“Can you imagine? There I was in the dinghy and I had to watch the boat cruise off away from me.”
“You must have felt pretty stupid,” I said.
Salzar’s eyes narrowed, and I thought he might hit me, but he reined himself in and continued. “We searched for that boat for years without finding it. Who would have thought it could have gotten so far away? When he left me he was moving toward Havana. Those were the waters where I concentrated my search.”
“You disgust me,” Maria said. And she spit at him again. This time scoring a direct hit on his perfectly polished shoe.
Salzar flicked his arm out and caught Maria on the chin with his fist. Her head snapped to the side, and a small trickle of blood appeared at the corner of her mouth.
Maria was concentrating so hard on hating Salzar, I wasn’t sure she felt him hit her.
“Where were we?” he said, settling back in his seat, forcing his cold, thin-lipped smile on me. “Oh yes, the gold and the SovarK2. Isn’t it interesting that it’s been returned to me after all this time? True, I don’t have the SovarK2 in my possession, but that’s just a technicality.” He leaned close to me. “Where is it?”
“Uh…I don’t know,” I said.
Salzar rapped on the tinted glass window and Pukey opened the door.
“Miss Barnaby and Miss Raffles are going to the garage now,” Salzar said to Pukey.
I cut my eyes to Maria, and she gave an almost imperceptible shake to her head. Going to the garage wasn’t a desirable thing to do.
My hands were cuffed behind my back, and Maria and I were transferred to the Town Car. There was a guy driving. And there was Pukey. Pukey looked like he had a different opinion of the garage. Pukey was looking forward to it.
Once we got on the Trail there wasn’t a lot to see at night. A lot of dark. Occasionally rectangles of light from a house. A few headlights from cars en route to Miami or points south. Maria didn’t say anything. She’d lost the angry energy and was slumped in her seat, smaller than I’d remembered her.
Hard to keep track of time when you can’t see a watch, but I was guessing we drove for somewhere between thirty to forty minutes before slowing and turning onto a dirt road. After maybe a quarter of a mile we reached our destination. I was pulled out of the limo, and I stood for a moment looking around. I was in a large hard-packed dirt field, and beyond the dirt was tall grass and swamp. A large cinder block building with a corrugated metal roof hunkered in the middle of the dirt field. The Flex helicopter was parked behind the building. A large military-type helicopter was parked beside the Flex chopper. A couple cars were parked in the front of the building, not far from where I stood. A single light burned over a door at one end. A bunch of bugs were beating themselves senseless against the light. Not a good omen, I thought. Four portable latrines sat off to one side. Another bad omen.
The building was large enough to hold maybe eight eighteen-wheelers. Only one was parked at the rear of the building. The floor was poured concrete, stained with oil drips, transmission fluid spills, and the rest of the crud that accumulates when cars and trucks are involved. Plus, I thought there were some stains I’d rather not identify.
There were no windows. A large fan droned on the far wall, providing ventilation. Lighting was overhead fluorescent. The air was damp and tasted metallic. The door was solid metal. Heavy-duty fire door. Two garage doors were built into the far end. Again, heavy duty. This wasn’t a mechanic’s garage. This was a storage garage, reinforced to serve as a bunker.
A wood crate sat on a forklift. The gold was ready to go. A motley assortment of chairs had been gathered around a rectangular scarred wood table. A single can of Coke had been left on the table. A small television tethered to a wall outlet had been placed on a folding chair. A makeshift kitchen with a rusted refrigerator, coffeemaker, and hot plate occupied an area behind the table.
We’d been told by Dave that there were four men in the garage keeping watch over Maria. This evening there were twenty. The men were working, cleaning out the garage, moving crates of guns, massive amounts of consumer goods that probably had been hijacked, and several metal file cabinets into the eighteen-wheeler. Dave told us that Salzar had a small army of dedicated men, and that almost all were illegal immigrants, handpicked by Marcos Torres, brought over one at a time on Flex. This was obviously some of that army.
I didn’t see any rooms partitioned off. No bathroom. No office. A wood bench had been placed more or less in the middle of the floor. It was long and narrow and it had heavy metal rings screwed into the seat.
