Cliff Ryder - The Powers That Be

Apparently, suspicion had won. Big mistake, Marcus thought, but said, “Of course,” as he reached for his nonex-istent credentials.

As the manager picked up the phone, Marcus grabbed his wrist and twisted it, making him drop the receiver.

“What are you doing?”

Marcus released his wrist and brought his other hand, now clenched into a fist, around and buried it into the man’s stomach, turning his shout for help into a strangled wheeze.

As the man doubled over, Marcus stepped back and rabbit-punched him, sending him down to the floor.

“Well, that was inconspicuous,” he muttered, heading for the door. Opening it, he was confronted by a white-shirted desk clerk. “What’s going on in here?” the clerk asked.

Marcus stepped aside to let the youth see the prone manager. “I was waiting for him, and he came inside and collapsed. You’d better get some help.”

The clerk’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Stay here.” He went for a phone on the front desk, and as soon as he did, Marcus was out the door and trotting down the corridor toward the kitchen. He heard a shout from behind him, but kept going. Only when he heard footsteps pounding behind him did he break into a run. He was almost to the kitchen when the double doors opened, and three assistant chefs came out, chattering among themselves.

Marcus heard “Stop that man!” behind him, and reached out to grab the nearest to the kitchen by his white smock.

He yanked him around and threw him down the hall while the other two watched in shock. Kicking the door open, he looked over his shoulder to see the assistant careen into two men who could only be security. They managed to dodge him and kept coming, yelling at him to stop.

Marcus scooted through the doors and glanced around for a distraction. He spotted a large, pot of boiling soup stock.

Grabbing one handle, he gritted his teeth as the hot metal seared his hand, but tipped the container over just as the guards hit the door, sending a wave of boiling liquid cas-cading their way. He shoved the pot off the stove, as well, and turned, heading for the back doors.

The only problem was that instead of scattering for cover like normal people, three portly chefs stood in his way. The first one brandished a knife, the second held a large marble pestle and the third one wielded a hardwood pepper shaker easily two feet long and thick enough that it could probably crush a man’s skull with one blow.

Marcus leaped up onto the metal table, running down its length and scattering prepared meals and ingredients in his wake. Shouting furiously, the chefs tried to pursue, but he had a couple steps on them, and jumped down just as the first one came at him with the knife. Marcus shoved a large cutting board full of sliced peppers off the table at him. The vegetables flew under the man’s feet, making him slip on the tile floor and blocking the other two, as well.

Running for the exit, Marcus almost collided with a guy bringing in another box of produce. Once outside, he darted between the truck and the hotel, sprinting across the small lot as fast as he could, leaving the shouts of the furious security guards and chefs behind.

Almost all of them. Marcus spared a look back to see two of the guards still chasing after him, shouting at him to stop.

He ran as fast as he could down Dragones Street, hoping to lose his pursuers in the neighborhoods a few blocks away.

The shouting alerted a pair of police officers halfway up a cross street. One joined the chase immediately while the other ran to his white Peugeot at the far end of the block.

This just keeps getting worse, Marcus thought. Reaching an intersection, he turned right, looking for smaller side streets where he could lose his pursuers in the urban maze. If the police car caught up with him, however, he was done.

He was still on what looked like a main street, with scattered pockets of people walking along the sides of the road, past brightly colored shops. The only good thing so far, he thought, was that no one seemed the least bit interested in assisting the police in stopping him. Marcus bolted into an intersection and heard the blast of a horn as a pristine 1959

purple-and-white Chevy screeched to a halt, its chrome bumper mere inches from his leg.

In for a pound, in for a ton, he thought. Although he knew that car theft was a serious offense in Cuba, it was better than the absolute jail time he’d get if caught right now.

Going to the driver’s door, he yanked it open and grabbed the driver by the hair, pulling him out with a startled yell.

“Sorry, señor, ” Marcus apologized as he slid behind the wheel and floored it, shooting across the intersection just as the security and police came pounding around the corner.

He heard the rising siren of the police car, and concentrated on losing the cops as quickly as possible.

He crossed the intersection and drove for another block, then turned left onto a smaller street, praying that he wouldn’t encounter another vehicle coming the opposite way, as there was barely enough room for his car. At the next corner he took a right, then went two more blocks and turned left again, heading deeper into the decaying heart of Old Havana. He slowed, trying to maintain the speed limit and look as if he was driving casually. The siren mocked him with its closeness, but he hadn’t seen the police car behind him yet, and figured he was about to make his escape.

But as he turned right down a narrow street, he found the way blocked by another white Peugeot, its lone blue light whirling as it slowly advanced. Marcus heard the howl of an approaching siren from behind him, and slammed the accelerator to the floor. The engine groaned in protest, making the entire car vibrate as it was pushed to a speed it probably hadn’t seen in decades. The two officers’ jaws dropped as he approached. They held up their hands as if they could stop his charge by force of will alone. Marcus said a silent apol-ogy to the car and its owner again as the distance rapidly shrank between the two vehicles.

With a jarring crunch of glass, plastic and metal, the speeding Chevy rammed into the French hatchback, sending the lighter car careening back into the intersection. Other than the bone-shaking impact, the Chevy didn’t seem remotely affected by the crash, although Marcus was sure he had caused some cosmetic damage. He wrenched the wheel sideways, breaking his car free from the police vehicle, and took off down the street. At the nearest intersection he turned left, then right at the next, then left again, driving into an even seedier part of town. At the first street that didn’t have anyone on it, he pulled into an alley so narrow he couldn’t open the car doors. He turned off the car, rolled the window down and slid out. He waited a few minutes before walking down the alley to the other end and strolling casually away.

He tensed as another police car sped past him, its siren wail-ing, but it didn’t slow down or give him a second glance.

That was too close, Marcus thought. He scratched his head, thinking he’d have to change his appearance to avoid suspicion, as enough people had gotten a look at him to put out a general description to the police. But first he had to put as much distance between himself and the scene as possible.

As he walked, he palmed his cell phone and scrolled through the information he had gleaned from the hotel’s computer. On the next-to-last file was Major Damason Valdes’s personal information, including his parents, father unknown, mother deceased, along with a home address in Havana.

Marcus smiled as he read the information. I wonder if Ms. Uptight would have thought any of that fell under my mission parameters.

I have to admit, a man could certainly get used to this, Jonas thought.