“Hey!” a voice yelled.
Two men in suits raced toward him. Cruz sprinted away from them, his long legs eating up the earth. The sound of handgun bullets cracked in the air. Clearly, they were no longer worried about disturbing the guests.
Several rounds whizzed way too close to his ear as he dodged and ducked in the dark, weaving a crooked line toward the water.
More voices yelling. There must be at least four of them now.
Taking a deep breath, he dived into the bay and sank to the shallow bottom, curling into the smallest ball his body could contort into as he pressed his back against the embankment. Bullets rained into the water from above, but he kept still. Depending on angle and velocity, the bullets could penetrate the water up to seven feet, so he didn’t want to move and risk getting shot.
He could hold his breath for six minutes but didn’t have that much time. He had three minutes tops to get out of there if he wanted to make the rendezvous location in time.
The men argued. Cruz remained still.
One minute. The voices moved farther away.
Two minutes. No more sounds. To be sure they were gone, he stayed put.
Three minutes.
Now he’d take a chance.
Cruz resurfaced under the pier and pulled air into his lungs. Above, through the cracks in the wood, he saw a man standing guard on the shore. Dragging the goggles over his eyes, he took another deep breath and dived into the bay, swimming underwater for a few minutes before returning to the surface.
With long, steady strokes, he moved swiftly toward the rendezvous point—a boat that awaited him on the water. Pretty soon the senator’s men would come looking for him in their boats, and he wanted to be far away by the time they did.
2
Cruz slammed down his domino and pumped his fist in the air. “Domino! ¡Ganamos!”
He high-fived his partner, an older Cuban man with dark brown skin and salt-and-pepper hair who’d talked so much trash Cruz had been worried they’d have to eat crow at the end of the game. The other two Cubans they beat grumbled in Spanish and shook their heads.
“How much do I owe you?” Mr. Dominguez asked in Spanish.
“Nothing. I won’t take your money, but I will take this.” Cruz lifted the Panama hat from the older man’s head and dropped it atop his own. “Perfect fit,” he said with a grin, popping an unlit cigar into his mouth.
Whenever he was in the mood for a game of dominoes, he swung by Domino Park on Calle Ocho. This was where the old heads played and had been playing for decades. The air was filled with the scent of cigar smoke and the sound of Spanish as the men argued and laughed during the lively competition at multiple tables.
Mr. Dominguez scowled at him. Laughing, Cruz stood, making ready to leave.
“You can’t go now. Give me a chance to win my hat back,” Mr. Dominguez said.
“Another time, señor. Hasta la proxima.” Cruz tipped his newly won hat at the three men and sauntered away.
“Cabrón,” he heard one of them mutter.
He chuckled to himself.
Dominguez’s daughter walked toward him, sizing him up with her eyes. “Oye, Cruz. ¿Que bola?” She swung her head to look at him as she passed by.
He turned to look at her, too, and was tempted to engage her in conversation but changed his mind, instead shooting her a grin and simply answering, “Estoy bien.”
She was the kind who wanted a relationship, and he was nowhere ready for one. In his line of work, he couldn’t offer her anything permanent, anything real. And keeping his distance meant Dominguez wouldn’t try to shoot him on sight for messing with his daughter.
Cruz hopped into his ‘84 Cadillac El Dorado and gunned the engine. The car hadn’t been much to look at when he bought her, but after a new engine and a paint job that covered it in pristine white paint, she looked as good as new and easily accommodated a man of his size. What he liked best was on a day like today, with the sun shining and the weather balmy, the long drive to Islamorada in the Florida Keys could be enjoyed with the top down.
Donning sunglasses, he cranked up the music and took off. An hour and a half later, he pulled into his favorite beachside bar, Tiki Grill. As soon as Cruz stepped out of the car, another vehicle pulled in behind him. The black sedan parked in an empty space and a man exited from the back. This man was an unwelcome sight.
“Miles,” he muttered.
Miles Garrison was his contact at Plan B, the government agency he started working for twelve years ago, at the young age of eighteen. Plan B had no records and no budget. Officially, they didn’t exist but operated under the concept that America’s greatest threats come from within her borders. Greed, prejudice, and hate breed these problems, and a special team was needed to control the fallout when all else failed. Very few knew who they were. Some were assassins, others were spooks, and still others—like Cruz—a combination of the two.
The fact that Miles had shown up in person couldn’t be good. His visit not only meant Cruz’s vacation was about to end, it meant his next assignment was major.
A tall Black man with short-cropped hair and a full beard, Miles was completely overdressed in a three-piece suit and tie and carrying a briefcase.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Better when you weren’t here,” Cruz replied, heading toward his favorite table near the water.
Miles chuckled, taking the dismissal in stride. “I need to talk to you.”
“Who’s in the car?”
“That’s what I need to talk to you about.”
Cruz glanced over his shoulder. Miles was no longer smiling.
In the open-air restaurant, they walked to a table that overlooked the Gulf. It was mid-afternoon, with only a few patrons and a skeleton crew of staff at work.
Cruz sat with his back to the wall and held up two fingers to the bartender, who nodded his understanding.
“I hate to bother you since you just came back from that assignment in Maine, but this couldn’t wait. Good job with Senator Peaslee, by the way.”
The senator had been placed under arrest once the news hit the papers and the airwaves. His whole house of cards was tumbling down—as it should be.
“What are you doing here? I thought you never left your cushy office in DC. Since when do they send you on errands?”
The bartender arrived with two chilled bottles of Corona.
“Thanks,” Cruz said.
“Since I’m on my way to the Virgin Islands on a family vacation, I offered to stop by and meet with you.”
“Bullshit.”
Miles’s lips twisted into a slight smile. “Okay, fine. I was instructed to meet with you. I have a high-priority assignment that’s off the books.”
This wasn’t an unusual request, since his services had been “loaned” out before to the governments of other countries. “Which country?”
“Not a country, a person. The person who wants to hire your services is Karen Sandoval, niece of Senator Joseph Sandoval from Texas.”
Cruz’s eyebrows shifted higher. Joseph Sandoval was a wealthy businessman and long-serving politician on The Hill. He was currently chairman of the Senate Committee on Appropriations, one of the most powerful committees in the Senate.
“You have my attention,” he said, taking a swig of beer.