The First Five Days

Fifty

Prologue

Nino Rivera was bent on seeking justice of his own making, revenge against the wretched bastard who had so cruelly hurt and humiliated his beloved sister, Izarra. Although he was not temperamental by nature, his anger, when tested, was swift and savage.

The Cuban’s massive frame eclipsed the steering wheel of the Plymouth sedan speeding recklessly away from Domingo Segunda’s palatial home. Seated to his right was Brett Lane, the sole passenger, who was quietly witnessing Nino’s face gradually morph into a mask of rage and desperation. When he spoke, the anxiety in Brett’s voice matched his strained expression. Hey man, tell me what’s bothering you. You switched the money for the diamonds. Segunda seemed satisfied. It’s exactly what the bosses wanted. I mean, everything happened just like you said, Nino, and without a glitch. I’m thinkin’ we’re home free.

Yeah, kid, Nino replied, sarcastically. Home free.

Nino, a trusted bagman for the Havana mob, had been relieved when Judge Segunda Domingo, the worst criminal he had ever encountered, met him on schedule and then proceeded to finalize their carefully arranged exchange. As a seasoned professional, Nino had an almost irrational aversion toward distractions and idle chatter while conducting a vital business transaction. Afterward, in a triumphant mood, Nino had asked for permission to place a phone call. It was a crucial decision, one that would result in an unexpected twist of fate with catastrophic consequences.

It was apparent to Brett that their assignment was now considered insignificant by the infuriated Cuban when measured against his personal anguish. This was, of course, not the attitude the young American had expected from the tough-as-nails, hard-nosed gangster who had generously agreed to mentor him. Collecting his thoughts, Brett studied Nino’s tense body perched forward, his large hands gripping the steering wheel while they flew down the center of the narrow roadway that cut a swath through the lush, steaming jungle encircling the property. It was late morning and the surrounding area, Brett noticed, was bathed in deep shadows.

You gonna tell me what’s up, Nino?

Slipping a cigarette between his lips, Nino lit it with a gold-plated lighter. He seemed to be contemplating Brett’s question before he allowed himself the chance to answer. Finally, he said, My sister, Izarra.

So what happened to her? What are you saying, exactly?

She’s in a bad way. We’re going to her now.

Brett looked at the big Cuban with skepticism. Are you fucking kidding me? We’re sitting on a pile of diamonds worth half a million dollars. We have to get back to Havana. Trafficante and the others are expecting us.

It’s just a detour.

C’mon, man, we can’t do this shit.

Nino slammed on the brakes, and the Plymouth screeched to a halt at the edge of the road. He sat staring directly ahead, the cigarette perched on his lips, his eyes drooping slightly. Get your skinny ass out of the car, he ordered, in a low growl.

Brett turned and stared at the Cuban in dismay. What? Now? Here?

This is something I gotta do. If you’re not up for it—

All right, all right, I’ll go along. But can we call the boss and explain? I mean, I think we have to. You said it yourself. A deal this big, trust only goes so far.

Nino sighed heavily and then pressed the gas pedal hard as they resumed their wild ride. The Plymouth barely slowed when they reached the main road. The vehicle almost slid out of control when it emerged from the jungle path like a snake slithering from a clump of tall grass. To his dismay, Brett realized that they were headed away from Havana.

Although the main road was heavy with traffic, they were making good time on the broader two-lane highway. And then, after passing a series of cars, the Plymouth found itself trapped behind a wide, slow-moving truck loaded with fruit crates. The lumbering vehicle completely obstructed any view of the approaching lane. When Nino attempted to pass it, another car appeared only yards ahead. Swerving back behind the truck, he slapped the steering wheel and cursed loudly.

All right, man, that was close, Brett remarked, swallowing hard. He could feel his heart pounding against the wall of his chest. Just be patient, it’s not going to help anyone if we get killed on the way.

Nino shook his head in frustration before again pulling into the opposite lane. His second effort met with similar results. The dense traffic on the road was not going to allow them easy access. Realizing that Nino was about to make a third ill-advised attempt, Brett grabbed the steering wheel and forced him to remain in the slower lane. The Cuban raised an arm, as if he were going to slap the kid, before he released a heavy sigh and halted his threatening gesture. It was obvious, even to Nino, that his decisions were borderline irrational.

