The Drop

By John Anthony Miller

Havana, Cuba, 1958. After losing her family to a brutal dictator, Ariana Rojas wants revenge.

Alluring and highly educated, she joins a ragtag group of revolutionaries who try to overthrow the Cuban government, wreaking havoc to support their cause. Ariana plots the kidnapping of Jimmy Foster, a wealthy American, hoping to use the ransom to further the revolution.

But there's a problem. Jimmy's wife doesn't want him back... and she has no intention of paying.

John Anthony Miller's THE DROP is a riveting political thriller with a unique cast of characters and a twist ending you won't see coming.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Jan 4, 2024

Book preview

ONE

JULY 26, 1958 AT 07:11 A.M - SIX MILES EAST OF HAVANA, CUBA

The concrete walls were twenty feet high, broad at the bottom but slim at the top and capped by barbed wire. Towers sprouted from each corner, manned by guards with machine guns who watched the barren ground that stretched from the walls to the trees in the distance. The fortress was imposing. It would discourage an enemy, defeat an attacker, deter the most formidable foe—if that was its purpose. But it wasn’t designed to keep people out. It was built to keep them in.

They were political prisoners. Those brave enough to disagree, offer opposing views, challenge conventional wisdom. If nothing else, they expressed ideas that deserved to be heard. But they paid a price for daring to dream. Many lost their lives behind the massive walls of one of the world’s most notorious prisons. Many more lost their minds.

Two steel doors admitted the vehicles needed to support a prison population that counted so many thousand souls. A single-story office building with narrow windows sat beside the doors, an island of freedom in a continent of convicts, a link to a world those inside had forgotten. Through this office, on very rare occasions, a prisoner walked out, having paid their debt to society. But they were never the same as when they walked in. Their days were too horrendous, their minds too scarred.

Ariana Rojas sat in the driver’s seat of her 1955 black Ford, waiting for a man to emerge. She was attractive—an olive complexion, wavy black hair, and dark eyes. Slender and graceful, poised and articulate, she was an intellectual from a once-wealthy family.

Not yet thirty, she often claimed her devotion to the revolution, driven by her hatred for Fulgencio Batista, a brutal dictator who destroyed her family. Although born to privilege, she barely survived, working as a maid at the Paradise Hotel and living in a third-floor apartment in a century-old building. The luxuries in life she had once enjoyed had vanished, the memories surreal, the dream a nightmare.

She looked at her watch, waiting. The sun rose, promising another hot day. A gentle breeze blew in from the ocean, four miles north, and a kaleidoscope of palm trees, orchids, and lilies sprouted from the edge of the barren strip that circled the prison walls. She shivered, even in the heat, knowing that the man she was about to meet might remotely resemble the one she had left a year before.

The door to the office opened, and he stepped out, lean and hard, ruggedly handsome. A scraggly beard sprawled across his face, his dark eyes alive with conviction. His gray suit was wrinkled, ill-fitting, not worn since he arrived. An attorney before imprisonment, he was a shadow of the man who wore it before, the suit symbolizing the life he left rather than the one he was about to live.

Ariana Rojas got out of the car to greet him. She saw his eyes, consumed with rage, and for a moment she paused, afraid. She approached him tentatively, knowing prison changes a man—and never for the better. I thought this day would never come, she said.

Nor did I, Rafael replied. He hugged her and, after a moment, moved away. But it did. And that’s what matters most.

They had never been lovers, not even friends. But they united to overthrow the government of Batista. It was a bond formed by many, creating fragments of revolution scattered throughout the country. And as each day passed, they organized as needed, grew stronger, became more effective, threatening a government they had once barely bothered.

The others are waiting, she said.

They got in the car and drove away, down the long driveway to an intersecting street that led to the highway. She looked back at the prison in the rearview mirror, knowing it overflowed with many who didn’t deserve to be there. It was a sight she had seen many times, an image she would rather forget.

I will never be in prison again, Rafael said. I’ll be free, or I will die.

You will live forever, Ariana said softly. In name and in cause.

There are others who guide the revolution, he said humbly. I am but a soldier.

With many who follow you.

It’ll be good to see them. Their loyalty kept me alive.

We’re going to the coast, she said. Others wait in the mountains.

I want to be near Havana.

Ariana was wary of the man he’d become, driven by hatred, steered by revenge. She looked at Rafael, his cheeks hollow, his eyes crazed, and she wondered if he could see what needed to be seen. I brought you some food, she said.

