Cuba Undercover Page 4

  “Mantengan sus manos adonde las puedo ver!”

  Keep your hands where I can see them. Her gaze shot in the direction of Ignado’s voice. Standing straight as a rod, the tattooed man held a black revolver in front of him. She swallowed, her gaze darting down the line of his intended fire. On the dock below them, a young man and two young women stood, hands in the air like victims in a James Bond movie.

  The young people, who were bathed in the glow of a large flashlight beam, couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen years old. They wore dirty, mismatched clothes and their sweat and mud-streaked faces were animated with wide-eyed fear. One of the women held on to a toddler, who sucked his thumb, blinking into the blinding light.

  No telling what that asshole Ignado would do. Her heart rocked with fear for all of them.

  “Turn off that light,” Antonio ordered. Rebecca whipped around to find him, but the light clicked off instantly, and a strange, anxiety-filled silence hung over the group. The tiny hairs on her arms prickled.

  The toddler started to wail with such desperation it brought tears to Rebecca’s eyes. She wanted to comfort the kid, and shut him up, but she feared his mother might be packing a weapon, too.

  “How do we know the kids aren’t armed, Antonio?” Ignado, switching back to English, echoed her thoughts.

  “They’re kids.” Antonio stomped across the deck. She could tell by the vibrations on the flooring that he was coming closer to her.

  She started to tremble.

  “Amigo, even kids kill to survive,” Ignado grumbled.

  “Not here, they don’t.” That was the same dismissive tone Antonio had used on her earlier. His footsteps stopped a few feet away.

  She took short, shallow breaths and prayed she wasn’t breathing too loudly. She didn’t want to give away her fear.

  “We’re not going to hurt you.” Antonio spoke to the teenagers in Spanish. “Be on your way.”

  No answer, but the toddler abruptly stopped screaming as if one of the young women had slapped a hand across his mouth.

  At the same time, Rebecca felt fingers dig deep into her upper arm. “Holy shit.” She jumped, spooked by the unexpected touch from behind her.

  “I can’t believe this shit.”

  It was Dallas. She blew out a breath. “Dawg, you scared me.” She placed a hand over her heart. “I’m having enough trouble breathing right now.”

  “Look, I’ve traveled to Afghanistan and Haiti, but this time I don’t think I have a damn pulse any more.” Dallas stuck out his wrist. “Check me. Check me.”

  She smiled and pressed his right wrist. “You’re still alive.”

  “We in Cuba, right?” He made a show of stepping up next to her and putting his hand over his eyes as if searching for something. “Where’s Fidel? Where’s Raul? Don’t bring me Elian.”

  Rebecca laughed despite herself. “Thank God you’re with me. I’d be having a heart attack right now. Instead, I’m laughing.” Dallas always knew when she was anxious and used his humor to calm her nerves.

  “Even if they hadn’t convinced me with a gun pointed at my big head, this photographer wouldn’t have let them take you alone.”

  She believed him. Dawg always said they were like butt cheeks. Always stuck together. She smiled. “Did you get a chance to call the news director?”

  “Hell no. They took my iPhone.”

  “Mine too.” So, no one, no one, knew where she and Dallas were. “This has to be Cuba, right? But this can’t be Havana.” All she could make out in the early-morning darkness was a shoreline of twisting trees and palms. Where were the hotels and buildings she remembered from pictures of Havana?

  The angry bellow of an animal erupted from the darkness, sending new pinpricks of worry down her spine.

  “What the hell was that? Sounds like something out of the zombie apocalypse,” Dallas stated. Then, pursing his lips, he said, “We’re dead.”

  “A buol.” Now that was a voice Rebecca didn’t recognize. The answer came from below, so it had to be the boy on the dock. He spoke English with a heavy Spanish accent.

  “A bull?” Without thinking, she responded in Spanish. “As in a farm animal? At the beach?”

  “What, we running with the bulls now?” Dallas asked.

  “Shut up. Both of you.” Ignado stomped his foot, vibrating the deck, and heightening Rebecca’s fear that he’d redirect his weapon her way. “Now.”

