He moved to his bag, extracted his notebook computer, and downloaded the files the agent had sent him. The tracking software for the ship’s position was easy to grasp, and within minutes he was watching a pulsing icon in the Gulf of Venezuela, making its way toward Punta Espada.
Drago pulled up a satellite image and did a fast recon of the nearby coast to see if there were any ports where he might be able to hire a fast boat to intercept the cargo vessel, but quickly dismissed the idea. There was nothing of note there, and even if there had been, the couple would be watching for signs of pursuit – he didn’t doubt for a moment that they’d be on edge until well away from Venezuela.
He zoomed in on Cuba, located Cienfuegos, and spent an hour researching the port city. A hundred and forty miles from Havana, it was easily driving distance, which would help if the weapons he’d requested were in the capital, which seemed the most likely scenario.
Drago next turned to the details of the ship and, when he was finished, sat back on the bed and nodded.
“You won’t get away this time, you bastards,” he muttered, feeling an area of his skull that was still tender. Pain radiated from it and he immediately dropped his hand, annoyed at the sensation it could still cause. He pulled the bottle of aspirin from his pocket and dry-swallowed two with a wince, which then slowly transformed into a grim smile. “This time you go into the meat grinder, and you don’t come out as anything but sausage.”
A portion of his mind realized that the voicing of his thoughts was a sign of mental instability, but the rum singing in his stomach pushed the doubts aside. He’d crush the target like a bug and then take a long break to recover. There was nothing to worry about.
“Nothing at all,” he whispered. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, hair askew, eyes wild, and threw back his head and laughed. “The first sign of being crazy is being unaware that you might be crazy. So I’ve got that going for me,” he said, and then tossed the notebook aside and went for another splash of rum, his willingness to consider his faults exhausted by the alcohol.
Chapter 33
Northwest of Maracaibo, Venezuela
Jet watched the pod of porpoises that had appeared at dawn, cresting from the azure sea, their sleek gray forms high-velocity aquatic projectiles as they celebrated a new day’s arrival. The ship had plowed north all day and through the night, the engines droning beneath their feet as she and Matt had traded off shifts to ensure no compromising communications were sent. She’d relieved him two hours earlier and was wide awake, having snatched six hours of solid sleep with Hannah by her side in the cabin below.
Adrian sat beside her as he eyed the radar, the vessel on automatic pilot. He took a long sip of strong, dark coffee and moved to a printout awaiting his review.
“This isn’t good. There’s a front moving south. Reports are fifteen- to twenty-foot head seas and thirty-knot winds,” he said.
“What does that mean for us?”
“Depends on how bad it gets. But it reduces our chances of making it to Cuba to about fifty-fifty.” He frowned. “I told you we should have taken on more fuel.”
“Can we slow further? Maybe we can dodge the worst of it?”
“We’re already down to sixteen knots. We’d normally be doing twenty-two. A further reduction won’t accomplish much. We’re at about our optimal cruise speed right now. It’s always a compromise between time and fuel. Faster, we can turn the cargo in fewer days, which makes it worth burning more. But in terms of efficiency, there’s not going to be a lot of difference between, say, eleven and sixteen, due to the weight we’re carrying. A headwind will erase any gains.”
“When will you know more?”
“I’ll watch as the day progresses. We should start seeing it get uglier by around noon, and we’ll be in the midst of it by sundown.”
“Are there any ports along the way where you could get fuel?”
“Haiti or Jamaica. But they both have their issues. Let’s see how we do today. I’ll have a better idea of whether we’re in real trouble by early evening.”
She looked away from the gauges. “I’m sorry we put you in this position.”
“Hey, I raised two kids of my own. I can understand why you did what you did, but it doesn’t change anything. And my job will be on the line if I run out of fuel and don’t have a hell of an excuse. Not to mention I’ll be the laughingstock of the fleet.” He shook his head. “How’s the cabin working out?”
Jet shrugged. “As advertised.”