Many starved to death.

I know, she said softly. My father among them.

A martyr to the cause.

I live to avenge him.

Your family is well? Rafael asked.

Ariana paused, reflecting on a family that had been torn apart. My mother and sisters are in Argentina, she said. My brother is in America. They’re poor, like me. My family’s wealth is gone. Never to return.

All the more reason to fight, he said.

Ariana glanced in the rearview mirror. Food is in the knapsack on the back seat, she said. There’s fresh fruit—bananas and oranges—and some croissants and juice.

Rafael reached in the back, grabbed the knapsack, and pulled it onto his lap. He removed a bottle of apple juice, opened it, and took a swig, and then he withdrew a banana and peeled it.

You would prefer steak, I’m sure, Ariana said, glancing at his thin fingers.

After a year of soy beef, or egg yolk littered with broken shells, I could eat anything.

Rafael finished the banana quickly and peeled another. He took a bite and leaned his head out the window. The air is fresh, he said. And the world so open.

You have the whole universe, she said as she turned onto the highway. Instead of a prison cell.

A cell I shared with roaches, rats, and mosquitoes. The ceiling was covered with tarps because the bathroom above leaked, raining human waste.

It’s over now, Ariana said softly, not wanting to know more. Gone forever.

It’s time to fight, Rafael said as he withdrew a croissant from the knapsack and bit into it, acting as if he had never eaten before. We have to save Cuba.

Ariana was quiet, alarmed by his glare. She had seen it before, in the eyes of her father. Many support the cause, she said. Castro is strongest, but he’s in hiding. No one knows where.

Does he fight or talk?

The days for talk are done, she said. He fights. We all fight.

Does Batista respond?

Yes, in the mountains, Ariana said. He uses bombers and shells from ships offshore.

Who fights in Havana?

No one, she said. Resistance is sporadic.

Then we fight in Havana.

And if they oppose? Ariana asked.

Rafael looked at her, the fire in his eyes blazing. Then let blood be shed.

TWO

It was a typical Friday night at the Paradise Casino: a band played Cuban music, slot machines rang as each lever was pulled, roulette wheels spun as new bets were placed, and the clamor of conversation competed with the noise so common to a boisterous crowd. Cigarette smoke hung in the air, drifting lazily near the lights, as scantily dressed women walked the floor carrying trays of whisky, bourbon, martinis, and beer. Winners celebrated, losers planned their revenge, the band played, couples danced, dealers dealt, and customers talked and laughed and gambled.

At least until the bomb went off.

There wasn’t any warning. Just a thunderous blast with a flash of light. Glass shattered, the front of the building shook, and blood sprayed on the gold wallpaper. Arms and legs dangled in the aisles, crooked and twisted, and a stinking smoke filled the casino. Screams and cries from the wounded replaced gamblers’ voices, dealers’ directions, and noisy slot machines. The band playing mambo seconds before was silent, the stage deserted, as if no entertainment had ever been provided.

Help! someone near the entrance called. Help me—I’m hurt!

My wife needs a doctor, said an elderly man, disheveled and confused.

Jimmy Foster was in the rear of the casino when the blast occurred, just another handsome, well-dressed American enjoying a weekend away. But he dropped to the red carpet when the building shook, the crystal lights masked in smoky fog. He was watching a blackjack game one minute, diving to the floor the next. He lay still at first, surprised by the blast but suspecting he knew why it occurred.

Guests screamed in shock and pain. Jimmy struggled to see what happened once the smoke began to lift. He rose to one knee and waited, watching turmoil grip the casino. People scrambled by, stepping over those on the floor, and a man bumped into him, running for the exit, and knocked him to the floor.

It was a bomb, the man shouted. Get out! There may be more.

Jimmy waited for the chaos to quell. He watched legs in stockings and high heels run past, led by trousers and polished shoes. He heard sirens in the distance, police and ambulances rushing to the scene, and he wondered how many were hurt or killed. A few moments later, he rose and stood in the aisle.

Jimmy couldn’t see the bomber. Maybe the culprit calmly placed a suitcase under a gambling table and walked out the front door, leaving helpless victims to be murdered and maimed. That would be the easiest way to do it. That’s what he would have done if he was one of the revolutionaries. Then you didn’t have to see the victims. It wasn’t personal. It was just a job, an assigned task, a mission completed.

