Matt nodded. “My money says she’ll be at his place, trying to regroup.”
“And you know where that is,” Jet said flatly.
“Yup.”
She smiled. “Have I told you how handsome you look in blue?”
“Not nearly enough. What are you thinking about doing?”
“What do you think I’m thinking?”
Matt sighed as they neared the station and took her hand.
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
Chapter 29
Dante’s headquarters was located in the La Boca neighborhood, one of the most dangerous in Buenos Aires. Matt, Jet, and Paco sat down the block from the walled warehouse complex by the river in a beaten-to-death Renault sedan Julian had obtained for them after a call from the Underground station. He’d dumped the Suburban in a side alley in San Telmo and caught a taxi back to his office, where among other sidelines he bought and sold cars of questionable origin with no questions asked, whose plates might not have matched the vehicles they were affixed to but which were always bargains. An hour later they were outside Dante’s building, watching and waiting as Jet tried to come up with a plan.
“What business is he in? That looks like some sort of an industrial plant,” Matt asked.
“It’s a distillery. He manufactures liquor, mostly cheap knock-offs of popular foreign brands. Some of it’s undrinkable and many of the lower end bars stock it, but it’s also a good front for his criminal activities, because he’s been at it for twenty-plus years,” Paco explained.
“Well, it’s built like a fortress,” Jet said. “I don’t see any easy way in, do you?”
“No. Those walls are at least fifteen feet high. I’ve seen prisons with laxer security, which doesn’t really surprise me. La Boca is known for its crime and violence. Many of the families here live ten to a room. You’ve never seen poverty like this area, or the ones further south –brick slums with dirt streets that flood every year during the rainy season. No wonder he’s built something that’s impenetrable. It has to be, given the location.”
“Right. And it also gives him plenty of excuses to have guards on the premises.”
“Exactly. To protect his booze business. Not that anyone would question any of this too closely,” Paco said. “As I said, he wields a lot of clout.”
“Then how are we going to get in?” Matt asked.
“Nobody said this would be easy,” Jet reminded him. “How sure are you that Tara will come here?”
“Very. He shot down a plane for her. Who do you think she’ll turn to when everything goes wrong?”
Jet rubbed her eyes. “I don’t see any weak points, do you?”
Paco shook his head. “No. There are no nearby buildings we could get into and drop down onto the complex’s roof. The walls are concrete and, as you pointed out, high. I just don’t see how we do it.”
“Maybe pose as a delivery company?” Matt said.
“We’d never get past that first gate,” Paco said. “Remember, we’re not his only enemies, and his men are there to keep unauthorized intruders out. We’d qualify, I’d say.”
“I can’t believe he drives through this neighborhood every day to come to work. That seems like a carjacking waiting to happen,” Matt observed.
“Could be that he’s got a helicopter. A lot of the high rollers here do. For just that reason,” Paco said.
Jet frowned. “All right. The only way I see to do this is to go through the front door, hard. It’s not my preferred approach, but it’s the only one I think can work.”
“How do we do that?” Matt asked.
“We plow through the gate and into the building.”
“Plow. Plow with what? This wreck?” Matt said.
“No. We’re going to need something much bigger,” Jet said.
“Like what?”
“Like a bus. Or a semi-rig.”
Matt frowned. “Right. But I’m not sure Julian could get his hands on one of those easily.”
Paco smiled. “I have an idea.”
~ ~ ~
Carson Santell sounded more agitated than Tara could recall, even across five thousand miles of phone line. She’d filled him in on the disaster at the bank and was waiting for instructions. She could practically hear him pacing, scowl in place, brow furrowed as he tried to work out what to do next.
“This really isn’t what I had in mind when I sent you down there, Tara,” he chided.
“I know. Do you think this is what I wanted to have happen?”
“And you recovered none of the stones?”
“Correct. They spilled everywhere. By now half of Buenos Aires is celebrating their newfound wealth.”
“And the target got away clean.”
