Randy White - North of Havana

"Because you think I'm the target-that's why you want to be on your own?" Reasonable to suspect and not very flattering.

I said, "If I thought that, I'd take the boy. No. It's me they want. You two need to get out of here. Work your way around to Angosta, stay at the Santeria place. They might keep the roads under surveillance all night… maybe all week. That's what I'm telling you."

I knew he had to be thinking of the hit man in the alley, Rosario; putting it all together.

"But why? The only reason you came was to bring money for Tomlinson."

"I know. But it's more involved than that." I was thinking about Dewey and Tomlinson. Could I rely on Valdes to carry a message? Tell them to catch the first plane out of Havana, no questions asked, and I'd meet them back at Dinkin's Bay. Decided… yes, I could depend on Valdes.

He had that quality about him-an idealist, just as his former wife had said, but also rational… authentic. Told him, "You and the boy need to get out of here. Trust me."

"Perhaps I'm also not in the mood to trust. I think you should either explain or we shouldn't split up."

I was surprised when Santiago said, "If he promises not to drive anymore, I'd rather stay with the Yankee."

I began to press the issue, then stopped…

Had I heard something?

Yes… the sound of a small rock tumbling through rain forest mulch… a thudding, muffled, heartbeat sound.

Was someone up there?

Now I heard a twig crack… silence… then another twig.

No doubt about it, someone was moving slowly down the bluff, coming toward us. Or maybe several people…

I took the boy by the shoulder, pressed him to Valdes, then nudged them both downhill toward splotches of gray that were visible through the trees: Mariel Harbor.

I said to Valdes, "Head for the peninsula, I'll catch up. When you get to the water, make some noise. Splash around. Whoever it is, maybe they'll be a little less careful when they pass me."

Valdes hesitated-the guy was so scared he was trembling. "You're not just some guy who came here to help a friend. Are you?"

I gave him another little push. "If we get through this, I'll tell you the whole story."

Valdes wasn't the only one trembling. I was beginning to react to it, standing there waiting in the dark, listening to the crunch of twigs, the whisper of moving branches, hearing the bear-heavy sounds of a man who was stalking me, the man intent on killing me… beginning to feel panic alarms in all the motor response areas of a very, very tired nervous system.

I had to control the natural instinct to breathe too fast and shallowly. Had to consciously tell myself that fear is meaningless; fear is a handy warning system, nothing more. Repeated words in my head-stay calm, be patient-as I waited, listening to the small noises that marked his progression, getting closcr to me, closer. Just one man. I was pretty sure it was just one man.

I'd moved down the bluff to the funnel-mouth of the ravine-the natural exit place for someone following us. Was crouched on one knee behind the buttress of a rain forest giant that had somehow escaped the chainsaw. I was now closer to the harbor; near enough to see panels of water through the trees, a few glittering boat lights out there. If the man walked past me, he'd be backlighted; I'd be able to see his silhouette.

Then what?

That was the question: Then what…

I'd felt around on the ground until I found a couple of chunks of limestone rock and a hefty piece of tree limb. Caveman weaponry against a man with a rifle… or who was probably smart enough, well trained enough, to have switched to a handgun for this kind of close quarters, lights-out work. Probably some sort of nine-millimeter semi… or maybe a shotgun.

I pictured him standing there, his back to me; pictured me stepping out to nail him… imagined what the bullet would feel like when he immediately turned and shot me.

Stay calm… be patient.

No… a better idea would be to let him walk right past; let him bolt toward the noise that Valdes and the boy would soon make when they reached the water. Give it a few minutes-the whole time, I'd be moving in the opposite direction-then yell at him, let him know where I was, the guy he really wanted, then continue the chase, one on one. Valdes and the boy would make it safely to the Santeria compound while I… while I spent the next few days running for my life, trying to find a way out of Cuba…

That was a better solution?

Christ!

He was very close now. So close that I could hear the sound his steps made in the spongy rain forest loam. There was a pattern to his movement: Step, step… step, step… step, step… pause to listen…

When he paused, I could hear his breathing… the soft phewing sound of someone who is exhaling through his mouth, trying to be very quiet. Couldn't have been more than ten, fifteen feet from me. Pictured him, the way he would look: crouched low, weapon pivoting back and forth in synch with the movement of his eyes. Probably wearing some sort of tactical clothing, full cammo with face black; some gung-ho stud who loved the whole uniform, who loved what he was doing.

I had to fight the bizarre urge to just stand up, introduce myself and say, "Hey, let's talk this thing over." Say, "All that stuff they told you? All that stuff they taught you? None of it is… rational."

Nor was it valid. His position, my position were both the senseless pantomime of a vanished death dance; a pointless ceremony that was still embraced by a political theater of the absurd. For a thousand millennia we sharpened sticks or rocks into weapons and we stalked and we hunted and we killed because that is what the strongest and the fittest of us did. Those who were incapable did not contribute to the chromosomal mandate because they did not survive. It is what the genetic memory of a thousand millennia told us to do, what it still tells us to do.

Necessity plays no role. If the drive is strong enough, necessity can be invented. It is the predicament of our nature that is the imperative, not the nature of our predicament. It is deep within us and it is a hunger; a hunger that feeds on meat and feeds on fear and feeds on tribal differences, social, sexual, or visual. Political leaders who want to survive pander to the drive. Political exigencies are the ideal excuse.

But what it always comes down to is young men carrying something in theh hands, doing what we have always done, doing it well and with passion, because that is what we are…

Yet, I did not call out; attempted nothing as civilized as attempting to introduce myself. Instead, I balled myself tighter against the planked root of the tree, aware that, along with his weapon of choice, it was also possible that he was equipped with a night optics system. I couldn't see him, but he might be able to see me.

We have come so far…

Which is why I crouched low, eyes wide, like some animal frozen in the headlights of a speeding car. I waited. I listened. His movements created a palpable energy wave that seemed to push ahead of him… seeped through the darkness like a kind of gas and soon enveloped me. He was that close…

Through the grain of the tree I felt the slightest of vibrations

… a thud-the butt of a weapon accidentally hitting it?

Yes…

He had found my tree; was standing next to it but on the opposite side.

Did he know where I was? He had to know…

Moving only my fingertips, I touched the club… then dismissed it. Felt until I found the rocks, touched them one by one, then gripped the smallest of them-about the size of an orange. Transferred that to my left hand, then took a slightly larger rock in my right. Held it with a three-fingered grip, like a softball.