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79

They had 3:00 a.m. moonlight to work by. It was half a curse- total dark meant SURPRISE.

Pete pulled off the blacktop. He saw sand dunes up ahead-big high ones.

Nйstor draped his legs across Wilfredo Delsol. Wilfredo the Mummy was duct-taped head to toe and stuffed between the front and back seats.

Boyd rode shotgun. Delsol wheezed through his nose. They kidnapped him at his pad on their way out of Miami.

Pete shifted to four-wheel drive. The Mummy lurched and banged Nйstor’s legs.

The jeep bounced between dunes. Boyd examined their track obfuscator-rake prongs attached to metal tubing.

Nйstor coughed. “The beach is half a mile. I walked it twice.”

Pete braked and cut the engine. Wave noise came on strong. Boyd said, “Listen to that. If we’re lucky, they won’t hear us.”

They got out. Nйstor dug a hole and buried Delsol in sand up to his nose.

Pete tossed a tarp over the jeep. It was light tan and sand-dune compatible.

Nйstor rigged the rake gizmo. Boyd inventoried hardware.

They had silencer-fitted.45s and machine guns. They had a chainsaw, a clock bomb and two pounds of plastic explosive.

They slapped on lampblack. They loaded up their packs.

They walked. Nйstor dragged the rake. Tire tracks and footprints disappeared.

They crossed the blacktop and hiked up to a parallel access road-about a third of a mile. The road-to-waveline sand sthp was roughly two hundred yards wide.

Nйstor said, “The State Police never patrol here.”

Pete held up his infrareds. He spotted clumps 300 yards down the strip.

Boyd said, “Let’s get close.”

Pete stretched-his bulletproof vest fit tight. “There’s nine or ten men just above the west sand. We should come up along the shoreline and hope the goddamn surf noise covers us.”

Nйstor crossed himself. Boyd filled his hands and his mouth- with two.45s and a Buck knife.

Pete felt earthquake tremors-9.999-fucking-9.

They walked down to the wet sand. They hunkered low and crab-crawled. Pete got this wild-ass notion: I’M THE ONLY ONE WHO KNOWS WHAT THIS MEANS.

Boyd walked point. The shapes took form. Smashing waves supplied audial cover.

The shapes were sleeping men. One insomniac was sitting up- check that glowing cigarette tip.

They got close.

They got closer.

They got very very close.

Pete heard snores. A man moaned in Spanish.

They charged.

Boyd shot the cigarette man. Muzzle flash lit a line of sleeping bags.

Pete fired. Nйstor fired. Silencer thuds overlapped.

They had good light now-powder glare off four weapons.

Goose down exploded. Screams kicked in loud and faded into tight little gurgles.

Nйstor brought a flashlight in close. Pete saw nine U.S. Army bags, shredded and blood soaked.

Boyd popped in fresh clips and shot the men point-blank in the face. Blood hit Nйstor’s flashlight and shaded the beam light red.

Pete heaved for breath. Bloody feathers blew into his mouth.

Nйstor kept the light steady. Boyd knelt down and slit throats. He went in deep and low-windpipes and spinal cords snapped.

Nйstor dragged the bodies out.

Pete turned the sleeping bags over and stuffed them with sand.

Boyd patted them into shape. It was good simulation-the boat men would see dozing men.

Nйstor dragged the bodies down to a tide pool. Boyd brought the chainsaw.

Pete yank-started it. Boyd spread the stiffs out for cutting.

The moon passed by low. Nйstor supplied extra light.

Pete sawed from a crouch. The teeth caught on a leg bone straight off.

Nйstor pulled the man’s foot taut. The teeth whirred through easy.

Pete sawed through a string of arms. The saw kept bucking into the sand. Skin and gristle pop-pop-popped in his face.

Pete quartered the men. Boyd severed their heads with his Buck knife. One swipe and one tug at the hair did the job.

Nobody talked.

Pete kept sawing. His arms ached. Bone fragments made the belt-motor skip.

His hands slipped. The teeth jumped and raked a dead man’s stomach.

Pete smelled bile. He dropped the saw and puked himself dry.

Boyd took over. Nйstor fed body parts to the tide pool. Sharks thrashed in to eat.

Pete walked down to the surf line. His hands shook-lighting a cigarette took forever.

The smoke felt good. The smoke killed the bad smells. DON’T THEY KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS-

The sawing stopped. Dead silence underscored his own crazy heartbeat.

Pete walked back to the tide pool. Sharks flailed and leaped halfway out of the water.

Nйstor loaded the machine guns. Boyd twitched and fidgeted- high-pitched by Boyd cool-cat standards.

They crouched behind a shoal bank. Nobody talked. Pete got Barb on the brain wicked good.

Dawn hit just past 5:30. The beach looked plain peaceful. The blood by the sleeping bags looked like plain old wave seepage.

