When he finally reached the shore of Pirate Key, Smith crawled along on his hands and knees. He still wore his sopping backpack, but he had cut away the parachute harness. Sloshing up along the beach, he got to dry sand and collapsed face-first. Small beach crabs scuttled out of the way. His swim goggles hung on a rubber strap around his neck, but the wet-suit hood still covered his red hair.
Smith spat sand from his mouth. “Safe at last!”
The muzzle of a rifle appeared with a sudden stab just in front of his face. He went cross-eyed, looking down the barrel hole. Finally, he raised his eyes to see a black Cuban soldier standing over him, more curious than hostile. A second guard with a complexion as smooth as a lemon stood nearby. Both carried outdated, but deadly, firearms.
Smith prie
