Martínez told Ruiz on the encrypted satellite phone. He was calling from a thatched roof porch at the front of the fishing shack right on the beach a few miles to the west of the coronel’s compound. “Same spot?” the pilot asked. He’d been standing by on Little Torch Key near Newfound Harbor ever since he’d flown back last night. “Yes. I’m shooting for around midnight, give or take a half hour. Can you make it?” “Of course,” Ruiz said. “Have you run into trouble?” “Nothing so far,” Martínez said, and he told Ruiz everything that had happened since he and McGarvey came ashore, including the setup he’d arranged with Fidel and Margarita. “I’ve heard good things about them. But take care, Raúl, you’re needed here. You could have sent someone else for the rescue.” “Not this time,” Martínez said. Jorge Guerra, his primary contact and longtime friend of the de la Paz’s, came around the corner at the same time Martínez heard the low growl of a slow-moving boat just offshore, very close.
