Hawke (36 page)

“Very good! We can make this short, then, although I am thoroughly enjoying our conversation.”

“Short is good. That would include my stay here, General. When do I go free?”

“If you do exactly as I say, and the results are commensurate with your efforts, you will be released unharmed.”

“I have your word?”

“What you have, my beautiful
señorita,
is no choice. Checkmate, you see?”

“I see. In that case, why don’t we get started?”

“Muy bueno.”

The man opened a desk drawer and placed a cassette recorder and thick newspaper on top of the desk.

“Please bring your chair closer to the desk. You’ll be more comfortable while you’re recording.”

She did as she was told and felt a wave of terror sweep over her. The photographs Scissorhands had been looking at weren’t from his family album. They were pictures of women with fingers, ears, and nipples missing.

Vicky stifled the scream that was rising in her throat and forced herself to take deep consecutive breaths. She hardly heard what the man was saying.

“I have a statement here that I wish you to read into this microphone. State your name first and address this message to Alex Hawke. The statement simply says that you are a political prisoner. You have been taken hostage by the Cuban guerrilla group known as
Telaraña.
You may then use your own words. Plead your case to your lover. Tell him that your life depends entirely on how well your friend Hawke follows directions.”

“What directions?”

“It is of no consequence to you. I will speak when you are finished. I want this man Hawke to use all of his connections in Washington, both at the State Department and the White House, to dissuade the United States from taking any preemptory offensive action against my new government.”

“That’s it?”

“Almost. Have you ever heard this Hawke mention a map? A treasure map, let us say?”

“No, never.”

“It is not the reason he has returned to the Exumas after all these years?”

“It’s a holiday, General. He likes to fish.”

“Ah, well. If your memory doesn’t improve, I’m sure you’ll have a chance to discuss it in detail with this gentleman on my right. Meanwhile, I will conclude the tape by saying that if there is any rescue attempt whatsoever you will be shot immediately. How does that sound?”

He handed her a copy of today’s
Miami Herald
. “You will then end this message by reading this front page headline and the date. So there will be no doubt on the other side. You understand?”

“Perfectly. Turn the thing on, please.”

General de Herreras flipped a switch on the recorder. “One more thing,” he said, pulling an envelope from inside his jacket and then sliding it across the desk toward her.

She opened the envelope and looked inside. It was the golden locket that Alex had given to her.

“This locket, it belongs to you?” he asked.

“It did,” Vicky replied. “Once upon a time.”

Gomer was sitting cross-legged behind the PX bar in total darkness. He was on the floor, a half-empty bottle of Stoli in one hand, his little pal RC in the other.

Any snoopy MPs who happen to walk by and peek in the windows, they wouldn’t see nothing.

Mesmerized by the little red numbers on RC, reading 3000 now but not for long, he barely even noticed the sickly sweet smell of old spilled beer and booze or how grunged out the sticky floor was. He’d take a breath, though, and man, it was ripe. Like a skunk had taken a whiz back here.

He took another biting swig of warm Stoli.

Hell, he’d gotten shitfaced in a whole lot worse places than this! Besides his little sidekick RC, the only light came from a round fluorescent green clock on the wall. He could see it perfectly from right where he was sitting. Keeping track of time, man, that was critical at this juncture.

In between sips of Stoli, he was very busy, going over the Big Plan. In his mind, of course. Nothing written down. To make sure he had the BP down pat, he was reciting the steps aloud to himself over and over.

First thing, you press both buttons on RC at the stroke of twelve midnight. Keep an eye on the clock. That’s why he’d strategically placed himself behind the bar so that he was hidden, but could still see the clock.

Okay, fifteen seconds after the Big Bug Checkout Countdown begins, his pecker starts ringing. Heh-heh. No, no, he gets a call on his cell phone fifteen seconds after he pushes the buttons. He felt around down in his crotch area. Yep. Cell phone was right where he’d stuffed it. Not a lot of room down there where the big dog hangs, baby, whoo-ah!

Yes. Okay. Phone rings, he answers it. What does he say? Um, shit. What did Julio tell him to say? Roach Motel! Yes! He got it! He knocks back another biting shot of room-temperature Vitamin V as a reward. He practices:

“Roach Motel?”

And then the guy on the phone says…what…“Any vacancies?”

And he answers…lemme see…“No, no vacancies, not for thirty hours!”

Yeah, baby. He had the mother down cold!

Then what?

Oh yeah. He takes his little buddy RC and heads over to Sparky’s tower station right on the no-man’s-land fenceline. Gets Sparky to let him through. Then, if Sparky ain’t on duty he—holy shit! The green fluorescent ring around the clock had caught his eye. He couldn’t goddamn believe it!

The clock said it was twelve-fifteen!

He’d missed his goddamn deadline by fifteen minutes! Jesus. Sitting here thinking and drinking and what’s he do? Just misses the most important deadline of his whole stinking life, that’s all. Oh, man. Now what?