Maria and I were handcuffed to the bench.
“What are we supposed to do with them?” one of the men asked.
“Nothing,” Puke Face said. “Salzar wants them left alone until he gets here.”
After several hours my ass was asleep and my back ached. Thank God I didn’t have to use the latrine because I’d already been told that wasn’t one of my options. I had both wrists shackled, which meant I couldn’t lie down. I now understood the sunken eyes and dark circles on Maria. She was exhausted. Probably the sunken eyes had other sources as well, but I didn’t want to dwell on that. I was making a large effort not to freak.
No one came near Maria or me. Not complaining about that. Only occasionally Puke Face. He’d look down at us, drool a little, and move on. Hours passed. Once in a while the door would open for someone to use the latrine, and I’d look out to see if the sky was showing signs of light. I dozed off very briefly, head between my legs. When I awoke the men were still working, but the garage was close to empty of goods.
Another horn sounded outside the garage bay. The bay was opened and the stretch rolled in, followed by an SUV. Beyond the open garage door, the sky was still dark, but I thought it had to be almost daybreak. I looked over at Maria.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “This is all my fault.”
I knew that Hooker’d had a plan. It was pretty straightforward. Go into the garage like gang-busters and overwhelm whoever was in there. He couldn’t get help from law enforcement or military. Too much process involved. Too much chain of command to wade through. Hooker’s plan was to use a few friends. That was before I was captured. That was before Slick and Gimpy sold me out. I figured it had to be them. Senator Gil gave them the address. And they gave it to Salzar. There was no other way Salzar would know to follow Hooker and me from Judey’s condo. No one knew about Judey.
Salzar and Torres left the limo and crossed the garage. They stopped to talk to Pukey and then they moved to me.
“Are you ready to talk to me?” Salzar asked.
I didn’t say anything.
“You’re not going to get rescued,” he said. “We know all about the plan, and we’ll be long gone before anyone reaches this garage on your behalf. All they’ll find is an empty garage.”
“Let me guess. Scala and Martin?”
“Very good. I’m impressed. They were unhappy with the way their lives were shaping up and decided they could use one of my gold bars. Of course, down the line they’ll get one of my bullets.”
“No honor among thieves, hunh?”
Salzar motioned Pukey over with a crook of his finger. “We need to persuade Miss Barnaby to talk to us,” Salzar said.
Pukey looked down at me. “My pleasure.”
I was thinking now would be a good time for Hooker to show up. Although, I wasn’t sure how that would play out, considering the number of armed men in the garage.
I heard a roll of thunder in the distance, and I knew it was starting.
Salzar heard the thunder, too. “A storm,” he said to Pukey. “Make sure the helicopters are secure.”
That’s not a storm, I thought. That’s NASCAR.
Two men ran to the door to secure the helicopters. They opened the door and stood momentarily dumbfounded. They slammed the door shut and yelled something to Salzar in Spanish.
I looked to Maria.
“They say we’re under attack,” Maria whispere
d.
And then there was chaos. Footsteps and shouting overhead on the corrugated roof. Salzar’s men firing off rounds at the ceiling only to have them ricochet off the metal and embed themselves in the concrete floor. There were a couple heavy thuds on the roof and then the unmistakable sound of acetylene torches at work. Dave had told us the doors were impenetrable. Hooker knew the roof was vulnerable. Especially since he had access to a mobile metal shop. NASCAR did on-site body work. I couldn’t tell how many people were on the roof, but it sounded like a lot. When Hooker put the call in for help, after we’d come up with the plan, he didn’t know exactly what he could muster. We knew we could bring in the people at Homestead on short notice, but it sounded to me like all of NASCAR was overhead.
Salzar was shouting instructions in both English and Spanish, attempting to organize his men. He and Torres were at the side door that opened to the dirt helipad. Puke Face was in front of me, working at my cuffs. “You’re going with them,” he yelled over the noise and confusion. He released me from the shackles and jerked me to my feet. I dug in and refused to move. He gave me another jerk and I went limp, down to the ground. I wasn’t going to make this easy. Hooker was on the roof, trying to get in. I just needed to last long enough. I could see the outline where the torch had carved into the metal. They were almost through. A second crew was working at the other end of the building.
