She took another step, and the sound of the taxi’s engine revving had her spinning to the noise. Next second, the car drove off. Charlene dropped her cane and raced after him. “Stop. Wait!” Her sandals were no match for the rocky road, and each step jarred her heels. She pumped her arms and legs, desperate to catch him. She waved her arms, trying to catch his attention.
But he didn’t stop.
Gasping for breath, she picked up a rock and threw it at the departing taillights. “Asshole!”
Soon he was gone altogether, and Charlene was alone on a road that was barely visible beneath her feet. Above her, the stars were a million twinkling lights, and she was reminded of her stint beneath the bow of Marshall’s boat. Somehow, that seemed easy compared to what she was facing now.
She turned and tracked her way back to her cane.
On the way out here, she’d relied on a flicker of hope. Now though, as she looked through the rusted gates of the derelict Hershey factory, all hope was lost. She stepped through the threshold and eased to the side so that her back was against the fence wall.
Charlene slid down the wall, clutched her knees to her chest, and cried.
Chapter Seventeen
Marshall kept one eye on the digital clock on Miss B Hayve’s console and one eye on the Cuban navy men who were busy hauling a bunch of refugees off a boat that looked as big as and as seaworthy as a Cadillac. When he’d first spotted the Cuban cutter flying toward him, Marshall had almost shit his pants as he’d thought they’d somehow seen him, even with his lights off.
That’d been forty minutes ago. It’d been his lucky night. Not so lucky for the people in the other boat, though. Marshall had cut the engines, and he rode the swell as he watched the action through his binoculars. They were taking their time too. Time he didn’t have. He promised Charlene he’d be back at midnight. That was twenty minutes away. He was going to be late.
He didn’t do late.
The failure of the refugees’ escape, although it was shit luck for them, was actually good news for Marshall. It meant the Cuban navy would be occupied for the next couple of hours. And given that he was running late, he was going to need that distraction.
It was ten past midnight when the patrol boat fired its engines again and headed off. Marshall had been ready for this moment. The second he decided it was safe, he pulled the rip cord on his runabout and aimed full-tilt for the shore.
The whole time he bounced over the waves, his thoughts were on Charlene. She’d probably be thinking he’d abandoned her. God knows what she’d do with that thought. He didn’t dial back the speed as he neared the marina. Instead, he shot straight into the cove and continued full power right up to Rusian’s dinky jetty.
He tied up the boat, jumped ashore, and, using his flashlight, raced up the path to the house. The second he burst through the clearing, he knew something wasn’t right. All the lanterns were lit, and it seemed the entire family was in the kitchen.
He raced into the house, and everyone turned to him with alarm flaring across their faces.
“She’s gone.” Aleyna’s first words sliced him like a machete.
“What?” He strode through the crowd to the kitchen bench.
“She’s disappeared. I took her to Legendarios del Guajirito like you asked. But she no came out. I look for her but she gone.”
“How could she disappear?”
“I don’t know.” Panic flashed in Aleyna’s eyes.
“Jesus Christ.” Marshall threw his hands up. “Did you ask around?”
“Yes. Nobody see her. She just vanish.”
“Fuck.” Marshall’s training was based on a lifetime of choices involving risk assessment, often done at breakneck speed. But that was in war zones and involved good guys and bad guys. He had no idea what Charlene had gotten herself into. But his gut told him he was about to meet a whole new round of bad guys.
In a split second, he made a decision that would be forever categorized as fucking stupid. “Where’s José?”
“He still in Havana. He looking for her.”
Marshall turned to the oldest of the brothers. “Maceo, todavía tienes tu moto?”
“Sí, come, come.” Maceo raced out the back door, heading toward the only mode of transport the family had. Marshall was right on his heels.
Maceo led him to his motorcycle, which was wedged between the chicken pen and the outhouse. The vintage Russian Ural motorcycle and sidecar was built in 1943, still had most of its original parts; based on what Marshall had seen the last time Maceo had ridden it, the damn thing was still fast as hell. Marshall had ridden in the sidecar once and just about lost his teeth on the bone-rattling ride.
