Linda Hurtado Bond is an Emmy and Edward R. Murrow award-winning journalist and author of James Bond-like adventures and heart-stopping thrillers. Linda is a breast cancer survivor and is active in the Tampa community raising money and awareness. When not working, she finds time for her passions, her husband Jorge, world travel, classic movies, and solving a good mystery.
All The Missing Girls
Chapter One
The midnight sky, collaborating with the inky Caribbean Sea, acts like a blindfold. I squint to make out land, my skin moist as I grip the dock line. Water batters the boat’s sides, until the captain shifts the motors into neutral. The boat idles in like a whisper, barely displacing the water.
Four wooden walkways protrude from the shadowed shoreline. My heart flutters, much like the waves lapping at the hull.
“Mari, now.”
The captain’s whispered order fuels my fingers. I toss the line toward a dark but moving figure on the closest dock, so I’m pretty sure it’s not a piling.
I’m praying it’s Tony’s cousin, Enrique, with a vehicle waiting.
The figure jumps and catches the line. I exhale, wiping sweat off my forehead. Under the cloak of this rare, Black Moon, we enter Communist Cuba illegally, my TV news photographer Orlando Jones and Tampa homicide detective Tony Garcia with me. We’re on an unregistered boat, docking at this private, barely lit marina, in search of illusive information— the address of the man who kidnapped my sister Izzy and killed my mamá.
“Secure the boat.” The captain’s voice is as tight as the line pulling us toward our destination.
I’m here, Izzy. I’m coming to find you.
My younger sister disappeared from Tampa, Florida approximately two weeks ago. After the cigar factory burned down. After Raúl’s involvement in our mamá’s murder came to light. After I learned Izzy knew about Raúl’s guilt and remained silent.
I think Raúl, her ex-boyfriend, forced her to come with him to Cuba either to protect her from the law or from my shock and initial anger. Or maybe Izzy came willingly, to reconcile their romantic relationship.
At that thought, my stomach churns in hurricane waves.
Although I’ve come to find and hopefully bring my sister home, Detective Garcia wants to haul Raúl back to Florida to face charges in Mamá’s murder. Orlando plans to secretly videotape our mission for a documentary.
I have no idea if we’ll achieve our goals. Undercover, we have little power here.
“Mari! Grab your bag.” I flinch at Orlando’s command.
“Get off!” My photographer, and best friend, is yell-whispering from the dock. Snapping at me, more like it. But the clock is ticking. I’ve been so inside my head, I missed O exiting the boat. I grab my backpack and duffel and fling both toward the dock.
They land with a thud.
I still, realizing my mistake. Make as little noise as possible. That had been the detective’s directive as we approached land. No one must know we are here. Detective Garcia, Tony to me, extends his palm.
I place my trembling hand in his steady one.
On the dock, I situate my backpack, eyes still on Tony, who remains on board. My breath catches. It’s not too late—I can jump back on board. We can still go back to Florida.
As if Tony senses my anxiety, his lips move. “I’m coming.” The wind carries his whispered words in an eerie delay.
“Forty-eight hours.” The captain grabs Tony’s arm before he can disembark. “That’s it. Any longer, the government will be on to you. You’re on your own then. I won’t risk my family. Text only in emergency. Meet back here in forty-eight.”
Forty-eight hours! My heart smacks my ribs, rattling me even more. Will that be enough time?
To find Izzy, we need to find Raúl. We don’t even have an address for that gangster. Just a town where he’s been spotted by a credible source.
Orlando, lengthy backpack strapped across his six-two frame, holds a GoPro up. It’s obvious he’s recording “Hey, you can see—”
“Sshh!” The man who tied up the boat holds a finger to his lips. I’m assuming this is Tony’s cousin, because the detective doesn’t react.
Tony’s cousin gestures for us to follow him. A creak stops us as Tony, heavy gear on his back, lands on the rickety dock. Enrique turns back. I can’t make out his features but can feel the heat of his irritation.
“Sorry, cuz,” Tony whispers.
Enrique is risking his family, too. To help us. I take a few deep breaths, glance around. Wind whips through the palm trees, fronds dancing in tune with the bursts of breeze, making the shoreline move in hypnotic waves. Water laps the dock, as if Mother Nature is licking the wood, and insects buzz, sounding much like cicadas back home in Tampa.
The island’s welcome.
My reporter’s intuition senses someone watching us other than the cicadas.
I scan the shoreline and blink a couple of times, my eyes adjusting more. I don’t see anyone lurking in the shadows.
Ay Dios mio, what are we doing?
I’m a TV crime reporter sneaking into a communist country with a news photographer and a cop who has no jurisdiction here.
I’m circus performer Nik Wallenda, on a high wire with no net.
Beep. Beep.
A door slides open. Enrique is at the end of the dock with a…looks like a van. My heart does a momentary tap dance. Tony’s cousin came through for us.
The detective’s hand on my back makes me jump. “Let’s go.”
I suck in air. Humidity warms my lungs. But the rest of my body catches a chill as the boat motors away.
No turning back now.
