Dire Straits by Mark Terry Page A

hungry he was. He finished the food and considered his options. To Momka he said, “I could use a place to stay for the day.”
    “I don’t want you here. You’re done. Go away.”
    Derek felt movement behind him. He’d been sitting somewhat sideways at the bar so he could keep half an eye on the other patrons and get a sense of things at the door, but it was impossible to sit at the bar and keep his full gaze on the room. The man who had given him an official vibe appeared next to him. “Momka,” he said. “Problema?”
    Momka appeared very uncomfortable, wiping a glass with a dirty rag, not meeting the man’s gaze. “No. No problema.”
    The man turned to look at Derek, eyes appraising. “Documentación, por favor.”
    Derek pretended he didn’t understand Spanish, even though he understood what the man wanted. In Krio he said, “I’m a tourist from Sierra Leon. I don’t speak Spanish. I’m sorry.” The man wore khaki pants and a white guayabera. On his hip Derek saw the holster beneath the shirt.
    The man glanced at Momka. Nervously Momka said, “He wants to see your documentation.”
    “Ask him why.”
    Momka said, “No. Just show him your papers.”
    The man rattled off something in Spanish and reached into a pocket, presumably for his own identification. Once the man had his hand deep into his pocket, Derek grabbed his wrist with his left hand and slammed his right elbow into the man’s jaw. As the man’s head snapped back, Derek reached down and snagged the gun off the holster and slammed the butt of it into the man’s skull. The Cuban collapsed to the floor like a bag of bones.
    Kicking back off the stool, Derek rushed through the bar, ignoring the screams of the girls and the shouts of Momka and the other patrons. He jumped on the cycle, kicked it to life and raced off.
    He didn’t make it far. He peeled out of the alley, turned onto a narrow street, and skidded to a halt. The street was blocked by two cars. Standing in front of the vehicles was none other than Juan Osorio. On his left stood the auburn-haired woman he had noticed while barhopping with Coro, the one that gave off the Russian vibe. On his right were two uniformed men carrying assault rifles.
    Osorio called out, “Señor Hamill, you are under arrest.”
    “The hell I am,” Derek muttered, spinning the bike on its rear wheel and hammering the throttle. The bike roared. He heard gunshots over the bike’s racket.
    He skidded around a corner only to see another vehicle blocking the street. This one didn’t block the entire street and the soldiers or agents or cops, whoever they were, stayed in their vehicle.
    Pull his gun, Derek held it in his left fist, gripped the throttle with his right, and raced toward the car, firing as he went.
    He was squeezing past on the right when the car slammed into reverse. The car’s trunk struck his rear wheel. The bike skidded, wobbled, then Derek laid it down on the pavement, rolling away from the bike.
    Lying there for a moment, he wondered if he’d broken anything. Bruised for sure. Looking down at his jeans, he saw he’d shredded his right leg and hips. He was sure as hell bleeding. And sure as hell lucky.
    Rolling to his feet, pain shot up through his leg and his side. Behind him, a uniformed cop staggered out of the car, the shoulder of his uniform dark with blood. He raised a handgun.
    Derek shot him.
    Turning, he levered up the motorcycle, whose engine had cut out. He straddled it with some difficulty and tried to kick it into life. Nothing.
    Shit!
    He tried again. Still nothing.
    He turned to see the red-haired woman standing two dozen feet away from him. Their eyes met.
    She had a gun pointed at him. In English with a Russian accent she said, “Derek Stillwater.”
    A jolt of adrenaline blasted through Derek. She knew who he really was!
    “I think it would be better for my country and yours if you just got out of here. Go.” She waved the gun at a doorway. “Through there.”
    He