He was still considering his next move when the truck’s right turn signal lit up. The vehicle slowed even more before crawling off the highway like a rambling centipede, ultimately easing into the parking lot of a roadside store. Offering a sigh of relief, Nino gripped the steering wheel even tighter and accelerated to a much higher rate of speed.

Brett decided not to challenge the single-minded determination that seemed to be controlling his mentor beyond reason. Instead, he settled into the passenger’s seat with his arms folded against his chest and his head lowered. He kept his eyes held tightly shut, wishing at that moment that he was religious enough to pray. Instead, he found himself silently cursing the crazy, self-destructive Cuban who was holding him hostage in a speeding car.

It was past midday when they entered the municipal limits of Santa Clara. While Nino navigated the narrow, crowded streets, Brett made a silent attempt to assess his colleague’s mood. Although the outward signs of rage were no longer visible, he strongly suspected that Nino’s fierce anger still lurked below the surface.

Now tell me why we’re here, Brett said, his voice reflecting the proper measure of concern. What happened, exactly? And what I can do to help? Tell me about your sister.

Her brute-bastard husband beat her again, after I warned him. It’s real bad this time. He apparently hurt her enough that she needs a doctor. But he won’t call one or let her out of the house.

So we’re going to take her to a physician?

Right after I kill the sonofabitch.

Listen, man, I’m not suggesting he doesn’t deserve to get the shit kicked out of him. But let’s be rational about this. You gotta remember we’re in the middle of an important job for the top bosses. I say we don’t disappoint them.

A small leather valise was attached to Nino’s left wrist by an eighteen-inch length of steel chain. Inside the case, placed across his lap, was a heavy package of polished, cut diamonds valued at more than a half million dollars in American currency. Nino finally nodded and said, Yeah, that’s right, kid. We’re off schedule, but not enough to alarm anybody. Besides, they all know me as a stand-up guy.

I say we get Izarra to a hospital. I’ll even stay with her, Nino, while you drive back to Havana. You can return once you’ve made the drop, and we can take care of the husband together.

Nino looked at the young American with mild amusement. You ever whack anybody before? His question was meant with silence. That’s what I thought. I want you to wait in the car while I get Izarra.

Clearly exasperated, Brett said, What if the asshole is still inside?

Oh, he’s there. And he knows I’m coming for him.

Great. Welcome to the gunfight at the OK Corral.

"Yeah, well, listen to this. A couple of weeks ago, I walk in on him slapping my sister around. I know it’s an argument between a man and his wife. But she’s my sister, for Christ’s sake. When she sees me, she begs me not to kill him. So I show remarkable restraint. I break his thumb and flatten his nose and leave him with a very courteous warning. But today, after he did this to her, he let her take my call and tell me all about it. Why? Because he wanted me to come here. Gripping the steering wheel with even greater determination, Nino said, The bastard knows he can’t hide. And he and I both know that one of us is going to die today."

Sweet Jesus, Nino, you’re walking into a trap. He’ll shoot you the minute you step through the front door.

They were approaching an apartment complex nestled in the center of a quiet, tree-lined avenue. A series of cars hugged the curb, so Nino made a sudden stop in the center of the street and left the engine running. He removed the revolver from his jacket pocket and checked the chamber. Satisfied that it was fully loaded, he flung the door open and stepped from the car. Leaning back inside, he spoke through the open window. Get behind the wheel, Brett, and wait for me. This won’t take long.

With the valise still strapped to his left wrist, Nino hurried up the front walk and passed through an entranceway, turning to his right and entering a door that led into the stairwell. Brett watched him disappear with a sense of unease before sliding behind the steering wheel. The engine was still running, and he noticed that the fuel gauge indicated less than a quarter of a tank. They would need to fill up before returning to Havana, creating even more of a delay. At that moment, it occurred to him why Nino had not left the stones in his care. Obviously, he considered Brett loyal but untested. This gave rise to the possibility that his young protégé, who didn’t share the Cuban’s personal woes, might panic and drive away.

