SSC (2011) The Road to Hell by Paul Levine Read Free Book Online Page B

yards away. One of the men in uniform pointed an AK-47 their way.
    “ Steve…?” Victoria’s voice was a plea.
    This wasn’t the way he’d planned it. By this time, Cruz should have been spouting numbers and accounts from banks in the Caymans or Switzerland or the Isle of Man. But the bastard was toughing it out. Calling Steve’s bluff.
    Is that what it is? An empty threat.
    Steve wanted to hand Cruz over, wanted him to rot in a Cuban prison.
    But dammit, I’m a lawyer, not a vigilante.
    He wished he could turn his conscience on and off with the flick of a switch. He wished he could end a man’s life with cold calculations and no remorse. But the rats that would gnaw at Cruz at Isla de Pinos would visit the house on Kumquat Avenue in Steve’s nightmares.
    “ Take the wheel, Vic.” Filled with self-loathing, wishing he could be someone he was not. “Twenty-two degrees. Key West.”
    “ Say ‘please,’” Cruz laughed, mocking him.
    * * *
    Just before midnight, the lights of Key West off the port, the Wet Dream cruised north through Hawk Channel, headed toward Miami. The sky was clear and sparkled with stars. The wind whipped across the bridge, bringing a night chill. Victoria slipped into her glen-plaid jacket. Hair messed, clothes rumpled, emotionally drained, she was trying to figure out how to salvage the situation.
    I came aboard to save Steve from himself and I’m doing a lousy job.
    Steve stood at the wheel, draining a La Tropical beer, maybe listening, maybe not, as Cruz berated him.
    “ You fucking loser,” Cruz said. “Every minute I’m tied up is gonna cost you.” Cruz rubbed his arm where the cuff was biting into his wrist. “I got nerve damage. Gonna add that to my lawsuit. When this is over, you’ll wish the Cubans had taken you prisoner.”
    “ Steve, I need a moment with you,” Victoria said.
    Steve put the boat on auto – Cruz complaining that it was a damn reckless way to cruise at night – then headed down the ladder, joining Victoria in the salon.
    “ You can’t keep him locked up,” she said.
    “ I need more time.”
    “ For what?”
    “ To think.” He walked to the galley sink and turned the faucet, intending to toss cold water on his face. Same rattle, same thump. “Damn, I forgot. Cruz put all that money into his boat and still can’t get the water to work.”
    “ What?”
    “ A fancy boat like this and you can’t wash your hands.”
    “ No. What you said before. ‘Cruz put all that money into his boat.’”
    “ It’s just a figure of speech.”
    “ Think about it, Steve. He doesn’t own a house. He leases a car. No brokerage accounts, no bank accounts. Everything he has, he puts into his boat. If he ever has to leave town quickly…”
    “ Like he left Cuba,” Steve said, picking up the beat. “With nothing but the clothes on his back.”
    “ This time it would be different because…”
    “ The money’s here! On the boat.”
    In sync now, she thought.
    A man and a woman running stride for stride.
    “ Vic, why don’t you go back up to the bridge and make sure we don’t crash into any cruise ships?”
    “ And what are you doing?”
    “ I’m gonna fix the plumbing.”
    * * *
    Steve opened the hatch in the salon floor and climbed down a ladder to the engine compartment, wincing at the noise from the twin diesels. He found the black water tank first, tucked up under the bow. Sewage and waste water. Nothing unusual about it, and Cruz wouldn’t want to dirty his hands with that, anyway. Then Steve found the freshwater tank, a custom job built into one of the bulkheads. Made of fiberglass, it looked capable of holding 500 gallons or more. The boat had desalinization equipment, so why did Cruz need such a big tank?
    A big tank that wasn’t working.
    Steve grabbed a flashlight mounted on a pole and took a closer look. He peered into an inspection port and could see the tank was three quarters full. On top of the tank was a metal plate with a built-in