David Schaffer had been dreaming about Christmas Day. He was only about eight years old in the dream, but his parents hadn’t bought him any presents. Had they found out he’d been spying on them? Was this his punishment? He was about to ask when his cell trilled. He woke up and groped for it on the bedside table.
“Yeah?”
“David, it’s Carol. I—I’m really scared. You have to do something.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Two men kicked the door down a little while ago. They won’t leave. They want to talk to you.”
Schaffer bolted from the bed. “Who are they?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice was close to hysteria. “But they have guns, David, and they tied me up…”
The phone was snatched away. His wife’s voice was replaced by a deep male voice with a thick Boston accent. “How are ya, David?”
“Who the fuck are you?” Fear streaked up his spine. The hand holding the cell grew sweaty.
“You don’t need to get nasty. You know who we are.”
“Let me speak to my wife.”
“Sure, David. In a minute. After you uh—conclude—your business in Chicago.”
David looked wildly around the room. How the hell did they find him? As if on cue, there was a thump at his door. David hurried over, hoping it was one of his men. But when he squinted through the peephole, he saw three unfamiliar goons about to break down his door. His stomach lurched.
“I’ll get back to you,” he rasped into the phone. Then he threw the phone on the bed, grabbed his car keys and wallet, and sprinted to the other door of the suite. He’d studied the hotel’s floor plan in advance, then requested this room, congratulating himself for leaving nothing to chance. He cracked the other door, which opened onto an adjacent hallway. Clear. He eased himself through and raced to the stairs.
At first Ramon was frustrated to have been assigned such a trivial role. Then he stopped brooding. He was an unknown commodity to the Pacellis. Plus, his wounded leg made him a liability. He looked around the lobby of the hotel. Story of his life. Always unimportant, easy to dispense with. Still, he kept watch on the elevator and stairs. When the stairway door opened and David Schaffer appeared, slinking toward the exit, Ramon yanked his companion’s sleeve.
“That’s him!” he cried out.
Schaffer spun around, a look of astonishment on his face. When he recognized Ramon, astonishment turned to horror and he rushed to the door, careening into furniture and the few people in the lobby as if he was drunk.
The goon with Ramon took off after him, his cell clamped to his ear. Ramon limped behind. By the time he got to the garage, Schaffer was pinned against the wall by Gino’s goons, and Gino was aiming an automatic at him. The acoustics of concrete in the partially open garage made for a clear echo. Schaffer was begging for his life.
“Look. I didn’t hurt her! She’s fine. All I wanted was the map! But you can keep it. Let me go. And my wife.”
Ramon watched Gino hesitate, as if he was considering Schaffer’s plea. Then he pulled back the slide on his pistol. Ramon saw the flash of the muzzle. Heard the sharp crack of the bullet. Schaffer crumpled to the ground. Ramon hopped over to gaze at Schaffer’s body. A pool of blood oozed out around his head. Ramon squeezed his eyes shut.
Gino spat out orders. “Vite, Vite! Get him outta here!”
Ramon turned around. At the curb beyond the parking garage, a pale face framed in black pressed against the window of one of the SUVs. The girl. Although the electric blue light of the parking garage was dim and shadowy, he could tell she was exhausted. And panicked. He thought he saw tears trickle down her cheeks.
“Where should we dump him?” asked one of the men dragging Schaffer’s body to the other SUV.
Gino glanced at Ramon, then back at the men. “The regular place.” Gino switched to Italian and kept talking, but Ramon didn’t understand. He limped over to Luisa. She didn’t recognize him and reared back in fear.
He smiled and motioned for her to roll down the window. “I am a friend,” he called out. “I know your mother.”
She stared at him but refused to lower the glass. She probably thought he was part of the Pacelli Family.
“I knew your grandfather Luis. In Cuba,” he added.
She gave him a wary nod.
“I am glad you are safe.” He smiled again.
She showed no reaction, but Ramon understood. She was in shock. She’d just survived a kidnapping. He knew what that was like. He would tell her everything after she recovered from the trauma. He would tell her about his friendship with Luis. How they grew up together in Oriente. How they moved to Havana. How Luis was a student of law, history and art. He would tell her about the time he and Luis spent in Angola. What a noble colonel Luis had been. He nodded back to Luisa, about to make his way to the other SUV when Gino called out.
“Suarez!”
Ramon whipped around.
“Stop bothering her! Get away from the car!”
Ramon stepped aside and tried to raise his hands in a “what are you talking about” gesture, but he only made it partway. The bullet struck him in the chest. As it tore through his flesh, he felt a sharp burning sensation, a sensation that cut off his breath. He staggered, then fell to the ground, gasping for air. Although the snow had stopped, he was cold. And getting colder. At the same time, his brain was slowing down. It must be the wind, he thought. It must have picked up.
It was time to go back to Cuba. To the island kissed by warm, tropical breezes, not a frigid wind snaking down the street. Raoul was Presidente now, and reforms had come. Cubans could sell their homes and their cars. They could start businesses. He wanted to die where he was born, not in a strange, lonely city. He knew there were flights from Chicago to Havana. But he should probably find a Santería priestess before he made his plans. She would tell him the best time to travel. The last thing he saw were the eyes of the girl. She shouldn’t look so horrified, he thought. As if a nightmare was unspooling. She should smile. This was a happy time. Ramon was going home.