by Linda Bond
No matter the consequences.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ignado threw Rebecca toward the yacht with such force she tripped over her own feet and fell forward, sprawling out on the concrete pavers leading up to the dock. The breath whooshed out of her and she gasped for air.
A hand appeared in her line of sight, the palm turned up and open in a friendly gesture of help.
She couldn’t help but notice how big and tan this man’s hand was and how perfectly groomed the short, clean nails looked. She blinked. “Are—are you my…my father?” This was not how she imagined meeting her dad, on her knees, breathless, stuttering, and afraid.
“My sweet child, I am Arturo Menendez Garcia. I am your father.”
She swallowed. He’d admitted it. He was real. He was here! Her heart leaped and all those warnings Antonio had delivered disappeared as real joy swept through her.
Grasping her father’s hand, Rebecca allowed him to help pull her up. She slapped a few concrete pebbles off her indented knees, wanting to look as good as she could. Silly, but she’d been dreaming about this moment since she’d learned her father was still alive.
She took a step toward him, but her legs wobbled beneath her. Her father reached out and steadied her.
She stiffened, and her breath hitched. How should she react? Her heart felt as if it had stopped beating. She looked up at the tall, lean man, really seeing him for the first time.
Arturo Menendez Garcia, her father, had weathered golden-brown skin, and his dark brown eyes glistened with intelligence. His abundant gray hair looked messy, but still elegant. The material of his white cotton shirt seemed expensive. He certainly didn’t look like a man who’d just crossed the Florida Straits running away from a precarious or dangerous situation. She exhaled, dropping her gaze.
He released his hold on her. “Mi niña, so many years we could have had together were wasted.”
Was he kidding? She looked up, wanting to see the veracity in his gaze. This man had no way of knowing her lifelong insecurity stemming from not having a real father. How she’d waited every birthday for a phone call or a visit, every first day of school for some sign he knew she’d advanced to another grade and maybe even felt proud of her minor accomplishments. Every Christmas she’d prayed for even the smallest present. Until her mother told her he’d been murdered. Now she was learning that was a lie. All of her childhood had been a lie. So, what had her mother told this man? Maybe he had longed for her, too. Oh my God, was this possible? Could she get her happy reunion, too?
“Your mother took you from me.” Arturo spoke, hands on his hips, exuding the confidence of a man telling the truth. “And later told me you’d died. We should both ask her why she lied for all these years.”
Rebecca’s stomach rolled. “She told me you were a hero. She told me you were arrested for speaking out against the revolutionary government. That you’d died a man of honor.” The evidence was standing right in front of her.
Arturo raised his eyebrows at that. “I am a man of honor. But I am very much alive. Let’s ask your mother about this. Together.”
She wished they could. “My mother is dead.”
No reaction. Not one flicker of remorse in Arturo’s cold eyes.
That brought tears rushing to the back of hers. “What is going on here?” If her father didn’t know her mother was dead, wouldn’t the surprise have registered on his face?
“Come on board, mi niña.” His tone softened. “You need to hear my side of this story.”
“Wait a minute.” She stalled. “I’m confused.” What did this man really want? “If you’re here so I can help you seek asylum, why not leave with me now? Why would we get on the boat?”
“The truth is I came here to take you back with me to Cuba. I need your help now.”
Her father’s words sent chills up her spine, her mind racing with ire. He’d lied to her to get her here. “I have no desire to go back to Cuba.” So he was a deceiver, too. What else would this man tell stories about? She backed away.
He grabbed her wrist, encasing it like a handcuff. “Do you think that you’ve been fair with the pictures and images of Cuba you’ve shared with America? Are they a true and accurate portrayal of your birthplace, especially at a time when our governments are trying to repair the damage of the past? You could help us bridge this gap and lay the foundation for a better future.”
“I can’t believe this.” Once again she was being used because of her job, because she had a platform from which to speak to an international audience.
“Believe this. Your viewers are buying what you said in your documentary, that relations are better on the surface only. Your documentary made it seem like our people are enslaved by poverty. That they want to leave, but can’t.”
“That is true for many,” she said.
“You insinuated that Cuba is not changing. But there’s more to this story that you conveniently left out.” Arturo pointed a finger at her. “Like how the American embargo has held Cubans like those in your story in handcuffs for decades. That embargo still exists because your leaders are being held hostage by the anti-Castro voters in Miami, who continue to control Florida’s electoral votes. Those people think they are hurting Castro and maybe even me with this embargo, but they are only starving their own relatives. And then, like hypocrites, they play the part of the heroes by sending money and feeding their families, all while blaming the Cuban government for the lack of food.”
Rebecca snorted. She’d seen firsthand all the fertile farmland with no crops growing. How was that the fault of the Cuban Americans in Miami?
“Then your fanatical Cuban Americans expect their poor relations in Cuba to fall to their knees in gratitude for their great American saviors.” Arturo threw a hand up in what looked like disgust. “Who, I ask you, is controlling and manipulating whom? And for what?” He took a step closer, his eyes alight with purpose and passion.
Just like Antonio’s always were.
