Assassin

Chapter Thirty-Four

Miami

STOKELY WOKE UP WHEN A RAINDROP BOUNCED OFF HIS forehead. He opened his eyes. Chalky dust made them sting. He blinked out tears to clear them, and did a quick survey. What hurt and what did not. His nose still hurt like hell, inside the left nostril where the guy had stuck his trademark silver scissors. Legs hurt too, like a weight on them. It was, shit, a big chunk of plaster on top of him. Heavy mother, too. Pinned his arms and legs both. Oh, right, the ceiling fell down when the bombs went off. And now it was dark clouds up above, crackling with lightning, spitting out rain, and there were guys with flashlights climbing all over the rubble. Rescue team. Hey, over here, he almost said.

No. This wasn’t Dade County EMS on the scene. These guys were all shouting in Spanish. That wasn’t the thing, though; the thing was they were all in black and had camo paint and all had automatic weapons. He heard one go off. A Chinese guy, had to be one of Don Quixote’s guards, screamed in pain, another burst, quiet once more. They were shooting the survivors.

He closed his eyes. Dead again. Listening.

You spend enough time, like he had, standing on street corners in Spanish Harlem selling product, you’re bound to pick up a lot of español. And Stoke had. Donde está del Rio? He heard one say. Where’s the river?

They were shining flashlights all around him, now. They were looking for a river? Calling out the name, over and over. Del Rio! Del Rio! The river, right? No.

Don Quixote. The star formerly known in Cuba as Rodrigo del Rio. This blown-up museum used to be his house. These guys, Cuban forces most likely, were the ones who’d knocked it down. The guy they were looking for had a pair of scissors up Stoke’s nose when the lights went out. Where was he now? Stoke’d like a piece of this action. Only he couldn’t move.

He was wondering about Ross, too. Ross, just before lights out, saying get down, Stoke. Was Ross dead or just playing possum again? He heard another guy scream, not Spanish, Chinese again, and then a burst of automatic fire. Shut the guy up. He could see it now, even with his eyes closed. A blind man could see it. They were going through the rubble, looking for del Rio, and shooting anybody who didn’t fit the description.

He had to get to Ross, help him before they found him and shot him. Trying not to make any noise, he got his hands and knees pushing up against the plaster. Didn’t move more than half an inch but something slid off, glass most probably, least it sounded like glass when it broke.

Instantly, a guy was shining a light in his face. Another guy kicked him in the head with the toe of his boot. Stoke’s eyes popped open and he looked into the flashlight, smiling even though he couldn’t see anything but a ball of fire that made him squint. Jesus. Hurt like hell.

“Buenas noches,” Stoke said, “Americano. Amigo.”

Having pretty much established his ties to the Hispanic community, he was surprised when the boot caught him just behind the ear. A couple of guys were lifting the roof off him and four other guys had him by the arms, yanking him out. He wondered if four would be enough. Alex always described him as being about the size of your average armoire. Actually, he was bigger, from what little he’d seen of armoires.

Anyway, they finally got him on his feet and shoved him back against something that was still upright. A beam or a column felt like. Then they got his arms behind him. He was still groggy and there was a guy with a pistol in his ear. Otherwise no way they would have tied his wrists together with the plastic military handcuffs.

“Stoke? You alive, then?” It was Ross, his voice cracked and broken sounding.

“Silencio!” another Cuban guy said, and he heard the thud of metal on bone, somebody taking a pistol to Ross’s face. This Miami vacation was not going the right direction. He’d rather be checking the action poolside at the Delano anytime.

“Hey, listen up,” Stoke said to the guy in his face, “habla inglés, aquí? Somebody speak English? Who’s the jefe around here?”

“Sí, señor, I speak English,” the little guy with the gun in his ear said. “So I am able to understand your last fucking words.” He cocked the hammer. “Say them.”

“Oh, man, hold up.”

“Where is he, señor?” the Cuban said. He was short and had terrible acne scars which probably accounted for his bad attitude toward life. “Tell me where your jefe is and maybe we can talk.” He slammed his fist into Stoke’s ribcage for emphasis, most probably broke a few of his fingers in the process.

“Hey. We got a problem here? You talking about Don Quixote, right, a.k.a. Rodrigo del Rio, right? He ain’t my jefe, man. I’m Stokely Jones, NYPD retired. Me and that guy you beating up on over there, we both cops. We’re looking to bust this Rodrigo’s ass just like you. You guys’re all Cuban right, ’less I’m wrong.”

“How would you know this?”

“I know a lot of shit, you let me talk. You in command of this outfit? You the jefe?”

“Sí. Talk fast.”

“This cat del Rio betrayed your government a while back, I know that. Switch-hitter. He was Fidel’s chief of security. But he ratted out Fidel to them three rebel generals who took over. But me and another guy, who shall remain nameless, we went down there and spoiled their little military coup. Killed two, sent one away for life. That’s how Fidel got his banana republic back. And that’s how come Rodrigo, with a price tag on his head, he cut and run. Now, Fidel got you boys out trying to whack him, right? You’re Cuban Special Forces, right? RDF? Shit, amigo, I know your boss. The comandante himself.”

“Shoot these two fucking gringos,” the bad-skinned guy said, taking his gun away and stepping out of range. Stoke heard three or four automatics racking they bolts. “No witnesses.”