As people pushed past, Jimmy smelled sulfur and tasted acrid smoke. His ears rung. He looked over the casino floor, searching for injured who might need help. The blast was near the entrance, not far from the stage where the band had been playing but closer to the roulette tables. It was where high rollers laid down the biggest bets the casino accepted, usually under the gaze of envious onlookers. Jimmy noticed that’s where the greatest damage had been done—as if sending a signal that the rich would pay as the poor revolted. If he ever doubted the growing power of the revolution, he didn’t now.

Jimmy stumbled toward the center of the blast. Bodies lay in aisles; debris littered the floor where the bomb had gone off. He guessed twenty people were injured, a few seriously. Casino staff, policemen, and medical technicians had arrived and were laying people near the entrance, prioritizing their injuries for the ambulances. As chaotic as the whole scene was, caring for the injured was organized.

Jimmy, are you all right? a voice behind him asked as he felt a fatherly hand on his shoulder.

Yes, I’m fine, he said. Just a bit shaken. Jimmy turned to face Buddy Stefano, the casino manager. Rumored to be a gangster, Stefano ran a respectable joint, certainly not an establishment expected to be bombed.

We’ll get the bastard who did this, Stefano said, running his hand through thick black hair marred by a few strands of gray. If he isn’t dead already.

I hope so, Jimmy said, although he wasn’t so sure. A lot of people are hurt.

Some reckless maniac, Stefano continued. Nothing to worry about. I’ll have the place back to normal by tomorrow.

It’s the rebels, Jimmy said.

Trust me, Jimmy, Stefano said with a streak of arrogance, the cops will fix this. The rebels fail every time. Remember that. And don’t worry about anything. I always take good care of you, don’t I?

Jimmy smiled. Sure thing, Buddy. You always take good care of me.

I got everything handled. We’re evacuating the hotel so the army can search for more bombs, just as a precaution.

What can I do? Jimmy asked. Do they need help with the injured?

No, everything’s fine. The police will take care of it.

Jimmy looked at the damage, a shattered roulette table or two, broken glass in the front doors. The bomb made a lot of noise, but it didn’t do much damage. Maybe it was supposed to be that way.

Call your wife and let her know, Stefano said. And then go out for a few drinks while they search the hotel. Everything will be fine when you get back.

Jimmy Foster surveyed the damage. The smoke was mostly gone, the stench lingering lightly. The wounded were laying in a line by the exit, orderlies taking them to ambulances. It didn’t seem as if anyone was killed—at least, he didn’t see anyone that appeared to be dead. He looked back through the casino and saw people starting to gamble, and the cries of agony were muted by ringing slot machines. Buddy was right. Everything would go back to normal.

But Jimmy knew it wasn’t the end. It was only the beginning.

THREE

Ariana Rojas stood behind a potted plant in the Paradise Hotel lobby. She scanned the room, wearing her maid’s uniform and leaning on a cleaning cart. A bored clerk manned the registration desk, reading a newspaper. Hotel guests wandered the lobby, going in different directions. Most went into the casino; others went across the street to a nightclub that featured American entertainers who played the circuit: Las Vegas, Monte Carlo, and Havana.

Ariana was only waiting a few minutes when the bomb exploded and the casino was riddled with screams. Just as chaos erupted, sweeping through the building, she hurried across the lobby, twisting through panicked people and bumping into hotel staff. She didn’t make eye contact with anyone; she didn’t have time. She couldn’t risk delays, especially questions from frightened guests.

She pushed her cart past the reception desk. The manager’s office was just beyond it. When she reached the door, she looked back to make sure no one was watching. She opened the door and walked into a receptionist’s office. A desk, potted plant, and two functional visitor’s chairs occupied the room. A closed mahogany door was centered on the far wall, a brass label etched with the name Buddy Stefano fixed upon it.

Ariana moved toward the manager’s office. It didn’t seem like anyone was in there, but she wasn’t sure. No light passed through the crack beneath the door, but that didn’t mean it was empty. Especially with Buddy Stefano’s reputation as a ladies’ man. After several seconds of silence, she twisted the knob. It was locked.

Ariana took a metal shim from her skirt pocket. Holding it with her finger and thumb, she slid it between the jamb and door. She wiggled it up and down, sliding the metal across the keeper. After three failed attempts, she heard the mechanism click, and the door opened.

We should get Buddy, she heard a man say from the hallway.

Check if he’s in his office, another person said.