A million little green smackeroos sprout wings and fly somewhere over the rainbow, that’s what.

Tears are streaming down his face as he gets slowly to his feet. Puts RC and the Stoli on the bar and wipes his eyes. All his life he’d thought he was so smart. And now he has to face the truth. He is just a dumbass
gusano
from Little Havana and he always had been.

He walked around the bar and pulled up a stool.

He’d kept his eye on that friggin’ clock up there, he really had, and now he’d gone and—wait a minute. Hold the goddamn phone!

Now
the clock says eleven forty-five! What the—oh, man. He was losing it. Almost. Sitting behind the bar, he’d been looking at the clock in the mirror! It said twelve-fifteen
in the mirror
. That was only the reflection. It was eleven forty-five in real life! He was okay! He was cool! He had fifteen whole minutes left! He was going to—ouch, there was a light shining in his eyes. He whipped around.

Somebody was shining a couple of flashlights through the windows at the front of the PX, rattling the front doors. Had they seen him?

MPs, had to be. Great timing, guys, really great, thanks a million, no pun intended.

He grabbed the Stoli and RC, ran back behind the bar, and dropped to his knees. He had to boogie on out of here but quick. He crab-walked the length of the bar and quickly reached the back door he’d jimmied open on the way in.

Two seconds later he was sprinting through the swirling curtains of rain toward his car. There was a Humvee pulled up right behind it, blue lights flashing. Goddamn. He looked back over his shoulder at the PX. Saw two lights flickering around inside. By the time those dumbass cops found the back door broken open, he’d be adios amigo.

He opened his car door and tossed the Stoli and the RC on the front seat. Then he jumped behind the wheel and twisted the key in the ignition.

Aw shit, not now. Piece of crap Yugo, come on! Start, goddammit! Rain must have blown up under the distributor cap, that was it. Of all the times to—wait. Better idea.

He grabbed his bottle and RC, jumped out of his car, and ran back to the MP’s Hummer. Keys were in! Yes! There was a God!

He slammed the Humvee in gear, reversed, and saw the two flashlights bobbing through the rain, headed his way. Going to try and cut him off. No way, girls. He bounced back over the curb, put it in first, and stood on it, swerving up onto the grass, then back down the service driveway to the main drag, hauling complete ass. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes to midnight. He hung a Louie and headed for Sparky’s watch tower, looking in the rearview.

Careening around the corner on two wheels, he was mystified to see another Humvee with its blue flashers going, blocking the street. Jesus H. Christ! He hit the brakes, skidded short of the two MPs standing there, and slammed it into reverse, knocking over some guy’s arty-farty mailbox. Shit happens, neighbors.

Well, now, goddamn it all to hell. Here came the two Keystone Kops from the PX, running around the corner and blocking his “Escape and Evasion” maneuver. Held up his watch. Seven minutes. RC was on the seat beside him, thirty hours and seven minutes to payday. He just had to play it cool was all. The way he’d always played it, right?

The two MPs in front stayed put. Hands on their sidearms, tough guys, watching too many episodes of
JAG
lately.

He craned his neck around and saw the two dickwads behind him coming toward his car. One guy stayed at the rear on the passenger side, the other one walked slowly up to his window. He rolled it down, nice and polite like, shoving the Stoli bottle under the seat with his right hand. He’d like to hide RC, but here was the guy shining some bright light right in his damn window.

Five minutes. He felt the Vitamin V pumping hot in his veins. Hell, any fool could stay cool for five more goddamn minutes.

“How we doin’ tonight, sailor?” the MP said.

“Just fine,” he said, giving the guy a big smile. He couldn’t even see the guy’s face, the light was so bright.

“What exactly you doing in the PX on a rainy Sunday night, sailor?”

“Just having a little drinky-poo, sir,” he giggled. That’s what Rita called cocktails when she was at somebody’s house for dinner.

“Had quite a few, I’d say. Seein’ as how you picked somebody else’s vehicle to drive home in.”

“No, sir, I have not been drinking quite a few. Only had one, sir. My vehicle wouldn’t start is all.”

“Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Yes, sir!” He’d been trying to slide RC out of the guy’s sight.

“What the hell is that thing?”

“That’d be your portable CD player, sir,” he said. Damn quick, too.

“Okay, very carefully, get your service ID out and hand it to me.”

“Yes, sir. It’s in the pantleg pocket of my fatigues. Right where I always keep it. ’Cause of the Velcro, you know. Okay?”

“Just show me the goddamnn thing,” the MP barked at him. Touchy, touchy.

He reached down and ripped open the Velcro seal on his pocket. Pulled out his ID packet. An open pack of Rita’s cigarettes came flying out, too, cigarettes spilling all over the floor. What the hell? Oh. She liked to wear his fatigues sometimes, when she went riding. So, that’s where she’d been hiding them! She was going to get an asswhupping for that all right!

