I turn on the flashlight, shining it toward the car.
Florida license plates.
The night is silent.
How can I not look?
I walk to the driver’s side of the car.
“What did you get me into?” I murmur under my breath.
The window is down, and I reach my hand into the car and pop the lock, opening the door.
Despite the lowered window, the car smells of cigarettes and sweat, the faint hint of cheap perfume on the air.
My heart pounds. Am I really doing this?
Using the flashlight to guide my path, I engage the trunk release inside the car.
Flashlight in hand, I get out of the car, shutting the door behind me gently, and walk around the car to the trunk, lifting the lid over my head.
Crates stare back at me.
I pause for a moment, listening for the sound of footsteps, voices.
Silence greets me. Curiosity gets the best of me.
I lift the lid of one of the crates. Shine the flashlight down.
It takes me a moment to reconcile the sight of the red sticks piled together, for my brain to put a name to them. When I do, a part of me wishes I hadn’t.
The crate is filled with sticks of dynamite.
* * *
• • •
I’m halfway to the dock, gun and flashlight in hand, when I hear Eduardo’s voice in the distance.
Followed by his laughter.
I do a one-eighty, killing the flashlight and using the moonlight to guide me back.
He didn’t tell me to stay in the car, but now that I know explosives are involved, I’m not eager to be any more embroiled in his scheme than I already am.
I shouldn’t have come.
I lengthen my strides as I head toward Eduardo’s car, slightly out of breath by the time I slide into the bucket seat and shut the door behind me, my heart pounding madly.
A minute later, their voices become louder, their footsteps heavy. Eduardo walks beside the two men who arrived, heading toward their parked car.
I flatten my body against the car seat, turning my head to the side, careful to keep my face shielded.
The trunk opens, followed by a thud, the car lowering slightly as the crates are loaded. The trunk closes, and a few moments later, Eduardo climbs into the driver’s seat.
“Did you miss me?” he teases.
Miss him? At the moment, I could cheerfully kill him.
The other car leaves.
“What’s the dynamite for?” I ask.
“Jesus, Beatriz.” He shakes his head. “I should have known better than to bring you.”
“Yes, you probably should have. What’s the dynamite for?”
“One of those other plans I was telling you about.”
“One of the ones the CIA knows nothing about.”
He nods, turning the key in the ignition and putting the car in drive.
“Why do you need that much dynamite?”
He gives a short little laugh. “Why do you think?”
In Cuba, we weren’t afraid to use violence to achieve our ends. We wanted to bring about a revolution and were willing to use a variety of means to do so. But this isn’t Cuba. And if Eduardo is intending to use the explosives in the United States or to hatch a plot here that the CIA isn’t privy to—well, that doesn’t seem very smart.
“You can’t be thinking of using it here.”
“I’m not doing anything. I’m merely a facilitator. For the right price.”
“It’s for Cuba, though, isn’t it?”
“There are other ways to get the Americans’ attention, to bring the fight to their home.”
“We can’t afford to alienate the Americans,” I caution.
“You let me worry about the Americans. You just do your part in catching—and holding—Fidel’s interest.”
* * *
• • •
I get out of the car when we arrive home, eager to head back to bed, annoyed with Eduardo, with myself for following him. He was reckless in Cuba, and it’s clear he hasn’t learned his lesson.
I don’t have the appetite for unnecessary risks anymore.
“Beatriz.”
I stumble at the sound of my name, at the sight of my father, our gazes connecting across the driveway. He’s dressed in one of his suits, standing at the front door, car keys in hand.
Is he heading to the office? It must be five A.M. The rest of the household is surely asleep at this hour.
“Where were you?”
The hardness in my father’s voice surprises me most. He’s always been a firm parent, and I’ve certainly heard that same tone directed at my brother in the past, but he treats his daughters with a softer touch, and me most of all.
“I—”
No excuse comes.
“Out with some boy?”
That’s the easiest—and safest—explanation I could provide.
I shouldn’t be surprised by the sight of my father at this late—or early—hour, even if I wasn’t prepared to give any explanations. I’ve heard he leaves for the office before the sun comes up and works late into the night, but there is a difference between hearing that my father is working harder than he ever has before and seeing it with my own eyes.
He’s in his sixties now. In Cuba, he’d talked about retiring, turning the business over to Alejandro. Now he’s starting over again, decades of work and sacrifice erased because of Fidel.
“I was with Eduardo. There was a party,” I lie. “You know how he is.”
“I do. That’s what worries me.” My father is silent for a moment. “This isn’t Cuba, Beatriz. I can’t protect you. Not that I could . . .”
My brother isn’t here with us physically, but his presence consumes the family. Is my father’s drive—his obsession with accumulating more wealth and power—his attempt to make up for the fact that his efforts in Cuba weren’t enough to save his only son?
“I know,” I reply, stepping forward and wrapping an arm around him, as though our roles have shifted, and I’m the parent comforting the child. “I am careful,” I add, even as we both know my words are a lie.
I doubt I’ve been careful a day in my life.
“It’s dangerous, Beatriz.”