Here is a preview of the action-adventure crime thriller Gitmo by Shawn Corridan and Gary Waid…

 

 

Prologue

 

 

Castro is dead.

¡Gracias a Dios!

Now what?

 

***

 

The veranda curtains were partially drawn against the full moon, yet the young servant girl could see everything. Her mistress was lying on the bed, curled into a protective ball, elbows over her head, knees to her chest. The maid heard the steady breathing, slow and strong, and no hint of a whimper, nor pleas for help. Just another night in which the master of the house had lost control, using his considerable authority at home instead of at his Ministerio de Justicia. This time it was about Raúl. Prior to that, it was always Fidel.

The girl had heard the shouting. She wasn’t snooping or sneaking around—the angry words could not be blocked out. And her imagination could not be stilled. There was change in the wind, and it was frightening. So she sat downstairs by the kitchen door and waited. It was very late, almost dawn. Shapes of moonlight washed over the gardens and the trellises of bougainvillea, turning the warm tropical colors into moving shadows and white ice. Out beyond the cliffs the beach was a ribbon of bone fronting a sea ablaze with summer phosphorescence.

Eventually the generalisimo had left. First there was the sound of a shower running and she imagined him putting on his uniform, slipping his black leather gloves into his coat pocket, and striding out the front door. His coffee would be waiting for him at the ministry. He was an important man with an important job, a violent job that he seemed to enjoy too much.

But sometimes he brought his work home. Lately he’d been ranting about Fidel’s younger brother and his new pact with the United States. A deal that would certainly put an end to the niche he’d carved out for himself. But things moved slowly in communist Cuba. He still had time. And President-elect Trump was a wild card at best.

The girl had earlier assembled her things—a pair of clean towels, a pan of warm water, some mild soap. She would open the door and go to the woman and clean her up. She knew what was needed. She’d done it many times before.

The woman would protest. She would deny that she’d been hurt. But she would accept the assistance, and the morning sunlight would stream into the room and another day would begin.