“And your daughter?”
“She’s improving. An infection. But she’s taking her pills. You know how that goes.”
He smiled, and then his face grew serious. “I’ve been thinking about the shooting. If it was directed at you, how did they miss all three of you?”
“I don’t know. That part doesn’t make any sense.”
“It’s possible that you weren’t the targets, you know. Probable, actually. I’ve been monitoring the news out of Maracaibo. They said it was a drug deal gone wrong. We see our fair share of those.”
“Explains why we’re still alive, I guess,” she said, doubt in every syllable.
“Doesn’t change anything in terms of our odds of making it, but I figured you’d want to know.”
Her tone softened. “I appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
She sniffed at the aroma rising from his mug. “Can I talk you out of a cup of that coffee?”
“Of course.”
She followed him back to where the pot was steaming, and he removed a cup from a cabinet and poured her a healthy slug. She took it from him and sampled it, and then made a face.
“Wow. You don’t fool around, do you?”
“No. Wouldn’t want to fall asleep at the helm and run into Florida.” He eyed her as she took another sip. “Would you really have used your gun?”
“I’d do anything to protect my daughter.”
He nodded. “I figured.”
“Smart man.”
“Not that smart if I let you force me to take this barge out with only half fuel.”
“As I recall, I didn’t give you much choice.”
He eyed her dubiously. “If I’d have really wanted to stop you that much, I could have. I was in the navy for years.”
Jet let him have it. There was no point in explaining that he would have had two broken arms if he’d tried anything.
She decided to change subjects. “You said you have two kids? Boys or girls?”
He laughed. “They’re all grown up now. Two girls. The twenty-seven-year-old is married to a guy who owns a restaurant in Caracas and has three of her own; the twenty-five-year-old is living in Miami. She’s the sensible one. An accountant.”
“Single?”
“Yes. Life’s different up there.” He gave her a sidelong glance and checked the radar again. “You remind me a little of her. Very independent. Does whatever she wants.”
“And your grandchildren?”
“All boys. Five, three, and one.”
“You must be very proud.”
“It’s the best thing in the world. I can spoil them, and then their mother takes them and I go home. No diapers to contend with, no disciplining, just the good times. How old’s your little girl? Three?”
“Almost.”
“She’s adorable. You’re very lucky. You should cherish this age. They grow up too soon.”
“Believe me, I do. You have no idea what I’ve gone through to keep us together.”
“Well, I hope you find some peace. A child needs a certain stability to flourish.”
Guilt stabbed through Jet. Poor Hannah had seen little enough consistency in her short life: snatched at birth, thrown into an adopted family, pulled out of that situation and then moving from place to place, kidnapped, endangered, always one short step from disaster…
In the darkest part of the night, she wondered sometimes whether she’d done the right thing, taking her from the couple in Neb
raska. The answer was always the same: Hannah deserved her real mother, not someone chosen by David without her knowledge. Once things settled down and they lost their pursuers, they would find a quiet home somewhere far away, somewhere safe, and Hannah would grow up, hopefully happy, to have a better life than her mother had gotten stuck with.
Jet’s mind wandered to Matt. Maybe at some point Hannah would have a little brother or sister. It wasn’t impossible. Jet was still young, and Matt would be a wonderful father. The offspring would definitely be attractive…
She looked fixedly at Adrian. “Yes, they do need stability. And believe me, I’m working on it. I love my daughter more than life itself. I’d do anything for her.”
“I know the feeling,” Adrian agreed, and tapped the fuel gauge. “Let’s hope we make it. Seems like you’ve had enough drama for one trip.”
She thought about the debacle in Chile, the hijacking of the container ship, the gunfight at the monastery, the flight from Colombia, and nodded in agreement.
“More than enough.”
Chapter 34
Frontino, Colombia
A black Chevrolet Suburban growled up the circular drive of Mosises’ estate, gravel crunching under its tires, the windows tinted so dark they were opaque. Mosises watched as it rolled to a stop in front of the entrance, and scowled as Ramón got out.
