“Mr. Peters,” he said, referring to Greer. He motioned toward me. “Is this the friend you mentioned? Very pleased to meet you, sir,” he said with a thick Puerto Rican accent.
“Buenos Dias,” I said, extending a hand. “Jason Mangold.”
A name I’d used before. I didn’t have any identification, but it didn’t seem like this guy was going to care. In any case, the name was clean, as far as I knew.
“Mr. Mangold.” He shook my hand and smiled. He seemed pleased that I knew a little Spanish. “My name is Juan Rivas, Captain of La Playa.” He jerked his head back at the boat.
I nodded.
“Would you care from some breakfast?” he said. “He might only be sixteen, but my son can do things with shrimp you wouldn’t believe.”
“None for me,” Greer said. “I have to get going. I’ve got some meetings this afternoon back in San Juan, and my business associates can get pretty testy if I’m late.”
Rivas laughed, but I didn’t. He noticed.
“Well, that’s okay, Mr. Peters. I guess Mr. Mangold and I will have that much more to share of Tonio’s cooking.” He motioned for me to follow him to the boat. “Do you have any things you’d like to bring on board?”
“Just myself,” I said.
He smiled, those gold teeth glowing in the sun. “Light traveler! Well, we’ve got everything you’ll need on board.”
Rivas shook hands with Greer one more time, then he walked me over to the boat—a large, white cabin cruiser outfitted for deep water fishing. I hopped onto the transom, took three stairs up to the fly deck, then parked myself at a half-circle bench just to the left of the helm.
“Morning, sir,” a young man said to me. Tonio Rivas looked like a teenage version of his father—squat with dark hair, tanned skin, and an easy smile. He hadn’t weathered like his dad yet, but I could see how, in ten years, all those lines would already work into his skin.
After Rivas and Tonio untied the ship from the dock and took in all the lines, we were off, Rivas at the wheel. I snuck a glance at the compass on the dash and saw we were headed almost due south. I knew most of the smaller Caribbean islands lay to the east and then carried south in a long chain. The direction we headed left us with nothing but open water, and beyond that, the northern coast of South America—where Venezuela waited for me.
Rivas kept the throttle pretty well open for the better part of an hour. We traveled in a straight line along our heading before Rivas slowed the boat to a stop. He cut the engine, glanced at me, then went into the boat’s cabin. I saw him in the galley, getting something to eat.
The boat was surrounded by open ocean. Nothing but water and clear sky for miles.
I wondered what Rivas knew. Couldn’t have been much. Vance Greer wouldn’t have stayed in the spy game as long as he had by telling people more than they absolutely needed to know. And something about Rivas made him seem like an honest man to me. Could be his easy smile, or that he ran a charter boat with his son. Or just his demeanor. Being able to read people was a survival skill to me. And Rivas didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d pop one in my head and dump my body into the water.
There might be an opportunity for me here.
“Capitan,” I said, standing up from the bench. A wave rolled under the boat, and I had to catch myself on a chair—I hadn’t used my sea legs in a decade. “Why are we stopped all the way out here?”
I started down into the cabin, taking the steps slowly and holding the handrail for dear life.
Rivas stood at the counter, spreading jelly on a peanut butter sandwich. Tonio sat at the kitchenette, take bites off his sandwich, one quarter at a time.
“Good fishing out here,” he said. His eyes shifted. He was too honest for his own good. He was lying. But I knew I couldn’t push him too hard. I didn’t want to scare him off. “We told Mr. Peters we’d show you the best. All the stuff nearer the island is overfished. You can sit there all day and not catch a damn thing.”
“That right?” I asked. “Are you guys going to set me up?”
Tonio stopped, mid-bite. He looked up at his father.
“’Course we will, amigo.” Rivas kept his eyes away from mine. “After we eat some lunch. ’Til then, you’re welcome to have some, or you can take a nap in the aft stateroom.” He pointed to my left, where a small entryway led to a dark room that held little more than a large bed.
“Uh-huh.”
