The Witness (Miami Private Security #4)

24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Sabrina

T ranslating shouted Spanish to English wasn’t high on my priority list at the moment. I was too grateful to be alive. The PNR swarmed over the boat, and men with guns shouted and pointed, taking control. I leaned into Michael and concentrated on slowing my pounding heart. We were safe. These were the good guys.

I’d seen my death when I looked into Sandoval’s dark eyes. It had been like watching a movie projected onto the obsidian depths, every detail in full technicolor. I’m on my knees, head tipped back. Sandoval’s well-manicured hand fists my bleach blonde hair. The knife lingers at my throat for a few horrifying moments before his grip tightens and he drags the blade over my jugular.

I’d seen the future and didn’t want any part of it.

So, I’d gone totally limp. Somewhere, I read if you were attacked going limp was a good way to surprise your captors. No one expected a struggling person to fall to the ground. Dead weight, the article called it.

The few seconds my flop had bought Michael and me turned out to be priceless. The PNR arrived just in time.

The four guards on the fishing deck had surrendered. A deadly-looking weapon was pointed at each man’s chest by a masked PNR agent. Sandoval had backed toward the bow of the boat. He held his hand with the knife out in front of him, warding off the soldiers. He spoke Spanish so fast I could only understand an occasional word.

“Is he trying to bribe his way out?” I whispered to Michael.

“Yes. But it’s not working so far.” He’d wrapped his arms protectively around me. They vibrated with tension, ready to pull me to safety if the situation escalated. I doubted my superhero would relax until we were off this boat and safely back in our hotel room.

“Dumas, Sabrina. This way.” The older of the two PNR agents working with Gunter waved Michael and me away from the standoff on the back deck. We edged around the soldiers and guards, staying as far from the guns as possible.

Before we climbed up the few steps that separated the fishing deck from the main cabin level, the other PNR officer came down. He had handcuffs dangling from his index finger. The two officers shared a knowing look and broad smiles. I assumed Sandoval’s capture was an enormous accomplishment. Good for them. They could have all the glory.

Part of me wanted to stay and watch that son of a bitch Sandoval get cuffed, but Michael would probably toss me over his shoulder and carry me caveman style back to our room if I dared linger.

“Come on.” Michael put a hand at the small of my back, and I preceded him up the stairs. Always the protector, he had my back, and the officer led the way off the Jabberwocky.

We’d hardly gone three steps down the dock when Gunter pushed away from a light pole and approached. He looked totally un-fazed, not a wrinkle in his linen shirt or hair out of place.

“Well done.” He cut the zip ties, holding my wrists with a small folding knife. “Most people would have pissed themselves in that situation.” His accent made the word piss classy. I felt proud I’d impressed him, even if inside I’d been scared shitless.

“Truly spectacular. Cuba thanks you,” the PRN officer added with a bow of his head.

I flashed a quick smile at them both.

“We will need to bandage these.” Michael caught one of my hands and lifted it up to inspect the damage from the zip ties. It sounded like he was in more pain than me. Over a lifetime in the kitchen I’d been burned, steamed, stabbed, and crushed; a little rope burn was nothing. I was tough.

“It’s fine, no—” My words were cut off by gunfire.

“Shit.” Michael pulled me close.

“This way.” Gunter rushed down the dock toward the hotel.

“Incoming. Those aren’t my soldiers.” Acosta pointed at the group of armed men thundering in our direction, guns drawn. They were more of Sandoval’s guys, reinforcements from the hotel. We were between them and their boss. Talk about a rock and an extremely dangerous hard place.

Behind us, shots rang out from on board the Jabberwocky. A body splashed into the water. The sounds of running boots and angry men came from both directions. We were trapped.

Bullets whizzed past us, and Michael shielded as much of me as possible while we ran. More gunfire. Chips of wood sprayed into the air as bullets chunked into the dock and pilings around us.

I didn’t see the PNR officer get shot, only heard his scream of pain. My heart stuttered at the realization of how deadly the situation had become in a few seconds. The irony: to get this far and take a stray bullet. Not how I wanted this to end.

Gunter stopped short. Michael and I almost crashed into his back.

“Get on,” Gunter yelled as he untied the bow line of an idling boat.

The craft was a lime green and black go-fast boat. It looked out of place among the sedate-looking yachts and luxury sport fishing boats in the hotel harbor.

Michael hustled me on board and got ready to undo the stern line. “Get in the fucking boat, Acosta. You’ve already been shot once.”

The Cuban police officer stood, one hand clutching his injured shoulder. Blood streamed through his fingers and dripped down, puddling on the dock. He looked between the gang of Sandoval’s men running up the dock and the hand-to-hand fighting on the decks of the Jabberwocky. The indecision on his face made me want to hug him or punch him. I wasn’t sure which.

Gunter took the choice out of Acosta’s hands and shoved him into the boat. It was too late. Sandoval’s reinforcements had started shooting at us.

