JET - Escape: (Volume 9)

by Russell Blake

At the corner a low-slung sedan with a burbling muffler rolled to a stop next to her, and a face leered from the half-lowered passenger window.

  “Hey, Mami. You looking for some action?” a pimply-faced youth called to her.

  Jet ignored him and continued walking.

  “Come on, sugar. Don’t be that way,” the punk tried again.

  Jet’s instinct told her to keep her pace measured and stay quiet. Most troublemakers who were stupid enough to say anything wanted attention, not conflict. Then again, if he got out of the car, she’d be forced to take action. He wouldn’t unless he planned to assault her – which would be the last thing he ever tried.

  The driver muttered an insult and the car pulled off with a screech of rubber. Jet continued walking, her breathing measured, her heart rate relaxed. The pair of toughs had just made the smartest decision of their lives, although they couldn’t know how close they’d come.

  Jet didn’t tell Matt about the near miss, preferring to remain quiet when she reentered the hotel room. Hannah was awake, and Jet’s heart lurched when she saw Matt sitting by the bedside, holding the little girl’s hand, blotting her head with the towel.

  “I brought you something,” Jet said as she approached.

  Hannah managed a weak smile. “Hot,” she said, her voice hoarse.

  “Yes, you’re sick. Drink this all gone and you’ll feel better,” Jet instructed as Matt moved away from the bed to make room for her.

  Hannah drained the entire bottle of Gatorade but waved off the junk food. Jet and Matt exchanged a worried look. For Hannah to turn down candy…

  Jet tried a smile. “All right, darling. We’re going to take you to the doctor tomorrow and make you all better. Try to get some sleep, okay?”

  Hannah nodded and closed her eyes.

  When she was resting quietly, Matt joined Jet at a small wooden table near the only window. She whispered to him as they eyed Hannah. “I’m going to take a shower. Will you be heartbroken if I sleep with her tonight, instead of you?”

  Matt gave her a tired grin. “I’m flattered you have such faith in my stamina after two nights with no shut-eye.”

  “I figure it never hurts to play to your ego.”

  “Can I have a rain check? I feel like a zombie right now.”

  “Of course.”

  Matt brushed a lock of hair from Hannah’s hot, dry forehead. “What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

  “We take her to the clinic. Hopefully it’s nothing. Kids get sick all the time, and her immune system is probably low with all the stress and sleepless nights.”

  “And then? How do we cross the border without bringing the wrath of the entire Colombian and Venezuelan military down on us?”

  Jet shrugged. “I’ll do some research in the morning once I can get online. But one thing at a time – first we see to Hannah, and then we’ll think of something. We always do.” She turned back to Matt and tiptoed to kiss him softly. “You’re a good man, Matt.”

  “You deserve better. I’m lucky to have you.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “There might be room for two in the shower.”

  Matt held up his cast. “The doctor said to avoid getting it wet.”

  “Then we’ll have to be careful.”

  Chapter 8

  Medellín, Colombia

  Drago sat in the back of a neighborhood bar near the edge of the renovated old town, waiting for a return call. He nursed a warming beer that had been on the table for a half hour and took in the shabby crowd of workers and lower-middle-class men sharing the watering hole with him. Though they grew increasingly loud and boisterous as the night wore on, he nonetheless felt at home among them – hiding in plain sight.

  He’d called his agent, fed him the details of Mosises’ cartel, and asked for some assistance from the client, whose resources were massive and whose reach was global. That had been hours ago, and after circulating through Medellín’s seedier boroughs in fruitless search of information, he’d decided to wait for the agent to contact him again.

  When the phone buzzed, he took a pull on his beer, forcing himself to wait until it had rung four times. It was the little things that served as giveaways, and it wouldn’t do to appear to be too anxious.

  Drago answered, and his agent’s familiar voice purred in his ear.

  “I did as you asked. The client agreed to flex some muscles and just called back. They have located the new cell phone registered to the maid of one of your men, but judging by the traffic on it, she’s no ordinary housekeeper.”