Marshall sacrificed courtesy for speed, and without asking for permission, he jumped onto the bike, kicked the stand up, and rammed his foot down on the ratcheting lever. The bike coughed and died. He gripped the handle, straightened the wheel, and stomped the pedal again. When the bike roared to life, Marshall turned to Maceo and told him he’d look after it. Maceo’s eyes bulged with an uncommunicated statement that told Marshall he had better. This bike was the only thing keeping the family in contact with urgently needed supplies.
Marshall turned the throttle and shot up the nonexistent drive like he’d been released from a catapult. The bike was originally built to aid fighting the Germans in World War Two, and that’s exactly how Marshall felt now—like he was heading off to war. At least that’s what his gut told him. He refused to believe Charlene would just wander off by herself. Nobody would be that stupid.
The Ural was made for traveling rough terrain, but its original shock absorbers had long ago been obliterated, and Marshall felt every single bump. Top that with the sidecar clamped onto the Ural’s body, and he had to wrestle the handlebars to stop the bike from veering into the ditches lining the road. And the damn racket made his old landlady’s rusty secondhand mower sound like a lullaby.
With each mile he hurtled over, his brain fought with his decision to go after Charlene. He was risking everything . . . his boat, his freedom, his reputation. The second he’d laid eyes on her, he’d known she was trouble. He would never have guessed this much trouble, though. He thought she’d told him everything, and it pissed him off that she’d held back. If she was stupid enough to get herself lost in Cuba, then he should let her go. But he wasn’t built like that. Never before had he left a man behind, neither alive nor dead, and he had no intention of starting now. He just hoped it wasn’t a body he’d be bringing home.
Marshall knew his way around Havana. Thanks to his seventeen midnight runs, he could get his customers to the finest Cuban cigars or the best rum in the space of thirty minutes. But he didn’t need those contrabands now. What he needed was someone from the Buena Vista Social Club.
He just had to find them.
The average income in Cuba was just twenty bucks a month, so most people needed two jobs to survive. Despite the continual upheaval between the United States and Cuba, the number of tourists from other countries was increasing each year. Smart Cubans were capitalizing on that, and what the tourists loved was the music. So Marshall had no doubt that some of the entertainers from Legendarios del Guajirito would be continuing their night shift with more gigs in old-town Havana.
He headed straight for Plaza Vieja. It was the oldest neighborhood in town and the most popular. The narrow cobblestone streets were a bitch to navigate, and the muscles in his arms were already burning. Despite the early hours of the morning, the party atmosphere was still rocking, and Marshall had to dodge tourists and locals, stray dogs, horses, and people selling their wares on rickety old carts.
At a strip of restaurants overlooking La Fuerza fortress, he left the motor running and ran into La Bodeguita del Medio. The place was famous for both its mojitos and its music. Marshall squeezed between the tables, overflowing with people in various stages of dinner, and raced up to the four-piece band. He didn’t even wait for a pause in the song as he leaned into the ear of the guy pla
ying the kettledrums. “Hola, ¿alguno de ustedes trabajó en Legendarios del Guajirito?”
“No señor, no esta noche.” He shook his head.
“Gracias.”
Marshall turned and raced back out. The next three bars offered similar opportunities, but all came up empty. Marshall cruised up and down the streets, asking both the street buskers and the full band ensembles in the fancier hotels.
In one street, he found four men who had to be closer to a hundred than fifty, each with an instrument that was as old as they were. They puffed Cuban cigars and belted out tunes with intensity. When Marshall asked the question, he again came up empty, but he dropped fifty Cuban pesos into their tip hat all the same. The money would feed the foursome for about a month.
