Page 53 of The Witness

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 sprayedinto 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 themain 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.

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