Nйstor kept his binoculars up. He got a sighting at 6:12 a.m.

“I see the boat. It’s about two hundred yards away.”

Boyd coughed and spat. “Delsol said six men would be aboard. We want most of them off before we fire.”

Pete heard motor hum. “It’s getting close. Nйstor, you get down there.”

Nйstor ran over and crouched by the sleeping bags. The hum built to a roar. A speedboat bucked waves and fishtailed up on shore.

It was a rat-trap double outboard, with no lower compartment.

Nйstor waved. Nйstor yelled, “Bienvenidos! Viva Fidel!”

Three men hopped off the boat. Three men stayed on. Pete signaled Kemper: ON for you/OFF for me.

Boyd threw a burst at the boat. The windshield exploded and blew the men back against the motors. Pete gunned his men down with one tight strafe.

Nйstor walked up to them. He spit, in their faces and capped them with shots in the mouth.

Pete ran up and vaulted onto the boat. Boyd circled around to the outboards and finished his three with single head pops.

The heroin was triple-wrapped and stuffed in duffel bags. The sheer weight was astonishing.

Nйstor slapped the plastic explosive next to the outboards. The bomb clock was set for 7:15.

Pete off-loaded the dope.

Nйstor tossed the sleeping bags and his three dead men on board.

Boyd scalped them. Nйstor said, “This is for Playa Girуn.”

Pete rope-tied the wheel to the helm bracings and turned the boat around. The compass read south-southeast. The boat would stay on course-barring gale winds and tidal waves.

Boyd hit the motors. Both blades caught on his first pull. They jumped off the sides and watched the boat skid off.

It would explode twenty miles out to sea.

Pete shivered. Boyd tucked the scalps into his pack. Orange Beach looked absolutely pristine.

o o o

Santo Junior would call. He’d say, Delsol fucked me on a deal. He’d say, Pete, you find that cocksucker.

Santo would omit details. He wouldn’t say the deal was Commie-linked and a direct betrayal of the Cadre.

Pete waited for the call at Tiger Kab. He took over the switchboard-Delsol never showed up for work.

Cab calls were backlogged. Drivers kept saying, Where’s Wilfredo?

He’s at a hideout pad. Nйstor’s guarding him. There’s a pound of Big “H” in plain sight.

Boyd drove the rest of the dope to Mississippi. Boyd was stretched a wee bit thin, like he crossed some line with killing.

Pete felt the real line. DON’T YOU KNOW WHO WE FUCKED?

They’d watchdogged Delsol for two weeks running. He didn’t betray them. The dope rendezvous would have been canceled if he did.

He’s at his fake hideout. He’s an instant junkie-Nйstor shot tracks up his arms. He’s zorched on horse-waiting for this goddamn phone call.

It was 4:30 p.m. They split Orange Beach nine and a half hours ago.

Cab calls came in. The phones rang every few seconds. They had pickups backlogged and twelve cabs out-Pete felt like screaming or putting a gun to his head.

Teo Paez cupped his desk phone. “Line two, Pete. It’s Mr. Santo.”

Pete picked up casual slow. “Hi, Boss.”

Santo said the words. Santo came through right on cue.

“Wilfredo Delsol fucked me. He’s hiding out, and I want you to find him.”

“What did he do?”

“Don’t ask questions. Just find him and do it right now.”

o o o

Nйstor let him in. He’d turned the living room into an instant junkie pigsty.

Dig the syringe in plain view. Dig the candy bars mashed into the carpet. Dig that white powder residue on every flat cutting surface.

Dig Wilfredo Olmos Delsol: dope-swacked on a plush-velour couch.

Pete shot him in the head. Nйstor chopped off three of his fingers and dropped them in an ashtray.

It was 5:20. Santo wouldn’t buy a one-hour search-and-find. They had time to reinforce the lie.

Nйstor split-Boyd had work for him back in Mississippi. Pete tamped down his nerves with deep breaths and a dozen cigarettes.

He visualized it. He got the details straight in his head. He put his gloves on and did it.

He dumped the icebox.

He slashed the couch down to the springs.

He ripped the living-room walls out in a mock dope-search frenzy.

He burned cooking spoons.

He formed heroin into snort lines on a glass-topped coffee table.

He found a discarded lipstick and smeared it on some filter-tip butts.

He slashed Delsol with a kitchen knife. He scorched his balls with a wood-burning tool he found in the bedroom.

He dipped his hands in Delsol’s blood and wrote “Traitor” on the living-room wall.

It was 8:40 p.m.

Pete ran down to a pay phone. Real live fear juked his performance.

Delsol’s dead-tortured-I got a tip on his hideout-he was strung-out--dope everywhere-somebody trashed the place-I think he was on a toot with some whores-Santo, tell me, what the fuck is this all about?