Brett was still reflecting on his present circumstances when a car pulled away from the curb a few yards away, vacating a space. He immediately shifted gears, drove forward, and parallel-parked. Moments later, seated in nervous anticipation and immersed in moody silence, he heard the first shot. He jumped at the harsh popping sound, and his pulse began to race. Twisting around, Brett strained his neck in order to view the entrance. He would gladly welcome any sign of Nino’s return. Instead, his ears were tuned to the sound of someone inside the building firing a series of shots in rapid succession.

Holy shit! Brett screamed, his nerves clawing at his insides.

He impulsively scrambled from the car and hurried up the front walk. When he entered the lobby, he realized he didn’t know the apartment number or the correct floor. He was scanning the names on the mailboxes when the stairwell door swung open and Nino emerged with the limp body of a woman cradled in his arms. After giving Brett a dark scowl, he said, I thought you were staying with the car.

I…I didn’t know what was happening, Brett stammered, turning away and leading the Cuban outside. He then ran ahead of Nino, opening the rear door of the Plymouth. Nino placed the limp form along the length of the backseat before heading to the opposite side of the vehicle.

I’ll drive, Nino said. I know the route to the hospital.

Within seconds, they pulled away from the curb and sped to the end of the block, making a swift turn.

You okay? Brett asked. I guess you were right, about the husband being home. I heard the shots.

The less you know the better, kid.

Did anyone see you go in or out?

Don’t worry about it. People don’t remember faces when they’re scared shitless.

The Plymouth swerved at a high speed into the hospital parking lot and then slammed to a halt outside the emergency entrance. Without a moment’s hesitation, Nino scrambled out, leaving the driver’s door open, and hastily lifted Izarra from the backseat. Brett heard her moan softly and then, when Nino shifted her slightly in his arms, she cried out in obvious pain. It was apparent to Brett that she was suffering from severely bruised or broken ribs. He had to force himself to look at her, for what was once a small, delicate nose was now flattened against her face. Above that grotesque injury, her left eye had swelled shut. He also noticed a thin trail of blood easing from the corner of her mouth and trickling down her chin.

Wait in the lobby for me, Nino ordered.

Nino carried her inside while Brett closed the rear door and once again climbed behind the wheel. He pulled forward and parked in a space inside the crowded lot before strolling back to the emergency room entrance. Once he was inside the lobby, he noticed a soda machine. He dropped a dime in the slot and retrieved a frosty bottle of Coke. After snapping off the cap and taking a sip, he wandered into the sparsely populated waiting area and took a seat. While he nursed the drink, he studied the large wall clock and wondered if he should call Mr. Trafficante in Havana and report the recent turn of events. Before he could make a definitive decision, the elevator door eased open, and Nino, looking haggard and spent, came strolling toward him.

How is she? Brett asked.

Nino shook his head. You saw her. She’s in terrible shape. But she’ll live.

So you killed the husband? Tell me the goddamn truth.

He’ll never lift a hand to her or anyone else again.

Nino, I know this is a bad time for you, and I hope she comes through okay. But the diamonds, man, we’ve got to…

Nino removed a key from his shirt pocket and unlocked the bracelet. He snapped it shut on Brett’s wrist and handed him the key. He said, You deliver the goods. Take the car. Head back now. I’m staying with Izarra.

Before Brett could speak, Nino’s face drained of color at the sight of four policemen—two uniformed and two in business suits—lingering near the lobby entrance.

Get out of here, Nino commanded. Now.

Brett stood up and walked casually toward the door. Before stepping outside, he gave a furtive glance over his shoulder and saw Nino disappearing through a side exit.

With the valise now safely in his lap, Brett drove away from the hospital. He pulled into the first gas station he encountered and filled the tank. He paid the attendant and then pulled the car to the side of the building. He entered the small, cramped men’s room, relieved himself, washed his face and hands, and ran a comb through his hair. After taking a deep breath, he placed both hands on the counter to steady himself. He realized that he was falling even further behind schedule, but he needed a moment to calm his shattered nerves.