  “Really,” Drago said, unsurprised that the NSA would be able to pinpoint a cell in Colombia within a matter of hours.

  “She’s on the phone an average of six hours a day. Spread out over twelve hours. So it’s a safe bet she’s the front for your man’s comm system with the cartel.”

  Registering cell phones to maids, drivers, gardeners, and the like was a time-honored tradition for cartel honchos in both Colombia and Mexico. “Which one is it?” Drago asked.

  “Renaldo.”

  “Ah. Where is he?”

  The agent gave him an address whose location Drago knew from experience. “That’s a whorehouse.”

  “I don’t judge. Although it’s hardly surprising that a drug kingpin might enjoy a bit of slap and tickle, is it?”

  “Can they intercept his calls and messaging?”

  “Negative.”

  “I thought they could do anything.”

  “This model phone requires a piece of malware to be downloaded to it in order for anyone to bypass the latest Korean security technology.”

  “Then what good is knowing he’s in the whorehouse?” Drago fumed.

  “I’ve sent you a link where you can download the malware worm. If you can get your hands on the phone, you can load it from your device onto his, and presto.”

  “And I would do that how?”

  “With a micro-cable. The instructions are in the email I sent to the usual address. Read it, download the program, and best of luck. If he moves from the whorehouse, I’ll call you back.”

  “How do I intercept the calls or the messages?”

  “You define where you want them forwarded, and it does so in the background without leaving a trace. It’s like a Trojan horse. Invisible to the user, but you can either listen in or read along, anonymously. Law enforcement uses it all the time.”

  Drago hung up and quickly finished his drink. He was only a few minutes from his apartment, where he could get his notebook computer and the cable and be on his way in seconds. What could prove to be more difficult would be locating Renaldo inside the brothel, and then getting to his phone without being discovered.

  A refreshing challenge after days of tedium. He hated information gathering, which always seemed like a waste of his time and talents – a necessary evil in his vocation, but uninspiring even under the best of circumstances.

  He paid for his beer and slipped out of the bar, just another unfortunate local who’d numbed the worst of the pain for the day and was returning home. As he walked in the crisp high-altitude air, a headache that had been lingering for the last day suddenly worsened, and he sucked in breath as the sidewalk seemed to tilt. He reached out to steady himself against a building until the spell passed. He resumed walking, his pace slower now, and the crude outline of a plan began to form in his mind.

  The good news was that the whorehouse Renaldo had chosen was a refurbished colonial mansion in the old section of town, not a defended complex somewhere Drago would have to get past a dozen gunmen. This was a better situation, in that if he was successful, Renaldo would never suspect that Drago was listening to his every word – and right now, the cartel finding Matt and his companions was Drago’s only shot.

  Drago stopped at his apartment to collect the necessary gear as well as a sound-suppressed Ruger with the serial numbers filed off and two magazines of subsonic ammunition that would make hardly more noise than a champagne bottle popping open. He gulp
ed down three aspirin and dropped the box in his pocket, and then stepped out onto the street and took a taxi to within a block of the whorehouse.

  After wandering apparently aimlessly for a few minutes to confirm he hadn’t picked up a tail, he covered the rest of the distance on foot. A knock at the ancient door brought a hatchet-faced man in a deep purple suit with a black shirt and matching tie. After a brief discussion, the doorman stepped back so Drago could come in.

  He hadn’t visited the brothel in almost half a year and didn’t recognize anyone but the doorman. The bar downstairs in what had once been the mansion’s living room held several dozen young women of varying degrees of beauty, some with skin so light it was almost translucent, others with dusky caramel complexions. Drago ordered a vodka and tonic and swept the room with his gaze, his laptop bag still hanging from his shoulder with the pistol and notebook hidden inside.

  A stunning example of Colombian womanhood clad only in black stockings, a garter belt, a thong, and a skimpy top sidled up to him. The aroma of cinnamon and vanilla announced her arrival, and when she smiled, her teeth shone as white as polar ice.

