The soldier dropped to his knees, letting go of the rifle. Pitt snatched the weapon and turned it on the soldier, who he now saw was a boy barely seventeen—likely an unwilling conscript, certainly not on the order of Díaz’s highly trained men. The hapless soldier gazed at Pitt with a look of fear.
“Get!” Pitt ordered in a low voice.
The soldier scrambled to his feet and staggered toward the beach. Pitt took off in the other direction, up the hill as fast
as his rubbery legs would carry him. He didn’t look back when he heard the young soldier shouting to his comrades but ducked when a burst of gunfire shattered some rocks at his side.
Armed with the soldier’s AK-47, Pitt sprayed the beach with a short salvo, then continued up the hill. His return fire bought him a few more seconds, just enough time to approach the top of the incline before the shooting from below resumed, this time from multiple sources. He gambled that the other soldiers were equally young and inexperienced marksmen and he continued racing to the top. A ribbon of lead chased him the last few steps, but he was able to dive over the ledge and out of sight.
He rolled into a shallow gully that abutted a narrow paved road. The empty military truck sat a short distance ahead. Thoughts of commandeering the truck vanished when he saw two soldiers setting up a checkpoint behind it. They dropped their barricade posts and peered over the side ledge to see what the shooting was about.
Pitt rose and sprinted across the road. He nearly made it unseen, but one of the soldiers caught his movement and yelled. Pitt countered by firing a short burst in their direction, then raked the truck’s engine compartment while continuing across the road. The rifle’s half-loaded clip ran dry, and Pitt ditched the weapon as he ducked into the jungle scrub.
He had no time to hesitate. Soldiers from the beach began pouring onto the road behind him. The barricade guards pointed to where he had gone and the soldiers converged on his last position.
Pitt sprinted a dozen yards into the foliage, then turned sharply to the right and ran parallel to the road. He stopped for a second and picked up a rock, which he hurled in the opposite direction. The noise of it striking a tree elicited a crack of gunfire and a pursuit, he hoped, in the wrong direction.
After some hundred yards, he angled to his right until brief glimpses of the road appeared. He approached the fringe and took a peek back down the road.
An old sedan coming from the opposite direction had been stopped at the barricade. Nearer to Pitt, a pair of soldiers were walking along the road, peering into the jungle every few yards. He saw some movement behind him and knew there was no time to rest.
Ducking back into the jungle’s protective cover, he continued running parallel to the road. A minute later, he tripped and fell, his weakened legs failing to clear a dead branch. As he pulled himself to his feet, he heard the car coming down the road.
Thinking fast, he grabbed the branch and dragged it toward the road. He found that he was at the tail end of a curve that obscured both the barricade and the approaching car. He quickly dragged the branch into the middle of the road, then dove into some bushes on the far side as the car rounded the corner and slammed on its brakes.
Pitt recognized the vehicle as a 1957 Plymouth Fury, one of thousands of aged American cars that ordinary Cubans continued to drive as a result of the decades-long trade embargo. Though its body was bruised and its hubcaps mismatched, the chrome bumpers still sparkled and its white paint shined from years of polishing that had buffed it nearly down to the primer.
The two-door hardtop was driven by an older man and woman. They climbed out and dragged the branch off the road. As the couple returned to the car, Pitt emerged from the bushes and held his empty hands out in front of him. He found himself looking into the faces of a gracefully aged Cuban couple who were both smartly dressed.
“Hola!” The man took a step back.
“Hello,” Pitt said with a smile. “I am desperate for a ride. Sorry to trouble you.”
The woman studied Pitt, noting the wound on his shoulder, the bloodied clothes, and the haggard yet pleasing face. “Are you hurt?”
Before he could answer, she rushed to his side and led him to the car. She turned to her husband. “Salvador, hurry, help this man into the back of the car. We have to get him home.”
Just as they pulled away, Pitt saw two soldiers pop out of the jungle, where he had stood seconds before, and stare at the old car rumbling down the road.
62
The Plymouth turned off the pockmarked paved road and onto an equally rutted dirt lane. Pitt’s shoulder ached with every pothole, the car’s tired suspension relaying each bump in full. Something beneath him in the backseat scratched at his side with every jostle.
After a rough patch of gravel, the car finally stopped and the motor shut off.
The woman, though tiny, possessed a domineering presence. Her full cheeks and wide eyes suggested the beauty of her youth.
“We are here, señor.” She turned to her husband. “Salvador, take this man inside and get him cleaned up. He shall join us for dinner. I just hope he didn’t mangle the chickens.”
After helping Pitt out of the car, she reached into the backseat and pulled out a dead pair of whole chickens whose claws had been the source of Pitt’s discomfort. Perusing them with satisfaction, she marched into a small house perched along the sloped drive.
Pitt looked at the man and grinned. “You married a powerful woman.”
“Maria? She is as strong as an ox in all ways. Once she makes up her mind, there is no changing it. I learned long ago to avoid the sharp tip of her horns.”
Pitt laughed. “Sounds like sage advice.”
“My name is Salvador Fariñas.” He extended his hand.