Somewhere in the back of his brain, an incessant clock was pounding out the seconds. Time was against him. Against both of them. He’d gone into plenty of military situations where he’d had limited intel. Tonight he had nothing but a niggling feeling that Charlene was in trouble and the sooner he got to her, the better.
A few blocks from El Capitolio, he stopped at La Floridita. The two-hundred-year-old bar, made famous by Hemingway’s penchant for daiquiris with no sugar and double the rum, was packed with people stupid enough to pay twelve bucks for a drink. Fortunately for Marshall, the six-piece band was right at the front door. Over the ruckus of the crowd and the music, he shouted his question to the closest guitarist.
“Sí, señor, Daylin, trabajó detrás del bar.” The man pointed at the lead singer.
Marshall’s pulse quickened as he eyeballed the woman. She had thick black hair that fell in waves down her back, lips that required zero fillers, and a little blue dress that hid none of her voluptuous curves. The woman knew how to use those curves too, and the crowd seemed to be loving every minute of it. Marshall, however, tapped out the tune with his foot, waiting with dwindling patience for the song to end.
The second the crowd burst into applause, he made his move.
“Hola, Daylin, puedes ayudarme por favor. ¿Trabajaste en Legendarios del Guajirito?”
She nodded and flicked a wad of hair over her shoulder. “Sí. Trabajé en el bar.”
Daylin had worked the bar at the social club, and after a few fruitless questions about Charlene, about whom she claimed to have no knowledge, he changed tack and asked if anything unusual had happened. He’d hit pay dirt. Apparently, a young American woman had stolen one of the pictures off the wall. Despite Daylin’s obvious disapproval of the American’s actions, the incident was music to his ears.
Five minutes later, he’d learned that the bar supervisor had left with the woman. But even with that knowledge, he still had nothing other than the supervisor’s name.
Daylin had no idea where the supervisor lived nor how Marshall could contact her.
Chapter Eighteen
The first sign of daybreak came with a series of shouts that had Charlene jumping to her feet and searching the derelict building around her. The remains of the Hershey factory looked even worse in the mushrooming daylight. She’d spent the night dozing in and out while huddled between the front brick fence and a pile of rubble. She stepped around the loose bricks and walked into a large central courtyard that’d once been laid with rust-colored pavers. The large expanse was dotted with overgrown weeds, both alive and dead, and bits of the crumbling building. The courtyard was surrounded by dilapidated buildings that jutted up from the ground like broken molars.
On the right-hand side stood the remains of a building that stretched the length of the area. The brick walls had crumbled away, and what was left was just a rusted skeleton of broken girders and fallen beams. Barely a third of the original construction was still standing.
To her left was an equally large building. This one at least had a front façade; however, it had no roof, and the windows were either shattered or missing altogether. The sign over the door said: Welcome to Hershey Town, the sweetest place on earth. Above that, Est. 1916, was carved into the brick. Over a hundred years old. She glanced through the gap where the doors had once been, and based on what she saw—broken glass-topped counters and empty shelving—she imagined it was once a shop selling everything Hershey.
Shouting cut through the silence, and crouching down, she searched for the source of the voices. She stared in amazement when lights came on in the distant building. They weren’t direct lights, but more a dim glow emanating from somewhere inside. It was impossible to believe people lived in there. She’d spent the entire night grappling with a serious bout of failure. Sometime during the early hours, she’d decided that Kamila had deceived her. Just like the taxi driver.
But now, as she watched a few more lights flicker on, she became hopeful that Kamila did actually have good intentions. Charlene dusted off her backside, straightened her dress, clutched her bag and her cane and stepped across the broken pavers toward the building. The only sound was her feet crunching on dead weeds and a blackbird that made a noise like it was crying.
Her brain fought simultaneous urges to run away and keep moving forward. Each step came with a forced affirmation.
Step . . . I have to do this.
Step . . . nobody will do it for me.
Step . . . if I don’t do this, I’ll be forever wondering who Peter was.
Step . . . if I don’t get answers, I may never find out who I am.
