Unlawful Chase by C.J. Schnier (new books to read .TXT) 📗

there was a steady breeze, but here, in the country's interior, it sapped my strength and was nearly unbearable. I could feel my body struggling to adapt to the climate and my exertions. I hadn't had a drink since leaving Boot Key Harbor, and I attributed my condition to my newfound sobriety.

Just as Enrique had said, one kilometer down the road there was an obvious path leading off to the right. It was merely two sandy ruts laid down by some off-road vehicle, but it was clear of vegetation and the walking was easy. On both sides, dense jungle threatened to overtake the trail, creating a green tunnel that scattered the sunlight into a moving mosaic of light and shadow. The shade it provided, however, was much appreciated. Here and there, vines and other growth encroached into the trail, and if not for regular trimming, it would reclaim the pathway within weeks.

I walked for half an hour until suddenly the path burst into a vast rectangular clearing of grass and dirt. The dense jungle formed a nearly impenetrable green wall around the clearing. The majestic mountains of Cuba towered over the trees and airfield like mammoth green sentinels. This was the first decent view of the mountains I had since spotting them in the distance when I approached the coast by sea. It was a strangely beautiful, if foreboding, place.

At the end of the grass, all by itself, sat a small single-engine plane, pointed towards the far end, ready for a quick departure. A dirt road snaked back through the bordering grass and jungle to the main road a few hundred feet behind the plane. Though slightly overgrown, the tracks through the grass made it obvious the airfield was still in use.

The airplane was generic. It was painted white with dark green accents and an alphanumeric code plastered down the side with large vinyl decals. Small airports throughout the world were filled with planes exactly like it. But I hadn't expected to see one in this remote part of Cuba.

Trudging through the thigh high grass, I moved in for a closer inspection. I was no expert in planes, but it appeared to be at least fifteen years old and well used. Much to my relief, it did not strike me as a military craft. I glanced in the windows and found the interior completely empty, but cared for. All four seats looked worn, but not so bad as to be coming apart. The plane struck me as neither flashy nor derelict enough to draw attention. It was almost as if someone purposefully chose it to blend in.

I doubted smugglers would have left a plane unattended. All I could think of was it belonged to some sort of tourist operation. Perhaps some eco-tourism outfit that charged yuppies obscene amounts of money to feel like they're part of nature. Regardless of its ownership, it was an expensive piece of equipment, and eventually someone would be by to check on it. Hanging around and being discovered would lead to some awkward questions I was not prepared to answer. So, after enjoying the breeze flowing through the clearing for a few moments, and watching for any signs of people, I made my way back up to the jungle pathway and continued on my way to the village.

Immediately after the airfield, the path grew wilder and more difficult. The flat coastal lands first began to rise and fall, often in dramatic fashion. Rocky streams and gullies crossed and recrossed the pathway, and the green canopy grew denser with thick branches, some low enough to touch. Yet, despite the rugged terrain, the pathway of twin tire tracks snaked on. It was impressive that anyone could have made those tracks. It would take an extremely skilled driver to get a vehicle down this path.

After what felt like an hour of scrambling up and down the mountainside, I could finally hear the village. The unmistakable sounds of chickens and livestock mixed with voices and laughter. A few moments more, and the path terminated at the edge of a rural village. I held back, staying out of sight as I took in the minuscule town. It was primitive by American standards. A few dozen single-story huts and shacks made up the settlement. Most of the buildings wore thatched or corrugated tin roofs. Several had ramshackle wooden fences that contained most of the animals I had heard on my approach.

Down the main road, if you could call it a road, for it was merely a dirt footpath, was a large two story building with a red tile roof and a balcony spanning the entire second floor. It was on the far side of the little town and dwarfed all the other buildings. That had to be the hotel Pruitt had told me about. I wondered how such a large venture could sustain itself in such a remote and tiny village. Pruitt had mentioned Blatt's house was near the hotel, but because of the undulating terrain of the village, several buildings remained mostly hidden from my view.

Now that I had my bearings, I studied the activity of the village. Every few minutes a child would run across a pathway or the occasional chicken wandered aimlessly by, scratching the ground for food as it made its way haphazardly through the village. It was then I noticed something unexpected. Men in green uniforms were lazing about on one corner, nearly blending into the green backdrop of the jungle. Near them, poking out from behind one of the nicer looking homes, was the back of a covered military truck.

I watched them for a few minutes, keeping low in the thick tropical underbrush bordering the village. They ignored the children playing in the streets but stopped and questioned each adult. I was too far away to make out any of the words, but I got the distinct impression they were looking for someone. Someone like me.

The last thing I wanted was to deal with the