  “Hello, handsome. See anything you like?” she asked in a musical voice.

  “I do now,” Drago said. “What are you drinking?”

  “What are you?”

  Drago held the sweating glass up in a toast. “Vodka and tonic.”

  “Can I taste it?” she asked.

  “Among other things.” He handed her the glass and she took a sip, considered it, and handed it back to him.

  “I like that.”

  “Then you should have one. What’s your name?”

  “Alana.”

  Drago nodded to the bartender. “Alana would like one of these.”

  “Very good, sir,” the young man replied.

  Five minutes later Drago was following Alana up the stairs, marveling at the view. He’d requested the brothel’s most luxurious suite, and when he was told it was occupied, he’d appeared disappointed but was secretly delighted. He’d spent time in that room, and the odds were nearly a hundred percent that Renaldo was there tonight – it carried a considerable premium, which few of the bordello’s weeknight clientele would have been willing to pay for an hour’s diversion.

  When they reached the third floor, Drago pointed at a door near the end of the hall – one down from the master, outside of which a sour-faced young bodyguard sat in a folding chair, scowling at them suspiciously. Drago waved with his drink hand, pretending to be tipsy. “Let’s use that one,” he suggested.

  Alana smiled professionally and teetered over to it on translucent plastic stripper heels. “Perfect.”

  You have no idea how, Drago thought, and followed her inside under the watchful eye of the bodyguard. When the door closed behind them, Alana twisted the lock with a loud snap. “Nice and private,” she said with another grin, and Drago mirrored the smile as he moved to the bed, noting with satisfaction that there was no sound coming from the room next door.

  Chapter 9

  Havana Harbor, Cuba

  The lights of Havana twinkled along the shore as a matte gray Cuban navy patrol boat cut through the light wind chop. Two dozen marines sat on steel benches as the vessel made its way toward the harbor mouth, past deteriorating commercial piers that hosted the darkened hulks of cargo ships.

  The half century of American sanctions against the island nation had drained the port of much of its prosperity, and the waterfront buildings that lined the malecón were weather-battered and decaying, many dating from the 1800s or earlier, veterans of countless hurricanes and generations of neglect.

  Major Luis Fuentes stood beside the helmsman as the boat neared a commercial fishing vessel moored in the anchorage by the fort that guarded the harbor approach. The boat was low in the water, obviously overloaded, and in poor shape even by Cuban standards. Fuentes squinted in the gloom and nodded to the helmsman.

  “That’s it. El Limon,” Fuentes said, and then called out to one of the crewmen at the bow, where a .50-caliber machine gun that was older than the gunman stood on a support rod next to a spotlight. “Showtime. Hit it.”

  The high-wattage beam blinked to life and settled on the fishing boat. Fuentes could make out five fishermen on deck, all of whom were dazed, blinded by the light as the military vessel pulled closer.

  Fuentes spoke into the hailing system handset and his voice boomed overhead through amplified speakers. “Vessel El Limon. This is the harbor patrol. Prepare for boarding.”

  The men on the fishing boat froze in place. The Havana harbor patrol had a nasty reputation for being trigger happy, and nobody wanted to be tomorrow’s obituary – or slipped over the side several miles offshore with a few cinderblocks chained to their ankles.

  Havana Harbor had a long and colorful history as a Spanish port that had been plagued by pirates, brigands, and scoundrels of all shapes and sizes. The current political masters, for all their rhetoric, had proved no better than the island’s earlier leadership, and the country had suffered while those in power grew rich, all the while trumpeting equality with the fervor of the newly converted.

  The fishermen were accustomed to the rule of the sword, and didn’t question being boarded in the middle of the night while at anchor. It was the captain’s problem, ultimately, as long as nobody got heroic while the authorities went about their business.

  The gunboat pulled alongside the fishing scow, and Fuentes’ nose crinkled at the stink that wafted from the deck.

