“Take good care of your family, Isabella.”
Climbing up to the cockpit, Charity turned and faced the old Cuban smuggler. “Vaya con dios, Alonzo.”
“Fair winds and a following sea, Gabriela,” Alonzo said. “You have done so much for me and my family. I will dream of sailing this boat every night, and I will pray to San Cristóbal for your safe passage.”
“Be careful,” she warned. “If you have trouble, do you know the Marquesas?”
“Pretty fish to look at, but not many to catch,” he replied with a knowing grin. “I have hidden there from the authorities many times.”
“This doesn’t surprise me,” Charity said, smiling down at the white-haired man. “The Marquesas are part of America. Stop there before continuing to Key West. I put a camera in the emergency kit. Go ashore and find something permanent. There are a number of wrecks and abandoned boats along the shore. Have Isabella take a photograph of you on the beach, with one of these in the background. If you are stopped before reaching Key West, the picture will prove that you were on American soil before you were stopped.”
The old man took Charity in his arms, hugging her tightly. Before releasing her, he kissed both her cheeks. “We will see one another again.”
“I look forward to that day, Alonzo. Now go. Take your family to America, so Roberto can grow up a free man.”
He stood on his toes and kissed her on the forehead, before scrambling quickly down the ladder. His new purpose in life seemed to renew his old body with vigor. The little engine started on the first pull, and Charity tossed the painter to Isabella. Within seconds, the little Zodiac was up on top of the waves, heading toward America.
The wind continued to change direction throughout the afternoon. Within two hours of sending Alonzo and his family off to Key West, it was blowing at a steady twelve knots out of the south-southeast.
With the sails close-hauled, the apparent wind direction was out of the south at fifteen knots, and Dancer’s speed was pushing eighteen. Charity calculated that she’d reach the spot where she’d collided with the Montoya family before midnight, having lost less than a day of travel time.
Feeling refreshed after they’d allowed her to sleep late, she was prepared for the coming night, with a new strategy. At sunset, she planned to sleep for one hour, then wake and be alert for half an hour. That would give her a full seven hours of sleep over the eleven hours between sunset and sunrise.
With the sun nearing the horizon again, Charity heard a pair of whooshing sounds, one after the other. Knowing what it was, she unclipped her safety line and attached it to the port cable rail, then went forward, checking the rigging and equipment. When she reached the bow, she waited a moment, looking ahead.
Suddenly a pair of dolphins rose to the surface, riding her bow wave for a second before separating and submerging. She knelt down and peered over the bow. The two dolphins were swimming effortlessly just below the surface, easily keeping pace with the fast-moving Wind Dancer. Surfers ride on top of a wave using gravity, but dolphins use the force of the displaced water below the surface and ride along on the pressure bulge.
The larger one surfaced, blowing air and spray right in Charity’s face. She couldn’t help herself and started laughing. Among sailors, having dolphins ride your bow wave was considered a good omen. She certainly hoped so.
When Charity returned to the cockpit, she went down to the galley and made a sandwich, using the last of the Montoyas’ bread loaf. Before returning to the helm, she checked her laptop for messages and found none. Taking her sweater, a pillow, and a blanket, she returned to the helm to watch the sunset.
As the sun began to slip below the horizon, Wind Dancer was three hundred and fifty miles from Progresso and over seven hundred miles from Alvarado. If the wind continued to blow out of the southern quadrant and she could average ten knots, she could still clear customs and take a short rest in the Yucatan port city, before arriving in Alvarado in less than five days.
After eight days of training with the small automatic weapons, Hussein was satisfied, even if Karim didn’t agree. But he’d allowed Karim to work for another three days with three of the men who weren’t as adept at shooting.
In Hussein’s tent, Awad and Karim sat on the bare ground, waiting for the leader to finish his opium pipe. Finally, the blue-gray smoke curled from his mouth and up to the vents in the tent roof.