“Welcome,” Mosises said. “Come in. Felix is here as well.”
Ramón followed Mosises into the expansive home with its floors of polished Honduran mahogany and imported French furniture. They made their way to the rear veranda, where Felix was seated at one of the circular tables, a cup of coffee before him, dark wood fans spinning beneath the overhang, struggling to temper the morning sun’s heat.
“Sit. Coffee?” Mosises asked, and without waiting for an answer, snapped his fingers. A steward standing by the dining room entrance nodded as Mosises called out to him. “A cup.”
Ramón took a seat next to Felix and shook hands with him. When the coffee arrived, Mosises took his customary chair, his back to the wall, looking out at the manicured grounds, and retrieved a half-smoked cigar from a crystal ashtray.
“So they’re headed to Cuba,” he said, his voice soft.
“That’s correct,” Ramón confirmed. “We’ve been able to track the ship. They’ll be there tomorrow afternoon.”
“What happened with the Brazilian? Fernanda?”
“It’s still unclear. I originally thought that perhaps the other woman had killed her, but the timing doesn’t work, so apparently there’s another party involved we don’t know about.”
“That’s troubling,” Mosises said. “Our job is to know everything.”
“Well, we know where they’re going to land,” Felix said, speaking for the first time.
Mosises nodded. “Yes. And I want both of you to arrange an appropriate greeting. There’s a flight to Havana out of Bogotá this afternoon. You will be on it.”
“Very good. And weapons?”
“Our associate in Cuba has all the guns you could ask for,” Mosises said. Cuba was an important staging area for cocaine shipments, as was Venezuela. Besides which, the local tourist trade, which amounted to millions of foreigners to Cuba every year, many on sex holidays with the plentiful young prostitutes that were a mainstay of the impoverished island, consumed hundreds of kilos each year, paying street prices instead of the lower-profit wholesale Mosises realized from shipments elsewhere. “I’ve already spoken with him. He will provide whatever you want.”
“How is everything here?” Ramón asked. “Any…problems?”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Mosises snapped. The truth was that there had already been two instances of pushback from suppliers probing for weakness, hoping to negotiate better terms in Jaime’s absence. Mosises had dealt with both swiftly and ruthlessly, slaughtering the entire families of the two upstarts. But he couldn’t afford to be distracted, as he had been by the search for the woman, and he was relieved that chapter was coming to a close. “Deal with them, and then come home to help me with the business. I’m too old for this. I need young blood to carry on.”
“What about Renaldo?” Felix asked.
Mosises took a long pull on the cigar and studied him thoughtfully. “None of your business. He has his place. You have yours. We shall see how that solidifies based on how you handle your errand in Cuba.”
Ramón signaled to the servant for a refill to cover the small smirk that flitted across his face at Mosises’ smackdown of Felix. He should have known better than to question Mosises’ plans. Ramón hoped he would continue making foolish mistakes like that – it would assure that Ramón replaced Jaime as the acting head of the cartel instead of Felix. Judgment was every bit as crucial as ruthlessness in the day-to-day operations, and Ramón knew that Mosises was filing away information for later consideration, even from seemingly insignificant interactions like this one.
“Any preference in how the targets meet their end?” Ramón asked.
The server arrived with the coffee pot and refilled his cup. Mosises remained silent until the man was out of earshot. His face was impassive, but both Ramón and Felix could sense the tension radiating off him.
“As painfully as possible. Film it. I want to be able to watch their deaths.”
Ramón nodded. It was as he expected.
“You can rely on us,” Ramón said, but his tone said that he didn’t mean us, he meant me.
The distinction wasn’t lost on Mosises. “I’ll hold you to that. Now take the helicopter and go to Bogotá.”
Felix and Ramón stood, their audience at an end, and filed out of the house to the waiting Suburban. Felix turned to Ramón as he opened the passenger door, his face dark. “You think you’re pretty slick with the old man, don’t you?” he hissed.
