“I’ll give you a hundred thousand pesos.”
She retrieved a Kit Kat from her backpack and we split it. I wondered who was going to pick up our minibar charges at the Parque Central. Well, they had our luggage and all our clothes. My suitcase alone was worth at least fifty dollars.
We drove on, and we were definitely pushing our luck regarding police cars. I would have gotten off the road anywhere, but there were deep drainage ditches along the shoulders and we were basically stuck on the limited-access highway until the next exit.
Meanwhile, I was listening for the sputter of the engine, and looking for headlights in my rearview mirror.
And sure enough, I saw headlights cresting the hill behind us. Sara also saw them in her sideview mirror, but didn’t say anything.
The 90-horse engine didn’t have much more in it, so I maintained my speed, and the headlights got closer. Sara had said the Tráficos used mostly Toyota SUVs, and some of them were unmarked, but I couldn’t make out what was behind us.
She was staring at her sideview mirror. “I can’t tell.”
The vehicle got closer and it was in the right-hand lane, about fifty feet behind me, and now I could see that it was a small SUV. I tried to see if there was anyone riding with the driver, but his headlights were glaring and I couldn’t see through his windshield. “How many cops ride in a car?”
“Usually two. But sometimes one.”
I could take out one guy easily enough, but a second guy could be a problem.
The vehicle was less than thirty feet behind us now. He had three other lanes to use but he wasn’t using them.
I didn’t know who this was, but what I knew for sure was that if it was a cop, he was going to pull us over. And he didn’t need any reason other than to see who was driving the American car at three in the morning.
Sara said, optimistically, “If it’s a police car and he pulls us over, I’ll speak to him and offer to pay a fine for speeding. That usually does it.”
Actually, I would speak to him. A Glock 9mm speaks every language.
“Mac?”
“What if he asks to see what’s in the rear?”
She didn’t reply.
I had no idea if Antonio had alerted the police that Sara was missing, or if he was sitting in the lobby bar of the Parque Central at 2:30 A.M., waiting for his date, torn between his duty and his dick. Hopefully his dick said be patient. But there were a lot of other things that could have gone wrong in Havana—like Chico or Flavio selling us out, or Eduardo singing in the hot seat—and if the police were looking for two Americanos in a Buick wagon, these guys behind us could be waiting for other police cars to arrive, or there could be a roadblock ahead. So I needed to deal with this now. “I assume they have radios.”
“Yes . . . but they’re not always reliable . . . They rely on their cell phones.”
The headlights were even closer now and I knew I had to force the situation, so I slowed down and veered toward the shoulder.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m seeing what he does.”
“Mac . . .”
I came to a stop on the shoulder, drew my Glock, and cranked down my window. “Get down.” But she sat there.
The headlights were less than twenty feet away, and the vehicle was slowing to a stop on the deserted highway.
My instincts said that the police in Cuba were not used to approaching a car driven by armed desperados, and they probably sauntered over to you with a shitty attitude and their gun in the holster. If so, I should be able to take care of this. But if they were looking specifically for us, they’d have guns in hand.
The vehicle came to a stop on the highway, and its hazard lights began flashing. I looked over my shoulder and saw that it was definitely an SUV, but its headlights were glaring and I couldn’t see if it had police markings, or how many people were in the vehicle. And no one was getting out. Was he waiting for reinforcements?
Sara said in almost a whisper, “You’re supposed to get out of your car and go over to them.”
That would actually make it easier. I stuck the Glock under my shirt and was about to exit the wagon when the SUV suddenly pulled abreast of us, and I drew the Glock as its passenger window rolled down.
Before I had to make the decision to fire first and answer questions later, a middle-aged lady with a British accent asked, “Are you all right?”
I took a deep breath. “We’re fine. How about you?”
“Oh . . . Are you American?”
“Canadians, actually.” I glanced at Sara, who was sitting with her eyes closed, breathing hard.
There was a man in the driver’s seat and he leaned past the lady and said, “We’re trying to get to Santa Clara. No bloody road signs. I think we missed it.”
“It’s up ahead.”
Sara leaned over. “It can’t be more than five or ten kilometers.”
“Thank you.” He asked, “Are you having trouble?”
“Just stopped for a wee pee,” I replied.
“Oh . . . All right, then. Carry on.”
The lady said, “I love your car.”
And off they went, to discover Cuba for themselves.
Sara opened the door and I asked, “Where are you going?”
“For a wee pee.”
“I think I’ll join you.”
We finished our business and got back on the road. I could see the taillights of the British couple up ahead and I closed the distance.
Sara said, “That was the most frightening five minutes of my life.”
I wished I could say the same. “You were very cool,” I assured her.
She stayed silent, then asked, “If they were police, what would you have done?”
“Killed them.”
She had no reply.
I kept a few hundred yards behind our fellow tourists, and I saw now that the terrain was getting more hilly and the countryside was very dark.
Sara took Eduardo’s cigar from her pocket, lit it with Jack’s Zippo, then took a long drag and passed it to me.
We shared the cigar as we drove in silence. She said, “We might not be so lucky next time.”
“Let’s avoid a next time.”
Sara was looking at the map. “The exit should be coming up.”
In fact, I could see the brake lights of our British friends, then their right-hand turn signal.
I closed the gap and followed them onto the exit, which was marked but unlit. At the end of the exit ramp was a T-intersection, but no sign. The Brits turned left.
Sara looked up from her map. “Santa Clara is to the left. The middle of nowhere is to the right.”
I ditched the cigar and turned right onto a dark, narrow road and drove slowly down a hill. There was a small lake to my left, but if there were any houses along this road, they weren’t lit or visible, and there wasn’t a single light in the distance.
Sara said, “The area around Santa Clara was once known for its tobacco. I think most of the farms are abandoned, so maybe we can find an empty house or barn.”
“Right.”
My head beams illuminated the potholed road, but the glare reduced my night vision, so I turned off the headlights, and the moonlight now revealed bare fields, surrounded by low hills.