It had been at least 20 years since Chepiga used his precious ring, he stroked it fondly as it glinted in the bright Miami Sun. It was Soviet technology, it was perfect. Soon the thousands watching in the stands will feel the power of mother Russia once more, and the shockwaves will reach as far as Barranquilla and reverberate through Ojeda’s very soul. The call came from Bastardo, a single spoken word would affect the plan; “Execute”.
Within a fraction of a second, Bastardo’s boats, laden heavy with their bounty, exploded into smithereens. The smoke blocked the glaring Sun for just a moment before red hot pieces of Carbon Fibre began raining down on the fleeing spectators. Through the mayhem one of Bastardo’s boats serenely carried on its path away from the main race and out to Sea.
Chepiga knew this wouldn’t be the end. Ojeda’s Bats were everywhere, listening, reporting, and planning. Bastardo had Fibre but all too often he lacked vision to fully grasp the ramifications of his actions. Chepiga knew better; and in preparation he had stationed “The Gunslinger” , Hristo Stoichkov, in the stands along with Diego & Yimmi Chará. The brothers from Cali had been invaluable to Chepiga for the last two years, they were as keen as Cheipga and Bastardo to see the demise of Don Ojeda.
A skirmish broke out in the base of the stand and Chepiga saw the flowing mane of El Pibe leading Bastardo away. He could not be sure if Bastardo was in jeopardy or not, but there was no time to waste, he had to look out for himself and Natasha.
Chepiga’s men quickly subdued the remaining henchmen loyal to Hugo Ojeda. Their superior fire power, and close combat skills, ensured the encounter with the enemy was brief. None would live to speak of the day the “Boats went Bang”.
Grabbing Natasha’s arm, wide eyed, “Hurry Natasha, my dear, we don’t have much time.” Chepiga’s tone was calm, but curt. The small, three man, submersible surfaced at exactly the moment Chepiga had programmed it to do, some months prior, during a scouting visit to watch Bastardo’s Inter Miami.
The Chará brothers helped heave open the large, rusted, metal hatch, that had been sealed for many months. Stoichkov and Natasha climbed inside. “Goodbye Comrade Chepiga.” Yimmi Chará was visibly upset at the prospect of never seeing Ruslan again. Chepiga kissed each brother on their left cheek, “It was all my pleasure my brothers, Rose City Till I Die.”
The rusted hatch slammed shut, “Quick to the rendez-vous Hristo!” The submersible was slow, and it seemed to take an age to travel the two miles to the meeting point. “We are here.” Chepiga’s demeanour had changed, there was a darkness in him.
Boat 89 was waiting for them, bobbing in the gentle Miami waters, the paintwork glistening in the blazing Sun. The driver opened his safety pod and removed his helmet.
“I got away, I’ve got the money Natasha baby!”
Herb Simon’s excitement was nauseating to Chepiga. Herb Simon was the retired General Manager of Inter Miami, a corrupt real estate tycoon who helped launder Ojeda’s money all across Florida. He was so easy to turn, a cut of a few hundred million dollars, and a pretty Brunette was all it took. Chepiga knew rats like Herb could not be trusted in Eastern Europe. “Calm down comrade, we aren’t free yet.” Chepiga snapped, and in a flash wiped a damp cloth across Herb’s face, the toxin worked remarkably fast, the old man slumped back, he was conscious but incapacitated.
The three remaining members of the syndicate loaded the money from the speedboat to the submersible, Natasha estimated the haul to between eighty and ninety million dollars, more than enough to invest in a club somewhere close to the Black Sea. Every inch of the sub was laden with used bills. “Wait! stop, we are too heavy. We must leave now, leave the rest.” Natasha was right, Chepiga and Stoichkov left a few stacks of cash on the speedboat and jumped down to take control of the submersible. Natasha contorted her small frame into a tiny gap at the rear, completely surrounded by vast columns of money. It was uncomfortable but they could make it.
Chepiga entered the co-ordinates for Aswijan, there he could be sure of a friendly welcome before setting sail for his final destination in Eastern Europe. The sub dived easily given the weight of it’s cargo, old Herb watched, through glazed eyes, as it descended into the clear waters below before finally fading from his view. He tried to call out to Natasha, there was something she needed to know about the men she was with, but no sound would come, his mind fell to darkness…
Finally - Thanks for reading this little Creative piece. I enjoy trying to write them as in my daily work I write and read a lot of scientific reports that are very monotone, it’s nice to try and be creative.
Chepiga is now on his long journey across the Atlantic, through the straits of Gibraltar, across the Mediterranean Sea and finally into the Black Sea. Hristo Stoichov has ideas where their money could best be put to use, but as ever Ruslan will suit himself.
This post should be read in conjunction with @FMGrasshoppers piece “Boats Go Bang”
Over and out
FMEadster!