Tara probed the knife cut Matt had left her as a parting gift with a tissue. The blood had clotted, but it was still painful.
“That’s right. He’s still out there. Which is why I’m calling. How do you want me to proceed?”
“It’s just you?”
“Also correct. As I said before, my team didn’t make it.”
“Explain again how that’s possible. I mean, you had him in your hands, you had the diamonds, and then, in the blink of an eye, some mysterious woman kills your men and frees him?”
“It’s what happened. I told you. I came out of the bank. A truck rammed the men. They exchanged fire with the vehicle. At that point the diamonds were all over the street, and I was unarmed. I managed to escape. They didn’t. I’m sure you’ll read all about it on the news feeds tomorrow. Or better yet, check with your contacts in Buenos Aires. I’m pretty sure you can easily verify what I’m telling you.”
“I intend to do exactly that.”
Tara didn’t like the way the discussion was going. She knew Santell and the way his devious mind worked, and he’d be suspicious that this was all a ruse created by her so that she could make off with the diamonds for herself. Which he wouldn’t tolerate.
“Remember that I’m the one that got you back the two hundred million dollars’ worth in Thailand,” she reminded him.
“For which we’re deeply grateful. But as they say, what have you done for me lately?”
Tara kept her temper in check. “Again. What do you want me to do?”
“I’d like you to go get my diamonds and kill that bastard.”
“We tried. It didn’t work. And now the diamonds aren’t recoverable. Which leaves Matt.”
“Do you think you can locate him?”
“Unknown.”
Silence hung taut on the line as Santell thought. When he spoke, he sounded disgusted. “Do what you can. I still want him dead. You’re down there. Finish the job.”
She found herself listening to a dead phone. He’d hung up. Not good.
Tara cursed silently and tossed the bloody tissue into the trash, worried. The last thing she needed was for Santell to suspect her. That didn’t make for a long life expectancy – not that she was troubled by those notions in her line of work, but still, having the most ruthless group in the CIA gunning for her…
She returned to where Dante was waiting in his office, standing by the window looking at the shipping containers in the large yard. He heard her approach from the distillation room, where she’d gone for privacy for her call, and turned to face her.
“So, my dear, a disappointing day all around for you, eh? I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do to help.”
She gave him a smile that looked as genuine as any she’d graced him with, as she seethed at the problem she’d been left with and Santell’s dismissive tone.
“Thank you, Dante. It’s not your problem. Sometimes these things happen.” Tara had given him a sanitized report of the events, omitting the diamonds – simply indicating that the captive had gotten away after a gunfight. Dante hadn’t probed and she hadn’t volunteered anything.
“It’s good that you can take this all in stride, Maria.”
“Yes, well, what’s one to do? Dante, darling, do you have a
ny alcohol? I’m afraid I got a nasty cut I need to attend to,” she said, holding her side, playing for sympathy.
“Of course, my dear. Have a seat and I’ll call for some.”
She did as he suggested and closed her eyes, the image of Matt’s whore holding a gun on her as she mounted the motorcycle replaying through her mind, stoking the flames of her anger with each recurrence. She’d ruined everything. The stones had been in Tara’s grasp, and then the woman had come along…and now Tara was disgraced.
She would pay dearly for that. Nobody humiliated Tara.
Nobody.
Chapter 30
Jet did her best sashay up the sidewalk toward the security shack, where the uniformed guard sat listening to a soccer game on a small portable radio, the street empty. He registered the motion as she neared and his eyes got big at the apparition of a beautiful young woman moving toward him with a beaming smile on her face, her emerald-green eyes almost luminescent in the sunlight as she approached. He straightened his wrinkled jacket and switched off the radio, and regretted not shaving that morning as she strode to his station.
“Ca-can I help you?” he stammered, hating the stutter that had plagued him since adolescence.
Another smile. She was gorgeous. “Maybe. I was looking for someone else.”