“Your president and mine are trying to end this nonsense, and I think you are the key. You have the attention of the nation. You are the key to unlocking the padlock on the past. But first, we must change public perception.”
“We? I don’t need to change public perception.” She wrenched against his hold, heated anger rising into her cheeks. How dare he insult her like this? “I shared the who, what, why, and where of what I witnessed while in Cuba in my documentary. I told the truth of what I was able to document and see there.” He would dare to question her ethics? This man who lied so easily? “I told the truth as I saw it.”
“I will give you full access to our country.”
“I had full access to your country.”
“There is so much more to see and understand, Rebecca. Surely as a journalist, you have a responsibility to investigate further. To tell the whole truth.”
She dropped her gaze, unable to look at him as she realized how very little he cared about her as a person. “That’s why you came?” If she threw up now, it would only show this asshole how much he was able to hurt her. “You came here to convince me to come with you so you could feed me the story you want me to share. To show the world the Cuba you want them to see.” She gagged on the nasty taste of disenchantment. The bastard. She pulled her wrist free and pressed both hands against her temples. She hated him. Hated him. He didn’t care about her as a daughter at all. “Oh my God.” She shook her head. Antonio had been right. Again. She would never doubt him again.
She glanced over at the tree line, looking for any movement. Nothing. The head CIA guy had told her to get Arturo to talk if she could, talk about why he was here, what he might be trying to accomplish. How it might affect the security of the United States. Because the government had no notice a Cuban diplomat was visiting Tampa.
In the dark of the night.
Her breath stalled in her throat.
Keep Arturo talking.
No pressure.
She glanced across the yar
d again.
Arturo snapped his fingers at her. “Who are you looking for?”
She jerked back to attention. “I thought I heard something.”
Her father glanced at the tree line, right where a large oak stood out in the perfectly landscaped yard. Then he snapped his fingers again. “Manuel, go check it out. You.” He pointed a finger at her. “You are, above all else, a journalist. You came here to do your job. Now do it.”
She turned on her heel, but two steps down the pavers, her anger erupted, and she flipped around, stomping back toward the boat. “I observe, and I report what I see. Whether anyone likes it or not. I am an American! I don’t do what I’m ordered to do by you or anyone else.” She was pointing a condemning finger at him now, and her father took a small step back, and she swelled with the small victory. “Ironically, the only person involved in all of this who expected me to report the truth, whatever the truth might be and despite the consequences, is Antonio Vega, and he’s the damn criminal in everyone’s eyes.” Oh shit. What had she just done?
The hot night breeze whipped past her, splashing her hair across her face, blinding her momentarily. The slight hum of the boat’s idling motor was the only other sound. Jerking her hair out of her eyes, she glanced around, realizing her rant had brought every person buzzing around on the boat to a halt. There had to be half a dozen big men looking back and forth from their leader Arturo to her. Dragging her gaze to her father, she shuddered when she saw the chill that had settled in his eyes. His fists had balled up, and he opened and closed them as his arms hung stiffly by his side.
“Antonio Vega is here? Right now?” Her father’s gaze darted back and forth across the backyard. “That’s who you were looking for?” He ran a hand through his windblown hair. His lips drew into an unpleasant line.
Rebecca couldn’t stop the smile that tipped the corners of her mouth up. So, Arturo Menendez feared Antonio. She couldn’t help but feel a little proud that this monster of a man respected Antonio enough to look at least a little worried that he might be here, hiding.
A flurry of movement at her dad’s side caught her attention. He jerked his shirt out of his pants, uncovering a gun.
Her breath caught in her chest.
The click of hammers being pulled back on a half dozen weapons made the hair on her arms stand. His men all followed his lead and now stood armed and alert. Shit! She had to warn the SWAT team who may be hiding close by. Just in case they couldn’t see. “You all can put down your weapons. All of you. Antonio isn’t here.” Her throat tightened until she could barely breathe. “Why are you still looking for Antonio, anyway?” Anxiety ripped through her at such an intense speed now, her heart raced painfully. “He didn’t kill you.”
“But he won’t stop trying,” Ignado shouted out.
“Can you blame him?” Rebecca shouted back, and then addressed her father. “You murdered his father.” She held her breath, waiting for some kind of verbal confirmation or explosion. When Arturo offered none, she shook her head, disgusted. “Even if I knew where Antonio was, I wouldn’t give him up to you.”
Arturo lowered his gun, threw back his head, and laughed.
She beat her fists against her thighs. “What the hell is so funny?”
“Why would you protect Antonio, when he was so ready and willing to give you up to me?”
Was he? Antonio told her he’d never made it to Havana and never actually met Arturo on their trip. No. She knew Antonio. Loved him. “Giving Antonio up would be like giving up my own freedom. I won’t tell you where he is.”
Her father lifted his chin, a signal she assumed to Ignado. Slowly, she dragged her gaze around toward her enemy, who was standing close behind her.
“You don’t have to, Rebecca.” Ignado grinned.
The tattooed man’s hot onion breath hit both her nose and her right ear at the same time, but it was the icy cold barrel of his gun pushing into her temple that dropped her heart into her stomach.