Puke Face picked me up like I was a sack of flour and ran to the door with me. There was the sound of ripping sheet metal and a crash. Puke Face turned to look, and I saw that a big piece of roof had crashed to the floor. The torches were still whining overhead. The second piece was about to go. Ropes dropped through the hole in the roof and guys with guns were sliding down the ropes. I had a moment of disorientation when I thought the men were in SWAT dress. Where had Hooker gotten a SWAT team? And then I realized they were in leathers. Hooker had recruited a biker club. The second piece of roof went down, and Hooker came down with it.
Puke Face turned away from the chaos in the building and ran through gunfire to the big military helicopter. A handful of Salzar’s men were defending the helipad area. The helicopter blades were in motion, picking up speed, kicking up dust in the predawn darkness. Salzar was already on board. Torres was at the helicopter bay door with an aide. They were waiting for me. I was their hostage. I was their last chance to get the canister.
Pukey had me at the door, trying to hand me off to Torres and the aide, but I had my feet braced on the lip of the open door. I heard Pukey do something like a grunt and a sigh in my ear, and then he released me and went over on his back with a crash. I curled my fingers into Torres’s expensive suit jacket, gave a hard shove with my legs, and pulled Torres out of the helicopter. We both went flying and hit the ground hard, Torres on top of me. I was stunned and simultaneously utterly revolted. Having Torres sprawled over me was right up with spiders and leeches in my hair. I did a full body grimace, rolled Torres off and scrambled to my feet.
Salzar yelled for the chopper to go and the bird lifted.
There was a volley of gunfire from the ground, aimed at the departing helicopter. I shielded my eyes from the swirling dust, but even through the dust, I could see the flames shoot out from the chopper’s undercarriage. The chopper hovered in place for a couple beats and then spiraled off, like a crazy airborne top. It went up and then it went down, crashing in the swamp. There were two explosions and fire jumped high in the sky and then settled into the water grasses.
Hooker came up behind me. He grabbed me and hugged me to him. “Are you okay?” Hooker yelled.
“Just got the wind knocked out.”
“I was worried you were dead. It would have been terrible. I would have cried in front of all these guys.”
“There’s no crying in NASCAR?”
“Hell no. We’re manly men.”
And then he kissed me with a lot of tongue, and his hand on my ass.
“Your hand’s on my ass,” I said when he broke from the kiss.
“Are you sure?”
“Well, someone’s hand is on my ass.”
“Guess it’s mine then,” he said.
I shoved Puke Face with my foot and rolled him over onto his stomach. He had ten darts in his back. The darts were big enough to take down a moose. Torres had three in the chest.
“I see you used the tranquilizer darts like we talked about,” I said to Hooker. “Someone’s a real marksman.”
“Darlin’, this is NASCAR. We’re beer-drinkin’, skirt-chasin’, speed-crazy rednecks. And we can shoot.”
Someone threw a switch inside the garage and the outside was flooded with light, letting me see for the first time the full extent of the operation. I’d counted twenty-three men with Salzar. It looked to me like Hooker had sixty men. Maybe more. Hard to tell in the activity.
NASCAR uses big tractor trailers to transport their cars and equipment. One of Hooker’s eighteen-wheel transporters was parked back by the garage doors. His service truck was next to the transporter. There was a herd of Harleys and half a dozen big-boy customized pickups parked in the same area. There are three sounds that give me goose bumps every time. NASCAR starting their engines, a well-tuned Porsche, and a Harley with Python pipes. The Harleys in the lot were totally pimped, Pythons included. No wonder it had sounded like thunder when they rolled in. A second transporter and service truck from another race team were backed up to the side of the building. Men were working, moving the welding equipment off the roof and onto the trucks.
The stench of burning aviation fuel hung in the air. The dust was settling over the helipad, and the frenzy of the attack was reduced to ordered confusion.