“Who? I’m the only one here…”
The strike to the nerve meridian in his neck was so swift that he didn’t realize he’d been hit. One second an angel was talking to him, the next the world was spinning and going dark, his legs refusing to obey his brain’s instructions to hold firm below him.
Jet caught the man as his knees buckled and set him back into the guardhouse chair. She did a quick search and took his cell phone. Then she jerked the landline out of the wall, leaving it ruined.
She looked down the street and whistled. Matt and Paco trotted down the street to where she waited.
“Let’s make this snappy. We’ve only got a few minutes until he comes to,” she warned and turned to enter the gravel lot. Matt and Paco followed her to where dozens of cement trucks were parked next to dump trucks and pumping rigs. They eyed the massive vehicles as Jet edged over to Matt. “So which do you think are the heaviest?”
“The cement trucks probably are, but we don’t want the mixer to break loose on impact. Next best are the dump trucks. Look at the bumpers on those things. And you can take cover in the back.” They had discussed how to deal with breaching the gate and Matt had insisted on driving. He’d made a compelling argument – that he had one good free hand, which was all he’d need to shift and steer. “I’ll leave the rear unlatched so you can jump out once we’re through. It’s perfect.”
Paco moved to the nearest truck. He opened the door, climbed up into the high cab, and fiddled with the wiring harness beneath the steering column. He snipped two wires and stripped the ends and, after a glance at Jet, crossed them. Matt could see a small spark flash as the starter turned over, and then the motor roared to life.
Paco hopped down from the cab and nodded to Matt. “It’s all yours.”
He nodded. “Okay. Get in the back. You’ll know when I’m through the front gate. I’ll slow down once inside the compound and you two can work your magic. Then I’ll take out the main building cargo door and we’re game-on.”
Jet eyed his face. “You sure about this? For the record, I’d still rather you sat this one out and let me drive.”
Matt shook his head. “Which will reduce your odds of success, because you won’t be able to shoot and drive at the same time. We already covered this.”
“I know. I still don’t like it.”
Matt leaned into her and kissed her. “I love how you’re about to go into a heavily armed compound and shoot it out with an army of miscreants, armed with only a pistol with half a magazine left – and yet you think I’m taking too much of a risk. Which reminds me.” Matt handed her the weapon he’d taken off Carl. “I’ll trade you. This one only had two shots fired.”
She took the pistol and popped the magazine, removed four bullets, then slammed it back in place and chambered a round before handing it to Matt. She loaded her Glock with the 9mm bullets. “I’d just as soon keep this one. It’s kind of a good luck charm for me now.”
Matt offered a lopsided grin and slid his weapon back into his belt. “Works for me. Hop in the dumper, and let’s do this.”
They did so, and Matt stabbed the clutch pedal to the floor and shifted into reverse, then powered the wheel around with his one good hand until he had room to turn and get through the security gate. He shifted into first and gave the big rig gas and it lumbered forward, quickly winding out the low gear. After he rumbled through the gate, he put it into second and concentrated on cranking the wheel. His broken arm pulsed with the effort of his good one, each turn another lance of pain as he bounced over the rough pavement worn away from decades of heavy vehicles rolling across it.
The four blocks to the distillery were the longest of Matt’s life and by the time he’d shifted into fourth and was doing forty miles per hour, his face was beaded with sweat from the exertion and pain. He blinked it out of his eyes as Dante’s iron gate came into view. He took a deep breath and tugged on his seat belt to ensure it was secure, then stomped on the gas, sending the tachometer into the red.
The three men standing outside the gate heard the big vehicle before they saw it, the twin smokestacks belching black exhaust into the sky as it accelerated down the road. One of the men elbowed his companion and was about to make a wry comment when his eyes widened and he screamed a warning. The truck’s trajectory had abruptly changed and the leviathan was now heading straight for them. The guards futilely pulled at their holstered weapons as the truck bore down on them, leaping aside when the bumper slammed into the gate, blowing it inward and knocking one of the two heavy iron panels off its hinges.
