On the vast bluish-green Pasifika sea, a gleaming white hydroplane vroomed off at three hundred miles per hour.
Raging speed was the religion of a clamouring mind, a mind that longed to conquer time and space and everything in between. In the high noon glare the submarine-shaped Whitebird W7 raised a spectacular seawater wall in its trail.
Under the boat’s domed glass cockpit sat Don Raul, squinting even behind his shades. Flushed with excitement in a white polymer safari suit and white sneakers, Raul jammed the pedal further. The jet engines roared at a full throttle. Raul’s eyes stayed fixed on the horizon.
Where is it?
Next to him sat Ramos in a camouflage T-shirt under a suede jacket, poised as always. His razor sharp brown eyes pierced through the white heat outside.
‘Any sign yet?’ Raul sounded impatient. A mind that fought with time never remained still.
Ramos’s leather jacket rustled as he stretched to pick up the electro-binoculars. Military grade with a brand new polymer smell. His fingers flipped the lid open and powered it on.
With both hands on the wheel, Don glanced at the dashboard. The speedometer needle was inching up to 330 miles per hour. Embedded between the timer and the ship-to-shore radio mount was a 22-carat gold medallion of St Pedro Mendolupe. Don’s patron saint. It glinted in the sunlight.
Ramos saw them. Just a blur of five rising peaks. The electro-meter read the distance.
‘Yea, can see them now. 78 miles, Don.’
‘Shit! We made 200 miles in half an hour?’Raul chuckled.
Ramos replaced the binocs on a rack on the dash with a smile. ‘Godspeed, literally,’ he said.
Don made the sign of the cross, touched the medallion and kissed his fingers. ‘San Pedro guards us, Ramos!’
Ramos said nothing. He didn’t know what to make of it—this saints guarding sinners’ business. Every child of the cartel managers was baptised by archbishops. On solemn evenings on floor 75 of Don’s own Glass Tower Hotel, major archbishops sat sipping whiskey with him. Yahweh must have switched camps to join the winners of the world. Ramos preferred the Devil. Of the two, that chap made things plain enough, he thought.