Jet 04: Reckoning

by Russell Blake

  That evening, as they sat at a restaurant near the river, they agreed that Alan would liberate a kayak from one of the four nearby houses they’d seen and depart at midnight. Jet would drive across earlier and find a road that would get her near the shore, and then wait for him to arrive.

  “With any luck we should be in Buenos Aires tomorrow by mid-day. I already made reservations at the Four Seasons,” she said. “But we’ll be staying down the street, at the Alvear Palace. Just in case, somehow, someone is tracking the delivery. I’d rather pay for a room at the Four Seasons so we can get the package, but stay elsewhere, in the event that someone wants to put some bullets through us when we’re in the room. The whole ferry exploding thing isn’t to be underestimated, and if you were the target…”

  Alan nodded, and took it in a lighter direction. “The Alvear Palace. Pretty fancy, huh? Palatial…”

  “Nothing but the best. That’s my new motto.”

  “Really? What was your old one?”

  She smiled sweetly and took a sip of her soda. “Kill ’em all and let God sort ’em out.”

  He nodded. “I’ve used that one myself.”

  She held up her drink for a toast.

  “To midnight running.”

  “Hear, hear.”

  Chapter 18

  The dusty streets near the river were empty at eleven-thirty, Paysandú being a quiet town where the city rolled up the sidewalks once it got dark. Slim illumination glimmered from sparsely spaced streetlamps and an occasional porch light, and Alan was the only person to be seen.

  Jet had left for the border earlier, and Alan set out from the center square on foot, taking his time, in no particular hurry. He didn’t want to attract attention of any sort, so he stuck to the smaller roads, all of which led to the banks of the Uruguay River. From off in the distance, from a street at least four blocks away, he heard the slow drone of a vehicle meandering through town, its questionable exhaust rattling windows as it crept down the deserted thoroughfare.

  The temperature had cooled once the sun had set, and a low-hanging blanket of clouds filled the sky, blocking any light from the moon and stars, which would work in his favor. He had his new cell phone in his breast pocket, set to vibrate so it wouldn’t ring at the worst possible moment, and his black zip-up light jacket effectively shielded him from the evening chill. He just hoped it wouldn’t rain. That would make the crossing miserable, although ultimately, it wouldn’t matter. He still needed to get across, weather notwithstanding.

  As he neared the water, the distinctive smell of the river permeated everything, and the sound of it rushing past the banks echoed off the surrounding buildings. A solitary small dog barked from the open window of a two-story home on his left, yapping its shrill lament to an uncaring world. Alan didn’t need anyone peering out at him and getting suspicious, so he shrank into the shadows and moved away from the building.

  When he arrived at the street that ran parallel to the river frontage road, he stopped to get his bearings. His casing of the neighborhood earlier that day had yielded several promising opportunities, and the first was on this street, a block and a half north. It was a single-story affair with a large, unkempt back yard, and one of the items strewn about the premises was a lightweight red kayak, perfect for his purposes. He edged to the rusting iron fence that protected the yard from the street and stopped, listening for any animals or indications anyone was awake. The lights were off, a thirty-year-old Chrysler K-car slowly corroding in the driveway, weeds pushing through the cracked concrete slab growing around it. He placed a hand on the hood. It was cool to the touch. The residents hadn’t been out for a drive in hours, possibly days.

  The gate latch squeaked when he slid it free, and he froze. After a few moments, the area still quiet, he pushed it open, the hinges creaking alarmingly. There were no signs of life, though, nothing moving, so he crept along the side of the house, ducking below the scraggly hedge that ran along the perimeter so as not to be seen from the adjacent windows.

  Once he was in the yard, he squinted, trying to make out the shapes, and almost fell face first when his shoe caught on an old rake lying hidden in the grass. He swore silently and peered around, then spotted the outline of the boat at the far edge of the property, near the wall separating the lot from the rear neighbor’s. Alan stepped gingerly through the weeds, anxious to avoid another trip and fall hazard, and when he reached the boat he exhaled a muted sigh of relief. The paddle was lying next to it, where it had been dropped by an unconcerned owner.

  His eyes took in the back of the house, and then he moved to the kayak and lifted it, careful not to bump anything with the hull. It only weighed forty-five or so pounds, and he easily carried it on his shoulder as he took a few steps and knelt down to grab the paddle.

  Which was broken.

  Shit.

  That was a problem, but one he would deal with once he was off the property. He considered taking the useless paddle and then discarded the idea, choosing instead to inch back to the street, senses alert for any signs of life. Alan retraced his steps and, once he was back on the sidewalk, trotted with the boat so as to minimize the chances of anyone spotting him on his way to the shore.

  The river was dark, an inky flood snaking from beneath the brightly illuminated bridge in the near distance. Alan knew the rowing club was next to the marina, up a few blocks from his current position. While the hard part of securing a boat was over, he would need to get a paddle or the kayak was all but useless to him.

  He came to the main frontage road, and seeing nothing in either direction, crossed it and sprinted across the open field to the river. Once there, he wheeled around, searching for a convenient place to hide his newly acquired treasure, and settled on a clump of sparse bushes a dozen feet from the water near a large tree that he couldn’t miss on his return. Satisfied that nobody would be able to spot the red hull in the dark, he set out for the marina, jogging so that if anyone came upon him they might think him an exercise nut out for some late exertion.