Rivas slapped the two halves of his sandwich together, trying his level best to act like there wasn’t anything wrong with anything at all—not in the whole wide world.
I didn’t agree.
“How much is he paying you?” I asked, point-blank.
Rivas took a bite of his sandwich. “Our rate is $150 per hour, from nine to five. Anything before or after is $200 an hour.”
“Right,” I said. “But how much is he paying you?”
A heavy silence filled the cabin. I don’t know that either of them were breathing, even. All I heard was the soft hum of the generator.
“Because whatever it is, it ain’t worth the trouble,” I said. “But I got something that is worth your trouble: we turn this boat around. Go north. Up the east coast all the way to Chesapeake.”
Nobody said anything. But I swore I could hear the gears turning in Rivas’ head. If I could just find the right thing to say, I could kick him into overdrive and get the hell back to my family. Wouldn’t Greer just love that?
If this guy was Puerto Rican, I knew what I could do to spark him. Pay him. Wasn’t cheap to rebuild. Even if he wasn’t rebuilding, subsisting on the island meant paying for gas for a generator. Overpaying for food. Maybe he had a sick mother at home that needed some medication.
“Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it,” I said. “And I’ll pay you for your time.”
Tonio’s throat bobbed up and down. If the kid were in charge, he would’ve taken my deal. But he wasn’t.
“Mr. Peters told me you’d offer lots of money,” Rivas said. “But I know you don’t have any.”
“Did he say that?”
Rivas nodded. Slowly. Like I was a predator about to jump on him and rip his throat out.
I couldn’t let him be scared of me. I needed to win him over. Seeing Libby and Kejal depended on it.
“He doesn’t know what kind of money I have.” I sat on the stairs, trying to make him think I wasn’t half as anxious as I was. “I’m the kind of man that doesn’t keep everything in a bank account. You know what I mean?”
“I don’t know, sir,” he said softly.
Shit. I was losing him. My heart raced in my chest, but I forced myself to lean back, rest an elbow on the steps.
“Look,” I said, “I’ll be honest with you. I’m not who I said I was. Jason Mangold is a fake name. An assumed identity I’ve used before.” A trickle of sweat began to meander down my forehead. It stung a cut above my eye—one I think the MPs gave me, but I couldn’t be sure. “My name is—”
“—Barrett Mason,” Rivas said. “I know.”
I almost jumped off the stairs. I got halfway, and sat up on my haunches, controlling myself as best I could. Greer, that son of a bitch, gave away my identity. I would’ve knocked his teeth through the back of his neck if he were here right now.
Rivas and Tonio popped away from me. I almost scared both of them out of their skin.
“Wait—” I said, and Rivas froze “—listen, I have a family at home. I have a wife and a daughter who need me. They’re in danger, and I have to get back to them. Please, please take me back to DC.
“You got a son,” I said. “Can you imagine how you’d feel if somebody snatched you from him? If he had to grow up without his Dad around? Wouldn’t you do anything you could to get back to him?”
Rivas looked at Tonio with guilt in his eyes. I saw the empathy. God, I was there. I had him convinced. My begging had gone a mile in his head—it just had to cross that last inch.
But then, the radio fuzzed. It pou
red Spanish into the cabin. A man’s voice. And he was looking for La Playa—looking for us.
Chapter 10
RIVAS PICKED UP THE radio’s mic.
“This is La Playa,” he answered back in Spanish. “Go ahead.”
Nothing for a moment, and then the same voice came back, “La Playa, stay where you are.”
“Who is it?” I asked Rivas. “Are you supposed to meet someone here?”
He gave a look to his son like they had both agreed they weren’t going to tell me a damn thing. So, I went back up the steps to the fly bridge. I ripped open every compartment I saw until I found what I wanted: a pair of binoculars.
I scanned the horizon. There had to be a boat nearby. I looked north, thinking they might’ve come from Puerto Rico, then east, toward the mass of the Caribbean Island chain. Nothing in either direction. Then, I turned south.