He was about to turn away when, in the mirror above the sink, he confronted the tortured look of a man experiencing a sudden revelation. It was with a renewed sense of panic that he considered this unexpected thought: Nino had surrendered the precious stones far too easily and without a hint of reservation. Why had the Cuban made the uncharacteristic decision to turn the case with its vital contents over to an untried, untested American whom he hardly knew? While the mob bosses had allowed Brett to accompany their most trusted bagman, Nino was the man in charge and solely responsible for the success of the operation. The trip to Segunda’s estate was supposed to be a relatively simple task and Brett’s trial run. It provided an opportunity for the bosses to determine whether he had the nerve and the smarts to accomplish something similar on his own, and to prove that he could be trusted.

Brett removed the small key from his pocket and hastily unlocked the bracelet. Carrying the freed valise, he returned to the car and located the tire iron inside the trunk. A part of him insisted that his fear and doubt were probably irrational and unjustified, and yet he was even more convinced that his actions were worth the risk. Returning with an empty case would remove all doubt that he was the world’s biggest fool. Even worse, it would make him a target of the crime bosses’ wrath. To suggest that the men he worked for would be grievously disappointed was a profound understatement.

He glanced around the area. Satisfied that he was not being observed, he slipped into the backseat of the car. Using the flat edge of the iron, Brett worked furiously on the hinges until he tore them free. Looking down at the broken valise, he hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath, and then cautiously lifted the lid. While staring intently at the interior of the case, several seconds elapsed before he could blink. In stunned disbelief, he removed the bulky, round bag that had been stuffed inside the compartment. Desperately gasping for breath, he gave a silent scream. Gripped in his hand was a clear plastic package containing an assortment of multicolored marbles, the kind that any kid would be excited to have in his collection. But they were a far cry from the fortune in cut diamonds that he and Nino had purchased from Segunda. In a burst of fury, Brett threw the open case onto the floorboard and slammed his fists against the back of the driver’s seat.

Following a wave of nausea and the bitter taste of bile in his mouth, Brett staggered to the pay phone on the outside wall of the station. He dropped a coin in with trembling fingers and placed his call to the club in Havana. A soft-spoken female voice answered, and he asked for Joe Cohen, the man Nino called with updates or questions. Joe came on the line within moments, and he listened intently and without comment while Brett spoke.

I think Nino Rivera is gone, the young American moaned, apparently on the verge of tears. "And the diamonds are missing. So please tell me. What the fuck do I do now?"

BOOK ONE

THE FIRST DAY

Wednesday - Miercoles

Chapter One

Leaning against the rail of the hotel balcony, Sloan Masterson observed the shadowy figures traversing the expanse of clean white beach far below. They came with the surf to their backs, advancing in uniform strides as if their movements were perfectly choreographed. Their approach caused him a moment of reflection, and then two separate thoughts occurred to him at once: they were coming for him, and, more important, he understood why.

In the first hour of 1959, the moon over Miami, full and bright, emitted an incandescent glow that challenged the deepest shadows. A salty, languid breeze rode in from the ocean atop the incessant flow of silver-topped waves. Overhead, far above the man on the balcony, the sky displayed scattered wisps of white clouds that reminded him of thin strands of cotton candy. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the long, low whistle that precedes the explosion of celebratory fireworks. No doubt the streets were full of drunken revelers welcoming the promise of the New Year.

To the unsuspecting this was a romantic paradise, where pain or sorrow could never be a factor. Yet Sloan knew this was a foolish notion. Despite the grand experience, it was a carefully constructed facade, an elaborate illusion. It provided a misleading portrait of what many believed to be the cradle of comfort and serenity.

At that very moment, serious men experienced in the art of inflicting unspeakable acts of violence were lurking below. Sloan had no misconception about his predicament. There might very well be blood on the sand that night, only to be washed away by the placid, rolling sea before morning arrived. It would not be the first time that tomorrow’s beach dwellers would never know the brutality that transpired, only hours before, at the precise spot where they were relaxing in the sun.

Sloan finished his drink and placed it on the balcony table, turning away and reentering the air-conditioned comfort of the room. He sat in a chair and slipped on his socks and shoes. Standing up to button his shirt, he looked down at the well-tanned brunette lying naked and satiated on the bed. She rolled over and stared at him, her ruby lipstick smeared from a dozen passionate kisses they had shared only a short time earlier. The woman lifted her arm toward him and implored him to return to her side.

I can’t, he said. I have a very important appointment. You might say it’s a matter of life or death.

At this hour? What time is it?

