SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops VI - Guantanamo (9 page)

Nolan considered the distances. The sea crossing would be about two hundred kilometers. If they used a fast boat, they'd make it in lesson five hours. He looked back at Vega.

"Do you know if they've left yet?"

He shrugged. "Who can tell? But I can introduce you to the person who took them across the island. Maybe they'll be able to tell you. They have contacts in both Cuba and Mexico."

"A smuggler?"

He smiled. "Of course."

"Everyone on this island seems to be a smuggler."

Vega smiled. "Since we have no other way to gain access to goods from America, there is little choice. It is a dangerous game, the PNR; the Policía Nacional Revolucionaria takes a hard line with such people. Long prison sentences are the norm, and they shoot some of them."

"Understood. When can we talk to this guy?"

"The person you need is in this building. I will send for them now."

He looked up and waved to the barkeep. When he had the man's attention, he gave him a signal, a hand movement, and he nodded. He spoke a few words to a girl who was sitting at the bar, her arm around another girl. Their heads were close together as they chatted to each other. Real close.

Whatever,
he shrugged.

One of the girls nodded, climbed to her feet, and walked over to them. Vega did the introductions.

"This is Eva Sanchez. She transported the men you are hunting in her truck. You can put your questions to her."

Nolan stared at her.
She looked too young and too pretty to be mixed up in the ugly and violent world of smuggling. Eva Sanchez wore jeans tucked into high leather boots, and a T-shirt with a bold rainbow motif printed on the front, the symbol for the gay movement. Yeah. Her skin was a smooth cafe-au-lait, which complemented her almost jet black eyes and dark lustrous hair. She had the build of an athlete or maybe a dancer, but none of the passion. When she looked at him, the dark eyes were the temperature of ice.

He nodded a greeting, but she stared straight back at him.

This girl clearly has no time for men.
Life can be so fucking cruel. Why is it always the pretty ones?

He kept his face neutral.

"Ma'am, we're looking for information. The men you transported across the island recently. They escaped from Guantanamo, and we're here to find them."

She gave a slight nod. "Guantanamo? I transported nine men to Parque Gunanahacabibes, that is correct, but I was not informed where they came from. It is not my business. Why do you want them? You're not cops or military. Are you some kind of bounty hunters?"

He glanced at the other three men and grinned. It was true; they had the look of desperadoes or wild revolutionaries. Pancho Villa would have been proud.

He decided to give it to her straight. "No. We're Americans trying to prevent another 9/11."

Her eyes widened. Maybe it dawned on her, carrying those fugitives across the island made her part of a long chain, a chain that could enable dangerous terrorists to reach North America. If they carried out an attack, helping them meant she'd be in more trouble than she could handle. There was also another possibility. Perhaps this ice maiden cared about the potential loss of human life. Perhaps.

He waited, and the time seemed to stretch into minutes, time they couldn't afford. He was about to prompt her for an answer when she spoke.

"Whatever you're doing here, hombre, you should know the police are looking for you. I've seen two different cops go past the window on the other side of the street. And a few seconds ago, one of their plainclothes men came into the bar and went out again. You don't have long before they pick you up."

He looked out the window, and sure enough a cop was standing across the street, looking up and down. Waiting for more men to arrive, no question.

"In that case, we'd better get out of here fast. Miss Sanchez, we need to reach this place, Parque Gunanahacabibes. There's still a chance we can catch up with them. Can you take us?"

She gave de la Vega a searching stare. "Can I trust these men?"

"Yes, of course. They are involved with the CIA in some way. I received a message asking for my help, so I can vouch for them."

"Two thousand dollars."

Nolan grimaced. "We've already agreed a price with de la Vega. CIA will settle the bill."

"But the truck belongs to me."

She stared back at him, and it was like looking at a marble statue, cold and hard, but so pretty.

This is crazy! Why am I arguing about CIA's funds? They spend billions of dollars.

He waved both hands in surrender. "Agreed. Two thousand dollars, but we need to leave right away."

"My vehicle is two blocks away. We can leave when you're ready. " She looked at Vega. "Rafael, you will come, too? I do not know these men."

"Yes, of course." He grinned, "Besides, I have to take care of them. I have a lot of money invested in these people."

"Let's go," Nolan snapped, ending the discussion, "We don't have much time."

He went to the door and looked out. The cop had disappeared, and apart from a few late night revelers on their way home, the street was empty. He went out. Eva followed, and then the other three men with de la Vega. They froze when the headlights of a car came on. A voice shouted, "Police! Stop, put up your hands!"

"This way!"

Eva pointed to a narrow alley at the side of El Baul. "Down there, quickly!"

They ran. A shot rang out, and then another, and the window of the bar shattered. Vega shouted in pain when a third shot clipped his leg, and then they were in the alley and sprinting away. Behind them, they could hear the sound of running boots as the cops followed. Nolan unslung his Polish submachine gun.

"I'll slow them down. You keep going."

He fired a burst at their pursuers, and a man went down. More shots whistled past him, and then a pistol fired right next to him. He turned to look.

Eva!

She had a small pistol in her hand; somehow she'd carried it hidden under her clothes. A small, flat, Russian-made Tokarev 7.62mm. She missed the first shot but took careful aim and fired again. Another cop hit the dirt.

"I can take care of this," he shouted at her, "You should go with the others."

She stared back at him. "Fuck you, Mister. You don't tell me where I should go."

She fired again, ducked as more shots whistled past, and then snapped off a couple more rounds.

"Come," she said, her voice imperious, "I will lead the way. If you stay here, I'll leave you behind."