  Ignado was such a bully. She knew from experience there was only one way to stop a bully. “You can’t tell me what to do.” She barely made out the tattooed man’s form, but could tell he still had his gun pointed at the kids on the dock. “You don’t control me.”

  Dallas suddenly shuffled away. A draft of warm air pressed up against Rebecca.

  “But I do.” The empty space filled up instantly with Antonio’s larger-than-life form. “And you will listen to me.”

  Oh boy. She flipped around to face him. “W-what’s going on here, Antonio?” She could swear he was grinding his teeth, but it was hard to tell in the moonlit night. She took a step back.

  “I’ll let you know as soon I know,” he growled.

  Antonio had pulled his hair back into a tight ponytail, slick and wet, as if he’d just gotten out of the shower. In tight black jeans and a short-sleeved black T-shirt, tonight he looked more pirate than revolutionary. A gorgeous one at that. Her breath caught in her lungs, and she dropped her gaze, suddenly conscious she was staring. “I should be documenting this.” Out of habit, Rebecca placed a hand on his arm. The touch, as she called it, usually won over reluctant interviewees. “Isn’t that why you brought me with you?” Another spark of energy jumped between them.

  Antonio jerked away with such force, she stumbled backward.

  “I brought you with me to document my sister’s rescue. Not this.” He gestured toward the dock below.

  “Why not?” Rebecca stood taller. “This is part of the problem, isn’t it? Your sister can’t simply fly to America out of Havana because the government won’t grant her an exit visa. Right? Because of her abusive boyfriend?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “So, despite all the real or fake pleasantries between our countries now, she and these kids are still reluctant residents here.” She turned and walked to the cruiser’s railing, leaning over for a better view of the kids on the dock below. “Even though restrictions on travel from Cuba are lessening, for your sister, stealing away in the middle of the night like these kids are doing would be her only alternative, right? Which is why we came here. To help her escape, safely.” She searched for Dallas. He was standing on the deck to her left. “Flip on your camera light for a second.”

  The stark white spotlight landed on the kids’ boat, which was tied loosely to the other side of the dock, banging back and forth in the white-tipped waves. “Your sister would have sailed off in…” Rebecca squinted. “What is that? That thing won’t make it to America.” The vessel couldn’t have been more than twenty-some feet long, and only four feet high, with no seats inside. Where the hell were these kids going to sit for hours in the hot sun while they crossed the Florida Straits? Why risk their lives? Now that the two governments were getting along? They were crazy. Or desperate. What could possibly be that bad here in Cuba that these young people would chance death to escape? Her chest ached at that thought. But the answer would make a great news story, especially now. And she could be the voice for these people. Probably the only way they’d ever be heard.

  The boat looked like it was made out of wood and aluminum. It had a big engine in the middle and some long tubing extending to the back of the boat. Definitely handmade by someone. It would surely sink before it made it out of Cuban waters. “Antonio.” She turned back to face him. “One of these girls could be your sister.”

  “Turn off the light.” The way Antonio emphasized each word left no doubt he was trying to control his anger.

  She swallowed, remembering she wasn’t in Tampa anymor
e, making ballsy decisions to get the news, knowing no one would get hurt. Ignado was armed. Defying Antonio longer in front of his crew would be risky. “Okay. Turn it off, Dallas.” She spun around and stepped closer. “That’s not even a real boat.”

  “Etts a real boat.” The same kid who answered her question about the bull spoke again. Even with his heavy Spanish accent, Rebecca recognized indignation in the young Cuban’s voice. Maybe the kid made the boat himself? Wow.

  The reporter in her took over. She had to take the risk to get this once-in-a-lifetime story. Surely Ignado wouldn’t shoot her in front of witnesses. With Dallas shooting video. Right? She gestured for Dallas to follow her off the yacht. They’d stumbled onto a gold mine. She’d never actually seen a video of young Cubans making their escape from Cuba. Didn’t think they had to do this anymore. But maybe that had all been political propaganda on the Cuban side. Because why else would these young people be here, so willing to risk everything to flee? The questions began lining up in her mind, one right after another. “How’d you make the boat?”

