* * *
“You want to steal a boat?That’syour plan?”
“Or rent or borrow one.” Dylan tried not to notice how fucking hot she looked in the red tank top and jeans he’d bought for her. “I don’t think I can buy one for five hundred bucks—not one that will get us safely to Curaçao anyway.”
They had finished their late lunch—arepas stuffed with pork, cheese, and rice—and they needed to hit the road. He’d stolen some plates off a car, switching them for the plates on the Aveo, hoping to keep the police off their tail.
“Have you figured out how we’re going to get through the maritime border? The cartel is out there, too, along with the Venezuelan navy. Don’t forget that the navy threatened to fire on a civilian ship loaded with food and medical supplies fromyourisland just to save face.”
Dylan hadn’t forgotten. “I’ll take my chances against them on the open water over drones and dickheads in the jungle.”
“You’re going all SEAL on me, aren’t you? Remember the river. I can’t hold my breath for an hour or swim like a dolphin.”
“Neither can I.” He chuckled, sat on the bed beside her, took her hand and kissed it. “This is our best bet for getting out of here. Trust me.”
“I do.”
“The question is, where do we go to get the boat.”
She considered that. “Coro. It’s got a decent harbor. It’s only forty miles from there to Curaçao. There are lots of boats—and lots of men willing to make a run to Curaçao for a price.”
“Human traffickers?”
“Yes. It’s a sketchy scene. People have been held for ransom. Others have been put on boats that aren’t seaworthy and have drowned.”
“Good to know.” He’d be on the alert. “If we leave now, we can make it to Curaçao before nightfall.”
They headed out, taking the bridge across Lake Maracaibo and heading toward Coro, Gabriela navigating with a paper map he’d bought from the motel. Compared to the twists and turns of the roads around San Cristóbal, the highway to Coro was almost a straight line. There were no roadblocks, perhaps because everyone thought they were trying to cross into Colombia. But that was one lesson he’d learned as a SEAL.
Never do what the enemy expects you to do.
It was only a three-and-a-half-hour drive to Coro, and it passed quickly, the two of them sharing stories from growing up—Dylan’s fascination with sharks, Gabriela’s desire to be a ballerina and then a gymnast and then a figure skater.
“You would look cute in a pink tutu,” Dylan said.
“Oh, you have no idea.”
“I can sure as hell imagine it.”
It was late afternoon when they pulled into Coro. Dylan stepped out of the vehicle, inhaled the scent of the sea. “Can you smell it?”
“The arepas?”
That made Dylan laugh. “What is your obsession with arepas? I meant the sea.”
It smelled like home.
While Gabriela waited in the car, Dylan spoke with a couple of locals about how best to hire someone to take them across. Both told him to go to the cantina closest to the pier and let the men there know what he wanted. That seemed like a bad idea to Dylan, but he wasn’t going to find someone by googling on his phone.
“I should go in with you.”
“No way. Someone might recognize you.”
“You’re too scary-looking with all those muscles. No one’s going to want to take you on. If I’m with you…”
“No.” He parked the car, kissed her cheek, and got out.
Inside, the cantina was busy with men who drank and smoked—and who completely ignored him when he told the bartender in a loud voice that he was willing to pay the right person good money in US dollars for a boat ride to Curaçao.