“Wait! You’re not thinking straight. Two things. One, my friend over there ain’t no gringo! He’s English. Royalty. Put it together, pal. English. Royalty. You shoot him, you got a major international crisis on your ass. Two. You talking to a personal friend of Fidel’s. As in Castro. We tight, motherfucker. You whack me, you in the land of pain soon as you get back to sunny Havana. You shoot me, Fidel shoots you, okay? Boom. Boom.”

“Shoot him.”

Stoke closed his eyes. Didn’t want to see it.

“Shoot me first, boyo!” Ross shouted, sounding stronger. “I don’t want to see my friend die. But before you shoot either of us, take a look at the medal he’s wearing around his neck.”

“What stinking medal?” the little jefe asked.

The medal? Oh, yeah. That medal. Stoke smiled over at Sutherland and then shouted at his interrogator, getting right up in his business.

“Hey! You! Focus! What are you, ADD?”

“ADD?”

“Attention Deficit Syndrome, man! Try and concentrate, all right, till I can drum you up some Ritalin? You don’t believe what I’m sayin’? Look inside my shirt! Rip it open! You looking at one bona fide Cuban Medal of Honor winner, boy. Just check it out. You don’t recognize what you see, I’m shit out of luck, you boys go right ahead and shoot us.”

Stoke held his breath. Ross may have just saved his life. These low-level special ops guys were usually what, in the SEALs, they used to call risk averse. Don’t like to take chances. Works in your favor sometimes, you get lucky enough.

Like now, the guy ripping open his fancy dress shirt seeing that bright gold medal hanging on a twenty-four carat chain around his twenty-four-inch neck. A nice shiny Cuban flag on the front. Man lifting it off his chest, looking at it up close. “Where you get this?”

“Cuba, where else? When I saved your comandante’s ass from those rebel generals couple of years ago, like I told you. You probably don’t remember all that. Probably still in grade school.”

“Shut up! Enough of this bullshit.”

“Tell him to read what’s on the other side,” Ross said.

“Yeah! Turn it over,” Stoke said. “Shine your damn light on it. Read what’s on the back. Out loud, por favor, so all your trigger-happy commandos with their guns on me know who they dealing with here.”

“Presented to Stokely Jones Jr.,” the guy read in English, shaking his head, not believing what he was reading, “In recognition of his heroic service to the Republic of Cuba. Fidel Castro, January 2002.”

“See what I’m saying? Fidel and me, we are two coats of paint. We are tight.”

“It’s—real? This is real?”

“Sí. Es real. Damn right it’s real. Think I went out and bought it in case I ran into some Cuban commandos didn’t believe my story?”

“Okay. Bueno,” the guy said, finally. Risk averse, all right. “Okay. I believe you.”

“Good. I’m Stoke, he’s Ross. What’s your name?”

The guy actually reached up and patted Stoke on the cheek. “Me llamo Pepe,” he said, “Lieutenant Pepe Alvarez.” Big smile, like they friends now. Not taking any chances whatsoever just like Stoke knew he would. Or would not. Whichever way you want to say it.

“Let these two gringos go,” he said to the guy behind him, “Cut them loose.”

“Good, Lieutenant. Now you focused. Lucky, too. You got two world-class cops here, help you go find this skanky piece of human garbage Rodrigo.”

“Right,” Ross said, rubbing his wrists. “This man you’re after murdered a friend of ours. A bride on her wedding day. And a Miami police officer in his bed, and now this poor lad here.” Ross knelt beside Preacher, covering him up best he could with his torn and bloody black tuxedo jacket.

“Scissorhands is going down, Ross,” Stoke said, looking at the dead boy on the floor. “When we catch hold of him. All the way down. Look at me. I promise you that.” He’d loved the kid. Planned to take him under his wing.

Somewhere out beyond the house, down the great sweep of lawn that ended at the edge of the bay, there was a heavy rumble. Two powerful and deep-throated engines erupted into life. Sounded like one of those hundred-mile-an-hour Cigarette powerboats. Also, there was the sound of about fifty Miami PD squad car sirens coming up the long drive that led to the former residence of Rodrigo del Rio; what used to be the Vizcaya Museum. Time to rock and roll.

“You guys come here on spec-ops boats, right?” Stoke asked the little guy, kneading his wrists, trying make his hands wake up. “Inflatables off some foreign freighter also stops in Havana, way I would do it.”

“Sí.”

“That’s good, ’cause we gonna need ’em if we going to catch Rodrigo. Hear that? Fixing to haul his ass away from the dock.”

“Vámonos!” Alvarez shouted, and everybody bolted from the rubble and ran down through the gardens to the Vizcaya docks where the Cubans had moored four high-speed inflatables. Stoke was bringing up the rear with his arm around Ross, who’d busted up his leg. Everybody jumped in, cranking the big outboards, throwing off lines. Stoke and Ross jumped down into Pepe’s boat as it roared away from the dock.

Stoke peered over the bow, the salt spray and rain stinging his eyes. All they could see of Rodrigo now was the huge white plume of his speedboat’s rooster tail as he raced away from the elaborate Venetian-style harbor, slashing southeast across storm-tossed Biscayne Bay. Boy had worked out his escape plan a long time ago, Stoke imagined. Saw this day coming. Contingency planning was what they called it.

Stoke was happy. He’d always liked being somebody’s contingency.