Past midnight. My day is just beginning.

You are a big, strange, handsome man, she said, followed by a sigh. Come back to bed, goddamn you.

Sloan leaned down and kissed her. It was fun.

Then come back tomorrow night. I’ll be here.

With any luck, I won’t be. He glanced at his watch again and added, Not if I survive the next hour.

You never told me what you do for a living.

That’s right. I didn’t.

Is there any chance I’ll see you again? she asked expectantly, sitting up now, her back pressed against the pillow, her ample breasts fully exposed. A smile of disappointment perched on the edge of her lips. I enjoyed this.

We both enjoyed it. And who’s to say we won’t meet again? I think the possibilities are endless.

Sloan walked to the door and then turned back. Delores? Right?

At least you remember my name.

It’s a nice name. By the way, I’m glad you picked me. To celebrate your divorce.

Delores blinked, her expression of surprise captured by the moonlight filtering through the balcony windows. Who told you I was divorced?

The ring finger. There’s a thin, pale line. Your tanning will cover it up soon enough.

And what else?

I was within earshot of your toast last night. The one where you told your friends that you are now a free woman, and to hell with Raymond. Your ex, I assume. Sloan gave her a winsome smile before adding, You’re a helluva woman, Delores. I’m willing to bet that the next time I see you, you’ll once again be Mrs. Somebody.

She laughed harshly and said, Don’t count on it. Not unless my suitor has a treasure in his vault and one foot in the grave.

Well, good luck with your gold-digging, pretty lady.

So long, Sloan, she sighed. And, as the door closed, she added, You handsome bastard.

He was strolling down the hotel corridor, tucking his shirt in, when the elevator door opened. Two of the enforcers stood at the rear of the car, staring at him with expressionless faces. They were big men, with broad shoulders and thick necks. Their wrists were attached to hands that appeared capable of crushing an anvil, and their stout jaws indicated they could take a punch without noticing that it landed. Sloan hesitated, but only briefly, for it was obvious why one of them was reaching inside his jacket. He tried to imagine what kind of weapon the man was prepared to draw, not that it really mattered. What did matter was that taking the stairs was no longer an option.

Sloan stepped inside the elevator car and turned around. The guy behind him, to his right, reached forward and pressed the first-floor button. They rode down in silence.

Between the third and second floor, Sloan hit the stop button on the elevator panel, and it lurched to a halt. With the point of his elbow, he punched the guy behind him in the stomach. In a continuous and fluid action, he swung his forearm into the throat of the man to his left. The second thug went down quickly, raising one hand defensively while clutching at his windpipe.

With his back still turned, Sloan instinctively ducked. It was a desperate attempt to avoid the large fist from the guy still standing. As he dipped his head, he lunged backward with all of his strength and slammed his attacker against the wall. He then twisted around and plowed his knee into the guy’s groin. When his assailant fell back against the rear of the elevator car, Sloan reached inside the man’s jacket and removed the revolver.

Riding the elevator to the second floor, Sloan stuck his head out and cautiously surveyed the exterior hallway. He then stepped off, sending the car down to the lobby while he took the stairs two steps at a time.

As he had suspected, reinforcements were waiting on the lower level when the elevator doors slid open. They reacted in surprise and anger at the sight of their two beaten colleagues lying inside the car, gasping for air. Turning his eyes away from the scene, Sloan made his way toward the back of the hotel. A handful of workers were doing cleanup duty as he strode through the kitchen area. They stared curiously at the tall, broad-shouldered stranger when he swiftly passed by. Wisely, no one challenged him.

Chapter Two

Embraced by the cool night air, Sloan neared the hotel pool. He found the gate unlocked and partially open. Inside, a man was seated at a table drinking from a shot glass, a bottle of bourbon next to him. He stared in surprise and uncertainty as Sloan made his approach.

Good evening, Mr. Lane. Sorry I’m late. I was slightly detained. Happy New Year.

Andrew Lane smiled wanly and raised his glass. Welcome to 1959, Mr. Masterson.

Sloan, drawing out a chair and seating himself, nodded gravely. I’m sure you’re not accustomed to being kept waiting, but I didn’t require an escort.