Ramón’s face betrayed nothing. “What are you talking about?”
“We’re going to have to settle things once we’re done in Cuba. I won’t go quietly,” Felix warned.
“Go where? What’s gotten into you?”
Felix stepped away. “I’ll take my own car to the airport,” he said, and stalked off.
Ramón smiled as he climbed into the SUV. Felix, his half-brother, was a hothead, which could work in Ramón’s favor. If he could be kept off balance, he would make more mistakes, and they would be noted by Mosises.
And then, regardless of Felix’s intentions, the old man would decide where and how he went, not Ramón. And to Ramón would go impossible-to-comprehend rewards: money and power so great it dwarfed that of many world leaders. Condos in Florida, mansions in the Caribbean, villas in Europe, dream yachts equipped with hot and cold running nymphs…
Ramón didn’t intend to let all that pass him by. Mosises had made it clear that he was next in line for the mantle. Nothing would stop him, Felix included. Blood might be thicker than water, but when it came to business, blood was also the ultimate currency, and if more needed to be spilled to solidify Ramón’s position, so be it.
“No, Felix, I believe you won’t go quietly. But we shall see. It’s never over until it’s over,” Ramón whispered as he watched Felix’s agitated shoulders move to the BMW parked by the six-car garage.
Ramón checked his watch and turned to the driver. “The airport. And make it snappy.”
Chapter 35
Havana, Cuba
Horns honked along the famous Havana malecón that paralleled the waterfront as cars slowed for the explosions of spray driven by waves crashing against the rocks, flooding the road with the regularity of a metronome. Drago’s taxi was a new model Honda with surprisingly icy air-conditioning, and its suspension largely cushioned the uneven pavement on the inbound road from the airport.
He’d caught the morning flight from Venezuela to Havana, which was only half full, mostly with businessmen who kept to themselves, for which he was grateful. He contented himself with dozing the entire trip, ignoring the man in the seat next to him, who seemed happy with the arrangem
ent. After a rocky landing at the airport, which more resembled a penitentiary than an international hub, he cleared customs on his Colombian passport and moved to the taxi stand, where he was delighted to find a fleet of newish vehicles, not the 1950s relics he’d expected.
“First time in Havana?” the driver asked as they passed the Meliá hotel, an area landmark built by American gangsters in the 1950s and now owned by a Spanish hotel chain.
“Yes.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“A little of both,” Drago responded honestly. He’d dreamt of the woman again last night, only in his dream she was not only his captive, but naked, her skin glistening with a sheen of perspiration as he went about his work. Drago viewed his fixation as a sign, an omen, of the reward awaiting him after the most difficult assignment in his career, which was saying something.
“Ah, then you come to the right place. The city’s got everything you could want, and then some. But you got to be careful, especially at night. Shit can get crazy, you know?”
“Sure. I’ll have to watch my step.”
They coasted to a stop in front of the Parque Central hotel, and Drago paid the driver. The man pocketed the generous tip, waved, and drove away, sending a kit of pigeons soaring into the air over the park across the street, which was filled with young people enjoying the late morning sun. Drago watched the vehicle round the corner and then continued to a strip of shops adjacent to the square, where he placed a call. Five minutes later a squat man wearing a panama hat, a white button-up short-sleeved shirt, and navy blue slacks approached him.
“Do you have the time?” he asked.
Drago nodded, eyeing the three cigars in the character’s breast pocket. “Yes. A cigar fan, are you?”
The man looked around and grunted. “This way,” he said, his voice low, and moved down the sidewalk at an unexpected clip given his age and his short legs. Drago tailed him for two blocks and then followed him into a run-down building, where they climbed a set of questionable stairs before entering a suite of offices, plaster peeling off the walls and ceiling, a standing fan blowing warm air through the open window.
JET - Escape: (Volume 9) Page 15