  “From parts at mi abuelo’s farm, and pipes I bought from a local farmer.” The kid beat on his chest with one fist.

  “Antonio,” Ignado growled.

  Rebecca flinched.

  “What the hell is she doing? This isn’t the time for an interview. I should have killed you, you stupid bitch.”

  Her mouth went dry, but she ignored the bully and continued questioning the boy. “And the motor?” The kid was shaking, poor thing. Her hands were shaking, too. She gestured for Dallas to flip on his camera light. She laced her fingers together and squeezed them to better control her nerves. Would Ignado really hurt her in front of Antonio and these kids?

  “Already rolling,” Dallas said. “Don’t need the light.” He moved in front of the young boy. “We’ve got night vision. It’ll be grainy video, but viewable, and I don’t want to give our position away, know what I’m sayin’?”

  “At least one American is thinking.” Ignado’s voice shook with anger, but the hands holding the revolver were still as lake water.

  The tattooed guy had nerves of ice.

  Antonio reached out and forced Ignado’s arm down. “Put down the gun and start the unloading process. I’ve got this.”

  By “this” Rebecca assumed Antonio meant her. Bristling, she knew he’d try to shut down her interview next. She turned to the kid, taking the handheld microphone Dallas held out. “My name is Rebecca. I’m a journalist from the United States. I’m here to do a story on why citizens like you still need to go to these extremes to leave Cuba, while our countries tell everyone they’re repairing their broken relationship and allowing more residents to travel back and forth.”

  “Por favor, no converse con ella.” The skinny woman, with the toddler in her grip, hissed in barely audible Spanish. “Ni una palabra.”

  “Que te preocupas?” Rebecca asked the woman what she was afraid of and why she was instructing the boy not to speak to her. She held the microphone in her direction, but the mother cast her eyes downward and wouldn’t respond. The toddler, however, started to snivel again.

  “Mi nombre es Domingo.” The boy beside her puffed up, ignoring the toddler’s distress. He wore, ironically, an iconic American T-shirt, a size too small. The Nike swoosh was almost washed out, but the words “Just do it” were still readable. “The only thing I’m afraid of is never being able to leave Cuba.”

  Those words resonated in her gut. Up close to him, she saw that the young boy was unusually skinny, with elbow and wrist bones that protruded awkwardly from sticklike arms. His dark hair was shorn unevenly around his forehead as if he’d cut his hair himself. She wondered if Dallas’s video would be able to pick up those unique markings on this specific kid at this particular moment in his life. They’d help tell the story without her uttering a single word.

  The dock shook suddenly. She reached for Dallas to keep from stumbling. The weight of Antonio’s body landed right behind her, throwing her further off balance. He didn’t have to jump to get her attention. She knew he was there.

  “You have five minutes, and we’re moving on.” Antonio’s breath brushed her cheek. “This is not safe, you understand me,” he hissed. “Why do you think these kids chose the middle of the night to walk miles through the woods to get here?”

  He had a good point. There’s no way she would have done the same thing.

  “There’s a military base nearby in Mariel.” Antonio grabbed her arm with enough force to remind her who was calling the shots here. “We make too much noise, and you’ll be conducting interviews with the cockroaches in a military jail cell.”

  She shivered. “Got it.” She jerked away from his hold. “Shouldn’t you be unloading our supplies, so we’re not stuck out here like sitting ducks?”

  He pursed his lips and widened his stance. “Ask your questions. But make it quick.”

  Geez, he acted like a government watchdog himself. Fine, she’d get on with the interview. Under his suspicious gaze. Whatever.

  “So, you made the boat yourself, Domingo?” she asked again in Spanish, swatting a mosquito off her shoulder.

  She could sense the pride in the boy’s eyes as he turned and gazed at his vessel. “I built it in me shed in de woods with no power tools or electricity. Took fifteen days.” He answered in really bad English. Interesting. She wondered where he learned the language. Obviously, he’d been preparing for his trip.