“Antonio will come looking for you. Even if it means traveling back to Cuba.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ignado shoved Rebecca forward, pushing her twice until she stumbled, falling to her knees.
“Get on the boat, bitch,” he snarled.
“No! I’m not going with you, Ignado.” She screamed this time, praying to God she’d alerted Zack and the CIA SWAT team.
The roar of an approaching boat engine caught her attention. Maybe they were arriving by water?
Ignado gripped her by her hair, dragging her with such force she feared her scalp would rip. She shrieked as the pain intensified, radiating through her head and down her spine. She planted her feet and threw a backward punch with her elbow, not sure what part of Ignado she’d hit.
“Puta!” He grunted but didn’t pull the trigger. “If your father was not here, I’d kill you with my bare hands.”
“Bring her on board,” her father roared. “Igando has assured me Antonio’s need for you is almost as strong as his need to kill me.”
Ignado’s arm wrapped around her middle, and he squeezed until the air zipped out of her. Lifting her off the ground with a loud grunt, he flung her over his shoulder and stormed up the stairs and onto the boat.
Heart thrashing wildly against her rib cage, she kicked and screamed, pummeling his backside with her fists. “Help me! Help!”
Topside, Ignado dropped her. She landed awkwardly on her feet. Twisting one ankle, she went down.
The roar of the boat motor stopped and a slew of expletives in Spanish erupted.
And then everything happened in one slow-moving second.
Arturo sprang up and ripped his gun out of its holster.
Ignado turned his weapon away from her.
She looked to where both were pointing their guns.
Antonio was jumping off a speedboat at the dock next door. He’d arrived by water? She knew he wouldn’t have let her come alone. He’d told her he wouldn’t. Antonio had a gun drawn and pointed directly at her father. But he was still too far away.
The vibration of many footsteps pounding on the deck rocked her bottom.
“CIA!” A dozen team members, heavily armed and protected, burst from different sides of the house, taking various positions around the backyard. “Drop your weapons!”
A series of gunshots pinged, like the first kernels of corn popping in the microwave.
Arturo’s boat motor roared, and the vessel started moving away from the dock.
The wind picked up as the blades of an approaching helicopter roared overhead.
She pushed herself up despite the pain ripping through her hand. “Take cover. Run!” She barely had time to locate Antonio in the chaos unfolding. He was running her way. “Antonio, we’re moving.” She was still close enough to swim for the shore. Should she jump?
An arm shot out and pulled her back. Her father!
A bullet whizzed by, close enough she could hear it.
Her father yelled. He stumbled back, taking her with him, but his left arm loosened, and she wiggled out of his grip. Another round of shots fired. He pulled her up against him again. Using her like a shield.
A burning fire ripped through her left shoulder.
She jerked once and spun around, red pumping out of a hole in the left side of her white cotton shirt. “I’ve been shot!” By a bullet meant for her father. She clutched the side where the round entered her body. Why didn’t she feel anything?
Arturo stumbled away, but as he did, he shoved her. She stiffened, hesitating at the edge of the boat, her father’s hand moving in her direction again.
Was he finally reaching out to help her?
“Rebecca, por favor. Forgive me.”
Then her father shoved her forward, harder, using both hands.
Help me! She teetered on the boat’s edge forever it seemed, before toppling over the side. Her body splashed into the warm bay, and she glided down, sinking into the black abyss. For one moment, she allowed her body to relax and f
all away. No worries, no fear, just falling. If she didn’t breathe, this would all end, this horrible nightmare that had taken over her life.
Something disrupted the water, making a muted splash. She had to still be close enough then to make it to shore. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Maybe her dad had jumped off the boat to rescue her after all. He couldn’t let her die. Kicking hard, she moved her hands in a heart shape, pulling herself skyward, mostly with her right arm. She’d find him. Eyes open, the darkness made her dizzy with vertigo. Oxygen starved, her lungs tightened.
Something warm touched her. She flinched. Her daddy’s hand? She threw her arm out in the direction of the warmth. Hot fire roared through her shoulder now, the pain becoming too difficult to ignore. Breaking the water’s barrier, she pushed her head out of the surf and gasped for air. Inhaling hurt, but the air gave her renewed hope.
Dog-paddling at a rate she knew would tire her out quickly, she dived under again, swimming this time with one arm wide. She flailed around in the dark of the night sea, pressing her palms against the liquid, but to no avail. Finally, her left shoulder gave out on her. She had to surface, or she’d surely drown.
Kicking again, she felt the cooler air as she broke through the surf.
“Rebecca! Stop.”
Antonio. Of course he would be the one to jump in and save her. She inhaled instinctively, ingesting both air and seawater at the same time. The water slid down her windpipe, causing it to seize. She threw back her head and coughed, hoping to spit out the water.
Tired, arms trembling, Rebecca failed to keep her body above the surface and slipped under. Eyes wide and lungs burning, she struggled to right herself and find her way up. Air, she needed air.
That’s when two hands grabbed under her armpits and pulled her upward. She moved her weak legs in an effort to help. Pressing her lips together to suppress another effort to cough out the water in her windpipe, she prayed. Please, God, let me surface. Let me breathe.