JET - Escape: (Volume 9)

by Russell Blake

  “Yes, well, that’s not for me to determine.”

  “This is outrageous,” Matt said. “We demand to be taken to the embassy.”

  “Please. You come for a boat ride. You see the magistrate tomorrow morning. It’s a formality.”

  “She needs her medicine. She’s been sick,” Jet said. “Matt, would you get it for me?”

  The officer shook his head. “I can’t allow you to delay us any further. It is a long run back to shore.”

  “But the doctor said–”

  “Madame, it is of no concern to me what your doctor said. You’re traveling with an undocumented minor. You will be taken into custody, as my boss ordered, and appear before the court when it opens tomorrow.”

  “Why not today?” Matt demanded.

  “It’s Sunday. So your embassy is also closed.”

  Jet tried a final time. “Please. It’ll just take a minute to get her pills.”

  The officer’s face darkened. “Enough. Ensign, escort the passengers to the boat. See to it that they’re made comfortable in the holding area,” he snapped, turning to one of his men. “I’ll be along shortly.”

  Jet looked to Adrian. “I remember your cell number. I’ll call when I can. Don’t leave without us.”

  “By the time a wire transfer arrives, it will be Monday, so don’t worry,” Adrian said, his face grim.

  They made their way down the gangplank to the coast guard vessel, its white hull paint worn away in multiple spots, the red and blue insignia not much better, and were shown to an enclosed room built into the steel bow of the forty-foot vessel. The adjacent head reeked, and Jet’s sinking feeling increased. She sat down with Hannah and whispered to her, “Breathe through your mouth, sweetie. This will be over soon.”

  Matt moved to the porthole and pried it open, and the odor abated somewhat. “I don’t have to tell you this is bad, do I?” he murmured.

  “No. I get it.”

  “You stash everything?” he whispered as he sat down beside her.

  “Of course.”

  She told him about the overheard discussion between the Haitians, and his jaw clenched.

  “What a bunch of crooks,” he grumbled.

  “We took a risk, and we lost this round. They’ll clip us for some easy money tomorrow and we’ll be free to go. That’s just how things work.”

  “It never seems to stop, does it?”

  She didn’t answer. There was no need.

  Chapter 38

  Havana, Cuba

  Ramón and Felix sat in uneasy silence as Ramón drove toward Cienfuegos in their rental sedan, the morning glare blinding them as they headed east. They’d arrived the day before and had met with Mosises’ contact in Havana for weapons before checking in to what passed for a top-shelf hotel for the night. Neither of them had ever been to Cuba, and Felix clearly wasn’t impressed.

  “It’s a shithole,” he pronounced as they neared the port city, passing through the outlying slums. “I thought Havana was bad, but it’s Paris compared to this.”

  Felix had stayed out late in the hotel bar after Ramón had taken his leave of the place, finishing his glass of after-dinner Añejo rum and declining the charming invitation of a blue-eyed blonde of German extraction working the area, who couldn’t have been over eighteen. He would have time enough to celebrate once they’d successfully concluded their business, and he left it to Felix to paint the town red, opting instead for a decent night’s sleep.

  That decision had been a wise one, and Ramón secretly enjoyed the look of pain on Felix’s face every time they hit a rough patch of pavement.

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s got a certain island charm,” Ramón countered, strictly to be perverse.

  “If you find shanties and mosquito-borne diseases charming, you came to the right place.”

  The slum transitioned into drab multistory low-income housing projects rising from the surrounding jungle like brick monoliths. Every few kilometers they passed billboards exhorting the citizenry to produce more so everyone could enjoy prosperity, or featuring a revolutionary slogan declaring that Cuba would never surrender to imperialists or colonialists.

  “They really believe this crap?” Felix growled. “It’s like we stepped into a time machine.” He eyed a passing military transport vehicle with dozens of soldiers aboard, broiling in the swelter as the sun beat down on them. “And there’s a ton of military around.”

  “Cienfuegos is a big port. I’m not surprised.”

  A row of red and white smokestacks in the distance belched clouds of gray into the sky, contributing to the toxic haze hanging over the city. Felix shook his head. “We’re in hell.”

  “Cheer up. The boat will arrive this afternoon, and then we can get out of here.”

  Ramón’s frown deepened. “How do you want to do it?”

  “You heard Mosises. He wants it slow and painful. I’d just as soon shoot them when we see them, but he’s the boss. So we’ll follow them to wherever, wait until we see an opportunity, and then off them. You can film it while I do the work. That would fit your style.”

  “We’re both going to get a piece of this. You’re not getting all the credit.”

  Ramón gave him a sidelong glance. “Got a headache? You look a little green.”

  “It’s sitting in this car that’s making me sick. That, and the company.”

  “Have I ever told you that you have a winning personality?”

  “Just drive.”

  They drew near the port and cruised along the waterfront to the commercial dock area, where several older ships were tied along the wharf, being offloaded by ancient cranes. This was the dock the Milan was scheduled to arrive at, and they surveyed the surroundings with skepticism.

  “Not a lot of cars, are there?” Ramón said.

  “No. It’s going to be tough not to stand out.”

  “We’ll park over by the little drink shack. We can see the dock from the tables.”

  “That?” Felix snorted. “Hello, food poisoning.”

  “You’re a ray of sunshine today, aren’t you?”