“The American celebration is in nine days,” Hussein said. “It will take us two days to reach the city of San Antonio. Between now and then, you two will work with the others. Teach them enough about American ways so they will not be so noticeable.”
“What ways in particular?” Karim asked.
“Foremost, once we leave here, there will be no more prayer. I watched the Americans at their base in Cuba. They have a way about them. The way they move and walk, like they are invincible. When you and Awad first arrived here, you moved like them. The men must learn to mimic this.”
“We will do all we can,” Awad replied, not exactly sure what the leader was talking about.
“I have arranged a truck that will carry all of us to Reynosa, on the border. This leg of the journey is one thousand kilometers. From there, it is another five hundred kilometers to San Antonio.”
“How long will it take?” Karim asked.
“We will leave the camp two hours before the sun sets, six days from now. The truck will pick us up on the road to the west when it is dark, and we will arrive in Reynosa before noon, four days from now. There, we will rest until nightfall, then split into three groups and make the trip across the border at night, rejoining in San Antonio. Each of us will lead one of these groups, to minimize the chance of being seen.”
“How are we to get from the border to San Antonio?” Awad asked.
Hussein extended his arm behind him and pulled a small brown satchel from under his cot. Reaching in, he withdrew two small packages and handed one to each man.
“Inside, you will find maps and five thousand American dollars, plus fake credit cards for each of you. We will hire someone to smuggle our group across the border separately, using the money. They call these smugglers coyotes. Each group will go to a different American town near the border. There, each group will rent a car or van to drive the last leg to San Antonio. Be careful to drive exactly the speed limit, so as not to be stopped by the infidel’s police.”
“Slightly over the speed limit,” Karim advised. “Nobody in America obeys the speed laws. Doing so will attract attention.”
“They disregard their own laws as well as the law of Allah?” Hussein asked, rhetorically. “Very well, Karim. That is why you and Awad are with us. You know the ways of the infidels.”
“The truck you hired?” Awad asked. “Can the driver be trusted?”
“No, he cannot. The truck was hired through the Reynosa drug cartel. These people are ruthless and will do anything for money. Do not discuss our destination or anything else with the driver, nor with the coyotes that will smuggle you across.”
“You have planned this well, Hussein,” Karim said. “Where will we meet in San Antonio?”
“There is a hotel, not far from the place called River Walk, a short walk to where the tour boats pick people up. It is called Wyndham. At the hotel, each group will split up into groups of two each and check into three rooms at the hotel. You should do this at different times, not all together. The three of us will have separate rooms. Each of you will arrange this with the men in your group.”
Awad and Karim both nodded. “It is a good plan,” Karim agreed.
As Hussein packed his hookah with more opium, he waved his hand toward the tent flap. “Go now. Get rested. Tomorrow we will start learning the infidel’s ways. In four days, just before we leave, we will practice with the weapons again, for two days. On the sixth day, we will each spend the day alone in prayer.”
Outside, Karim offered Awad a cigarette, lighting both with a single match. The two men walked to the far si
de of the camp, away from the other tents. Most of the men had gone to sleep or were preparing to do so. Only a single sentry in the middle of the half circle of tents noticed them.
“Is it a good plan?” Awad asked in a quiet voice.
Karim considered the question for a moment. “Yes, I think it is,” he responded. “If Hussein will stick to it. You know as well as I do about his history of rash decisions.”
“But he always succeeded.”
“All but the one time, when he was captured,” Karim said. “Have you not heard what happened that day?”
“No, I have not.”
“He and his fighters attacked a small village, not far from one of the American camps. They killed indiscriminately and rounded up all of the young women of the village. During the orgy of blood and carnal delight, the Americans slipped into the village, killing most of his fighters and taking the others prisoner, along with Hussein.”
“You would have done differently?” Awad asked, taking a drag on the cigarette.
Karim looked down at the ground a moment. In the dappled light of the moon filtering through the trees, Awad saw the same sadistic grin their leader had displayed. “Yes,” Karim said quietly. “I would have put the women to the blade and left the village before the Americans arrived.”
