Segador savagely bit the end off a cigar. "His faith in scoundrels!" he said, vehemently. "Enough, Mateo. Shut up before I—I ..."
Hall rode into town, had dinner sent up to his room. For an hour or so, he read the local papers. Then he turned out the lights, took off his tunic, opened his shirt collar, and put the Sam Browne belt with the hidden pockets on the bed beside him. It was to be a night of rest without sleep, a night of relaxing on the unmade bed with a hand never farther than six inches from one of his two guns. Twice during the long night he took benzedrine pills to keep awake. There could be no sleep until the plane was well under way.
The two-motored Douglas was warming her engines when the Cuban diplomatic car delivered Hall to the airport. "Drive right over to that bomber," he ordered. "Fast."
"Hey," he shouted before the car could skid to a stop, "taking off without me?"
Segador, freshly shaven, stepped to the doorway of the plane. "No. Get on board. We were waiting. Toss me your grip."
Hall tipped the driver of the car with a five-dollar note. "Give me a hand, Diego. I'm not an antelope." Segador and the young sergeant pulled him into the cabin.
"Meet my crew. Major Blanco—First Pilot Captain Millares, Co-Pilot Navigator Lieutenant Cuesta, Sergeant Mechanic Ruiz. They are a picked crew, and they know what is at stake in this flight."
The flying officers were at the controls. They saluted Hall, bade him welcome. "Snub Nose says we can take off," the captain told Segador.