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1
THE CUBAN MALECON is beautiful at night. Havana is nothing short of paradise.
And more so as its citizens come alive beneath the stars. The area from one end to the other is full—people young and old are dancing and singing, sharing with each other what they have even though it’s illegal to do so by the government's standards.
They decide what you eat and when.
They decide what kind of business you are allowed to own.
You can be arrested for something as simple as speaking your mind.
There are no liberties here, because freedom means they lose power.
Those bastards sit comfortably inside the national palace and hold court surrounding a ridiculous round table, giving nightly discourses on a nonexistent threat that’s dangerous to only one percent of the island's population. They fear everyone outside this country, and projecting that same emotion is how an abuser stays in control of a situation.
I’m the real threat within their midst.
And while I understand the notion that I hold no moral high ground, there are limits you don’t cross. My family doesn’t take kindly to abuse, not of innocent people, and their day of reckoning is coming.
In my grandfather’s name.
In my grandmother’s memory.
On the series of digits that grace our family’s wrists in honor of a man who fought against oppression and demanded freedom.
Patria y Vida. Country and Life.
Their day is coming. The people here can taste it.
Smiles spread across those socializing near me, a few catching my eyes here and there while pretending it’s just another hot summer night. The stone-built embankment runs for five miles and is an attraction that pulls in tourists and citizens alike; they come to relax and enjoy the cooling cocoon of never-ending sea mist while making deals.
The legal kind. The ones solved in alleyways and away from the military police who seems to be absent tonight.
This evening, though, those visiting the island have been warned to stay inside the National Hotel just a short walk from here. And while they watch from the windows and lobby, I stand right within the sight of the large fountain of said establishment in my black jeans and shirt with an old pair of combat boots on my feet. The tattoos on my arms and neck should be enough to pick me out of a crowd.
I’m not hiding.
The president knows I’m here and waiting.
A few feet from me, people begin to clap in key, keeping in tune with the salsa playing on someone’s old-school stereo. It’s loud and full of life, even catching the attention of a few vintage cars. The taxis are empty except for one driver, who passes and honks while a group of twenty-somethings begins to dance in a rueda formation.
They move in sync, turning to face their partners while staying in step. The count is the same as your standard salsa, but quickly changes when the couples begin to execute choreographed moves that are interconnected with each person—turns and dips and the occasional trick where the men lock arms in a circular pattern and the ladies sit atop their forearms.
The circle breaks when the song’s chorus does, and those near us cheer.
Moreover, I find myself nodding along to the beat, humming low, when I see him. The man isn’t wearing his normal military uniform, choosing instead to blend in—his guayabera and dress pants combined with a pair of dark aviator glasses are meant to make him seem harmless. It fails.
He’s anything but.
A killer can sense another.
Those around me also take him in. They know who he is and what he’s capable of.
General Ortega smiles at a woman not far from him, trying to seem nonchalant before moving closer. And to keep up his charade, I bring the bottle of Cristal beer to my lips and take a deep pull while looking at those still having a dance-off.
Ortega doesn’t disappoint when he stops beside me, facing the same way. “You’re playing a dangerous game, De Leon. One might say you're overstaying your welcome.”
“Am I?” After another sip, I tip over the rest over his feet and soak what I’m sure are expensive moccasins. “I had no clue.”
