CHAPTER 47

Peering cautiously from the depths of Imposter’s stall, I watched the men try to load Diablo. As soon as he realized their plan, Diablo went ballistic. How dare they try to separate him from his fillies and his buddy, Imposter? The groom got him as far as the trailer ramp, where Diablo refused to place a hoof on its rubber matting.

The groom stood by Diablo’s head, coaxing, his Spanish words soft and gentle. Gonzales stood behind waving a whip at the horse’s hindquarters. Diablo threw a vicious kick at Gonzales, but missed. Rats.

The two men appeared to be at odds, the groom wanting to handle the horse with kindness, Gonzales preferring to whip the horse into obedience. He proved this assessment by cracking the whip hard on the horse’s flesh. Diablo responded with an angry scream, backing up so fast he dragged the groom off the trailer ramp. The colt continued his backward charge then shot a hind leg at Gonzales. The connection sounded like a home run hit. I had to restrain myself from cheering.

Gonzales doubled over, his hand clutching one thigh. The tone of his curses made me glad my Spanish wasn’t good. The man’s leg held, apparently not broken. Furious, he limped to the cab of the truck and removed a nasty looking cattle prod. He spewed some words at the groom, his gestures indicating that the man was to move the colt back to the edge of the ramp.

“No es necessario!” The groom’s voice shook as he eyed the prod. But apparently he decided Gonzales was more lethal than Diablo and worked to coax the colt back to the trailer ramp.

I was on my hands and knees staring through Imposter’s front legs as the nervous gelding watched the battle outside. Did Gonzales have the papers to get the horse off the track? If I’d had my phone, I would have called the security guard at the stable gate. But he’d probably been bribed, anyway. Currito’s people had too much money and power, and I had to stay out of sight. No one knew where I was and I needed to keep it that way.

The groom tried to quiet Diablo with soft words while rubbing his head. Gonzales hissed something, and the groom again urged Diablo to step on the ramp. Gonzales leapt forward and struck the horse with the electric prod. Diablo screamed and burst up the ramp. He dragged the groom, who still clung to the lead shank, with him. The groom stumbled and fell forward into the trailer. Diablo trampled him as he exploded inside. Gonzales sprinted forward, yanked the ramp up, and fastened the security bars in place. He worked furiously to lock the upper Dutch doors, then ran to his Dodge pickup.

The trailer rocked wildly and I could hear the screams of the groom beneath Diablo’s hooves. The other horses neighed frantically. One of my fillies whirled in her stall. Anxious whinnying sounded from neighboring barns.

Why didn’t someone come? Probably because the fight with Diablo had only lasted moments. I glanced at my watch, almost three a.m., at least an hour before anyone showed up.

Gonzales didn’t waste any time firing his engine and driving away. I didn’t waste any time going after him.

* * * *

As soon as the trailer rolled out of sight, I ran to my Toyota and followed. Damn Will for telling me to lose the phone! But if he was right and I called for help, Currito’s people could intercept my call and know exactly where I was and what I was doing.

When Gonzales neared the stable gate, I feinted right as if going toward the track kitchen. This way, he wouldn’t see me in his side-view mirror when he stopped for the guard. But he didn’t stop. The security bar rose and the rig sailed through. Someone had paid the guard.

I pulled back onto the drive and slowed at the gate. Since my license hung from my rearview, the guard waved me through. If I’d had a trailer behind me, he would have forced me to stop, demanded papers, and checked them against my cargo.

Ahead of me, Gonzales’ big Dodge rumbled out of Gulfstream and headed north on Route 1. At three in the morning, the usually heavy congestion was still locked away in parking lots and garages. It was easy to let a few cars slip between me and the trailer while I followed its running lights from a safe distance.

We zipped along Route 1, drove through the Hollywood traffic circle, and continued north. Gonzales must be headed for one of the ports of Fort Lauderdale. Reaching the southern outskirts of the city, he ignored the expressway leading to Port Everglades. Apparently Currito’s yacht wasn’t so big it had to moor alongside the gigantic container ships and cargo vessels that used the major port. Then again, were we really headed for Currito’s yacht? And what about the groom? I didn’t like to think about him lying on the trailer floor.

A few minutes past the Port exit, Gonzales made a right on Seventeenth Street, which led to the docks of Fort Lauderdale. After crossing the Intracoastal bridge, he exited onto Access Road. I followed, trying to concentrate on his truck and trailer instead of the extraordinary luxury crafts looming into view around me.

I gave up worrying about being seen. Even though it was well before dawn, there was more traffic here—delivery trucks refurbishing supplies and an eighteen wheeler loaded with diesel for the underground tanks that fueled water craft. My generic blue Toyota shouldn’t be that noticeable, and fortunately, the trailer blocked any view Gonzales could get from his rear mirror.

He pulled into the wide gravel lot of the “Seaside Marina,” where night lights revealed a concrete wharf built alongside the Intracoastal. Shaped like a T, the long stem of the platform ran parallel to the parking area. A freighter floated on the far side and two large yachts snuggled against the lot side.

When I saw “La Sirena” painted on the bow of the closest yacht, I rolled to a stop. Dock lamps and the craft’s running lights revealed a sleek, modern outline. The yacht was so long! Had to be almost a sixteenth of a mile. Maybe 300 feet. Her immense size dwarfed the helicopter perched on her topmost deck.

Currito’s wealth staggered me. Drug money. Human flesh money. Who needed so much money?

I cut my lights and slid the Toyota’s transmission into reverse, backing quietly out of the lot, finding a spot behind a parked delivery truck on Access Road. A stiff salt breeze burned my eyes and stung my cheeks when I left the Toyota and raced toward La Sirena.