
Héctor Arboleda hovered over the lifeless body. “What a waste,” he muttered, as he withdrew his knife from the unfortunate man’s neck.
Five years earlier, Héctor had escaped his native Cuba in search of a better life along Florida’s east coast. Officially, he was now employed as a security guard at the Sunway Hotel in Ft. Lauderdale, but unofficially, his main source of income came from a much darker source.
Héctor was a drug smuggler; relying on his local knowledge to import shipments of cocaine from Cuba. Héctor was tasked with finding “business associates,” preying most often on unsuspecting tourists, to help move the cocaine through the US, and across international borders.
His love for the money and power that came with his new life was undeniable, but now here with his latest unwilling mule lying in a pool of congealing blood, Héctor realized he would need to find another mark.
Canadian Dylan Rogers had known Scott Turner and Brad Hamilton since high school. They had forged their close friendship on the playing field – all star athletes in football and hockey.
But the three had not seen each other in several years. They were now spread across the country, engaged in academic pursuits at different post-secondary schools.
It was Dylan’s idea for a reunion. Through regular correspondence, he knew they all shared the same week of winter break, so he proposed the three meet in Ft. Lauderdale, for a few days of fun and sun. The others were quick to accept.
The three arrived at their destination airport within a couple of hours of each other, and arranged to share a ride. It was after midnight when they finally reached the Sunway Hotel, tired but excited in anticipation of the mischief that lay ahead.
After checking in, the three friends were met by two “security” guards to escort them to their room on the 10th floor. The guards wore uniforms, but their shirts were only buttoned halfway. Clearly, this wasn’t the Ritz.
The guards suggested that it would be wisest for the trio to leave their room door unlocked. That way, should anything happen, they would be able to “get to us quicker.” That commitment seemed less than reassuring.
As the guards left, Dylan and his friends didn’t notice Héctor Arboleda glance back with a wide grin. He definitely had plans for these boys. Yes, they would serve his cause nicely.
Despite the sage advice, Dylan chose to lock the door, but doubted the mechanism would hold against the weight of anything greater than a small dog. The friends spent the next hour discussing who would use the bed closest to the entrance.
The following evening, as they were enjoying a few drinks in preparation for a night along the beach, there was a sudden knock. Dylan answered, and Héctor Arboleda, one of the security guards from the night before, stumbled drunkenly into their room.
A touch fearful, and not wanting to offend, Dylan offered Héctor a drink. He accepted without hesitation, and proceeded to sit on the end of one of the beds.
Héctor introduced himself, and did his best to charm, asking where the visitors were from, their backgrounds, and how long they would be in Florida. Dylan and his friends were cautious, but naively shared everything.
Then Héctor dropped a bomb. “I need the three of you to work for me.” “Excuse me?” replied a confused Dylan. Héctor continued slowly, “The three of you are going to each take a small package with you back to Canada, and deliver it to one of my associates.”
“A package of what?” asserted Dylan in a raised voice. “Let’s just say it’s something I can’t ship through normal channels,” replied Héctor.
Although the three friends might have been young and naive, they were smart enough to begin to see what was going on. “Drugs?” Dylan stammered nervously. “Are you talking about drugs?” “Listen Héctor, we’re just here on a short vacation ok?” “We don’t want any trouble.”
Héctor looked up, his eyes glazed and head bobbing slightly from the influence of alcohol and whatever else was in his system, “You know, you remind me of my best friend.” “That’s great right?” replied a hopeful Dylan.
“Not really,” replied Héctor. “I killed my best friend.” And then to illustrate how he had achieved such a claim, Héctor used his finger to draw an X on Scott’s chest, pressing especially hard, Dylan later learned.
“I don’t want any of you to be next,” exclaimed Héctor. “Just do as you’re told, and no one gets hurt.” “I’ll be in touch with you soon with details of your delivery assignment.”
Héctor stood and headed for the door. “Oh and before you get any ideas about running or going to the police, you should check under your bed.” And then he added slyly, “I’d hate to see any of you sent to prison. You wouldn’t care for it there.”
When Héctor had left, Dylan rushed to where the guard had been lounging and checked under the bed. To his horror, Dylan’s hand extracted a small clear plastic bag containing white powder – presumably cocaine.
“This is unreal!” exclaimed Brad. “What are we going to do?”
“Let’s be calm,” replied Dylan. “We haven’t done anything wrong.” “This Héctor character seems full of bs if you ask me.”