And I saw it. A gunmetal gray ship. Hazy from the atmosphere between us. They were a couple miles off, their bow pointed straight at me.
“Who are they?” I shouted to the below deck as I kept the binos up to my eyes. “Tell me what you know about them.”
But I was a fool to think Rivas or his son knew a damn thing. The only thing they had to know was to cart my ass out to the middle of the ocean and wait. So that was likely all they did know.
My stomach dropped to my ankles. My legs went weak, and the boat’s rocking almost threw me sideways. I sank/dropped into the helm chair. For a moment, I thought I could start the boat and get the hell out of here, but there weren’t any keys. Rivas had them. I probably could have fought and killed both he and his boy, then thrown their bodies overboard and sped off with the boat, but that wasn’t me. And even if it were, that option was gone now, too.
Because Rivas was standing at the bottom of the stairs, in the entryway to the fore cabin, looking up at me with a snub-nosed .38 in his hand, his eyes buried deep in the creases of his skin.
“Mr. Mason, I know why you feel you have to get back your family,” he said in Spanish. “You have to take care of them. As a father and a husband, I understand. But my son and I have barely enough to live. Our home is gone. My wife has passed. All we have left is our business—this boat, and the money your friend paid us.
“I know you will do what you have to in order to provide for your family,” he said, “and I’ll do what I have to for mine.”
What was I going to say to that? No, my family is more important than yours. Take me to Chesapeake.
The man had a gun trained right between my eyes. I couldn’t have gotten to him without eating a bullet. I guess I could have jumped over the side, but then what? Get shot by Rivas anyhow? Or somehow avoid getting shot and tread water until I drown? Swim for it?
Whoever was coming at us from that other boat, I doubted they’d let me swim away.
So, I took a deep breath. I nodded and answered Rivas in Spanish. “I get it.”
I didn’t wish harm on the man. He was doing what I would’ve done in his place. Actually, he was cooler about it than I would’ve been. Can’t think of many times I’d pointed a gun at somebody without choking the trigger as quick as I could.
“You won’t get any trouble from me.” I showed him my hands—including the binoculars I clutched. “I just want to know who’s coming for us.”
“I don’t know,” Rivas said. “I was just told to wait at this spot for you. Your friend gave us coordinates.”
“Probably a dropoff,” I said. “I’m getting off this boat and going to the other. If everything goes smoothly.”
Rivas shrugged. “It’s none of my business.”
I frowned at him. I don’t think the guy realized how dangerous this situation could be for him. Sure, he’s a nice enough guy. A desperate charter boat captain looking for a few bucks. But anybody could be on that boat coming at us. I doubted they were nice guys like Rivas.
“I think you should be ready for anything,” I said. “Keep that pistol out of sight, but somewhere you can get to it easily.”
“No, I’m keeping it right here.”
“Listen,” I said, “I’m trying to help you out. Now ain’t a great time to be a stubborn ass.”
“You want me to put the gun down,” he said. “Your friend told me you’re good with your hands.”
Dammit, Greer.
“I am. But just like you said, we’re both men trying to take care of our families. I don’t begrudge you that. I know you’re just looking out for your boy with that .38 in your hand.” I took my eyes off him and watched the horizon ahead of me. The boat was much clearer now. Much closer. They were booking toward us. “But listen to me: you care about your boy. I know. And the last thing you want to do is spook whoever’s coming at us. So put the gun away.”
Something glinted from the bow of the other ship. It caught my eye. I whipped the binos up.
It was a chrome-plated pistol hanging off a man’s hip. He was dressed in surplus military clothes—combat boots, a pair of olive green pants, and a black shirt beneath a ballistic vest. He held a jet-black AK. But by looking at him, I knew he wasn’t part of any military force. I’d fought plenty of paramilitaries in my time to spot one before they drew down on me.
And he wasn’t alone. I counted six other men on deck, similarly dressed and armed, holding the railing around the port bow of the boat.
I knew what they planned to do as soon as they got close enough to us. Because I’d trained for it in the Marines.
