A Shark in Calle Ocho by Joe Curtis Page B

with Berko’s semiautomatic in hand.
    Berko cursed, and Ayize seemed to deflate. But he quickly regained his composure.
    “Woman, why don’t you come over here? You don’t want to shoot Ayize—you want to love him.”
    Mary Catherine was a changed woman. Over the last month, life had hardened her. The death of her son, the Shark, the hopelessness . . . it seemed her life was pouring into a funnel and had just reached the end of the spout. She no longer felt sad or lonely for her son, nor did she feel any fear or emotion. Her goal was to get out of this godforsaken place alive, no matter what.
    Like a robot, Mary Catherine squeezed the trigger. Everyone scattered except for a stunned Ayize, whose last thought was utter amazement. Never before had he seen such a strong woman. Two bullets hit his face and another the top of his forehead. He crashed to the ground, blood pooling on the dirt road. Hector and his men dove for their guns and rolled away, firing at the confused Africans. Mary Catherine, blood still pouring down her face from the cut she’d received when she hit the windshield, released a bloodcurdling scream as she turned in circles, all the while firing the gun. Four of Ayize’s men, including Berko, went down almost immediately. The other four, seeing they were now outmatched by the Americans, turned and ran to the cars.
    Hector walked over to a squirming Berko, who was putting pressure on a stomach wound, and said, “You know what’s so bad about being Billy the Kid?” Berko said nothing about the remark of his dead associate. “Everyone’s out for your head.” He raised his gun and put him out of his misery with a shot to the left eye.
    Hector looked at his associates, who were all staring at Mary Catherine. There she was, her blood-soaked gray hair over her face. Her business dress torn and muddy. She was hunched over, mouth agape, the gun in her hand hanging loosely by her side.
    She looked at Hector with an intensity rivaling even Shark’s and said, “Let’s go.”
    “You heard her,” Hector said, getting everyone into the truck and checking on the cargo. “Hurry up. They will be coming back with more men shortly.”
    Hector jumped into the driver’s seat, put the truck in gear and sped down the road to the safety of the airport. “I’m sorry for what I said on the plane,” he said with renewed respect.
    “Just get me to my damn plane,” she responded, not bothering to look at him.
    “Yes, Ma’am,” he said like an obedient son.
    ***
    Several blocks from the police station, Bob was still fuming over another embarrassing episode.
    “I just don’t understand why I can’t get through to those guys,” Bob muttered to himself and the beauty queen as he pulled up to a stoplight. “I know I shouldn’t have said I was from the Herald . I should have just told them where I was from. I should have told them the truth.”
    The light turned to green, and Bob pressed the accelerator. The queen backfired and lurched forward.
    “Hey, girl—easy does it. I promise I’ll tell the truth from now on,” he said through a smile and waved to the laughing women in the Mustang convertible beside him. It was bright yellow with glowing blue lights on the bottom, and loud techno music was blaring from the speakers. They waved back and left Bob and the queen in their dust.
    “Don’t worry—that Mustang doesn’t have near the character you have,” Bob said, patting the faded brown dashboard.
    Bob had one hand on the steering wheel, and the other was propping up his head. Exhausted and frustrated, the road was putting him into a trance. He was abruptly yanked from the trance by lights in his rearview mirror, and they were quickly gaining on him. He thought this strange because it was late, and hardly anyone was on the road.
    “They seem to be in a hurry,” he said to himself. The lights kept coming until they were just a few feet from his bumper. “Okay—this is a four lane. You can pass me.”