Missing Lynx (38 page)

As soon as Gray Mustache and Maria left the building, I rolled from my hiding place and ran for the door to the side yard and Franco’s truck. There, I waited for him to smoke his cigarette; my emotions exploding.

Emerging from the shadows — just enough so that he knew I was there — I shrank back again and spoke quietly. “Franco, don’t move. Don’t show any signs that I’m here with you,” I said in fluent Spanish, with a decidedly Puerto Rican accent. Franco froze. I was surprised I was able to get my lips to work properly.

“I am worried about your son Pablo. Tell me what’s happening.”

Franco visibly shook; his cigarette dropped to the ground. “You are speaking Spanish. How do you know our names? How did you get over here? They will shoot you.” His whisper was fierce with alarm.

“Franco, I’m supposed to answer your prayers. You have prayed that a miracle would come to your family, and that Pablo would get the medical attention he needs to survive. Yes?” Confirm me, Franco, oh please, confirm me.

“We have prayed hard. But Pablo grows weaker in this heat. Without surgery, the doctor has no hope for him.”

“Yes, that’s what I feel to be true. So much so, that I need to escape and help him, Franco. I am risking my life to escape. I am your hope — your
only
hope for your son’s survival. I’m an American and have a great deal of power where I come from. That’s why they have imprisoned me here, to offer me in exchange for a terrorist being held in America. But, Franco, look at me. I’m too weak, and it’s too dangerous, for me to take Pablo with me now. Once I get home, I will send a team to take your family to the United States where Pablo will get the medical help he needs.”

Franco was beyond frightened. I could see the shine of it coming off his skin. He would be shot if they found out he’d helped me. I was putting him in terrible danger by asking him to trust me, and more, to trust in his prayers. What if God
had
sent me to be their miracle, and he turned me down? How could he survive knowing that when offered a chance to save his little boy he was too cowardly to grab it?

His face hardened as he made his decision. “What am I to do?” 

“Nothing. Forget I was here. Forget I said anything about your son. Breathe deeply and know that all will go well.”

The bells rang, and Franco moved toward the cab. I shadow walked to the back of the truck, climbed in, and lay down against the tailgate so anyone looking in would see past me into the emptiness. Franco cranked the engine. We drove over the grassy field to the front gate. I heard the guard’s heavy boots on the gravel. He stopped to talk to Franco. Another guard walked over with his dog; it was Alpha. Alpha wanted to know why I was in the truck. He sent pictures telling me I should be in my window. I sent pictures back, saying I needed to go home and feed my dogs, but I would visit him. Alpha walked around the truck without alerting anyone I was inside.

The bells that rang to mark Franco’s time to leave were the same bells that signaled Drunk that his break was over, and he needed to take me in. By now he had discovered that his keys were gone, and I was, too. Since there was no commotion, I assumed that Drunk went into self-protection mode. He would have found that I had left the door ever so slightly open for him. He probably let himself in, and tried to go on about his tasks as if I were still there. Buying himself a little time to find an alibi, an excuse, or an escape plan of his own.

Forty

E
licia would discover that I was not in my cell when she brought my food at four. I wasn’t sure what she’d do. I didn’t think that she’d send up an alarm, but she might ask questions. She was the wild card. Would she bring attention to me? How much time did I have? If I were lucky, I wouldn’t be discovered until Grandma Oatmeal in the morning. Possibly longer. If Grandma Oatmeal didn’t notice then maybe I’d have until Maria and Gray Mustache came to remove my fingers. I convulsed. If any of that were true, I had to get to the airport and away tonight.

As we drove down the road, Franco stopped and jogged to the back of the truck. “Now what should I do?”

“What do you usually do, Franco?”

“I drive by my house and check on things, then I drive the truck over to the supply center and walk home.”

“I need some things. I need a set of Elicia’s clothes, some food and water, a map, a blanket, a plastic ground cover and a gun.”

“I have no gun.”

“Okay, a knife then. Where is the supply center?” We whispered even though we were out in the middle of freaking-nowhere with no one to hear us.

“Ten kilometers to the south of my house.”

