type or something?”

  “No, not government. I was simply a business owner.”

  “That’s a bunch of crap. Nobody pays two hundred thousand for a guy who runs the local bicycle shop. Stop jerking me off.”

  “My business was repairing small engines,” Chapado said. “That was all. It was the other things I did that made me important.”

  Matt paused with the knife. “Like what?”

  “I am a patriot for Cuba. I oppose the communists.”

  “Communists? You mean like the people who run the show down there?”

  “Yes. The communists. The Castroites. They have been a poison in my country for fifty-six years. I fight them. I help others to fight them.”

  Matt whistled. “Fifty-six years is a long time, bro. Maybe it’s time you gave it up and realized those communists ain’t goin’ anywhere. I mean, isn’t Fidel Castro still alive?”

  Chapado nodded.

  “It’s all the same to me,” Matt said. He put away his knife. “Communists got to have money. Capitalists got to have money. Everybody’s got to have money. I’m just a businessman who makes things happen. I don’t know what your boys here in Miami are playing at, but it don’t mean shit. I only care about the cold, hard cash.”

  “And you will have it,” Chapado said.

  Matt stood up and stalked around Chapado’s chair. He saw the tension rise in Chapado’s shoulders, the instinctive preparation for violence. But Matt would never break his hands on Chapado’s face. That kind of thing only happened in movies, when the hero got tied up and the bad guys took turns punching him out. “Your little gang have a name? What do you guys call yourselves?”

  “Alpha 66,” Chapado said.

  “Scary. What’s it mean?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “I don’t give a shit anyway,” Matt said. “You could call each other the Cuban Butt Boys for all I care. Sit around and yank each other’s dicks over a big map of Cuba. It’s probably the only way you can get off.”

  Chapado said nothing for a long time. Eventually, Matt settled into his chair again. It was dull in here. Matt did not have so much as a magazine to read. He would have to go out again, take a room somewhere, get a good night’s sleep, take a shower, watch some TV.

  “Señor Matt,” Chapado said finally.

  “What?”

  “I know you will not listen, but I beg you anyway: let me live. Let my brothers take me. Get your money and be happy. I will not resist you.”

  “If you resisted me, I’d cut your face off,” Matt said. “Nobody’d recognize you then. Not even your mother.”

  They sat quietly after that.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  CAMARO HAD JUST started to doze when her phone chimed. She sat up on the hard motel-room bed and took the phone from the nightstand. An email waited. She read it.

  Lauren watched her. “What is it?”

  “The guy from the blog,” Camaro said. “He wrote back.”

  “What does he say?”

  “That he’ll answer my questions.”

  She hit the reply button and then thumbed her way through a message to the blog’s writer. Instead of asking her questions, she asked for a phone number where she could reach the man. She added her own number at the end. Call me if you want, she added, and then clicked Send.

  An hour later the phone rang. The caller ID showed no number. Camaro answered. “Who is this?” she asked.

  “I don’t give people my name,” said a woman’s voice. She sounded young. Not a child or a teenager, but maybe in her early or midtwenties.

  “So what do I call you?” Camaro asked.

  “You can call me…Marta.”

  “Okay. Marta.”

  “You are Camaro?”

  “I am.”

  “You read my blog. You know about Sergio Chapado.”

  “I don’t really know anything,” Camaro said. “He’s some kind of radical, that’s all. Mixed up in some rallies in Cuba. I don’t get it.”

  “Why do you want to know more about him?”

  “Because he’s involved in something I’m trying to sort out. People have been killed. He’s missing. I want to know what kind of situation I’m in.”

  “Are you Cuban?” Marta asked.

  “No.”

  “How are you involved?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does if you want my help.”

  Camaro sighed, and then she started at the beginning. She left out the names because Marta did not need names. Camaro took her through the hire and the trip to Cuba and the things that had gone down since. When it came time to talk about the shoot-out in Liberty City, Camaro was careful not to m
ention that she’d been there or that she had put down some of the men herself. Of Lauren she said absolutely nothing at all.

  “That’s it,” she said when she was done.

  “Chapado is in the United States now,” Marta said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you know if he’s still alive?”

  “He was alive the last time I saw him. Who wants him, anyway? Who are these people?”