With a smile that seemed disingenuous, Andrew Lane flashed a row of perfect white teeth that lit up his chiseled, evenly tanned face. In all fairness, dealing with a man of your reputation, Mr. Masterson…Well, one can’t be too careful. Andrew Lane sighed and refilled his glass. I’ve heard from reliable sources that you can be somewhat unpredictable. I thought it wise to error on the side of caution.

In other words, Sloan said, reaching into his jacket pocket and removing the pistol he had taken from one of the victims in the elevator, the consensus is that I’m at least slightly crazy. He leaned forward and placed the weapon, butt-first, next to Lane’s glass. I borrowed this from one of your bodyguards.

Lane glanced briefly at the weapon, making no comment and remaining expressionless.

Although Sloan had never met the man, he was well aware of Andrew Lane’s reputation as a multi-millionaire who spent much of his leisurely life sailing around the world aboard his yacht, The Charmed One. It was presently anchored a short distance off the Florida coast. Their arranged meeting had begun the night before when Sloan was approached by Joe Valens, the nightclub operator who ran The Paradise Club. They shared a private conversation in which Valens conveyed a message from Andrew Lane. After being informed that Lane had unexpectedly settled the sizable gambling debt owed by Sloan’s former girlfriend, Carilla Sanchez, the playboy millionaire now sought an audience with Sloan. It seemed he needed a special favor.

A self-made man, Lane had built his fortune after inheriting an auto-parts store and turning it into a national chain. His holdings now included a series of valuable commercial real estate properties, including ownership in a couple of Miami hotels. Like Sloan, Lane loved women and gambling. And what was most intriguing to Sloan was the man’s reputed connections with the mob. He was not, as Valens pointed out, to be toyed with. When Lane requested something, even in a nice way, he invariably got it.

The gate opened wider and two of the enforcers Sloan had spotted outside the elevator hurried inside. As they drew near, they pulled up quickly and narrowed their eyes at the sight of Sloan, who calmly remained seated. They finally turned their curious gaze toward their employer.

Mr. Lane addressed the first guy. How are the other two?

They’ve had worse, sir. But he worked them over pretty good.

Wait outside the gate. We’ll only be a minute.

The pair glowered at Sloan before retreating.

Will you join me for a drink, Mr. Masterson? Lane asked, producing another glass from his coat pocket.

I’m piloting a flight tonight, so I’m going to respectfully decline. Besides, I’m running late. I only have a couple of minutes to spare.

Very well then, Lane replied, pouring himself another drink. I received word from Mr. Valens that you would meet me here tonight. I appreciate your willingness to hear me out.

I’m genuinely curious. He told me about the debt payment. What motivated you to make such a generous gesture? And why interfere? I was handling it just fine.

Lane closed his eyes and took a sniff of his drink before tasting it. It’s true. I took care of the matter. But all things considered, it wasn’t really your obligation either. And yet you made regular payments on Carilla’s behalf, with the promise to resolve the balance in full. It was a substantial amount of money for that kind of selfless commitment.

Sloan remained silent, calmly studying the blue-green surface of the pool while inhaling the heavy scent of chlorine. The accumulated debt had been compiled at an illicit South Florida gambling club that Carilla frequented. One of the silent investors was Sloan’s friend, Joe Valens. He was also Carilla’s boss at the Paradise Club. He had arranged for repayment at an affordable rate with no strongmen involved. Such consideration was not foreign to a siren like Carilla, who generally expected to be a beneficiary of gallantry and generosity from the men she knew.

For Sloan, paying off the balance owed, or at least keeping it solvent, became his obligation. In return, he had her undivided attention and tender affection. And then one day, he woke up and she was not only gone, but she had absconded with a stash of about ten thousand dollars he kept inside a safe in the bungalow he rented. Although she disappeared without a spoken word of farewell, she did leave a brief, bittersweet note.

I’m more interested in your end game, Sloan remarked. It wasn’t your obligation, either.

I wanted to get your attention, Masterson. I needed you to meet with me. If I settled your girlfriend’s debt, I knew you would want a face-to-face in order to satisfy your curiosity. And yes, I also need you to do something for me. I also hoped that, once we became acquainted, we might possibly develop a mutually rewarding friendship.

Friends? You want to be my friend?

Do you find that incredible?

