The male nurse helped Suárez transfer the still-unconscious Olivia to a gurney.
Crocker faced the Cuban doctors and nurses and warned, “I have men guarding the building, so stay here and don’t move for thirty minutes. If you do, they’ll shoot you dead. After thirty minutes, you’re free to leave.”
He and Suárez wheeled Olivia out, then inserted a metal pole through the door handles to bar it from the outside and met Manny and Akil at the stairway. Because of the gurney, they elected to take the elevator. The ground floor of the clinic was completely quiet and the front door locked.
Crocker grabbed Suárez and pointed to a small park across the street. “Go locate the driver. His name is Flores and he should be driving a blue-and-white van with ‘Vizul’ painted on it. Tell him to pull into the driveway so we can load the girl.”
“Will do.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Opportunity does not knock, it presents itself when you beat down the door.
– Kyle Chandler
Crocker was standing beside Olivia, monitoring her breathing, when he saw Mancini in his periphery, pointing to the clock on the walclass="underline" 0628. He nodded. Precious time was slipping past. He knew that if they didn’t get out of there soon, they’d be screwed. Looking through the glass front door, he saw Suárez running back.
“What happened?” he asked.
“The van’s not there,” Suárez reported, out of breath.
“You sure?”
“I checked all sides of the park. There’s nothing there. No vehicles.”
Crocker slapped Akil’s shoulder and pointed to Olivia. “Watch her.”
He dashed out the door into the clinic parking lot and found a faded silver 1992 Toyota Previa van in the corner under a tree. The driver’s-side window was broken, so he reached through and let himself in. Using the expertise he’d gained as a wayward teenager, he quickly hot-wired the engine, which clicked in a steady rhythm, indicating that the timing belt needed replacing or the transmission was screwed up.
Crocker put the van in first, spun it around into the circular drive, got out, and helped load Olivia in. Her temperature and pulse felt normal. They carefully laid her across the rear seat. Akil knelt beside her.
“Keep monitoring her vital signs,” Crocker instructed. “If anything changes, let me know.”
“Roger, boss.”
“We going to the airport?” Mancini asked from the middle seat.
Crocker steered the van onto a sleepy residential street green with lawns and palm trees as he considered. “Probably not a good idea, since the local contact didn’t show,” he said. “The Cuban authorities might be waiting for us. Let’s get out of Dodge and head toward the coast.”
“East or west?” asked Suárez from the passenger seat. “East will take us over the bridge into old Havana.”
“West is closer to Florida, correct?” Crocker asked.
“Yeah. And it’s the direction we’re headed now.”
“West is good.”
“Then what?” asked Akil.
“Who the fuck knows? Keep your weapons out of sight and try to look inconspicuous.”
“Now that we’re here, let’s find out where the Castro brothers live and kick their asses,” Akil suggested.
Suárez said: “Great idea.”
Crocker found Akil’s face in the rearview mirror and grunted, “Keep watching the girl and keep your big head down.”
The Toyota puttered down a stately avenue with a divider in the center featuring elaborate curved street lamps. Behind walls and gates on either side stood large old houses. Most of them looked like they could use a coat of paint.
“This area is called Miramar,” Suárez explained from the passenger seat. “Back in the day, it’s where wealthy people lived. Most of these houses were taken over by embassies and Cuban government agencies.”
“Won’t this shitbox go any faster?” Mancini asked.
“Forty seems to be its max,” Crocker groaned back.
Traffic was sparse and most of the cars were old-Chevys, Fords, and Buicks from the 1940s and ’50s and several Soviet-era Lada sedans, jeeps, and wagons. When they passed a red-and-white car with elaborate fins, Akil asked, “What’s that?”
“That’s a fifty-eight Edsel Corsair,” Mancini answered. “The first car to come with a rolling dome speedometer, push-button transmission, and warning lights.”
Crocker heard a siren approaching and pulled over as two red fire trucks sped by going in the opposite direction.
“Someone at the clinic pulled an alarm,” Mancini conjectured.
Crocker: “You’re probably right.”
When they reached a traffic circle, he took a road that brought them within a block of the coast. The houses and businesses were more spread out and dilapidated and the few people on the sidewalks looked indigent and spaced out on either booze or drugs.
“I see the beach,” Akil said, pointing to the right.
“How do you feel about swimming back to Florida?” Mancini cracked.
A white police car with blue-and-red lights flashing turned on the avenue and took off east.
“What do we do if we hit a roadblock?” Suárez asked.
Crocker spotted a sign for the Havana Yacht Club ahead-an elegant building surrounded by lush green grounds. “Check it out.”
“My uncle told me about this place,” Suárez said. “Back in the fifties, it was the scene of fabulous parties with movie stars like Rita Hayworth and Marlon Brando.”
“Looks like a sleepy-ass retirement home now.”
Crocker saw three armed guards at the entrance, which caused him to change his mind about entering.
“How’s she doing?” he asked Akil in back.
“She’s moaning and moving. I think she’s about to wake up.”
They had left the city and were passing a large mural with Fidel’s grinning face on it and a revolutionary slogan painted in red. Traffic was even more sporadic. A glance at Crocker’s watch revealed that it was 0713. A white-and-blue helicopter flew past in the opposite direction.
Beyond palm trees on the right, he saw a series of canals with pleasure boats and an entrance.
“What’s that?” he asked.
Suárez shrugged.
The sign read MARINA HEMINGWAY.
Crocker drove past the entrance and stopped along the beach. He put the van in neutral, stuck the silenced.45 under the back of his black T-shirt, stuffed the radio in his pocket, and said, “If you don’t hear from me in five minutes, keep driving along the coast until you find a boat you can hijack. Key West is about a hundred miles north.”
“Where the hell are you going?” Mancini asked.
Crocker was already out and climbing a rusted fence at the edge of the marina. He hurried along the closest parallel canal, which was lined with cruisers and sailboats, looking for an opportunity. As he approached a twenty-seven-foot Carver Santego named Seas the Day, he heard a woman’s voice speaking English. He jumped aboard, ran down three steps, and entered the door to the galley.
A middle-aged man and woman sat at a table eating scrambled eggs. He said, “Excuse me for barging in. Are you Americans?”
The man looked up warily. He had sharp features and thinning blond hair. “Maybe. Who are you?”
“Me and my associates just rescued a kidnapped girl. We’re working with the U.S. government and need assistance.”
The man groaned, stuck a forkful of eggs in his mouth, and swallowed. “Look,” he said, “my wife and I arrived yesterday to do some marlin fishing. We’re on vacation.”
His rail-thin wife said, “We’re neutral when it comes to governmental matters. You should try someone else.”
Crocker wasn’t sure what she meant. “I can shoot you both here and take your boat, or you can help me.”
The man rose to his feet like he was about to start something. Crocker grabbed him by the front of his T-shirt and pointed the.45 at his chest.