Cigarette. That would steady the old nerves. He reached down and picked one up and popped it between his lips. Then he leaned over toward the MP’s light, put the end of the cigarette right on the glass lens, and started to drag on it, trying to get the damn thing lit.

“Hell’s wrong with your lighter, sir. Can’t even get—”

It wasn’t a lighter, he saw now, hell no, it was a damn flashlight. He’d tried to light his smoke on a flashlight! Sent a bad signal, probably.

“Step out of the vehicle, sir,” the MP said. “Now!”

“Absolutely,” he said, moving his foot off the brake and flooring the accelerator. He hit something, felt like a deer, maybe one of the damn MPs who wouldn’t get out of his way, and then his new Humvee was tear-assing across a few lawns and driveways and drainage ditches. He had the ideal “Escape and Evasion” vehicle, all right.

There were a whole lot of flashing blue lights in his rearview now. Shit, looked like the whole damn military police force was on his ass. Too late, kiddies, too damn late! He knew a shortcut to Sparky’s tower. He could be there in two minutes. He banged a wall hanging a hard right and banged walls a few more times going down the alley, sending trashcans flying left and right.

His watch said three minutes till twelve. He was going to make it, goddammit. He was going to pull this big bad mother out of the fire.

He burst out of the alley and there it was. Tower 22. Home of his best buddy, Sparky Rollins. All he had to do now was cross that baseball diamond and then a big open field and he was home free. No flashers in the rearview now. Good, they musta missed his shortcut. He accelerated across the diamond and decided to take out a row of bleachers down the right field line just for fun. Hell, it wasn’t his Humvee.

Then he was tear-assing across the open field, friggin’ airborne half the time. What a ride! His old heap would never have made it across all these damn flooded ditches and bushes and shit. To his left, he could see a train of blue flashers as the Humvees came to a stop in the parking lot of the baseball field. Then they too started racing across the diamond towards him. He managed a peek at his watch.

Thirty seconds.

He skidded to a stop a hundred yards from Sparky’s tower, jumped out, and ran over to the base. Cupping his hands, he yelled up to the tower.

“Sparky! My man! Sparky, you up there?”

“Sparky’s off duty tonight,” a guy up in the tower yelled down. “Identify yourself! Who the hell are you and what the fuck are you doing?” Guy had an M-16 pointed right at him.

“I’ll show you what I’m doing!” Gomer said, jumping back in his Humvee. “Watch this, asshole!”

He reversed back a hundred yards and stopped. The fleet of Humvees was racing across the field toward him, all fanned out, thinking about surrounding his ass.

He looked at his watch and saw the second hand coming around, come on, baby, come on, yes! He had the RC in his lap, staring at it. Twelve midnight on the button! Two buttons actually and he pushed both of them simultaneously just like Julio Iglesias had told him.

The red numbers instantly started rolling backwards.

The Big Bug Checkout Countdown had begun.

The whole U.S. cavalry was maybe two hundred yards behind him now and coming fast. He rammed the Humvee in first and floored it. He was headed straight for the fence, screaming at the top of his lungs. Glass was shattering and hitting him in the face and he realized the guy on the tower was shooting at him!

One of his own guys was shooting at him! Friendly fire? No such luck, pal. Court-martial time for somebody!

He was going eighty when he hit the wire fence. It slowed him down a little, and he took a lot of goddamn fence with him and he musta hit one leg of the tower by mistake because it looked like it was starting to topple over, but goddammit, he was headed for the promised land now!

He took a quick look over his shoulder. There was the guy on the tower, only now he was pinwheeling in the air, headed for the ground. He saw that all the Humvees had stopped short of the fenceline. Of course. You’d have to be crazy to drive across a goddamn minefield on a rainy night, right? He was peering over the top of the steering wheel, wondering if the mines would be like little bumps that he could steer around, when he felt his pecker humming.

He jammed one hand down inside his jeans and pulled out his cell phone, put it to his ear. Damn, it was hard to drive with one hand but what else were you supposed to do?

“Roach Motel,” he said, realizing that his mind was totally clear but that he was screaming.

“Any vacancies?”

“No. No fucking vacancies for thirty hours.”

“Muchas gracias, amigo. Viva Cuba!”
the guy said.

Then there was a click in his ear and then a much louder noise, some kind of explosion, and he felt the entire Humvee lift into the air, seeming to break in half as it rose. Then it was falling end-over-end and he seemed to be upside down and there was this terrible ripping pain in both legs, hurt so bad he couldn’t believe it and then—

He opened his eyes.

He was lying on his back in a ditch full of water. Rain was still falling hard, stinging his face. Stuff was on fire all around him. Shit, his own T-shirt was on fire! He scooped a handful of muddy water from the ditch and put it out. Had to get moving. Had to deliver the RC and get his money. He could even see the Cuban towers now, they all had their spotlights trained on him. He’d been so close!