  “Jesus, that’s foul,” he said, and coughed into his hand. Once the lines were secured, the marines rose from the benches, their rifle barrels gleaming in the moonlight. “Stay here,” Fuentes growled, and made his way over the gunwale to the fishing boat.

  The old captain poked his head out of the fishing boat’s pilothouse and his expression set in a frown of resignation and annoyance. Fuentes walked to the door and nodded to him. “Inspection. Routine.”

  “I already handled this with one of your people – Gomez.”

  “Nobody told me. So you’ll have to handle it with me.”

  Fuentes pushed past the captain and entered the small pilothouse, and then moved to the stairway leading belowdecks. The captain sighed as the major eyed the passageway. Fuentes cleared his throat. “If I go down there and find dozens of stowaways bound for a run to Florida, you’re done, old-timer. But if I decide to have a glass of rum with you and sort things out right now instead, well, you can live to fight another day and be on your way whenever you like, with my assurance you won’t be disturbed.”

  “I told you, I already paid Gomez.”

  “He died this afternoon. Massive heart attack. Why do you think I’m out at this hour when it would normally be his shift?” Fuentes shook his head. “But if you already paid, we can work something out. Frankly, this isn’t a negotiation. You either pay or go to prison. However, I’m a fair man. So we can cut the usual figure in half.”

  The captain slumped onto a bench seat beside the chart table. “That means I’ll lose money on this run.”

  “Think of it as an unexpected surge in the price of fuel. A tax. That’s really all it is.”

  Ten minutes later Fuentes returned to the patrol boat, his pocket fatter by two thousand American dollars. He knew the captain would still turn a profit, but it would only be hundreds of dollars for his trouble this time out. Not Fuentes’ problem. Some months were better than others in all businesses, and the world wasn’t fair.

  The trafficking of the desperate, north to the U.S., was a well-established enterprise. The going rate could run anywhere from five hundred dollars to five thousand per head, depending upon how stable the vessel was and the likelihood of making it without drowning. The Cuban authorities were chartered with stopping the exodus at their shore, but as with so much in the world, compromises were made. Fuentes’ take-home pay as a career officer was just short of five hundred dollars a month. But he was able to squirrel away up to several thousand more, subject
to how many others had to be compensated along the way – in tonight’s case, the patrol boat captain, who would distribute funds to the rest of his crew as he saw fit, and the harbor patrol commander, who had allowed an army officer use of his boat. When it was all paid out, half the money would be gone, leaving Fuentes with a tidy thousand-dollar profit to spend on his mistress, who, even in an impoverished society like Cuba, wasn’t cheap to keep happy.

  Fuentes watched the hull of the fishing boat disappear off the stern as the patrol boat made a wide turn and retraced its course into the harbor, and looked down at his watch. He could be back on land and pay everyone in an hour or less, leaving plenty of time with his delicate hothouse flower before he went home to his wife and four children, exhausted after another long, thankless shift in the service of his country.

  Fuentes smiled to himself.

  Whoever thought Cuba didn’t understand capitalism hadn’t been there.

  Chapter 10

  Santuario, Colombia

  Two feral cats battled with each other at the end of a small street in the industrial area of town, their howls of pain and outrage the only sound other than the distant rumble of highway traffic as heavy trucks labored up the grade to the west. A pair of headlights bounced down the cobblestones and coasted to a stop in front of an old single-story warehouse. The decaying façade advertised tires repaired inexpensively and brakes resurfaced at a discount. Half the paint was peeled off the distressed surface from years of neglect, lending the building an air of abandonment, which was in fact the case.

  A wide steel roll-up door faced the street, and a small metal pedestrian entrance stood with its door ajar beside it. In the shadows, Fernanda and Ramón watched as Viega stepped down from the passenger side of the Suburban and walked to the rear. He half-dragged a cuffed figure from the vehicle; the captive’s close-cropped hair and vestments clearly identified him as one of the monastery monks.