OFFSHORE EASTERN CUBA
FRIDAY, 11:44 P.M.
Jessica was back over the Caribbean Sea en route to her new target. Flying at low altitude in the dark was easier over open ocean without the perils of dodging the rolling mountains of eastern Cuba. She kept the Raider’s nose tucked forward like the head of a charging bull.
A visual of her target soon appeared on the horizon. The single white star in the distance quickly multiplied into two, three, four lights, then, eventually, the clear outline of a naval ship bobbing in the sea.
She slowed her speed and circled the vessel from fifty feet away. GRANMA NUEVA / HAVANA, was painted on the stern, just below a raised deck and a dark gray helicopter pad. “Honey, I’m home!” she announced to no one.
Soldiers on the ship began to emerge, crowding the top deck and pointing weapons menacingly at the helicopter. Not everyone is expecting me. She briefly considered turning the communications system back on and radioing to the captain but decided against it. She hovered just off the stern, sliding side to side like a hummingbird approaching a flower.
This seemed to agitate the Cubans further, until a short muscular man in civilian clothes appeared. At his command, the soldiers lowered their weapons and scampered into a tight circular formation. The man jogged out to the middle of the landing deck and waved his arms, then crossed them forming an X in front of his body—the universal signal to land.
Jessica eased the Raider gently down onto the helipad, cut the engine, and showed her palms to the men gathering around her.
As she opened the door, half a dozen soldiers again raised their rifles. Jessica stepped out cautiously, her hands high over her head. The Cubans stared in disbelief at the woman in the tight black jumpsuit who had emerged from this spaceship.
“Oswaldo Guerrero,” she demanded. “Where is he?”
“You are welcome aboard the Granma Nueva,” the man said, bowing his head. His eyes locked on hers. “This is an honor—”
“Save it.” Jessica dropped her arms. “Where’s Oswaldo Guerrero?”
The man touched his chest with his palm, his forearm muscles tensing. “I am O.” He bowed his head. “And who are you?”
“Where’s Dr. Ryker?” she demanded.
“Very well, you don’t have a name. But when the American government sends me such a beautiful agent—”
“Where’s Ryker?” she barked, and tightened her fists. She could smell rum on his breath.
“He is safe, my angel. Where is my package?”
“Not until I see Judd Ryker.”
Oswaldo dismissed the soldiers with a wave and led Jessica through the ship, her boots pounding hard on the steel deck. They passed through a hallway, down a flight of stairs, to a heavy door. Jessica ducked her head to enter the cabin.
She was expecting the worst but was surprised to find Judd sitting happily at a table covered with dirty plates and empty bottles.
“Dr. Ryker?” she asked.
Judd flashed a momentary look of relief but maintained a steady poker face. “Ma’am,” he said as stiffly as he could.
“Dr. Ryker, your cavalry is here,” Oswaldo announced with a wide smile. “You yanquis and your cowboys!” He turned to Jessica. “You can see your Dr. Ryker is very safe. Now, where’s my money?”
“In the chopper.”
“Unmarked, nonsequential bills?”
Jessica nodded. “Everything all right here, Dr. Ryker?” She raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips, the same face she made when her children were naughty.
“Yes, ma’am. Now that you’re here, now that the money is here, everything is perfect.” Judd turned to Guerrero. “Isn’t that right, O? We’re done. Now that you have your money, we have a deal.”
“I knew you yanquis were rich. That you could make money appear from the sky. Delivered by an angel. I knew it, Dr. Ryker. Just like your movies. Twenty-five million dollars.” He snapped his fingers.
“We have a deal,” Judd said, standing up to leave. “You have your money. You’ll release the hostages and take care of . . . the other business you promised.”
Jessica cleared her throat and both men turned to face her. “About the money . . .” she said. “I brought ten million, not twenty-five.”
Judd’s eyes widened and his heart sank.
“You think . . . you can play games with me, yanqui?” Oswaldo hissed, his eyes darkening.
“Just ten?” Judd rubbed his neck.
“Don’t play that cowboy game with me, Dr. Ryker. Our deal is dead. You are all dead.”
“Oswaldo”—Judd placed both his hands on the table—“we’ve been talking for the past”—Judd pretended to check his watch—“twelve hours. We’ve made a breakthrough. Ten million is a lot of money. Don’t get greedy now. Are you going to throw that all away?”
“Our deal was twenty-five million.” Oswaldo turned his back and reached deep into his pocket.
“O! Don’t do it!” Judd said, trying to stay calm. “We have a deal. Cuba’s future. Your future. What more do you want?”
“I want this!” he said, spinning around. Judd blinked just as Jessica grabbed Oswaldo’s arm, twisted him around, and forced him to the floor in a flashbang of violent grace. A metallic clang rang out as a heavy object hit the floor.
“What are you doing, mi bella?” Oswaldo laughed to himself as Jessica dug her knee into his back.
The Rykers both glared at the object—not a gun but a satellite phone.
“A phone?” Jessica said.
“Call Parker,” Oswaldo groaned. “That’s what I want.”
“You want me to . . . call Landon Parker?” Judd’s heart was still pounding as Jessica released Guerrero from her clutches.
“Of course. When you needed money a few hours ago”—Guerrero stood up and brushed off his pants—“you called him.” He snatched the phone off the floor. “You called him with this phone. And then”—Oswaldo winked at Jessica and flashed his gold-toothed smile—“this angel flew from the clouds onto my ship with ten million dollars in cash. Do it again.”
“I don’t think it’s that easy to just . . . reach him,” Judd said, shaking his head.
“Yes. It is. This is a magic phone,” Oswaldo said with a shrug. He pushed redial. “I’m calling Landon Parker. As you did.” Oswaldo pressed his ear to the speaker. “It’s ringing.”
Judd and Jessica exchanged glances of surprise as the phone in Jessica’s pocket erupted in song.
Oswaldo Guerrero glared at Jessica, then down at her ringing pocket, then at his phone. His expression turned to a snarl. “What kind of yanqui trick is this?”