  In the little protected harbor, rows of boats creaked against the dock, the surge from the river tugging gently at their hulls, straining the mooring lines. Alan passed the pier and slowed, taking in the darkened marina just beyond. It was deserted at the late hour, but even so, he was cautious as he entered the grounds. He knew that the building where the kayaks were rented was at the far end of the complex, the hulking main building situated near the drive that led to the public park and beach just north.

  When he reached the doors of the yacht club he paused, checking his watch. He would need to get moving, and couldn’t waste a lot of time with stealthy entries. He didn’t have any picks, so he settled for the next best thing – a nearby chunk of brick. Alan took a deep breath and then shattered the tall window next to the door, wincing at the crash as the glass shattered out of the frame. He half expected to hear alarms go off, and was relieved when silence returned to the area, his crude entry approach unnoticed.

  At the far end of the main room, wooden shutters were pulled across the window of the equipment rental concession, barring entry to the storage room beyond. He tried the door, but it was locked. Keenly aware that every moment inside exposed him to risk, he kicked it, and the second blow shattered the doorjamb. The door swung open and he entered the room, and to his relief quickly found a kayak paddle hanging with dozens of kindreds on the nearest wall.

  In a large bin by the far counter, Alan noted a heap of spray skirts. True, the water was pretty flat; the likelihood that he’d flip and need to roll was small. Still, was there any reason to be unprepared? The answer came as he took the first step towards the bin: the unmistakable sound of a car engine sounded from the frontage. Glancing at the paddle in his hand, he weighed his options. If he was caught in the building he was dead meat – there was no innocent explanation for breaking and entering. He’d have to forgo a spray skirt and get the hell out of there. Headlights now played on the far side of the building at the front, and he qu
ickly ducked through the broken window and pushed his way out into the night, hoping that the darkness would cloak him long enough to reach the kayak.

  Two car doors slammed in the parking lot as he bolted for the dirt slope that formed the sides of the marina. The going was slippery from moisture and grass, but he managed to get sixty yards from the building before he heard anything more.

  A blast of static from a radio reverberated across the water, and then a high-pitched man’s voice cut through the night from a distorting radio, confirming a report of a B&E. He continued to work his way to the southern edge of the marina, and then dared a peek over the edge of the slope to see what was happening at the building.

  The officers must have gone inside, affording him the opportunity he needed. He sprinted up the incline and onto the path leading back to the pier, and increased his speed as he distanced himself from the scene of his petty larceny, his running shoes slapping against the pavement, his breathing measured, as was his gait.

  A shout from behind him sounded at the building and he poured on the steam, willing his muscles to greater speed. A flickering flashlight beam roamed over him as he rounded the bend at the pier, and then he was out of sight, temporarily safe. Anyone working the graveyard shift on a small town Uruguayan police force wouldn’t be a practiced marathon runner – by the looks of the two uniformed men he’d seen that afternoon, nobody was skipping any meals, and the treadmill at the station had been out of order since the Second World War.

  Another shout trailed him from farther away, and he slowed as he approached the kayak’s hiding place. Wasting no time, he dragged it from behind the bushes and ran to the water, setting it into the river before slipping into the narrow cockpit and pushing off from the bank.

  He glided away from shore and began paddling, hoping that his pursuers would confine their attention to the path and ignore the river. He wasn’t too worried – he had enough lead so it would be almost impossible to see him in another few minutes. The kayak sliced through the water as he propelled it with powerful strokes, and then the current caught him and he felt himself moving south.

  A beam of light played across the water to his right, and then it was joined by a second from the shore. The damned cops were tenacious, he’d give them that, but they were too late – he was gone, and they’d have to solve the case of the missing paddle without his assistance.

  His rowing had now hit a steady rhythm, with the current carrying him downstream in addition to his efforts, and he was congratulating himself on his speedy progress when he heard a motor start somewhere behind him. Sound was deceptive on the water, he knew, and what might appear to be a hundred yards back could easily be a mile or two. Whatever the case, he couldn’t afford to lose his concentration. If the authorities were so bent on catching him that they were willing to send a patrol craft after him, he couldn’t change that – he could only keep slogging towards his destination and hope that they wouldn’t be able to make him out in the night.

  The rumble of the engine changed tone, signaling to Alan that the boat was now under way, and he redoubled his efforts, his arms and shoulders burning from the intensity of his efforts. A spotlight flared into life and moved across the channel, focusing on the center, and he steered closer to the next island, driving himself to go faster. The beam moved from the water to the Uruguay side of the river bank, inching along, looking for any evidence of him pulling to shore and making a run for it. He understood the logic – to the Uruguay police he was a thief, and it was inconceivable that a petty criminal would try to escape to Argentina. The complications of trying to get back into Uruguay would be far greater than pulling to shore and vanishing into the brush.

  Up ahead the expected sand buildup materialized, and he edged nearer as the sound of the patrol boat diminished behind him. Another minute went by and then he was rowing into the channel, veering right, where he would be out of sight within seconds.

