Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(65)
“Flight time to Santiago will be eleven hours and forty-six minutes,” the intercom announced.
Ernesto anticipated a glorious return. Heaving throngs at the airstrip as he descended the steps, waving and shouting his name—Che! Che! Che! Housewives, working men, pretty girls, the real Cubans. His people. Ernesto wasn’t used to the limelight, but the idea was beginning to electrify him.
Just one question nagged at Ernesto as he watched the lights of Luanda disappear forever, despite assurances from Ruben that everything had been taken care of, that all the pieces were in place, that he would be welcomed home as a hero. Dr. Ernesto “Che” Sandoval, sitting comfortably in a luxury seat on a private airplane, was flying home to Cuba still wondering, deep down, whether his big brother’s plan would actually work.
63.
EVERGLADES NATIONAL PARK, FLORIDA
FRIDAY, 12:05 P.M.
The sun was beating down fiercely on Ricky, but the wind kept him cool. He pulled on the brim of his Marlins baseball cap with his left hand since his right hand was firmly on the fanboat’s steering stick. Lashed to the seats of the boat were five identical black hard-shell suitcases. All empty.
Ricky expertly piloted the fanboat through the infinite swamp, past reeds and sawgrass that looked identical in all directions, to a place that didn’t appear on any map outside of Ricky’s own memory.
Out here, in the middle of the Florida Everglades, static maps were mostly useless. The swamp ebbed and flowed, changing with every storm, the landmarks always shifting, always evolving. This is what made the Everglades the perfect place to hide. Or to get lost.
Ricky turned sharply at a stand of cypress trees and then killed the motor. The bow of the boat grounded softly in the grass. Ricky grabbed one of the suitcases and hopped onto a small wooden platform that led to a tiny enclosed structure.
When he first came here, Ricky had been told the site was an abandoned blind for hunting wild boar. Then he was later told no, it was originally a secret outpost of the Seminole Indians for one of their three wars against the U.S. Army. Ricky didn’t bother to ask more questions. He didn’t care about the location’s history. All that mattered was that it was hidden among the trees deep in the swamp and no one could ever find it. It was undetectable to the naked eye at water level from every direction. And, most important, invisible from the air.
Ricky scanned the horizon through binoculars for any signs that someone had followed him. He listened for any sounds of an engine. All clear. But he couldn’t relax.
Ricky knew from experience that all clear could change. Without warning.
—
That day, way back in 1983, was like a zombie movie. One moment, all was quiet; the next, they were coming at him from everywhere. The beasts, black head to toe, snarling faces hidden behind black shields and black helmets, swarmed like it was the Apocalypse. They came by land, they rose out of the water, they dropped from the sky. There were so many, he couldn’t count.
Ricky’s mind was dizzy and time slowed to a crawl. A cocktail of narcotics and adrenaline churned through his bloodstream. The flashbang, the shouting, the swarm, the pain—it was all a blurry haze.
The next thing Ricky knew, he was in a room, collapsed in a metal chair at a metal table. He was cold but could taste warm salty blood from his busted lip. A beefy man in some kind of police uniform was glaring at him.
“Who are you working for, Ricardo? Who’s the big boss, Ricardo? We already know everything. We just want to hear it from you.”
Ricky had looked around the room, confused and scared. It was bare except for the table and chairs, a single lightbulb in the ceiling. And a long mirror along one wall.
“Where am I?” Ricky slurred. “Who . . . is ‘we’?”
“Fuck you, Ricardo. We ask the questions.”
“Who’s behind the mirror? Who am I really talking to?”
“Your worst f*cking nightmare, Ricardo. Who are you working for?”
“I . . . don’t know anything.”
“You don’t know? You don’t f*cking know? You’re carrying all those drugs and you don’t know?”
“I don’t know anything. I . . . I . . . I’m just a kid.”
“You’re eighteen, Ricardo. You’re in deep shit. You’re gonna be charged as an adult. Narcotics trafficking, racketeering, conspiracy, assault on a federal officer. This is some heavy shit.”
“No . . .” Ricky muttered.
“You’re gonna do some serious time in a serious place. They’re gonna love you in the hole at Pensacola. You know what a skinny eighteen-year-old Cuban boy looks like to a monster serving life in federal prison?” The interrogator licked his lips and chortled.
“No . . .” Ricky whimpered.
“Then you better answer my goddamn questions. Have you ever met Escobar?”
“I don’t know him. I mean . . . I’ve never seen him.”
“We know you were carrying for him. You know what Escobar’s going to do to you in prison when he figures out how much money you’ve cost him?”
“No . . .”
“You know what happened to the last kid?”
“No . . .”
“You want me to help you, Ricardo?”
“Huh?”
“You stupid f*cking shit-eating punk. If you want me to help you, then you have to help me.”