“That’s fine. Just stop as soon as you can when there’s no one around, and I can get out of the truck. You will continue on.” Franco pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped at the sweat that dripped in his eyes.

“There’s a tunnel a short distance down the road from my home. It would be a good place to get out, and you can hide in the forest. They will have the dogs out looking for you, but they won’t look to the south, and they won’t look that far away.”

“Where will they look?”

“To the north, where there’s an airport, or to the east, where there are boats on the coast. They wouldn’t think south because of the forests. Do you have a plan?”

“Yes, but it’s better for you that you know nothing.”

Franco looked over his shoulder. I could hear a truck rumbling toward us. He ran and climbed into the cab and headed back down the road.

Our truck stopped. The cab opened and shut. I heard Franco ask about Pablo. Door hinges screeched. The grandmother said she needed to go down the street for a minute; Franco told her to go ahead. Time passed, then Franco told the old woman goodbye. We were off down the road. We had only driven a short way when everything was thrown into darkness and the truck stopped.

“Hurry, hurry, the coast is clear.” Franco thrust a backpack into my arms.

“And here is the map. I have circled our village, so you can find us again, the airport, and a fishing village. The fishing village is twenty kilometers away. The airport is not quite thirty kilometers. I have thought about it – over land, you will fail. Even though they will watch the boats and planes carefully, you seem to know what you’re doing. I’m depending on you for my son’s life. May you be blessed in all you do. We will pray hard. I know it will take you time to get to America - please, please hurry. Pablo hasn’t got much more time to wait.”

Franco jumped into the cab and drove away. I slunk from the tunnel and eased into the trees, walking a ways off, then pulled off the pack to see what Franco had gathered for me.

The heavy camping pack held a compass, a sharp hunting knife in a side holster and belt. I attached those to me right away. I needed the belt to hold my jeans up. There were no other clothes - probably Elicia had no others. That, or Franco was afraid that what he’d packed would implicate his family if I were captured. He had wrapped a ratty wool blanket in a plastic ground cover. Underneath, I found a two-liter bottle of water, some soap, and lots of food in old plastic margarine tubs. I pulled out the packet of tamales wrapped in waxed paper and ate them right away. They were still hot; the pork juices dribbled down my chin. I ate until I was full. I needed the energy, and it was too burdensome to carry all of this weight.

Church bells sounded nearby; it was four o’clock. I would make the best progress while it was still light enough to see. I’d have to push hard with eighteen miles to cover – daunting under the best of circumstances. If I could keep a pace of four miles an hour, I could make it to the airport by dark - maybe get a chance to look over the planes. I checked the map, checked the compass, and kept the road vaguely in sight, on my left, as I made my way through the trees and underbrush at a slow jog.

A little over an hour and a half had gone by when I had to cross the road. I was approaching the jail. I had sent thoughts to Alpha, asking how things were at the prison. He sent back pictures of calm: lazy guards, heat, thirst, boredom. I told him that soon they would discover that I had left my window to go home to feed my dogs, and please lead the guards, away from my scent, to the west. He said he would. I slowed to a walk as I connected with each of the dogs that I had gotten to know over the past months asking them for their help. That might buy me time. And the exercise helped divert my attention away from my screaming body.

Exhausted and panting I leaned against a tree. Eighteen miles had been too much. Too hard, especially in this heat.

I thought of Striker at SEAL training. He had pushed his body beyond what he thought was physically possible and had not just survived but thrived. I focused on that, pretending this was my BUDs training. If Blaze and Striker could get through their hell week, I’d be damned if I was going to ring the brass bell. I pretended I was in training with them beside me -- anything to get away from the voice that said,
lay down
even when my muscles, enfeebled from months in prison and lack of food, bunched into cramped knots and my heart knocked on my rib bones. The stitch in my side doubled me over. I gasped and spat into the dust at my feet.
I will not lay down.

As the sun tilted past the horizon, the evening sky was painted indigo and filled with bats. I crouched beside a pine tree, feeling the rough bark under my fingertips. The forest vibrated with evening sounds.