  “And the motor?” Not that she knew anything about boat motors, but this looked like nothing she’d seen, and it sat in the middle of the boat, not in the back. What was up with that?

  “I used an old engine from a Honda.”

  “As in a car engine?”

  “It’s all I could find.”

  She’d heard Cubans had to be resourceful, but wow, she couldn’t help but be impressed. She didn’t know a single kid his age in America who could have created the same boat. She wanted to ask if he’d tested his invention in the water, but thought he’d find the question offensive. “How did you four get the boat here?”

  “Los toros.”

  The bulls. “Really? How did that work?”

  “We put the boat on a trailer and the bulls pulled it.”

  “Because?” She followed with what was to her a logical question. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to use a car to pull the trailer? And you could’ve taken a road.”

  “We can’t be seen on the street.”

  Those words summed up so much. “If you all are so afraid of getting caught, why didn’t you run when we arrived?”

  Domingo shrugged. “I knew you weren’t Cuban.”

  “How?”

  The sullen boy broke into a grin. “Your boat is too nice.” His momentary playfulness vanished, and he put both hands on his hips. “We have come too far to go back.” He lifted his chin at her.

  “Why can’t you just go home? Try again another day?”

  “No money.”

  As he shuffled his feet against the top of the dock, she noticed that his tennis shoes were filthy and had holes in them. They were too dirty to distinguish the brand.

  “It cost thirty thousand pesos to make me boat. If we don’t go tonight, I lose me money. And that’s why I can’t just fly out to America. No one here has the money to buy a plane ticket.”

  “Thirty thousand pesos. What’s that in American dollars?”

  “About one thousand dollars.” Antonio had been so quiet she’d almost forgotten he’d been eavesdropping right behind her. He leaned in and whispered against her ear, “That’s not a lot of money to a rich, American woman. I bet you spend more than that on a single trip to the mall.”

  Or to rent a stupidly expensive evening gown to wear to an event aimed at raising money for the poor. Blushing, she refused to look Antonio’s way.

  “But for a Cuban kid, that kind of money is impossible to make, even in a year.”

  Okay. Antonio had drilled home his point. And she did feel guil
ty. She took a step away from Antonio, addressing the young man again. “So, if you can’t afford a plane ticket, how did the four of you come up with a grand?”

  “There are many more of us. I charge for coming on de boat.”

  The woman standing stiffly next to Domingo let out a slew of Spanish expletives that Rebecca knew would have made her blush had she recognized all of them. Her heart fluttered. Whoa, they’d hit a nerve. She glanced back to make sure Dallas was capturing all of this.

  He nodded at her.

  “I only see four of you.” Glancing around, a chill shimmied down Rebecca’s spine.

  “There’s twenty-three,” Domingo gestured toward the woods.

  Twenty-three? She looked where the kid pointed. They’d been silent throughout all of this? Were any of his friends armed?

  A flashlight flipped on. She held her breath until she realized Antonio himself beamed the small light across the shoreline, moving it by the tree line in search of more faces. “Come out. We won’t hurt you,” he said in Spanish.

  Slowly, the brush at the edge of the forest began to move, and Antonio’s small light flitted across dark-skinned faces and bodies tangled within the vines and grass of the woods.

  “Oh my God, there are so many of them.” Rebecca scratched her head as she turned back to look at the handmade vessel rocking precariously against the dock. “These people aren’t going to fit in that boat. They’ll sink it if they all get on.”

  The light flipped off.

  “What are you doing? Antonio? They need to see to make their way toward the dock.” This was all way too dangerous and crazy.

  “Your interview is over. Grab your backpack and gear and let’s go.”

  Was he kidding? “Let’s go?” He was just going to leave the kids here?

  “That’s right. If you don’t grab the bag I packed for you, you can leave with nothing but the clothes on your back. I don’t care. That’s all these kids have.”

  She threw her hands up. “You can’t possibly be such an asshole.”