The Witness (Miami Private Security #4)

14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Sabrina

T he hum of the seaplane’s engine was deafening even with the headset that our nameless pilot provided clamped over my ears. Our seats were hard and cramped, but the view out my small window was breathtaking. The ocean between Miami and Cuba glistened with every shade of blue I’d ever imagined, from sapphire to topaz. Thankfully, I’d accidentally kept Gigi’s sunglasses, making it possible to enjoy the view. I’d have to return them to her after everything… If we made it out of Cuba.

I wished with all my might that the last few days had been a horrible nightmare. I pinched myself once more, hoping to wake up and find that the flight was actually the start of a romantic vacation or a solo adventure. It would be an incredible start to a trip, the kind of story you told to friends for years to come. I rubbed the tender spot on my inner arm. This was no dream. I was running for my life and violating Cuban sovereignty; it was not a fantasy vacation.

We had descended some time ago, flying low to avoid detection by Cuban authorities. The water looked close enough to touch as it rushed beneath the plane.

The pilot’s warning that we were going to land crackled over the headset. I twisted in my seat looking for land or a boat and saw nothing. I tapped Michael’s leg and wrinkled my brow in confusion. He leaned back, and I looked out the window. His massive body had blocked my view of a long, low coastline lush with green vegetation and dotted with tall palm trees.

Even after two hours in the plane with the clean-shaven, well-dressed version of Michael, I was still getting used to his transformation. It was jarring in the most handsome way possible. With or without the makeover, there wasn’t another person I wanted here protecting me. Everything about him made this crazy situation a little more bearable.

The plane followed the curve of the land into the mouth of a wide lagoon. We dipped lower, triggering the queasy feeling in my stomach that I associated with airplanes and roller coasters. The small size of the seaplane amplified the unpleasant sensation as we skimmed only feet above the water.

I held on to my armrest with a white-knuckle grip. Michael covered my clenched hand with his and gave me a reassuring smile. I wasn’t scared exactly, but I’d never thought I’d experience what it felt like to be a rock skipped across a pond either.

I gasped. The moment the plane touched down wasn’t the violent bump I’d expected. One mild bounce and a slight dip to one side. Not that different from a normal landing, other than the crystal-clear water that stood in for a paved tarmac.

“Welcome to Cuba. Let’s make this quick.” The pilot turned the plane, and we motored toward a long wooden dock that extended far out into the lagoon.

Michael was already unbuckling his seat belt and moving to the door, ready to open it.

“You’re clear,” the pilot said, and Michael flipped some latches that made the plane’s door swing up. Bright tropical sunshine streamed into the plane along with the smell of the ocean.

Michael had a coil of rope in one hand and leaned far out the open door to toss it to someone on the dock. I unbuckled my seat belt and twisted around, craning my neck desperately wanting to see who waited for us.

“Tell him not to bother tying me up. I’m not staying. In fact, I was never here.” The pilot reached behind his seat to snap his fingers at me and Michael. “Headsets.”

I tugged mine off and dropped it in Michael’s empty seat. A moment later Michael tossed his next to mine. Apparently, the CIA wasn’t big on thank yous or goodbyes. The only thing missing was a swift kick in the ass.

Michael heaved our bags out the open door onto the dock and took my hand, pulling me from my seat into the bright sunshine.

I was in Cuba. Fuck me.

Laughter bubbled up my throat, and I forced it down. I had to get it together. Laughing hysterically and begging the nameless pilot to take me home to Miami weren’t options. Smith promised if I did this, I’d have my life back and be able to keep my promise to Hailey. I squared my shoulders and turned to meet Smith’s man in Cuba.

“Ms. Dalton, pleasure to meet you. I’m Gunter Saxon.”

When a man like Gunter Saxon said pleasure, it resonated all the way to your toes. He was a debonaire silver fox with an exotic accent I couldn’t place other than to say European. His linen shirt flapped in the breeze, offering a glimpse of tan chest and lean muscles.

He extended his palm, caught my fingers, and lifted my hand to his lips. The chaste kiss he placed on my knuckles was straight out of a fairy tale.

“Nice to meet you.” I sounded breathless and hated it. Yes, Saxon could play 007 in the next movie, but I wasn’t one to melt for any man. Not even Bond, James Bond. I rolled my eyes at my reaction behind Gigi’s dark glasses.

Steel thrust his hand between me and Saxon and practically growled his name.

“Gunter Saxon.” He clutched Steel’s hand, and the men locked eyes, taking each other’s measure for an excruciatingly long time.

Men are exasperating. The handshake looked downright painful. If I could have slipped a lump of charcoal between their clasped hands, I’d have had a diamond after the two got finished penis measuring. Their unbridled display of testosterone didn’t make me feel any safer.

“We need to get moving. I have a contact waiting at the hotel. She’s drinking on my bar tab, and after too much rum, she’s a handful.” Saxon used his left, non-crushed hand to pick up one of the bags and started the long walk up the dock.

Michael, who surreptitiously flexed his abused hand, grabbed the other bag, and we followed our new friend. At the end of the dock, a cherry red 1950s convertible with its top down glistened in the sun.

Michael whistled in appreciation. “That is one hell of a Cadi.”

“Yeah, she’s a 1959 Cadillac Series 62. One glorious mountain of Detroit steel.”

“Incredible.” Michael caressed the car’s outrageous tailfin.

I watched his long, blunt fingers trace the chrome. A longing to let him stroke me like that bloomed, but I forced it out of my mind. I plucked at the front of Gigi’s flowery sundress and turned away. No sexy thoughts about Michael Steel, I sternly reminded myself. The tropical air I fanned over my chest was doing little to dampen the spark of attraction heating my skin.