The cops fired again, and he emptied the clip at them. She had a point, and it was her territory. He raced after her, ducking as more gunfire pursued him. They reached the end of the alley, turned left, ran diagonally across the street, and then down another alley. A minute later, they emerged in a small cobbled courtyard behind a grocery shop. The truck was parked there, guarded by his men.

It was a Gaz 69, an outdated, SUV style all-terrain vehicle built during the Soviet era for use by the military. Since the fall of communism, surplus vehicles were exported to those countries with ties to Russia, including Cuba. Many came onto the civilian market. In countries with poorly developed infrastructures, they came into their own, able to traverse tracks and roads that would have stopped a more modern truck. Even so, it looked like an antique. He had doubts about whether the engine would start.

"Get in the cab," she hissed.

They reached the truck, and she told the rest of them to climb in back. They leapt over the tailgate and dragged Vega after them. As they pulled him up, Nolan saw blood on the cobblestones where he'd been shot. He looked up as Eva shouted at him again, and he ran to join her in the cab.

She started the engine, roared out of the courtyard, and jammed on the brakes. A police cruiser, another Soviet built vehicle, a Lada saloon, had pulled across the entrance to block them. She looked at him, and for the first time she seemed uncertain.

"My truck is worth twenty thousand dollars to me. That is how much it would cost me to replace it on this island."

"Do it. We'll pay for the damage, that's a promise. Besides, those Ladas are crap."

She nodded and said, "That's true," as she stamped down hard on the gas pedal. The Gaz surged forward, and she caught the flimsy car on the front of the hood. The blow was so hard the Russian built saloon tipped over until it was lying on its roof, but the Gaz had not escaped damage. The front fender had bent inward until it touched the tire, and they drove away emitting a high-pitched noise of metal scraping rubber.

"We have to stop," she shouted, "We can't carry on. It'll wreck the tire."

She started to slow, but a hail of bullets cracked past the cab, and several rounds tore holes in the canvas covering the rear cargo area. She jammed her foot back on the gas, but the noise from the damaged fender was louder, and it was evident they'd soon lose the tire.

"Hold them off," he shouted to the men in back. "Stop the jeep as soon as you can."

She nodded. The order to his men wasn't necessary. They were already firing their weapons at the cops, and the interior of the Gaz was assaulted by the noise of their combined gunfire. Even Vega had produced a weapon, a bulky but iconic Stechkin, the pistol that fired a Makarov 9mm round, yet had an additional benefit. It could fire on full auto, and he'd attached the optional wooden butt to the weapon, turning it into a useful submachine gun. The magazine carried twenty rounds, and he fired in short, professional bursts.

More shots struck the Gaz, and then Eva turned the corner, and they were out of the line of fire. She kept her foot pressed to the floor, and they lurched around more corners and bumped along tracks until they reached the outskirts of Tortuguilla. Even in the darkness, and with the absence of any streetlamps, he could see they were coming to the edge of town. A patch of deep jungle lay ahead, as well as the main road, which would soon be alive with cops.

"What are you going to do? They'll call in reinforcements, and they're sure to find us."

She grinned then for the first time. "Not where I'm going, they won't. This may be a piece of crap, but off-road, it's unbeatable. Anything that can handle Russia in winter can go anywhere."

She drove along the road for a few hundred meters and then swung the wheel hard over. They were bumping over a field, little more than hard beaten earth, with abundant rocks and stones to make their journey more hazardous and uncomfortable. She smashed through a wooden fence, swung the wheel over, and stopped.

"We need to free that wheel. We won't get much further the way it is."

He nodded and turned to the men in back. "Everyone out. We need to bend the wing away from the tire."

It proved to be more difficult than they would have thought possible. Unusual in anything Soviet built, the metal was hard and thick, and it took all their strength to bend it out and away from the tire, which exposed a further problem. Will had checked underneath the chassis, and his expression was grave.

"It wasn't just the fender. The hub of the wheel is buckled. I don't know how far we'll get with it. I guess there aren't many repair garages around here."

She grimaced. "What do we need to fix it?"

He considered for a moment. "It's crude engineering, so I guess a couple of sledgehammers to straighten the hub axle, and an anvil to rest it on."

"I can arrange that. There's a place on the way. I happen to know they have an anvil in the workshop and at least one sledgehammer."

"Will the owner be there?" Nolan asked her.

"No, but the lock on the door is flimsy."

"Good enough, let's go."

She drove the damaged Gaz cross-country, following footpaths, goat tracks, and in places nothing at all, just rough, empty ground. They entered an area of thick jungle, and the Gaz brushed aside dangling vines and creepers as she forced a way through the narrow path that was only half the width of the jeep.

They were going well, and Nolan began to think they'd got clean away, when the front wheel began to wobble alarmingly. She fought to keep on a straight course.

"Can we make it?" he asked her, "To this repair shop."

"I've no idea," she snapped, "Either we will, or we won't. In which case, we'll have to walk."

"Roger that. What about the cops, could they follow us here?"

She pulled a face. "The only thing they can follow is their own dicks into a brothel. No, the cops won't be a problem."

"Good."

"But the FAR, the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias, is another matter. The Armed Forces of Cuba, they're much better armed and equipped than the police, and there are many more of them. It all depends on how they see us. If they think they're just going after smugglers, the cops will try and deal with it themselves. They wouldn't want to hit the smugglers too hard, for fear of hurting their kickbacks. But if they believe you're foreigners, then they may call in the FAR."

"That's not good."

"No. They do that and we're fucked."