Billy Henderson circles the Miami International Airport in a dark SUV, driving slowly, head on a swivel, hunting for anything amiss. Baby J is up there somewhere—in the sky, on an airplane, nervous beyond belief and soon to land. Billy believes his job—the strange, surreal gig he still hides from his family—always hinges on five critical minutes he can never predict beforehand. And he might get one chance to complete the mission. Might.
As he drives, he considers the target, a Cuban baseball player he refers to by that code name. Baby J had sent his travel itinerary over WhatsApp, and Billy had analyzed the airport’s layout and traffic patterns, along with the grid of the hotel the Cuban national team would bus to in West Palm Beach, Fla. He had diagrammed the plan on a white Krispy Kreme doughnut box, snapped a picture and sent it to Baby J.
From 35,000 feet, the recipient reviews the message while thinking through the risks he’s about to take. He says goodbye to teammates, without explicitly stating his intentions. He has never met Billy in person, nor the other two members of his very unlikely crew. And yet, Baby J believes in them, because of their track record, and because he sees no other choice. He knows that once he attempts to wriggle from the national team’s grasp, there’s, as he puts it, “no turning back.”
