Chapter 31
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Havana, Cuba
The building groaned as its ancient timbers creaked under the strain of centuries-old construction finally giving way.
Flint reached the weathered blue door and grabbed the handle. The wood had swollen and warped in the perpetual Caribbean humidity. The frame had shifted, creating gaps where mortar had crumbled away.
He pulled hard. The door opened six inches and stuck fast against the sagging frame.
“Come on,” he muttered, putting his full weight behind it.
Chunks of yellowed plaster mixed with splinters of weathered mahogany and cedar rained down from above. Dust filled the humid night air with the chalky taste of disintegrating mortar.
The colonial structure had lasted more than three hundred years, but it was failing fast. Each tremor sent more fragments cascading into the narrow street. He needed to hurry.
“Flint, where are you?” Drake’s voice crackled through the radio.
“Blue door. Building’s unstable.”
“I’m coming to you.”
“Negative. Cover the exits. Multiple hostiles converging.”
“Copy that. How bad is it up there?”
“Bad enough. This whole place is coming down.”
Flint put his shoulder to the swollen door, feeling the resistance of wood that had absorbed decades of Caribbean storms. The aged timber cracked sharply. He squeezed through the opening, scraping against the rough-hewn doorframe.
Inside, the narrow staircase was barely visible in the dim amber of emergency lighting that flickered from dying battery-powered units mounted on the peeling walls.
Sixteen-inch-wide limestone steps, worn smooth by use, wound upward at a steep angle designed for defense.
The wrought-iron handrail felt loose under his grip as the mounting brackets pulled free from crumbling masonry.
Above Flint heard voices filtering through the thick limestone and heavy timber that did little to muffle sounds. Spanish and English words mixed together in urgent tones. Tantanella’s faded Kentucky accent and the woman who looked like Lizzy Pace responded with tired, fearful questions.
“We need to get out of here now,” Tantanella said.
“But where can we go?”
“I don’t know, but staying here isn’t an option. The building is falling down around us.”
The building shuddered and groaned. Old cedar and mahogany supports gave way with sharp cracks that reverberated through the limestone. The sound echoed through the hollow structure, each snap marking another step toward total collapse.
Flint took the worn limestone stairs two at a time, his boots finding purchase on stone polished smooth by three centuries of foot traffic.
Each step creaked ominously under his weight.
The wrought-iron handrail pulled farther away from the crumbling mortar wall with each grip.
Metal brackets loosened from the limestone that had endured Spanish treasure fleets and hurricanes but could withstand no more.
Through the wide-plank hardwood over limestone joists, he heard shouting from the street below. Cuban security forces were trying to coordinate without sophisticated electronics and failing badly.
Citizens demanded answers about the blackout in rapid-fire Spanish voices rising from doorways and balconies throughout the darkened neighborhood. The chaos was exactly what he needed. More confusion to mask his approach could only be a good thing.
“What’s happening?” someone shouted from a nearby balcony.
“The power’s out!” came the reply from the street.
“Drake, you hearing this?” Flint whispered into his radio.
“Yep. Street’s full of people wandering around in the dark. Perfect cover.”
On the first landing, Flint paused to listen, pressing himself against the cool limestone wall.
“Listen to me,” Tantanella was saying. “We’ve been through worse than this.”
“Have we, Frankie? Really?” The woman’s voice carried exhaustion and fear in equal measure. “Because this feels like the end. Our luck has run out.”
Flint continued upward while dodging debris.
The second-floor landing had three closed doors, all made of heavy Caribbean mahogany. Warm amber light spilled from under the middle door onto the worn stone floor.
“Someone’s coming up the stairs,” a man with an American accent said quietly.
“How many?” Tantanella asked.
“Just one, I think. Probably armed.”
“Could be Cuban law enforcement,” a second American man said.
“Yeah, and I’ve got some swamp land I can sell you,” the first American replied snidely.
The building shook again with the violence of an earthquake. Chunks of mortar and roof tile debris fell like rain.
“We need to get out of here now. The whole building’s coming down,” the woman said clearly despite the terror that must have gripped her as the building disintegrated around them.
“Follow me,” Tantanella commanded.
Flint moved closer to the door, his boots silent on the limestone floor worn smooth.
He guessed Tantanella was near the narrow window that overlooked Calle Mercaderes because of the slight echo that indicated proximity to glass and the stone wall beyond.
The woman was between Tantanella and the door.
Which was when Flint saw the operatives spread out in a tactical formation covering the exits, suggesting years of training at specialized facilities.
“Drake,” Flint whispered into his radio. “We’ve got a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Unknown operatives with our targets.”
“Shit. How many?”
“At least two. Probably more.”
The building gave another major groan. Somewhere above, centuries-old masonry cracked, and the sound reverberated through what remained of the old walls.
The structure couldn’t hold much longer. Three hundred years had finally claimed it as a victim.
“Building’s going down,” Drake’s voice came through Flint’s radio. “You need to get out while you still can.”
“Copy that. But I need the woman.”
“What about the operatives?”
Flint tested the door handle, a piece of tarnished brass that had turned green by tropical oxidation. The mechanism moved freely in his grip, unlocked and falling away from the stone.
He waited for the right moment. When the structure shook again and everyone inside was distracted by the ominous creaking of failing supports, he quickly pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside.
The room was exactly what he’d expected. Small and sparsely furnished, with narrow windows that overlooked the stone streets below. Generations of occupants had scarred the walls. Emergency lighting cast everything in harsh amber shadows that flickered with each tremor of the failing structure.
Tantanella stood near the window that faced Calle Mercaderes. Older than the photographs but unmistakably the same man who had vanished twenty-five years ago.
The woman beside him was Lizzy Pace. Thinner than she’d been years ago, with graying hair but the same delicate bone structure revealing the beautiful young woman he’d seen in pictures.
Two men in dark clothing stood between them and the entrance like sentinels. Operatives. Straight backs, steady alert gaze, and hands that never strayed far from their weapons.
All four turned when Flint entered.
“Drop your weapon,” one of the operatives said with an American accent. He raised his gun directly toward Flint.
“Easy there.” Flint kept his weapon low but ready. “I’m a licensed private investigator. Working a missing persons case.”
“Not anymore,” the second American said. “This is our operation.”
“In Cuba?” Flint asked. “That’s interesting jurisdiction you’ve got there.”
“Our jurisdiction is not your concern,” the first operative replied.
Flint noted standard gear that could have been US government issue. Body armor, communications equipment, and weapons that came from the same manufacturers who supplied the US military.
These guys could be government operatives, private contractors, or well-funded mercenaries. But why were they here?
The building shuddered again. Chunks of yellowed plaster fell from the ceiling with loud thuds. The window glass cracked and shattered.
Mere minutes until the entire building and everything in it was reduced to a pile of rubble.