Karim turned and walked off toward his tent, leaving Awad to his own thoughts. In truth, Awad had been swayed by the American lifestyle. He enjoyed the things that both Karim and Hussein detested. He especially enjoyed the American women, and those from his own country who had grown up in America.
Tired, Awad went to his own tent. As he was lying on his cot, he heard the rumble of distant thunder again. For just a moment, he thought it a bad omen.
Using her fake passport, Charity cleared Mexican customs in Progresso in the early afternoon. Sailing straight through the night for three consecutive nights, taking short naps between watches, had taken its toll. She spent the rest of the afternoon restocking Wind Dancer with food, water, and fuel. The fuel was expensive, but she needed very little. She wanted nothing more than a hot shower and get to bed shortly after sunset.
Shopping in the farmer’s market near the marina, Charity negotiated with the men and women at the booths, buying plenty of fruits and vegetables at very good prices. At the few stalls that offered meat, it was priced very high. The chicken and pork she saw didn’t appear as fresh as it ought to be. And nobody had beef that looked even remotely edible.
Returning to the marina, Charity encountered a fisherman who had just tied up and was unloading his catch. Pointing to three large hogfish, obviously speared, she asked, “You are a scuba diver?”
The young Mexican man looked up. “Diver, yes. Scuba, no. It is not sporting to rely on tanks and equipment. I am Juan Ignacio.”
On closer inspection, the fisherman appeared a few years older than Charity, maybe in his early thirties. Taller than most Mexican men, he wore only the lower half of a wetsuit, cut off below the knees. She thought him quite handsome.
“I am Gabriela Oritz,” Charity said, sticking to the maiden name of her alias. “How much for the viejas?”
Juan smiled at her, displaying a row of perfect teeth, below a thin mustache. “For you, señorita? Thirty pesos each.”
Charity smiled. Thirty pesos was less than two dollars and quite a deal. However, it was the custom to haggle over the price of anything. Placing her canvas bags full of produce on the dock, she knelt down and picked up the smallest, testing its weight.
Wiping her hand on a rag the man offered, she stood up, cocking her hip to the side, as she pretended to be considering the price. The pose had the desired effect. Juan stood up straighter and smiled up at her.
“I will give you sixty pesos for all three,” Charity said, smiling back.
Juan’s smile broadened. “Sixty pesos and a dance at the cantina this evening?” he asked, pointing to a small restaurant and bar just down the street.
She was planning to go to bed early, to take advantage of the receding tide just before sunrise. But, after three days of sailing, seeing nothing but an occasional oil tanker, having a cold beer and a dance with a good-looking man didn’t seem like a bad idea. It’d been years since she’d danced with anyone and quite a while since she’d even been on a date.
“Sixty pesos and one dance,” Charity replied. “I leave with the morning tide.” If possible, Juan’s perfect smile grew even wider. “And you buy me a beer,” she added with a smile.
“For that, Señorita, I will even clean them for you,” Juan said. “Where is your boat?”
“You have a deal, Juan Ignacio,” Charity said. “Let me take my produce and put it away and I will be right back.”
Without waiting for a reply, she picked up her bags and sauntered down the dock toward Wind Dancer, tied at the far end. Knowing that he was watching, she put a bit more sway in her hips as she walked.
Fifteen minutes later, she returned. Juan was sitting on a small stool. He’d finished unloading his catch into a small two-wheeled cart, and covered it with ice. He’d changed into jeans and a clean white T-shirt, wearing a worn Tommy Bahama hat against the tropical sun.
As Charity approached, Juan stood quickly. Charity immediately noticed that he was taller than she’d first thought, nearly six feet. Removing his hat, he became flustered. “My apologies, Señorita. I did not mean to be so forward.”
Charity found his sudden shy and chivalrous attitude refreshing. “I have been in the United States for a few years, Juan. You are quite the gentleman. I am looking forward to dancing with a gentleman. Sunset at the cantina?”
