For a split second, Raoul Marti contemplated throwing himself at the mercy of the law. The thought passed as quickly as it had arisen. No sir, it wasn’t the brightest of his ideas, even considering his rather spotty track record. Besides, even if he managed to avoid being shot by some corrupt Federale, he’d end up spending the next few years in a maximum-security cell. He remembered what his brother had told him. Any plan where the best-case scenario involved a lengthy prison sentence was best buried and forgotten.
“Hell no!” Raoul told himself, before slamming the Crown Vic into Drive. Tyres squealing, the old cop car stormed its way towards the border. The Cuban grinned as the small-block V8 settled into a smooth rumble that was almost orgasmic. The big trunk was merely an added bonus. This was the life, he thought. Living his dream. The government could ban all his wares, but no, he would never give up. His family had not given in to Batista’s mercenaries, or to Castro’s crazy ideologues. No true Marti would ever bend in the face of oppression. Continue reading Forbidden Fruit