Gunter produced a small black gun from under his gauzy shirt and returned fire. Michael jerked the gun out of Acosta’s holster and took aim. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to be afraid.

“Can you drive a boat?” Gunter shouted at me.

He hardly needed to ask. I’d already started moving to take the controls. It was time to get the hell out of Cuba. I reversed out of the slip carefully, but as soon as the bow pointed toward the main harbor, I hammered the throttle. The roar of the powerful engines was one of the best sounds I’d heard since getting to this island. A huge V of wake bloomed behind us as I swerved around boat traffic and headed straight for the open ocean going as fast as I dared. As we passed the old lighthouse, I checked the digital compass—due north. Miami.

Once we were out of range of the harbor and I was sure no one had followed, I slowed so we could take stock.

“Nice driving.” Michael smiled at me, and my heart flipped. Excitement, adrenaline, escaping death. Shit, this was living. I left the helm and threw myself at him. He crushed me into his chest. The kiss was fast and sloppy. It tasted like salt water and danger. Hot, fast, and so memorable.

“Enough, you two. Time is of the essence. This isn’t the only go-fast boat in Havana.” Gunter shouldered between us to take my place at the controls.

“But it was the only one fully fueled and idling near the Jabberwocky,” Michael said.

“Always have a Plan B.” The smile that curved Gunter's lips was so James Bond I almost laughed.

“If I had champagne, I’d pop a bottle.” I was giddy, beside myself, euphoric. We did it.

“I’m sure Kira can have a bottle ready for us when we arrive,” Michael said.

“Kira is a goddess. Smith is one lucky bastard.” Gunter poked at the satellite navigation system to lay a course to Miami.

Michael wrapped a makeshift bandage around Acosta’s arm while the boat bobbed in the rolling swells. The officer hadn’t said much, answering Michael’s questions about his arm in a zombie-like monotone. Triage done, we all strapped in for the ride.

Go-fast boats aren’t made for comfort. They are basically ocean-going rockets. The creature comforts on board were limited to padding on the shoulder harnesses that kept us from flying overboard when the boat crashed over the waves.

Conversation and relaxation weren’t an option when going full throttle.

Gunter might have set some nautical speed record for crossing the Florida Straits that day. It was intense. Poor Acosta, every thump and bump had to hurt like hell. Other than an occasional hand signal or shouted question, we were trapped in our own thoughts for the ride, nothing but wind noise and the purr of the motor for company.

About thirty minutes into the jarring ride, Michael took my hand. He kept it until we approached Miami. The skyline filled the horizon like a man-made mountain range. Gunter eased back on the throttle and angled the boat toward an entrance to Biscayne Bay. Michael had moved to stand next to him, helping to navigate the busy waterway. Both had their cell phones in hand, typing out texts.

Our heading would take us past Fisher Island and within a stone’s throw of Star Island, where we’d set out from only a few days ago. Huge cruise ships lined up at the port made our go-fast look insignificant. We slipped past them and into the mouth of the Miami river.

In my ears, the relentless pounding of water and motor that had been our constant companion over the last three-plus hours slowly faded. The sounds of the city and the urban river took their place. Overhead, the hum of traffic on the I-95 bridge brought a smile to my face. It was good to be home.

I exhaled tension and breathed in stinky river water and exhaust fumes. Delicious.

Michael turned to look at me, holding up his phone. “Everyone’s waiting for us at the office.”

“My mom’s okay?”

“Quinn’s text said your mom was threatening to jump in the river and swim out to meet us if we didn’t hurry.”

I laughed at the thought. Mom in an old lady skirted bathing suit, taking a swan dive off the seawall into the less than crystal clear water of the Miami River to get to me. The joy and lightness of the silly thought hit me like a ray of Florida sunshine. The fear and guilt that had clouded everything since this began was lifting.

I joined Gunter and Michael at the helm, my hand on Michael's shoulder. “Am I free and clear now?” I hoped so. I wanted it so much. This had to be over. I’d done everything Smith asked and more.

Michael shrugged and looked to Gunter.

“I need to check with my colleagues in Havana and find out what the hell happened at the marina after we left. Then we will know for sure.” Gunter’s words briefly put a damper on my excitement. Until I realized the same seawall I’d climbed up a few nights ago was just ahead.

Mom, Quinn, and the rest of the Smith Agency were lined up waiting for us.

I ran a hand through my tangled hair. It came back sticky with salt spray. I tugged at my gray tee shirt. It wasn’t any better. Fuck it, we were back.

“Wow, talk about a full circle moment. As it begins, so it ends.” I bumped Michael’s shoulder with mine and pointed to the exact spot where I’d collapsed on the seawall.

He looked at me, his expression so serious it concerned me. I wrinkled my forehead in confusion, not sure what I said to worry him.

“No, it’s nothing. You're right—a full circle.” He forced a smile and eased away from me.