William Heffernan - Red Angel

Devlin crawled the final ten yards, using the thick vegetation for cover, then stopped three feet short of the roadway at the top of the hill. He could see a car parked ten feet to his left, and decided to gamble that it belonged to the shooter, and that the man would be closer to the car rather than farther away.

He rolled out into the road, then crawled behind the car and circled it. From the other side, he looked down the hill and saw a man, set in shooter’s sitting position, four feet below. He caught movement to his right and saw Ollie climbing over a small hump in the terrain. The shooter saw him, too, and swung the rifle in that direction.

Devlin didn’t wait; he scrambled to his feet, let out a warning shout to Pitts, then launched himself over the edge of the hill. The shooter was spinning to the sound of his shout as Devlin’s body crashed into his side. The rifle flew off into the foliage as they both tumbled down the hill.

Devlin struggled to his feet, and found the man already up, about three feet below him. A long-bladed knife flashed in his hand.

Argudin feinted to his right, then lunged forward, the tip of his blade aimed at Devlin’s solar plexus in an upward killing thrust.

Devlin’s arm lashed out, knocking the blade aside, but not before it bit into his forearm, just above the wrist. He drove his knee into Argudin’s face, then grabbed his knife hand and spun him to the ground.

They snuggled to their knees, their bodies twisting for advantage. Argudin growled and grabbed for Devlin’s throat. Devlin butted his forehead into the man’s face, knocking the hand away.

Still holding fast to Argudin’s knife hand, Devlin brought his free hand down, then up, slapping his palm into the man’s groin. His fingers closed on his testicles and he yanked upward, bringing a long howl of pain. The knife fell to the ground, and Devlin released the man’s wrist and drove the now free hand into his throat, then squeezed with both hands, using the man’s throat and balls to pull him to his feet.

Argudin howled again as Devlin yanked up, lifting him still higher, then propelled his body out and away, and threw him down the hill.

“Oooh. I bet that smarts.”

Devlin turned and saw Pitts grinning at him.

“That dude’s girlfriend sure ain’t gonna be a happy lady tonight. ” Pitts was still grinning as he stepped forward and bent to look at Devlin’s damaged arm. “Looks like he got in a lick, but not a very good one.” He took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and began wrapping the wound.

Devlin turned and looked downhill. Argudin lay writhing on the ground ten feet below him.

“Don’t worry,” Pitts said. “That boy is not about to run off. Not with his balls all squished up like mashed peas.” He let out a coarse laugh.

Below, Devlin saw Martinez and three of his men break through the foliage and reach the fallen shooter. Martinez placed his hands on his hips as he studied the man twisting in pain at his feet. Then he looked up at Devlin and gave him a nod of approval.

The half-moon sat above the sea, sending out a rippling beam of liquid gold. Water lapped gently against the shore no more than twenty yards from the road. Adrianna stared out the open car window and thought about the violence they had just witnessed and the soft, peaceful scene that lay before her now. It was as though the sea needed to exert calm, she thought, to bring everything back, to let everyone find their lives again.

She reached out and took Devlin’s hand. “How’s your arm?” she asked. “Does it hurt much?”

“It’s fine.” He glanced at the freshly bandaged wound, then smiled at her. “Knives,” he said. “Whenever I get myself into something, there always seems to be somebody with a knife.”

“You’re going to look like a quilt if you don’t retire,” she said.

He grunted in reply, not wanting to deal with her unspoken question. “Are you okay?” he asked. “That wasn’t very easy for you back there.”

Martinez’s car passed over a narrow, steel bridge that spanned a small, tidal river. Children played near the road on the other side. Most looked ten, maybe twelve, a few younger. The smaller ones were probably little brothers and sisters, Adrianna thought. It was eleven at night, and they all still wore bathing suits.

They were in Guanabo now, the small seaside village where, years ago, her grandfather had taken his family to enjoy the sea. She wondered if her father and her two aunts had been like these children, laughing and playing late into the night.

“Those children are still out, still playing,” Adrianna said, now avoiding his question. “It’s as if they don’t want to give up the day.”

Devlin squeezed her hand. He thought he understood what was going through her mind, what she was feeling. He realized that talking about it wouldn’t help her. Not now. They could do that later when she was ready.

He looked at Pitts and Martinez in the front seat. Ollie had his head back and seemed to be dozing. Martinez drove, glancing occasionally at the houses they passed.

“Tell me about this place,” Devlin said. “Ever since we found out who you really are, your skills as a tour guide have fallen off.”

“You are right,” Martinez said. “My intention was to instruct you about my country.” He paused. “And to distract you at times.” He briefly took his hands from the wheel, holding them up in a “what can I say?” gesture. “But I found I also enjoyed it. Perhaps I have discovered a new vocation for my retirement years.”

Pitts grunted, letting them know he was awake and listening. “Hey, that tour-guide business might work, Martinez. You and your boys could keep even better tabs on the tourists.”

Martinez laughed. “You misunderstand the duties of the secret police, my friend. We do not watch foreign visitors. There are others who have that duty. We watch the people who watch the foreigners. And we watch the other police and the government officials who might be serving their own interests instead of the revolution’s. It is not unlike your own government and police agencies, I think. They all have their divisions of internal affairs, no?”

Pitts sat up in his seat as if someone had goosed him. “Jesus, Martinez. Don’t say that. Don’t tell me I’ve been working with the goddamn Cuban shooflies.” He turned to Devlin. “Holy shit, you can’t tell anybody about this, Inspector. God, I’ll be ruined, anybody finds out.”

Devlin waved him off. “Tell me about this place, Martinez.”

Martinez put his arm out the window and pointed toward the houses they were passing. They were like beach houses in many seaside communities back in the States, almost all uniformly small, somewhat battered, and well worn by the sea.

“Guanabo has always been a place of escape. In the days before the revolution it was only the oligarchy who could do this. They would flee the pressures of Havana with their families and come here to rest and enjoy the pleasures of the ocean.

“When the new government took power, many of the houses were given to the people of the region. None were taken by the leaders of the revolution. It was something that was not done in those years.” He cocked his head to one side, in what Devlin thought of as a gesture of regret. “Our ideals were more pure then,” he added.

“And later?” Devlin asked.

“Later those attitudes changed. But mostly among those who held high posts below the leaders.” He glanced back at Adrianna. “Of course there were those like your aunt, who kept houses that had been in their families for years. In her case, I know for a fact, it was more an act of sentiment, a way of remembering her family and what their life together had been like.”