  Once on the Argentine side of the island, he stopped paddling and retrieved the cell phone from his pocket. He speed dialed Jet’s number and she answered on the first ring.

  “Where are you?”

  “I just cut through the channel. I should be there soon. Where are you?”

  “Near one of the campgrounds. Call me back when you think you’re closer and I’ll turn my headlights on for a few seconds. You should be able to see them from the river, and you can head to shore directly below. I’m about a hundred yards from the bank.”

  “Okay.”

  He resumed paddling, and then five minutes later dialed her again. “Hit the lights.”

  Up ahead to his right, a pair of headlights came on for a brief second, then extinguished.

  “Got it. I’ll be there in two.”

  When Alan pulled to shore, Jet was standing, waiting for him.

  “How did it go?” she asked as he stood, then slipped, falling into the river with a splash. He looked at her as he sat in a foot of water and laughed softly.

  “About like this. The only thing that didn’t happen was a dog bite,” he said, standing up.

  “The night’s still young. Come on. Let’s get out of here. We have a long way to go before morning.”

  He nodded, and then followed her up the hill, the sound of the patrol boat now far in the distance on the other side of the river.

  Chapter 19

  Standish opened the front door of the house with a flourish, his suit impeccable, as usual, his shoes gleaming so brightly from their shine that they nearly blinded Sloan, who had actually proposed today’s meeting, rather than the customary other way around. The security guards stood at a discreet distance on either side of the house, eyeing him without expression. Sloan nodded to Standish, who stepped back, leaving the door ajar.

  “Right on time, I see,” Standish commented, studying his Patek Philippe World Timer.

  “I do strive to be punctual.”

  “Yes, well, he’s waiting. But I should warn you. He’s not in a particularly good mood today.”

  “I sort of figured. Did you give him the news?”

  “No. I told him that you had some follow-up from the errand he’d entrusted you with, but I didn’t want to infuriate him any more.”

  “You mean you wanted me to take the heat.”

  “It’s yours to take,” Standish reminded him. “I’m not going to put myself in the line of fire for anyone. Sorry.”

  “Whatever. I can handle it. Let’s go see the big man, shall we?”

  Standish nodded, then turned and led the way through the foyer. Sloan closed the door behind him and noticed a security guard in the living room, tapping at a laptop computer. That was the first time he had seen one of the men inside the house.

  “How many bedrooms is this place, again?”

  “Six, plus the separate service quarters.”

  “That’s a lot of space.”

  “It’s one of the largest homes in the area.”

  “Big grounds, too.”

  “It’s a double lot. Almost two hundred yards of frontage. He told me once that he wanted a secluded wooded setting. You’ll note that the park is across the road, which contributes to the sense of exclusivity.”

  “There’s certainly a feeling of seclusion.”

  “He wanted something that could be well-protected after his experience with…the woman.”

  “Hmm.”

  They clumped up the stairs, and Sloan paid more attention to the art than he usually did. Expensive oil paintings, all originals, as far as his eye could tell.

  Arthur had done well for himself with his little sideline.

  Standish held the bedroom door open for him and they entered, the humid, warm air cloying, as usual. The ventilator and humidifier were humming away, and Sloan took his time approaching the bed, allowing his eyes to adjust.

  Standish cleared his throat. An annoying affectation, Sloan thought in passing.

  “You have an update for us on the woman?”

  “Yes. Something went
wrong. We lost the entire team.”

  Arthur clutched at his oxygen mask, groping to remove it. The low beeping of his heart monitor began increasing, and within seconds was over a hundred beats per minute.

  “What! How? What happened?” Arthur croaked, pre-empting Standish.

  Sloan shifted, uncomfortable now that the ugly news had been delivered.

  “We were only able to have a short conversation with the lone survivor. The driver. He was arrested and is being held by the Uruguayan authorities. We were able to supply an attorney for him, who got as much information as he could, but they had to be cautious. He felt that the holding cell might have been bugged.”

  Arthur said nothing, and then lifted a solitary finger, indicating that Sloan should continue.

  “The team was taken out by a man. Blond, younger, hard-looking. That was the only thing he could tell us.”

  Standish shook his head. “What about the woman? He didn’t mention the woman?”

  “He made no mention of her.”

  “So where does that leave us?” Standish asked.

  “At square one, but covering our tracks. We took precautions with the banker and the attorney – they’re no longer a concern. But the contractor we hired to take care of them was involved in a car accident and didn’t survive. We’re still trying to get information on that, but there isn’t much. Apparently he was involved in some sort of a disturbance.”

  “Stop speaking in riddles. What happened?” Arthur hissed, the effort costing him a lot.

  “The best our man can figure out, there was a car chase, a few accidents, some shooting, and then, well, the contractor didn’t make it.”

  “Who is your man?”

  “We have a seasoned operative who speaks fluent Spanish, has a law degree, the whole nine yards. He’s been with us for a decade. He has contacts in Uruguay, and one of them made an introduction to a ranking member of the police force. So we’re privy to whatever they come up with. That’s how we know about the chase, and the driver.”