“It’s over,” Hooker said. “Salzar’s gone, and we have Torres. We’re turning Salzar’s men loose in the swamp. Good luck there. Except for Puke Face. We have plans for Puke Face and Torres.”
Hooker and I went back inside the building and watched Bill motor the forklift over to a rental van. Bill loaded the crated gold into the van and pulled away from the pallet. Hooker and I closed and locked the van doors. Then Bill drove around the building, and we loaded the still unconscious Pukey and Torres onto the forklift and dumped them into a crate in Hooker’s transporter. Bill backed off with the forklift and jumped in to help Hooker nail the crate shut.
The deal Senator Gil made with his contact in Cuba was that they would trade Juan Raffles for the gold or for Salzar. Our choice. Senator Gil’s Cuban contact had made it known that Cuba considered Salzar an enemy of the government, and the government would be happy to trade him for Juan. I suspected the Cuban contact would be even happier to open the crate and find Marcos Torres. Sort of like Christmas come early. One less political piranha for Castro to worry about. Castro would open the crate in the dark of night in Havana and maybe dispose of the contents. Not my problem.
We carefully tucked the canister, still wrapped in Judey’s blanket, beside the crate containing Puke Face and Torres.
Judey was doing his nurturing thing for Maria. He had her in a chair, drinking coffee, eating a granola bar. I walked over and sat with them, taking a cup of coffee for myself.
“Are you okay?” I asked Maria.
“No permanent damage. Older and wiser.”
“We’ve made arrangements for your dad.”
“Judey told me,” she said softly.
Maria’s eyes filled, but she didn’t cry. More than could be said for me. I was on emotion overload. I was willing to cry at the least provocation. I drank a cup of coffee in one gulp and ate a granola bar without even realizing it. I looked at the empty wrapper in my hand. “What’s this?” I asked Judey.
“Granola bar,” he said. “You ate it.”
The garage doors were open, and I could see the motorcycle guys were leaving. The NASCAR guys were staying to help with cleanup, scouring the area, picking up darts that missed their mark, and collecting spent casings from real bullets. Police would be responding soon, chasing down the smoke that was still billowing fr
om the downed helicopter. We wanted to be out before they arrived.
Hooker’s public relations car had gotten rolled out of the transporter to make room for the crate containing Torres and Puke Face.
“I came in the transporter,” he said, “but we can go back in the dummy car.”
“Okay,” I said, “but I get to drive.”
“Are you crazy? I’m not letting you drive my car. You’re a maniac.”
“I’m not a maniac. Besides, it’s just a dummy car. And I should get to drive because I’ve had a very traumatic experience.”
“I should get to drive because I rescued you. I’m NASCAR Guy.”
“If you want to get lucky you’ll let me drive.”
Hooker looked a little like Brian when presented with a spice cookie. “Really? All I have to do is let you drive?”
“Yep.”
He wrapped his arms around me. “I’d get lucky anyway, even if I didn’t let you drive, wouldn’t I?”
I smiled at him. “Yep.”
“Here’s the deal,” he said. “You can drive, but you have to be careful. No cowboying around. This is a race car. It drives different from a regular car.”
“Really?”
“Have you ever seen the inside of one of these?”
I levered myself in through the window and flipped the switch. Driver, start your engine. “Just get in,” I said. “I think I can manage.”
Hooker’s transporter pulled out first, followed by Hooker and me in the PR car. Bill and Maria were behind us, driving the van with the gold. Judey and Hooker’s crew chief were behind the van in a pickup. Everyone else was already on the road. The sun was visible on the horizon. The garage was deserted. Tendrils of smoke curled from far off in the swamp. So far, there was no indication that the swamp police were investigating. Hell, maybe helicopters crash there all the time and they only clean them up once a week.
We were all headed for Homestead Air Force Base, where we’d make the swap. The plane that brought Maria’s father to American soil would carry Torres and Pukey back to Cuba. The military would take possession of the gas canister, and hopefully the SovarK2 would go to gas heaven. Juan Raffles would go home with Maria…and so would the gold.