Grinning, Juan picked up the six fillets from the top of the pile in his cart. “The light of the setting sun can only make a woman such as yourself even more beautiful, Señorita Gabriela.”
Each fillet was carefully wrapped in brown wax paper, secured with a piece of twine. Charity stepped closer, opening her canvas bag. He put the fish in it and she reached into her pocket. Handing him sixty pesos, her fingers lingered on his palm for a second.
“Perhaps two dances,” she said with a smile. Once more, she turned without another word and strolled back to her boat.
In the galley, she placed two of the packages in the tiny refrigerator and the rest in the freezer. She wanted to cook one before going to the cantina. With the Dancer connected to both shore power and freshwater, she’d been looking forward to a hot freshwater shower since arriving.
Opening her hanging closet, she realized that she didn’t have a lot to choose from. Most of her clothes were rugged sailing attire, or black pants and shirts for her mission ahead. Of the two casual outfits in the closet, she chose a simple, dark blue dress made from lightweight material and laid it on the bunk.
With only the hot water turned on, Charity took a long shower, scrubbing her skin nearly raw with the brush. Turning the hot water off, she turned on the cold, gasping and flinching involuntarily, as it hit her skin. She rinsed for several minutes under the cold water, which reinvigorated her.
Wearing only panties and a white tank top, Charity went into the galley to prepare dinner. A friend back in Marathon, an old Jamaican chef, had given her several small containers, each holding an assortment of premixed herbs and spices. Each container was labeled in simple handwriting with what it was to be used for. She opened the small cupboard and picked the container labeled “Swimmers.”
While the fish sizzled in the skillet, Charity powered up her laptop to check for messages. Connecting to the email server, she saw there was a saved document in the draft file and clicked on it.
Latest satellite flyover shows no training activity in the crater. However, the noon and evening meals were prepared over the same fire as previous days.
Deleting the message, she wrote a short reply: ETA Alvarado: 48 hours. Saving the message, she rose and flipped the fish over in the skillet, then went forward to the vee-berth and quickly dressed.
After eating a light meal of fish and a small salad, Charity
washed the dishes, leaving everything on the drainboard. Through the porthole, she could see the sun nearing the tops of the little houses that dotted the hillside on the other side of the small bay.
Going back to the forward berth, she pulled the bifold door closed. She checked herself in the narrow full-length mirrors mounted on the doors, and her black hair startled her. She had only seen herself with black hair several days earlier when she dyed it. Leaning closer, she inspected the roots. She’d need a touchup before long.
Stepping back, she smoothed the light fabric against her belly and turned, looking over her shoulder. The back of the dress was cut low, with thin spaghetti straps, accentuating her long, slim torso. Slipping her feet into a pair of leather thong sandals, she went aft to the ladder.
Closing the hatch securely, Charity knelt and opened the control panel. A touch of the lock button sent the heavy bolts into place and armed the security system. A tiny red LED light below the trim of the cabin roof began flashing. The light was the only warning an intruder would receive. If anyone attempted to force the hatch open, a very loud siren would begin wailing inside the cabin. She hoped the warning light would deter any would-be thieves.
Before exiting the cockpit, Charity looked all around the dock area before setting one last precaution. She didn’t see anyone anywhere. A thin strand of monofilament fishing line, nearly invisible, hung from the forward rail at the gangplank. The end of it was tied in a loose loop, which she placed over a tiny nail on the inside of the aft rail post. Anyone coming aboard would knock it loose, but it was secured so lightly and was so thin, it wouldn’t be felt as anything more than a strand of a spider’s web.
Satisfied, Charity stepped over the line and made her way down the nearly empty dock. All of the fishermen had left their boats and gone home, but music emanated from a couple of cruising sailboats.
Merciless Charity: A Charity Styles Novel (Caribbean Thriller Series Book 1) Page 10