Ariana closed the door. She hurried toward the receptionist’s desk, pushing her cart against the wall, near the entrance. If someone entered, they might not see it behind the opened door—or it might seem like it was stored there. But it really didn’t matter. She had nowhere else to put it.

Ariana ran to the receptionist’s desk just as the doorknob started to turn. She ducked behind the chair, squeezing partly into the kneehole. With a bomb exploding and all the noise from flustered guests, whoever entered would be distracted, a bit frantic, and maybe they wouldn’t see her hiding.

The door opened. Buddy, a man called, walking toward the manager’s office. A second man remained in the doorway, watching the lobby.

Ariana peeked from the kneehole. She saw a pair of trousers cross the room. The man knocked on the manager’s door, waited, then turned the handle. The door opened, squeaking on its hinges. He stood in Stefano’s doorway, dressed in a blue suit, his hair black. She couldn’t see his face, but she suspected it was the security manager.

He walked into the office and turned on the light. It was quiet, as if he were scanning the room, making sure nothing was disturbed. A few seconds later, he turned off the light, closed the door, and retreated. He went to the entrance, where the second man still waited, and walked out, closing the door behind them.

He must be in the casino, the security manager said as they walked away.

Ariana stayed still, barely breathing. She waited several seconds, until she was sure the men had gone. Then she rose, got her cleaning cart, and pushed it forward, hurrying to Buddy Stefano’s office.

Ariana opened the door and stepped inside. The room was dim. Some light from nearby streetlamps filtered through a window that overlooked the Malecón, a coastal boulevard. She closed the door, facing a broad desk with two leather chairs in front of it, a row of bookshelves behind it, and walls decorated with paintings from Cuban masters.

She stopped and listened. After hearing nothing but chaos in the lobby, she hurried behind the desk. She angled the cart so she could access the bottom shelf. It was filled with white towels, a green oasis emblem in the corner representing the Paradise Hotel. She moved the towels to one side, revealing a row of tools neatly arranged on the shelf: a drill, an extension cord, a hammer, several screwdrivers, and tapered steel pins of various sizes.

Ariana knelt at the center of the bookshelves, in front of two carved doors. She tried to open them. They were locked. She took the hammer and a slotted screwdriver from the shelf. Placing the screwdriver in the narrow slit between the doors, just above the hasp, she hit it with a hammer, driving it downward, angled slightly. The lock broke, and the doors opened, exposing a safe with a combination lock midway, closer to the left side, a thick steel box that might prove difficult to access.

Ariana reached into her cart. She withdrew the half-inch electric drill and unraveled the cord. She attached the extension cord and plugged it into a wall socket. Centering the drill where the tumbler was located, she turned it on. She leaned forward with her shoulder, applying pressure. The metal was hard, probably tempered, the drilling tedious, but she forced the machine forward, slowly piercing the safe. A minute later, she was through, and she unplugged the cord, wrapped it around the drill, and returned it to the shelf on the cleaning cart.

The safe’s drive cam was accessible. Ariana got a slender punch rod and placed it in the drilled hole. She hit it with a hammer, knocking the cam away from the bolt. It freed the lock mechanism, and she put the rod and hammer in the cart and hid the tools with towels.

Ariana opened the safe. Inside was a brown leather briefcase, scuffed on one corner, as if it had been used many times. Two snaps held it closed, secured by a lock with no sign of the key. She could break it when needed. She took the briefcase, glanced at what was left in the safe, and put it on the cart. A few folders lay stacked on the bottom, and she grabbed one and scanned it, saw it had something to do with real estate, and returned it. She covered the briefcase with towels, ensured it was hidden, pushed the cart out of the office, and closed and locked the door behind her.

Ariana tiptoed through the receptionist’s office and paused at the door. She heard people scurrying about, shouting from the lobby or the casino entrance. She waited, hoping they would disperse. When they didn’t, she opened the door and boldly walked out, acting like she belonged there.

A man was standing in the lobby, talking on the house phone. He was watching her curiously.

FOUR

A nightclub bordered the casino. It was popular with hotel guests because it headlined the biggest names in show business: Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra, Eartha Kitt. Jimmy heard music coming from the stage, the bomb barely impacting the evening’s entertainment. He listened for a minute—the band was playing All I Have to Do Is Dream by the Everly Brothers—and then he crossed the casino to the lobby. It was still chaotic, crowded with frightened guests, hotel staff, medics, and