Wood's Harbor by Steven Becker

your rise within the organization.” He paused and blew another smoke ring. “Very impressive. You Americans are not known for your patience.”
    It was all out in the open now and Norm needed to find out what they wanted from him. “And how may I be of service to you?”
    The general smiled, taking the bait. “I don’t expect your government will appreciate what you have done like we do. You could make a case for helping political refugees escape our tyrannical government, but there is the matter of the money. I can see you sitting in front of one of those witch hunts your press calls Congressional investigation panels. Those grandstanding politicians will be waiting in line for a piece of your hide.”
    Norm looked down, no longer interested in either the conversation or the cigar. He just wanted to find out what they wanted from him and to get out of there. “So, general…”
    The general paused again, chewing on, trimming, and then relighting the cigar. This was clearly a tactic to annoy Norm, and he should have known it for what it was, but instead he pushed. “What do you want from me?”
    “My grandson, Armando Cruz.”
    The name took him by surprise. He knew he had made a mistake and also knew there would be no negotiation.
    “You have two days. The inaugural voyage of the Key West to Havana ferry leaves then. There are many people - some high up in the Cuban Government - that are against these new relations between our countries. I am one of them, but am willing to sacrifice the cause to get my grandson back. You deliver him to me and the boat will make its voyage.”
    The threat was clear.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    EIGHT
    “Where is he?” One of the men leaned forward and checked his watch. “Jules would have been here on time. She had a lot more respect than this new sheriff.”
    The five heads comprising the ethics committee appeared to nod, but not one lifted their head from the screen of their phones. The blinds were closed to keep the morning sun out, the group happy to trade comfort for the view of Boot Key Harbor. 
    “I have surgery in an hour,” a woman chimed in. “Can we get started? He doesn’t need all the details.”
    “Probably wouldn’t understand anyway,” another voice added.
    The man at the head of the table opened a folder, lifted a page and started reading aloud. “Patient is Melanie Woodson: admitted by medevac approximately forty-eight hours ago. Patient had severe head trauma and water in her lungs after surviving a boating accident.” He thumbed through several more pages. “The latest prognosis is bad. She has been unresponsive and in a coma since she got here, and she meets several of the criteria for brain death.”
    “Insurance?”
    “We located a Blue Cross account through a computer search. They have a rep coming down from Miami now.” 
    The hospital administrator tried to hide her smile with the revelation that at least the hospital would not be on the hook for the cost of the medical care. 
    “Next of kin or living will?” someone asked.
    “The only family I know of was her dad, Bill Woodson. Wood lost his wife several years ago. He is deceased as well.”
    The group was silent for a minute as they remembered how Wood had died exposing a corrupt presidential candidate and saving South Florida from a nuclear blast. 
    The man cleared his throat, clearly growing impatient. “Does anyone know anything? And where is that sheriff?”
    “I knew her dad pretty well, used to fish with him,” one of the doctors said. “He built the dock on my house too.” Eyes turned to him and he handed a piece of paper to the man at the head of the table. “She used to work for Bradley Davies in DC. I called the firm and they sent this over. It appears to be the only document they have.”
    The man took the paper and started reading. Just as he was about to speak, the door burst open and a heavy man in a tight-fitting uniform entered. He mumbled something and