Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(2)

“Now, Deuce!”

Alejandro pulled on Dennis’s arm. “What does Brink mean by ‘intercepted’?” Dennis asked. Al ignored the question, and the two men scampered down the steps to below deck.

The boat’s radio erupted with Spanish chatter. “Barco no identificado! Pare! Ustedes se encuentran en las aguas nacionales Cubanas! Pare!”

“Ninety seconds,” said Crawford, binoculars glued to his eyes. “And they’re armed.”

“Es La Marina de Guerra Revolucionaria! Pare!” the radio blared.

“This is The Big Pig,” Brinkley spoke slowly into the radio. “We are American civilians. We are fishing. Just fishing. Over.”

“Pare! Prepárense para ser abordados!”

“No Spanish. No hablo espa?ol. We are just fishing. Over,” he repeated.

“One minute,” Crawford said. “They aren’t slowing down.”

Brinkley hollered down to Alejandro. “Have you called yet? You’ve got one minute!”

“Yes I f*cking called them,” Alejandro appeared in the companionway, gripping an M16 assault rifle.

“What are you doing, Al?”

“I’m not going back to Cuba,” he said, raising the gun barrel toward the approaching boat.

“Are you crazy? Throw that overboard. We can’t take on the Cuban navy. Throw them all overboard.”

“What ‘all’?” Crawford lowered the binoculars. “What the f*ck is going on here, Brink? Al?”

“I don’t surrender.” Alejandro bit his lower lip and aimed the rifle. “I told you Cabreras never surrender.”

“Lower that weapon now!” Brinkley ordered. “Throw them all overboard. You’re giving them a reason to shoot us. We are just fishing.”

“Why the hell do you have an M16 on your fishing boat, Al?” Crawford clenched his two fists in anger.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat! the deck exploded in a line of gunfire. The men hit the deck again.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Crawford hissed.

“Stay calm, everybody,” Brinkley said.

Dennis appeared in the stairwell with a small arsenal of weapons. Crawford’s eyes widened as Dennis began throwing guns into the ocean: another M16, an AR-15, two pistols.

“No!” Alejandro shouted.

“What the f*ck is going on here, Brink?” Crawford demanded.

“Deuce, no!” Alejandro lurched toward him too late. Just as Dennis dropped the last pistol over the side of the boat, his body suddenly convulsed, a bright red stain oozing across his back. Dennis Dobson pitched forward and fell into the rolling blue sea.

“Man overboard!” Crawford shouted. Brinkley threw a lifesaver over the side just as Crawford dove headfirst into the ocean.

“Pare! Pare!” bellowed the loudspeaker on the approaching vessel. The fishing boat was raked with more gunfire.

Crawford reached Dennis, floating facedown in the waves, and spun him onto his back. “I’ve got you,” he gasped, trying not to swallow seawater. Crawford tucked his arm under his friend’s neck and grabbed the lifesaver’s rope with his free hand. “I’ve got you, Deuce.”

“Beth!” Dennis gurgled. “Beth!”

Brinkley pulled in the rope, ignoring the Cubans who had stopped shooting and were now circling the fishing boat like a lion stalking an injured gazelle.

“Puta,” Alejandro hissed, flipping his weapon into the sea and raising his hands. He stared ahead with dead eyes as the patrol boat pulled alongside. The deck of the larger ship was lined with Cuban soldiers, all aiming weapons at the now-unarmed Americans. The setting sun bathed the naval ship in a soft, calming pink light.

Brinkley dragged Dennis onto the deck and applied pressure to the wound. Crawford hauled himself back on board, raised his hands, and then collapsed on the deck, panting, out of breath.

Alejandro, his hands still raised high, waved his baseball cap at the soldiers and forced a smile. “Just fishing, se?ores.”





PART ONE

THIRTY-SIX HOURS EARLIER





1.


GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.

TUESDAY, 5:30 A.M.

Judd Ryker opened one eye and winced at the clock. Five-thirty. The good news was that he had slept through the night. And he was home. My own bed, he thought, feeling the cool clean sheets as he stretched his legs.

As Judd cleared the jetlag haze from his mind, the conversation of the previous evening flooded back into his brain. Was it a dream?

Judd rolled his head and Jessica came into view. His wife was still sound asleep, breathing softly, a slight, satisfied smile on her lips, an expression of gentle relief on her face. He watched the contours of her mouth and listened to her lungs, a comforting rhythm of inhale and exhale. Yes, Jessica was asleep. And they were both still here.

The night before, Judd had returned from Zimbabwe, a grueling twenty-two-hour journey that had provided him far too much time alone with nothing but his thoughts. Too much time to think about his latest assignment on behalf of the Secretary of State and how it all had unfolded. It had all come together just a bit too smoothly, a touch too succinctly. Judd’s mind ran through the events—the downfall of Zimbabwe’s dictator; the election of a new, hopeful democratic leader for that shell-shocked country; a murderous Ethiopian general dead, the victim of a premeditated campaign of revenge—all good results, but . . .