When We Left Cuba(19)

As soon as he gets out of the car, I lock the doors, my gaze searching the darkness for Eduardo’s form. I find him for a moment, visible in the soft glow of a light down by the docks, and then he is gone, and I am alone.

The distant sound of a car fills the night, somewhere far off on the highway, the sound of the water hitting the docks little more than a hum in the background.

It’s too quiet. Too dark. There’s too much potential for something to go wrong.

What has Eduardo gotten himself involved in? And if he’s not working with the CIA, then who is he working with? Is he alone in this or is there a broader network of exiles on his side?

Time creeps on, the weight of the gun in my hand making my palm damp. The notion of me using it is preposterous, although clearly, Eduardo thought it necessary.

I straighten in my seat at the sound of tires on gravel, my palm gripping the gun more tightly. I look out the car window, trying to spot the new arrivals.

The light near the docks is too far away to be much help, and I sense more than see a vehicle pulling up beside Eduardo’s little convertible.

I duck, gripping the gun more tightly, cursing Eduardo for dragging me into whatever this is. It is one thing to risk your life for something as important as Fidel, but I don’t even know what tonight is about. Is it related to Cuba? Or is this little meeting a by-product of Eduardo’s lifestyle: A gambling debt that must be paid? An enraged husband? He said it was about Cuba, but Eduardo isn’t above bending the truth to get his way, either.

I should have asked more questions.

The sound of two car doors opening followed by the crunch of footsteps against the gravel fills the night.

Are they friend or foe?

My heart pounds, the gun growing slippery in my palm as I wait for the new arrivals to investigate Eduardo’s car, to see me. But the sounds of their footsteps diminish until there is silence, the forms of two men visible as they cross in front of the light near the docks.

Heading toward Eduardo.

I reach into the glove box where Eduardo stored the gun, my fingers wrapping around a flashlight.

My hand is on the door handle before I can think through my actions, the gun clutched in my other hand.

I step out into the night.



* * *



? ? ?

The car door shuts gently behind me, and I crouch between the two cars, straining to hear any sounds.

The gun is surprisingly heavy in my hand for such a small thing, and my hand shakes as my finger grazes the trigger.

What if I accidentally shoot someone? Or myself?

The car parked beside Eduardo’s is a four-door sedan—an American model by the look of it. I move closer to the car, crouching near the trunk.

I turn on the flashlight, shining it toward the car.

Florida license plates.

The night is silent.

How can I not look?

I walk to the driver’s side of the car.

“What did you get me into?” I murmur under my breath.

The window is down, and I reach my hand into the car and pop the lock, opening the door.

Despite the lowered window, the car smells of cigarettes and sweat, the faint hint of cheap perfume on the air.

My heart pounds. Am I really doing this?

Using the flashlight to guide my path, I engage the trunk release inside the car.

Flashlight in hand, I get out of the car, shutting the door behind me gently, and walk around the car to the trunk, lifting the lid over my head.

Crates stare back at me.

I pause for a moment, listening for the sound of footsteps, voices.

Silence greets me. Curiosity gets the best of me.

I lift the lid of one of the crates. Shine the flashlight down.

It takes me a moment to reconcile the sight of the red sticks piled together, for my brain to put a name to them. When I do, a part of me wishes I hadn’t.

The crate is filled with sticks of dynamite.



* * *



? ? ?

I’m halfway to the dock, gun and flashlight in hand, when I hear Eduardo’s voice in the distance.

Followed by his laughter.

I do a one-eighty, killing the flashlight and using the moonlight to guide me back.

He didn’t tell me to stay in the car, but now that I know explosives are involved, I’m not eager to be any more embroiled in his scheme than I already am.

I shouldn’t have come.

I lengthen my strides as I head toward Eduardo’s car, slightly out of breath by the time I slide into the bucket seat and shut the door behind me, my heart pounding madly.

A minute later, their voices become louder, their footsteps heavy. Eduardo walks beside the two men who arrived, heading toward their parked car.

I flatten my body against the car seat, turning my head to the side, careful to keep my face shielded.

The trunk opens, followed by a thud, the car lowering slightly as the crates are loaded. The trunk closes, and a few moments later, Eduardo climbs into the driver’s seat.

“Did you miss me?” he teases.

Miss him? At the moment, I could cheerfully kill him.

The other car leaves.

“What’s the dynamite for?” I ask.

“Jesus, Beatriz.” He shakes his head. “I should have known better than to bring you.”

“Yes, you probably should have. What’s the dynamite for?”

“One of those other plans I was telling you about.”