  Marta was slow to speak, as if she was being as cagey about details as Camaro herself had been. “Sergio Chapado is not only a dissident in Cuba, but the main contact for a Cuban American group calling themselves Alpha 66. Have you ever heard of them?”

  “Should I have?”

  “Not many people know their name. They are a very small group now, but those who continue to work for them have resources behind them. For years Alpha 66 has sent money to Cuba to help Chapado finance popular defiance against the government. Protests. Vandalism. Thefts. Anything that could turn the people against the Castroites.”

  “Why is he here if he’s doing all of that there?”

  “The Intelligence Directorate in Cuba has been removing radicals and counterrevolutionaries for years. Putting some in prison and killing others. If they were close to Chapado, Alpha 66 would have tried to pull him out. Here in the United States he can be put in front of people with money to raise funds for the cause or talk on the radio or television. There are still many Cubans who want the communists out of Cuba and are very angry that the United States will not help them do this. To them, the president has betrayed the cause men and women have bled and died for over decades. It’s a travesty.”

  Camaro digested this. Lauren watched her, and Camaro put her hand over the phone and said, “It’s good.”

  “Okay,” Lauren whispered.

  “So they’re pissed. Are these Alpha 66 guys willing to kill for Chapado?” Camaro asked.

  “Alpha 66 began as a paramilitary organization. Their whole purpose was to train for the invasion of Cuba they hoped was coming. The original soldiers are all old or dead, but there are some who would still kill, yes. You’ve seen that. This man who took Chapado, he’s in great danger, and not simply from Alpha 66.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The DI in Cuba has connections in the United States. We don’t know how many, but there are DI operatives in Miami. They will want to silence Chapado before he has a chance to speak out for the cause. If Chapado is here now, the DI will also be looking for him. If Alpha 66 will kill, the DI will be twice as likely to do the same.”

  “Who are you?” Camaro asked. “How do you know all of this?”

  “I’m a believer,” Marta said. “I believe in a free Cuba. The Internet will help us overthrow the Castroites, and there will be democracy. I do whatever I can. People tell me things.”

  “People like Alpha 66?”

  “And others. My grandparents were exiled from Cuba in 1959. I have never seen my own homeland, but I won’t go so long as the Castroites are in power. There are thousands and thousands of others exactly like me, waiting for the moment when the communists are routed and Cuba is free. Going to Cuba now is putting money in the pockets of murderers and thieves. I receive over a thousand hits a day on my blog. Cuban Americans are hungry for Cuban freedom.”

  Camaro frowned. This didn’t matter. None of it mattered. “I need to get in contact with the people in Alpha 66,” she said. “They’re some kind of secret group, right? How would I find out who I can talk to?”

  “You want to talk to Alpha 66?” Marta asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then try their Facebook page,” Marta said.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  THEY WAITED UNTIL ten o’clock. Galdarres rode in the black SUV with Davíd, Peyrera, Icaza, and the older man, Pedro. Davíd kept weapons in a locked safe in his garage, and now all of them were armed with pistols. Peyrera brought his own shotgun. Davíd had heavier guns at his disposal, but they would not need them tonight.

  Pablo Marquez’s house was a neat house on a row of the same. Each home had a perfect square of yard, a place to park a car alongside the comfortable-looking house, and brightly lit windows in the early darkness of evening. The sun had fled the sky only an hour before, and in the west there was still the faintest coloration of lingering light, nearly invisible to the eye.

  “Now,” Galdarres instructed Peyrera, and they rolled slowly up the street.

  Once they were abreast of the house, they spilled out onto the sidewalk, careful not to display their guns. Peyrera could not hide his, but he held it to his side, concealing it with the line of his body as they advanced up the walk.

  At the door, Galdarres signaled to Icaza, and the young man hit the porch light with the butt of his pistol, smashing the bulb and immediately plunging the front of the house into shadow. Galdarres opened the storm door. Davíd held it open as Galdarres knocked.

  Footsteps sounded inside, and the tiny light from the peephole went out as someone peered through from the other side. The locks rattled and the door swung wide. It was Marquez’s wife, Carolina. “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Yes, señora,” Galdarres said. “I am here to see your husband.”

  Carolina looked toward the broken porch light. The first inkling of trouble appeared in her eyes. “He’s busy upstairs. It’s late. Could you come back tomorrow?”

