Dire Straits by Mark Terry Read Free Book Online

key to Derek. “Vespa out back. Tank is full. Don’t come back until late morning, hear? Or best you not come back at all. Leave bike, though.”
    “One way or the other I’ll get the bike back here or let you know where it is. Thanks.” Derek handed the man a twenty Peso note and headed out the rear of Pleasure into the Havana evening.
    There were a number of different techniques that could be used to climb back into an overturned kayak. None of them were terribly effective when caught in rough seas.
    Clinging to the rope with one hand, other hand gripping the paddle and the gunwale to make sure it stayed in the cockpit of the kayak, Derek timed the waves. The trick—and it would be a good trick if he pulled it off—was to catch the kayak in a level trough or as it was moving down, which would allow gravity to help him.
    It was almost impossible to time the waves in the dark. The wind was blasting spray into his face, it was raining, and the waves seemed to come in every direction. But he couldn’t hang by his wrist forever.
    Derek felt the kayak rising on a wave. As it rose onto the crest and began the awkward slide down the other side, he pulled as hard as he could, levering himself to sprawl on top of the kayak.
    The kayak, with him almost spread eagle on top of it, plunged down the other side. He felt himself tumbling, the kayak starting to roll.
    With a desperate, half-rolling, half-jackknifing motion, he jammed his feet into the cockpit and held on.
    A wall of water swept over him. He inhaled at the wrong time, and choked, coughing and retching.
    But he was in.
    He still had the paddle.
    The skirt, practically in tatters, was still around his waist.
    But the cockpit was half filled with water.
    And the can he used for bailing was long gone. He tried to bail with his hands and made some headway, but not much. He finally gave up and resealed the skirt. The kayak was less stable with too much water, but it wasn’t in any particular danger of sinking. There were floating packets in the bow and the stern, so even if full it wouldn’t sink. Not exactly.
    Derek gripped the paddle and instead of fighting the storm, used it as a rudder to steer the kayak, no longer trying to keep it bow into the waves, but running before them, in God only knows what direction. And he prayed that the storm would move on soon.

8
    Derek was one of thousands on bikes, motorcycles, and scooters and he felt a level of anonymity he hadn’t felt in a car. Still, he was cautious, driving circuitously through the city. He drove around the CBC complex, not seeing much different. Security didn’t seem any higher. There were more cars in the complex. He knew from his brief tour that two of the manufacturing plants ran around the clock, but the R&D and administrative areas did not.
    He drove the scooter past the safe house, seeing nothing. Derek drove the scooter several blocks away and parked it. Walking back toward the safe house, he found an isolated spot to keep an eye on the property, a brick wall bordering a row of apartment buildings. He sat in the shade of a eucalyptus, back against the wall, out of sight, watching people come and go. There was no movement in the house and no indication anyone was watching the house.
    It was possible the Cubans had set up some sort of watch in the apartment building.
    Derek knew paranoia from being in war zones, but that was a different kind of paranoia than he was experiencing in Cuba, where you trusted no one and suspected everyone.
    In the Army, you trusted your squad and your partner, your fellow soldiers. They weren’t all trustworthy, but it gave you at least the illusion that someone had your back. As far as he was concerned, the CIA had given him a complete illusion of support. It all went to hell within a matter of hours. And he no longer trusted any of their backup plans.
    As it grew dark, the area became even quieter. Leaving his watching spot, he began to stair-step around the area on foot,