Matt coasted to ten miles per hour as the shooting started. The rounds bounced harmlessly off the thick metal of the dump truck box. He saw Jet leap from the bed in his side mirror, firing back at the guards as she ran. He shifted into third and floored the throttle as he picked up speed again and was doing thirty-five when he barreled through the main building’s roll-up door, momentum carrying him well into the interior of the two-story building, knocking oversized vats over as he careened through the production area.
He collided with a bottling line, sending glass and tanks everywhere. The stunned workers stood frozen for an instant before running for the exits, unsure of what had just happened but unwilling to stay around to find out what the next surprise might be. Apparently most of the workers were legitimate employees working for the distillery and not part of Dante’s criminal sideline, because dozens of men and women ran for the shattered roll-up door and only a few men with guns bucked the tide and sprinted toward the truck.
Matt’s head lay on the steering wheel. The first gunman threw the door open, his shotgun leveled at Matt. Seeing that he was unconscious, the man jabbed him with the barrel.
“What the he–”
Matt’s pistol barked twice as he fired across his lap, the first round catching the man in the cheek, the second blowing the top of his skull off. His partner fired his pistol at the truck, but the rounds went wide. Matt counted to three and then stood on the seat in a crouch and leaned out with his gun – at a level that was completely unexpected, judging by the surprised look on the second man’s face as one of Matt’s bullets drilled a hole through his sternum and into his heart.
More shots sounded from the side of the warehouse and a slug ricocheted off the cab. Matt ducked back down and fired two shots in the direction of the shooter. An answering volley of four shots in quick succession blasted into the truck’s side. One of the stray rounds hit a large vat of alcohol and a stream of nearly pure, high-octane fluid spurted forth onto the floor. Matt slid across to the opposite door and kicked it open just as a spark from a piece of shattered equipment caught the pool of liquid and it flared with a blue flame. He wat
ched in horrified fascination as the fire followed the stream up to the huge tank and ducked behind the dash just as the container exploded, setting off a chain reaction with the other nearby tanks, which each detonated in turn.
Outside, Paco and Jet made short work of the three armed men who had followed the truck through the perimeter wall gate. They were good, but not great, and the difference between highly trained, skilled shooters and thugs with guns was no contest. Four more came running from a smaller building, these with riot guns. Jet took cover behind a shipping container while Paco ducked behind a pickup truck. The shotguns boomed as the men neared, the buckshot barely denting the steel side of the container. Jet threw herself onto the ground and poked her Glock around the corner just as the first of the two men was fifteen yards away.
She squeezed off two shots. The first missed, but the second caught the nearest man in the hip, causing him to double over and drop his weapon. She fired three times at the second man, who had loosed another blast at her, but a foot too high. Her slugs punched into his chest, driving him backward, each impact jerking him off his feet slightly. He tumbled forward just as more shooting echoed from the pickup. Paco picked off his two assailants with a flurry of shots. She thanked fate that he was competent and ran to the closest downed man, who was groaning, his hip shattered from her round. She pulled his jacket open and grabbed his pistol and, with a gun in each hand, pointed the Glock at his forehead.
“Dante. Where is he?”
The man shook his head, his eyes screwed shut in pain. Her peripheral vision caught something on her left and she swiveled as she crouched, firing both weapons at another man running toward her with a submachine gun. Her bullets shredded through him and he slammed into the gravel, the gun flying from his hands.
After another glance at the wounded man beside her, she sprinted for the submachine gun, tucking the Glock into her waistband as she neared. She scooped the weapon up and shook her head distastefully – it was a Mac-10, which was only slightly better than the pistols for accuracy, although it was fully automatic, so could spit a lot more lead in a short period of time. Too much lead, in untrained hands, she knew – it would take two seconds to burn the entire thirty-two round .45 caliber magazine on full auto. She felt in the man’s jacket for a spare magazine but didn’t find one, and swore. Amateurs.
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