The bird’s mournful tune sent shivers up her spine, and she gripped the cane tighter. A glint of light shimmering off a broken upper window confirmed that the sun had pierced the horizon.
The building at the end of the central courtyard had once been a grand Georgian construction, with giant pillars marking the entrance. Its front façade had survived the decades, but a long-dead vine was the only thing holding the peeling paint in place. Crumbling plaster humped in chalky piles at the base of the front wall, and the only remains of the windows were dangling frames. The far right of the building had a huge chunk missing, as though a giant monster had taken a bite out of it. The lights, however, were at the opposite end, and they appeared to be in the back.
A yellowed sign on a building signaled the entrance to the Hershey museum and restaurant. It didn’t seem possible that someone lived in the building; yet the lights indicated otherwise.
Two huge doors marked the entrance. Both were bare of paint, and the original wood was splintered and cracked. What was left of the handles were just four holes in each door. Charlene stepped through the gap and paused at what was obviously once the foyer of a very grand building.
A large, two-story, open-air void marked the entrance. Remarkably, this building still had its roof. The marble floor was covered in all manner of debris, and two grand sets of marble stairs curled up either side to what was once another level. But that level had crumbled to the floor below, so the stairs went nowhere. A small amount of graffiti dotted the walls, including a couple of very accomplished line drawings of a man with shaggy hair, a thin mustache, and a beret with a star in the middle.
Between the two sets of stairs was a burnt-out car with no tires. The hairs on Charlene’s neck bristled as she contemplated its existence. A tangle of vines had taken over the far wall, smothering it in a field of green and brown. Among the foliage, a flock of birds flitted back and forth.
A man’s shout had the birds taking flight and Charlene racing for cover behind the charred wreck. The noise was gone before she ducked behind the rusted trunk. She remained there for an eternity.
Waiting for her pounding heart to settle.
Waiting for another sign of human existence.
Waiting for courage to return to her limbs.
Water dripped somewhere, and the echoing sound created a creepy heartbeat for the soulless surroundings.
With each passing minute, the darkness that’d draped the walls in a morbid tapestry faded, allowing Charlene to see more of her surroundings. Peter had taught her to look for idiosyncrasies when she walked into a room. What or who was the odd man out?<
br />
She eased up from behind the rusted carcass and examined the foyer. At first, she saw nothing, but soon tiny aspects began to stand out. A faint path that wove through the debris on the floor. Cigarette butts dotted about on that debris. Candy wrappers and Coke cans.
And then she saw the bullet holes in the mottled plaster walls.
Charlene didn’t think. She just clutched her bag across her chest, gripped her cane, and bolted toward the front doors. Her pretty sandals slipped out from under her, and she fell full force onto her backside. She hadn’t meant to scream; it’d been involuntary. But it was too late. Her scream was matched with shouts coming from somewhere inside the building.
She launched to her feet, and her heart was in her throat as she aimed for the door. The more she ran, the more the shouts increased, and she imagined crosshairs aiming at her back. Her sandals were no match for the jagged pavers, slowing down her usual sprinting pace.
“¡Detente!”
“¡Detente!”
The voices behind her were loud and angry, but she didn’t stop. More shouts joined the first, and she pictured twenty men chasing after her. The loudest sound she’d ever heard boomed from behind her, and when a hole punched into the brick fence ahead of her, she fell to her knees. Her heart invaded her throat, and she shot her hands up, still gripping the cane. “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, praying this wasn’t the end.
Feet pounded behind her.
A shove to her back sent her tumbling face-first to the pavement. A brick carved a slice out of her cheek, and her only weapon was torn from her grip. “Por favor, don’t hurt me. Por favor.”
She stayed on the ground, her face downward, and the men kept their distance. They spoke over each other, and there didn’t seem to be a clear leader among them. For some reason, that gave her hope, as did the fact that they hadn’t shot her already.
Zero Escape Page 17