Cliff Ryder - The Powers That Be

The protest-breakers had assembled, and the progovernment crowd let them swell their ranks. The large group walked forward, outnumbering the freedom protesters by at least three to one. The demonstrators refused to be intimidated, however, and linked their arms together, chanting even louder.

As one, the front row of the government men rushed the protesters, surging into them with flying fists and feet. The protesters tried to hold together, but broke apart under the onslaught. People started fleeing the plaza, running every which way. Marcus dodged several of them while trying to still keep an eye on what was happening. The protesters weren’t fighting back, only defending themselves. However, the government men weren’t under any such restriction, and were kicking and punching people—protesters and innocent bystanders alike—with abandon.

Intent on the confrontation, Marcus hadn’t noticed that the conflict was coming perilously close to him. But when a stocky man dressed in a sleeveless flannel shirt and stained jeans shoved a woman who had to be at least fifty years old to the ground and was about to kick her in the ribs, he couldn’t stand by any longer.

In two steps Marcus moved right behind the attacker.

Grabbing his cocked foot in one hand, he swept the man’s other foot out from under him with a low kick to his ankle. The thug howled and dropped to the ground.

Marcus followed up with another kick behind the ear, bouncing the man’s head against the pavement and knocking him out.

His actions had been noticed by a pair of government thugs, both of whom moved to intercept him. Marcus saw them coming at the same time that two of the protesters bent down to help the woman. Placing himself between her and the attackers, he met them head-on.

The two men didn’t circle or feint, but charged in together. One of the men was slightly ahead of his comrade, and threw a straight punch at Marcus’s face. Ducking the blow, Marcus responded with a straight shot to the man’s abdomen. The man gasped and staggered off balance. Marcus side-stepped and landed another shot to the man’s right kidney, making him drop to one knee, clutching his gut.

While Marcus dealt with the first thug, his uninjured partner had drawn a knife and slashed at Marcus’s chest. He drew back in time to see the man reverse direction and come after him again with a backhanded sweep at his ribs, leaning over his buddy, who wisely dropped to the ground. This time the point snagged in Marcus’s shirt, ripping it open.

The ex-Ranger knew he faced an experienced knife fighter, and had to finish it before anyone came to his attacker’s assistance. The knife fighter feinted high, then lunged forward, aiming for Marcus’s stomach.

He let the man come at him, the blade slicing within inches of his stomach before he grabbed his wrist and turned into the attack so that they were side by side for a moment.

Marcus pulled the man’s arm forward as he planted his left foot and yanked him off balance. His opponent twisted around Marcus’s hip, slamming to the ground, his flying feet cracking into his partner’s face, sending him back down, as well.

Marcus twisted the knife out of his attacker’s hand and kicked it away, then glanced back to make sure the woman had gotten up and away. He didn’t see her, but couldn’t tell if she had escaped or been taken by the government agitators. What mattered now was that he got out of there fast.

Hearing sirens in the distance, he released the still-prone man and trotted away, losing himself in the rest of the scattered crowd before either of the two could get up to pursue him. Even though the plaza was large and open, Marcus made it to the edge of the area and walked calmly to an alley, which he immediately ran down, in case anyone was follow- ing him. Twisting and turning down the narrow roads and paths between the buildings, he didn’t attract any more attention. He looked like just any of the hundreds of people who had run from the plaza moments ago.

Several blocks away, Marcus slowed to a walk and strolled down a thoroughfare, calming his rapid breathing and bringing his heartbeat back under control. Checking his watch, he saw that there were a few hours before he could check in with his findings. I should try to find Valdes’s home—he’s got to get off duty sometime. Or maybe it would be best let things die down around here first.

Spotting a cantina ahead, Marcus ducked into it and ordered a mojito, tipping generously. He sipped the sweet, tart drink and leaned against the wall as he watched white police Peugeots scream down the road toward the Plaza de la Revolución.

Jonas drew on his cigar again before answering. “You are a very suspicious man. Surely you’re not going to risk ruining this fine cigar by making me drop it on the floor after your man shoots me for no good reason,” he said calmly.

Castilo exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “I hope that won’t be necessary. Just call him my insurance. After all, it’s not every day that someone who moves in your particular business circles and someone who moves in mine come together. When it happens, I consider it more than just chance.”

Jonas savored his Cohiba—no matter what, Castilo did have excellent taste in cigars—and leaned back in the leather seat, resting one arm on the back of the seat. “That’s a fine-looking pistol. I hope you take care of it,” he said to the bodyguard.

“Well enough to handle you if necessary,” the bodyguard agreed affably in a deep voice. There was no menace in his tone. Like any professional, he simply stated his intent.

“A S&W 1911 .45ACP, the scandium alloy model, to cut down on the weight. Eight rounds plus one in the pipe, and I see you’ve modified it with the Crimson Trace grips—how do you like it?” Jonas asked.

The bodyguard lifted the pistol again, keeping his finger away from the trigger, but putting enough pressure on the checkered rubber handgrips to activate the laser sight, which speared Jonas’s chest with a small red dot. “I do a two-inch group at twenty-five yards, but at this distance, it would be considerably messier.”

“Not to mention what those slugs would do to my jacket, the seat and possibly your employer’s driver, as well,” Jonas replied.

“I have no doubt that when the smoke cleared, William would be just fine in the front seat, while you, no doubt, would be much less so. But I didn’t invite you here to make idle threats, so I’ll ask you again. Why have you sought me out, Mr. Heinemann?” Castilo said.

“First, I want you to know that I did not mislead you during our conversation inside. I am in the import-export business, and I am very interested in bringing organized greyhound racing back with me to Germany. I also meant what I said about you and I—the type of people we are. And I think you were just playing me in front of everyone else,” Jonas said.

“Speculating, that’s all you’re doing right now. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I’m a businessman, nothing more. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to.” Castilo motioned to the bodyguard, who holstered his pistol and opened the door, letting the bright Florida sun-shine lance into the dark interior of the car.

Jonas reached out and pulled the car door closed. “I wasn’t finished. In the course of my other business, I kept hearing rumors, hearsay, call it what you will, about a major operation that will be happening somewhere in the Caribbean, and soon. As a businessman, much like yourself, I heard enough different people saying the same things that I decided to come to Florida and see what I could find out for myself.”

“And who told you such a thing might occur?” Castilo asked.

Jonas held up a finger. “I’m afraid that I cannot reveal my sources. However, they were acquaintances of Mr. Pierre Lalond, late of Florida, before his unfortunate departure for less pleasant climes.”