Gunter slammed the trunk with a loud thunk. I jumped, startled out of my wayward thoughts by the clunk of Detroit steel. Our bags stowed, we got on the road.

“How do you know Smith?” I asked before they got too comfortable with the silence. Men can just drive for hours not saying a word. The questions rattling around in my head would never allow me to accept that. I’d go crazy before we reached Havana.

“John Smith and I go way back. I’ve known that son of a bitch for about twenty years. If not for Kira, he’d be tending bar at my club in St. Moritz dreaming about his glory days.”

“You own a bar in Switzerland.” I rubbed a growing knot of tension in my right shoulder.

“But of course, that’s where the best skiing is.” Gunter smiled a playboy’s smile at me in the rear-view mirror that made me want to scream with frustration.

I leaned forward from the backseat to talk into Michael’s ear, the wind whipping through the open car forcing me to speak louder than discretion warranted. “My savior is a forty-something playboy bartender?”

Gunter’s harsh bark of laughter let me know my words had carried to him. Embarrassed, I slumped back in my seat.

“I like you; you’ve got balls. You’re going to need them.” He shot me another smile in the rearview mirror.

“Welcome to our world, where no one is what they seem.” Steel turned around in his seat, unencumbered by a seatbelt because the car pre-dated them by decades.

“I don’t understand.”

“Take me, for example. I look, er looked, like a biker. Can fight like a soldier. Speak four languages, can drive a big rig, and earned a master’s degree in sociology. Among other things.”

I shrugged.

“Okay, how about Quinn? Mild-mannered office manager, right?”

I nodded. Quinn was the kind of indispensable employee that kept a company organized with a smile and determination.

“She’s a demolitions expert. As good at blowing stuff up as any Navy SEAL or IRA terrorist.”

This time, my jaw dropped. “No way.”

“Yes. And Sydney, besides being a lawyer and married to a billionaire, is a full-on commando. She has led extraction teams on rescue missions all over South and Central America.”

My fears about how normal the Smith Agency people appeared waned rapidly.

“What I’m saying is—”

Gunter interrupted. “Don’t judge a book by its cover, yes, yes, she gets it. You’ve gone down the rabbit hole, Alice, and the world is way more complicated than you can imagine. And I’m the Cheshire Cat.” He had the smile for the role, that was for sure.

I sat back against the white leather bench seat, his words sinking in as the scenery rolled past.

The route to Havana wound through a few small towns and lots of farms. Most of the roads were paved, some better than others. Gunter played tour guide, waxing poetic about the tobacco farms and a ruined rum distillery we passed. I listened with half an ear. His reference to Alice in Wonderland had made me very nervous. I didn’t want to be Alice, doing as I was told and not asking questions. Drink me. Eat me. Fuck me . I envisioned falling down a very deep hole, crashing out of control toward my fate.

“I’m here to ID Sandoval, then go home, right?” I’d cut Gunter off in the middle of a lecture about the Cuban identity crisis now that Fidel was gone.

“Unfortunately, Alice, it’s not that simple.” He tapped a long, elegant finger on the oversized steering wheel, his buffed and shaped nails were better manicured than my ragged chef’s hands.

“How complicated?” Michael, who’d been quiet letting Gunter prattle on as we drove, sounded pissed. Good, me too.

“Sandoval is nuclear. Almost no country wants to arrest him or incarcerate him. But the Cubans see him and his organization as a blight on their country. The members of his criminal syndicate like to hide from American authorities in Havana, zipping across the Florida Straits on go-fast boats carrying guns, drugs, and American dollars. It’s embarrassing Cuba. They want it to stop, making the Cubans the only government that has the stomach for locking him away and forgetting where they put the key.” Gunter explained the situation in the same tone as he’d pointed out the sights on our drive.

“But…” Michael twisted in his seat to look from me to Gunter and back.

“The Cubans only know Sandoval’s people. His thugs that deal drugs, sell black market goods, and generally do things that scare the European and Canadian tourists away from Havana.”

“It’s the same problem as in Miami. There are too many scumbags and no leader,” Michael added, his head cocked as he considered the information Gunter supplied.

Apparently, the need-to-know system of management that John Smith used didn’t extend to Gunter. This car trip was enlightening.

“Yes, that’s Sandoval’s appeal for these criminals. His reputation protects them and grants them access to his criminal network, and he only calls in a favor when he needs it. The rest of the time they run wild, growing Sandoval’s power. Cuba wants to cut the head off the hydra and see what happens.”

“A power vacuum.” Michael nodded.

“It had to be Cuba or Mexico. The FBI in South Florida is corrupt and Sandoval never, ever comes ashore in America. Think about it.” Gunter caught my eye, turning over his shoulder to ensure I was following his explanation. “The woman you saw murdered was a Mexican national. On a boat in international waters. The USA would never do much.” Gunter shrugged and turned back to face the road.

“Fucking Smith.” Michael rubbed his face and muttered a few more choice curses about his boss sending him in unprepared.

“You think Smith knew all this?” I asked the men.

They turned and shared a look across the wide bench. They both chuckled cynically. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

“Knew it? Ha, Smith may have recommended you for the catering job that landed you on the Jabberwocky. He’s that good.” Gunter reached forward and flicked on the radio, fiddling with the knob until the plaintive strains of Bésame Mucho poured from the speakers.

I closed my eyes as the song and Gunter’s words wove around me. The fine hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and it felt like I was falling down Alice’s rabbit hole.

Fuck me .