I spent time getting a feel for the airport - trying to sense any guards, dogs, or people. The SEALs have a saying, “slow is smooth and smooth is fast.” I needed to apply a little smooth to this operation.

I slunk from plane to plane to figure out which one I would take. I settled on a Cessna C500 Citation. It was the largest plane out there. I was looking for fuel capacity. I had a long way to go. The others were little Cessna 150s and the like; their tanks were tiny, 200 maybe 300 miles.

I shadow walked to the C500. Its fuel gauge showed full. As I peeked into the back, I saw everything unnecessary had been stripped out. Most likely, this one was used for carrying drugs and other contraband. There was nothing in it now to balance the weight from front to back. That might be a problem, but I didn’t see another viable choice.

I made my way to the hangar and tried the handle on the locked door. I slithered around peeping in windows. No one seemed to be here. On the far side, one of the bays hadn’t been completely closed. I squeezed under, dragging the backpack after me.

My first task was getting my cell phone operational. I found a five-volt cord and a couple of paperclips to make a you’re-in-deep-shit charger. As the battery charged, I went to the bathroom and took a quick shower. I was desperate to clean myself. I was sure to wipe the moisture out of the stall and take the wet towel with me. I changed my clothes into some man’s jeans and T-shirt I found in one of the lockers, stuffing my clothes into my pack. I refilled my water bottle and filled another bottle that I found under the kitchen sink. I ate a bite or two out of each of the open containers in the fridge – not wanting to give a heads up that I’d been here. And I studied the maps in the control room, jotting down coordinates.

This was the scary part. My survival came down to the decisions I was about to make. I needed to figure out what in the world I was going to do from this point. I could try flying to a different country, Belize or Mexico - but I still had no idea about the role I was playing in the kidnap-Lexi show. Would the prison guards just ignore the fact that I was gone? Would they launch an international man hunt? Who was the puppet master here? If it wasn’t Sylanos himself were there others from the cartel in on Maria’s scheme? I didn’t understand the conversation between Maria and Gray Mustache. They seemed afraid of Sylanos knowing where I was. Was he actively looking for me? Were they holding me away from Sylanos’ group because they wanted me, and Maria wanted a pay-off? If the cartel was searching for me, then I couldn’t land anywhere in the Caribbean, Central or South America; their players would snatch me as soon as the door opened. The Sylanos machine’s power and connections were omnipresent, and they would not like it if a little chicklet from Iniquus outwitted them. I would die.

What if it were just Maria and her
tio
? Then I could safely land at any airport and ask for help. 

Since I didn’t know, I had to assume worst-case scenario and act as if there was an international manhunt that I needed to thwart. So, the only direction I could go was to the US. Texas was about a thousand miles away. Miami looked like around 800 miles. I was going to aim for Miami. I didn’t know how far a single tank would take me. I’d have to plan on refueling.

I’d retrace my original flight and set down on that grass landing strip on Isla de Juventude to refuel. Oh, holy hell, Maria would probably know about this strip. I’d have to make the stop darned fast. Up and out, and back to the States before morning when my escape would certainly be discovered. I shook my head at the map, hands resting on my protruding hip bones. My teeth chattered together, rattling my thoughts.

It had been many months since I had been at that landing strip. Hopefully it was someone’s job to come in and refill those fuel bladders regularly. I sucked in a deep breath and tried to focus, moving my shaking finger over the map. There were little red lines all over the Caribbean and all of them were in remote locations. Secret landing strips. I found a red line drawn on Isla de Juventude. I would bet anything this one was the strip that I was looking for. Probably a drug lord paid the government graft to ignore it.

I heard a jeep motoring up the road. I crouched by the window and watched it go by. They didn’t even glance over at the airport, so far so good. I wiped my sweaty palms down the stolen pants. Okay, I had a plan.

I grabbed a set of keys from the flight room and retrieved my cell phone. Making my way carefully to the plane. I did a pre-flight check. If I was going to leave, it had better be sooner rather than later. The wind bent the tree tops, and the air hung heavy with moisture. A storm boiled in the distance. I needed to get going while I still had a chance. “Stupid as hell flying in this weather,” I muttered.