  She tried to close the door on him, but Galdarres pushed against it. He stepped over the threshold, with the others behind him. Marquez’s wife opened her mouth to scream, but Galdarres showed her his gun. “Silence, please,” he said.

  All five were in the house, and Pedro closed the door behind them. Carolina put a hand to the wall to steady herself. She trembled visibly. “What do you want?” she asked them. “We have no money in the house.”

  “Into the living room,” Galdarres said.

  They marched her into the house’s welcoming living room. The curtains were drawn against the night. No one would see what happened here. At Galdarres’ silent command, Carolina seated herself on the couch while the others spread themselves around the space.

  “What is your husband doing upstairs?” Galdarres asked.

  “He’s taking a shower.”

  Galdarres listened and heard the faint rush of water in pipes. Even as he cocked his ear, the sound of the valves closing squeaked through the ceiling and the rushing stopped. In a moment Marquez would be naked and dripping on the bathmat. “Go and get him,” Galdarres commanded his men. “Gerard. Joel. Do it now.”

  Peyrera and Icaza vanished from the room, and then their feet sounded on the stairs. Galdarres covered Carolina with his pistol casually. “Please, don’t hurt us,” Marquez’s wife said.

  “Why do you think I want to hurt you?” Galdarres asked.

  “I don’t…” Carolina began, and then her voice trailed away.

  “If you are cooperative and do as I say, there will be no violence,” Galdarres assured her. “Your husband will understand why we are here.”

  It did not take long for Marquez himself to appear. He was muscled into the living room by Icaza and Peyrera. Marquez was shirtless and wet, hastily dressed in a pair of gray sweatpants. Galdarres pointed to the couch, and his men forced Marquez to sit.

  Galdarres looked at Marquez. The man had fear in his face, but he tempered it with anger. He was a fighter. If Peyrera and Icaza had not been armed like they were, he would have resisted every step of the way. He might still do something foolish simply to prove he was not a coward. It didn’t matter. Soon the situation would be resolved.

  “Do you know who I am?” Galdarres asked Marquez.

  “No.”

  “My name is Alejandro Galdarres. I represent the Intelligence Directorate of the Republic of Cuba.”

  Fiery eyes settled into blackness. “I won’t tell you anything,” Marquez said.

  “You will if I promise your wife will suffer,” Galdarres said. “Every man cares for his wife. Even the vermin of Alpha
66.”

  He had hoped the mention of Alpha 66 would shake Marquez, but the man’s demeanor didn’t change. Of course, as soon as he knew where Galdarres had come from, he knew why he was here. The men of Alpha 66 were delusional, but they were not stupid. “If you hurt my wife, I’ll kill you,” Marquez said.

  “Don’t give me a reason,” Galdarres said.

  Marquez glared and said nothing.

  “Where is Sergio Chapado?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hit her,” Galdarres commanded. At his word, Pedro stepped forward and smashed his fist into Carolina’s face, driving her against her husband with the yelp of a wounded animal. Marquez nearly erupted from the couch, but Peyrera struck him with the butt of his shotgun. The man reeled.

  “Where is Sergio Chapado?” Galdarres asked.

  Marquez put an arm around his wife. “I don’t know! It’s the truth! He’s been taken!”

  “Then you admit that Alpha 66 is responsible for Chapado’s escape from Cuba.”

  “Yes. But we don’t have him. You can’t get him through us.”

  Galdarres smiled thinly. “I know. I only wanted to see how easily you could be made to talk. You’re pathetic. Cut their throats.”

  Davíd and Pedro drew knives and closed on the couch. Marquez and his wife shouted, but there was no one to hear. Galdarres stepped back to avoid the worst of the mess.

  “What now?” Davíd asked when it was done.

  “Now, we—” Galdarres began. A movement drew his eye, and then all of them saw it. They turned to the living room door.

  The girl looked to be three years old and no more. She wore pink pajamas. She looked at Galdarres and the men, looked to the bodies on the couch and the floor, then opened her mouth and screamed.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  LAUREN WAS ASLEEP. Camaro watched one of the late-night shows on television, keeping the sound low, whiling away the time until it was past midnight and the streets would be mostly still. Only then did she turn off the TV and gather up her Glock to venture out of the room, careful to close the door silently behind her.