“They’re going to board us,” I said. “And they’re armed.”
Rivas curled his lips back, his gold teeth flashing. He drummed his fingers on the pistol’s grip, thinking.
“If you don’t trust me, then keep the gun pointed at me, but get in this damn seat and take the helm.” I jumped up and waved my arms at the chair. “They’ll be on top of us in minutes.”
The way he looked at me, I knew he wasn’t going to listen.
“Your friend has a deal with them,” he said, almost as if he needed to reassure himself more than anything. “They only want you.”
“They don’t give a damn about a deal!” I wanted to jump down the stairs and slap his brains back into his head. “And even if they did, you don’t factor in. They don’t know you, and they don’t care about you.
Rivas seemed unconvinced. Greer probably told him I’d say anything to bust up his job, and not a single word out of my mouth could be trusted.
“You have to listen to me.” I pointed at the other boat, which was now close enough I heard the faint hum of the motor and the chop slapping the hull. “I’ve been around people like that plenty in my life. They’ll kill you just to make things easier on them. Simple as that.”
The boy was listening to me. Tonio’s face was dripping with flop sweat. He tapped his father on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear.
But Rivas shook his head.
“How can I trust a word you’ve said?” The pressure seemed to settle over him. The gun jittered in his hand, and I worried he’d accidentally hit me. “When I met you on the dock, the first thing that came out of your mouth was a lie. You said your name was Mangold. But I already knew it was Mason.”
“I did—you’re right. But this isn’t a lie. It isn’t a trick. That other man who was with me, he told you not to believe anything coming out of my mouth, right?”
He squinted at me. I was on the money.
“He’s made a career out of playing people,” I said. “He’s a spook. He’s with the CIA. And he wouldn’t think twice about putting you and your son in harm’s way if it meant serving his own interest.”
“But you’re one too,” Rivas said. “Isn’t that right?”
“Not anymore. I tried to get out.”
“You tried to get out, or you did get out?” Rivas glanced upward and back. He heard the boat coming closer. Over the bow of La Playa, I could count each man on the deck of the other boat without using the binos.
“Rivas, put the key in the ignition. Get us the he
ll out of here!” I screamed at him. Didn’t want to, but the man was being a bull-headed asshole, and if I couldn’t kick his ass without getting shot, I didn’t know what else to do.
“You just calm down, Mr. Mason,” he said. “You’ll get where you’re supposed to be soon enough.”
And so I stood and glared at him while the other boat slowed alongside us.
“Hey man!” one of the armed men yelled at me. I heard a rope thunk into the side of our boat.
I kept my eyes fixed on Rivas. I felt mean enough to gnaw him down to the sinew.
“They want you,” I said.
With his pistol, he motioned for me to step back. I put my hands up and paced backward until the pits of my knees bumped into the big semi-circle seat behind me. Then, I sat down.
If I was about to watch this asshole and his kid get mowed down by Venezuelan smugglers, I was going to do it comfortably at least.
Rivas came from the fore cabin. He waved at the other boat, then shoved the pistol in the back of his waistband. They tossed a line, and he caught it.
“Tie this off,” he said to no one. Then, “Hey, Tonio! I need your help.”
His kid came up the steps, tilting like he’d never walked on a boat in his life. He looked pale as seafoam. A little green, even. I didn’t feel much better, knowing the danger his father was putting him in.
After Rivas hung a couple rubber bumpers off the side of his boat, he and Tonio reeled the line in and tied it off, then a second line.
The other boat’s deck loomed over us. It was a man taller than La Playa’s. The canopy of our smaller boat blocked them from jumping onto our deck. At least for a moment.
I heard a tear overhead. Saw the gleam of a knife’s point slash La Playa’s pure, white canopy from bow to stern.
“What the hell man?” Rivas yelled, but he backed down as soon as the other men jumped aboard. Smart move. They looked less friendly up close. One too-quick move and I was sure they’d light us all up.
Jackal: Barrett Mason Book 3 Page 5