Unable to sleep, the three debated all night, plotting their next course of action. In the end, they decided to take their chances and go to the police for help.
With Brad remaining behind to watch their personal effects, Dylan and Scott started out early on foot the next morning. They had not ventured far when they heard the sound of heavy scuffmarks on the pavement behind them. They turned in unison, and in shock saw Héctor following close behind.
“Run!” yelled Dylan. The pair fled across the street towards the beach. A vendor was setting up for the day’s business – renting personal watercraft. Without time for an explanation, Dylan grabbed a key and jumped onto one of the Jet Skis, with Scott in tandem. “Hey, you can’t take that!” yelled the attendant. “You need to pay first!”
The startled attendant was barely able to take a step in Dylan and Scott’s direction before he was knocked to the ground by a lumbering Héctor, who swiftly stole a second Jet Ski in pursuit of the Canadians.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Scott yelled to Dylan over his shoulder. “We need to get away from this crazy lunatic,” replied Dylan. Dylan had driven Jet Skis on the lakes back home, but was unfamiliar with the weaving coastal waterway than ran south towards Miami. How different could it be?
Dylan raced as fast as the craft would allow, twisting and turning around other boats in an effort to lose their pursuer. Héctor would have nothing to do with it.
Héctor gained steadily on the two Canadians. His craft was lighter, and his familiarity with the local waters afforded him the knowledge to take shortcuts – shredding seconds off the pair’s lead.
Ahead, a large barge was entering the channel; the length of which threatened to completely impede all traffic. Dylan saw his opportunity, and headed for a narrow gap between the bow of the vessel and the shoreline.
“You’re not going to do what I think you’re doing?” yelled Scott. “It’s our only chance,” replied Dylan. With no time to spare, Dylan threaded the needle, scraping the side of the Jet Ski in the process, as both he and Scott drew their legs in quickly to avoid a violent amputation.
Héctor was forced to make an abrupt stop to avoid being crushed, and angrily shook his fist as he caught a brief glimpse of the two racing to freedom.
Rather than follow-through on their original plan to contact the police, Dylan and Scott rushed back to the hotel to check on Brad. As they burst through the door, their panic turned to horror. There, in the middle of the room lay Brad; motionless, with a clear bullet wound between his eyes.
Dylan and Scott looked at each other – exasperated and in shock. Suddenly a voice boomed from the open door behind them. “What were you doing this morning? You were going to rat on me?”
The pair spun around to see Héctor, still obviously intoxicated from the night before, pointing a gun in their direction.
To Héctor’s surprise, Scott stepped forward to confront him. With the hand holding the gun, Héctor swung surely, connecting squarely with Scott’s chin, and knocking him out cold.
Dylan was frightened, but now his anger was even more intense. When Dylan starred at football, his specialty was rushing the quarterback, and now was the time to call upon those skills once again. Without hesitation, Dylan took two quick, powerful strides, and lunged for Héctor, connecting with him hard in the chest, and sending him stumbling back against the wall.
But Héctor was a large man, and quickly regained his balance, despite his current physical condition. Héctor pointed, squinted and fired his gun, grazing Dylan in the thigh. Dylan yelped in pain but managed to mount a second rush, this time knocking the gun from Héctor’s hands, sending it spinning across the floor and settling on the edge of the balcony.
“Who do you think are?” Héctor bellowed. “I own this town, and now I own you!” He then proceeded to launch a mighty right-cross to Dylan’s jaw, dropping him to his knees.
“It’s time I put an end to this,” yelled Héctor, as he stumbled to regain control of his firearm.
Dylan shook his head to clear the cobwebs. Through the blood running down his face, he saw Héctor going for his gun. Gathering the last of his energy, Dylan bolted from his kneeling football stance and rushed Héctor, sending him back and over the balcony railing.
Héctor tumbled, screaming all the way into the pool below. At least most of him fell into the pool. His head wasn’t so lucky, and squarely found the less-than-forgiving concrete edge.
It wasn’t long before the wail of sirens filled the air. Dylan and Scott re-counted their story to the police. They were prepared to be taken into custody, but were instead brandished as heroes. They learned that several other tourists had already gone missing under similar circumstances. The police had wind of an operation, but couldn’t connect anything definitively to Héctor, until now.
Despite the praise, it was a quiet, sobering flight back to Canada for Dylan and Scott; heartbroken for the loss of their close friend, but satisfied and proud for their role in stopping a killer.