Pete quartered the men. Boyd severed their heads with his Buck knife. One swipe and one tug at the hair did the job.
Nobody talked.
Pete kept sawing. His arms ached. Bone fragments made the belt-motor skip.
His hands slipped. The teeth jumped and raked a dead man’s stomach.
Pete smelled bile. He dropped the saw and puked himself dry.
Boyd took over. Néstor fed body parts to the tide pool. Sharks thrashed in to eat.
Pete walked down to the surf line. His hands shook–lighting a cigarette took forever.
The smoke felt good. The smoke killed the bad smells. DON’T THEY KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS–
The sawing stopped. Dead silence underscored his own crazy heartbeat.
Pete walked back to the tide pool. Sharks flailed and leaped halfway out of the water.
Néstor loaded the machine guns. Boyd twitched and fidgeted– high-pitched by Boyd cool-cat standards.
They crouched behind a shoal bank. Nobody talked. Pete got Barb on the brain wicked good.
Dawn hit just past 5:30. The beach looked plain peaceful. The blood by the sleeping bags looked like plain old wave seepage.
Néstor kept his binoculars up. He got a sighting at 6:12 a.m.
“I see the boat. It’s about two hundred yards away.”
Boyd coughed and spat. “Delsol said six men would be aboard. We want most of them off before we fire.”
Pete heard motor hum. “It’s getting close. Néstor, you get down there.”
Néstor ran over and crouched by the sleeping bags. The hum built to a roar. A speedboat bucked waves and fishtailed up on shore.
It was a rat-trap double outboard, with no lower compartment.
Néstor waved. Néstor yelled, “Bienvenidos! Viva Fidel!”
Three men hopped off the boat. Three men stayed on. Pete signaled Kemper: ON for you/OFF for me.
Boyd threw a burst at the boat. The windshield exploded and blew the men back against the motors. Pete gunned his men down with one tight strafe.
Néstor walked up to them. He spit, in their faces and capped them with shots in the mouth.
Pete ran up and vaulted onto the boat. Boyd circled around to the outboards and finished his three with single head pops.
The heroin was triple-wrapped and stuffed in duffel bags. The sheer weight was astonishing.
Néstor slapped the plastic explosive next to the outboards. The bomb clock was set for 7:15.
Pete off-loaded the dope.
Néstor tossed the sleeping bags and his three dead men on board.
Boyd scalped them. Néstor said, “This is for Playa Girón.”
Pete rope-tied the wheel to the helm bracings and turned the boat around. The compass read south-southeast. The boat would stay on course–barring gale winds and tidal waves.
Boyd hit the motors. Both blades caught on his first pull. They jumped off the sides and watched the boat skid off.
It would explode twenty miles out to sea.
Pete shivered. Boyd tucked the scalps into his pack. Orange Beach looked absolutely pristine.
o o o
Santo Junior would call. He’d say, Delsol fucked me on a deal. He’d say, Pete, you find that cocksucker.
Santo would omit details. He wouldn’t say the deal was Commie-linked and a direct betrayal of the Cadre.
Pete waited for the call at Tiger Kab. He took over the switchboard–Delsol never showed up for work.
Cab calls were backlogged. Drivers kept saying, Where’s Wilfredo?
He’s at a hideout pad. Néstor’s guarding him. There’s a pound of Big “H” in plain sight.
Boyd drove the rest of the dope to Mississippi. Boyd was stretched a wee bit thin, like he crossed some line with killing.
Pete felt the real line. DON’T YOU KNOW WHO WE FUCKED?
They’d watchdogged Delsol for two weeks running. He didn’t betray them. The dope rendezvous would have been canceled if he did.
He’s at his fake hideout. He’s an instant junkie–Néstor shot tracks up his arms. He’s zorched on horse–waiting for this goddamn phone call.
It was 4:30 p.m. They split Orange Beach nine and a half hours ago.
Cab calls came in. The phones rang every few seconds. They had pickups backlogged and twelve cabs out–Pete felt like screaming or putting a gun to his head.
Teo Paez cupped his desk phone. “Line two, Pete. It’s Mr. Santo.”