Well, as a rule, I usually don’t sell off my friendship like shares in a company.

Lane stared at the drained glass cupped in his hands and appeared to be collecting his thoughts. He finally said, All right, let’s put the friendship suggestion on the back burner for now. Although I still think it’s possible. In fact, I’m convinced that you and I can prove to be very useful to each other.

What do you know about me? Why do you think I’m dangerous?

Lane shrugged and said, I know you served in Korea, flying transports. And before that, you were a bomber pilot in Europe during the Second World War. You flew a succession of combat missions over Germany with considerable success. And then there was that final flight. The one you volunteered for after you completed your obligation.

Remaining silent, his expression impassive, Sloan’s mind was suddenly flooded with a rush of familiar images. For perhaps the thousandth time, he fixated back to the moment his bomber exploded in mid-air. The initial blast was followed by a few harrowing seconds that left him both stunned and engulfed in a sense of hopelessness. His blurry recollection then summoned a secondary explosion. This one hurled his body out of the cockpit. And to this day, he couldn’t determine when or how he had managed to slip into his chute. When he finally came to his senses, he was pulling his ripcord with mere seconds to spare. In the lonely silence that followed, as he drifted down into enemy territory, he was filled with the expectation that his entire crew had gotten out safely. But as he continued to gaze around, peering frantically into the all-consuming darkness, he found himself overwhelmed by the haunting realization that he alone had survived.

Sloan’s next words were laced with guilt. Then you know I have a habit of pushing my luck, Mr. Lane. And I suppose, to most people, that makes me dangerous.

You are a high risk taker, a man of action who seemingly likes the smell and taste of danger. I don’t understand your kind, but I do respect you. In my experience, there are very few humans who face death for the hell of it and aren’t afraid to die.

Don’t mistake it for courage, Sloan replied softly, When you’ve experienced as much death and destruction as I have, you either harden inside or you self-destruct. Either way, it makes it very difficult to put your trust in a great many things. Or in others. After an awkward pause, he said, Tell me about the favor. What do you need from me?

Lane removed a small package from inside his jacket and placed it on the table. He pushed it toward Sloan. I need you to deliver this to someone in Havana, since you’re flying to Cuba tonight. Or have I been misinformed?

With a wary eye, Sloan studied the miniature box wrapped in plain brown paper and securely taped. After a moment, he said, Your information is good. But I’m wondering what kind of trouble I’m going to find myself in if the authorities discover your little item on me.

They won’t know what it is. To them, it will be meaningless. In fact, the only person who will truly understand its meaning and purpose is the recipient.

And who would that be?

My kid brother, Brett. He is the booking agent and assistant night club operator at the Sans Souci. It shouldn’t be difficult finding him, and it would be greatly beneficial if you delivered this in person. There’s nothing illegal or illicit here. I’m simply trying to deliver a message.

I don’t get it, Mr. Lane. Why don’t you sail across the water in that luxury boat of yours and deliver it yourself? Or send it through the postal system. They still get mail in Cuba, as far as I know.

Andrew Lane looked slightly deflated as he reflected on Sloan’s comments. And then he said, To be perfectly frank, I’ve attempted to visit my brother in person. He won’t meet with me. And although the item in that package is not of any great intrinsic value, it’s worth a great deal to me personally. I can’t and won’t take a chance on sending it through the mail. This has to be delivered in person. And the sooner he receives it, the better. It’s too important to be left to chance.

So you’re asking me to be your personal errand boy? In all honesty, Mr. Lane, Havana is a bit out of the way for me on this trip. My visit to the island is purely business. And it’s intended to be brief. In twenty-four hours or less, I expect to be back in the air again. So traipsing over to Havana to perform a duty of this sort is not on the agenda. But of course, that brings us back to the generous debt payment. And the fact that I am now obligated to assist you.

Lane smiled with the assurance of someone who held a valuable secret. Reaching inside his jacket, he removed a flat, manila envelope, which he extended toward Sloan. I think this might make the decision easier for you. And it should also prove my earlier point that we could be useful to each other.

Sloan took the envelope and withdrew three glossy, 8 x 10-inch black-and-white photographs. They had been taken in a casino, and from three different perspectives. It was a room that he was very familiar with, since he