  Ramón found a spot with some shade from the trees ringing the lot and parked. They took in the desolate stretch of boiling asphalt, the only other vehicles rusting from years of salt condensation eating through their paint.

  “At least we’re not going to have a problem seeing them. Maybe I’ll take a nap while we wait for our ship to come in,” Felix said.

  “What happened to earning part of the credit?”

  “I said taking, not earning.” He eyed the shack and the young woman standing, bored, behind the counter. “Wonder if they sell beer there?”

  “Most assuredly. Probably icy cold. But we’re on the clock.”

  Felix swung the door open and stepped out into the glare. “They’re not going to be here for hours. I’ve got a hangover. A few beers will have burned off by the time they arrive.”

  “Not a great idea.”

  “Mind your own business.”

  Across the lot, Drago pulled back into the shadows of an abandoned concrete building, binoculars clamped to his eyes. He’d been expecting someone else to show up, and wasn’t surprised, after his experience with the woman in the bell tower, when they did.

  But these two weren’t professionals. They were thugs. About as much tradecraft as a streetwalker. Completely unlike someone who would have a sniper rifle in an obscure Venezuelan church.

  He suspected they were part of Mosises’ cartel. They looked the part and displayed the finesse of Colombian bully boys.

  Drago lowered the glasses and shook his head in disapproval as one of the men approached the drink vendor and bought a bottle of beer. This pair took amateur to a new level. Matt and the woman would smell them before they got off the boat.

  Which meant he’d have to neutralize them before the ship arrived.

  He blotted sweat off his forehead with his sleeve and grinned without being aware he was doing so.

  “Not a proble
m,” he muttered. “Not a problem at all.”

  Chapter 39

  Port-au-Prince, Haiti

  The patrol boat neared the coast guard dock and two crewmen hopped from the deck with lines to tie it off. The pilot killed the engines and the vessel quieted.

  In the bow chamber, Jet waited with Hannah clutched to her breast as footsteps approached and the door opened.

  “We’re here. Everybody out,” the Haitian said, stepping away from the door.

  Jet carried Hannah onto the rear deck and squinted against the sun as she surveyed the skyline. Dilapidated government buildings ringed an open area with trash blown across it, and beyond the compound, various crumbling edifices littered the shore. A few islanders rode bicycles along the waterfront, their clothes barely more than rags.

  The officer neared them with an evil grin. “Welcome to Haiti. God’s miracle.”

  “Where are you taking us?”

  “The jail is over there,” he said, pointing to one of the squat concrete bunkers.

  “Jail? We haven’t committed any crime,” Matt protested.

  “Well, sadly, we don’t have anywhere else we can hold you, so you’ll have to make the best of it.”

  “This is…why are you doing this?” Jet demanded. “You can put us up at a hotel and post a guard. Or wait until the ship arrives and keep us onboard.”

  “Again, I appreciate your helpful suggestions on how I should conduct official business, but I don’t have the option. So it’s a cell for the night.” His smile widened. “At least there’s a women’s jail and a men’s. Could be real trouble if I stuck you in with the boys.” His leer was genuine. “Lot of them might get the wrong idea.”

  “At least put us in one cell, separate from everyone. My daughter’s sick, and she’s just a baby. There’s no good reason to put us with criminals,” Jet said.

  “You’re in luck. There’s nobody in the women’s cell right now, so nobody’s going to bother you. But there might be as night falls, so I can’t put your husband in with you. That, and it’s against regulations. There’s a reason it’s called the women’s section,” the Haitian said.

  Jet looked to Matt, who shrugged. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Although I intend to file a complaint over this treatment. We both have passports, so this is completely unwarranted.”

  “We have our rules, and you’re in our country now. We didn’t invite you,” the officer said, his voice taking on a dangerous tone.

  “We were on a boat that ran into trouble. It’s not like we’re here voluntarily,” Matt countered.

  “Save it for the magistrate. I’m sure he’ll get it all sorted out. You’ll see him in the morning.” The officer nodded to two of his men, who moved to either side of Jet and Matt. “This way.”

  The interior of the jail was worse than the outside and reeked of bleach and body odor. Two whippet-thin men in shorts and sweat-stained T-shirts sat on a bench in front of a counter, their wrists chained to metal eyelets. Both had been in a fight, judging by their faces, which were swollen and crusted with dried blood.

  The officer stood with Matt as a female guard processed Jet and Hannah into custody and then led them back into the bowels of the building. As Jet had expected, the officer did a cursory search and confiscated her watch and wad of dollars, and was visibly annoyed when Jet demanded an itemized receipt so the cash didn’t disappear or shrink overnight. The woman looked to the officer for guidance, and he grudgingly nodded as two other cops materialized from the back – the presence of witnesses kept at least that part of the process honest.

  The cell was painted a flat gray and was covered with names etched or burned into the paint. The guard held the door open for Jet and Hannah, and then locked it behind them with a dull clunk that echoed off the walls. A stainless steel toilet with no seat occupied one corner, but was broken, judging by the smell, and Hannah’s nose crinkled in distaste as they sat on the floor as far from it as possible.

  Two long horizontal barred openings ran below the ceiling, providing meager ventilation in the ugly space. Jet offered Hannah a smile of comfort, but it was no good, and she burst into tears. Jet hugged her to her chest as she sobbed, and it took every ounce of fortitude Jet had not to join her as her eyes welled.

  Matt’s processing was faster, but his luck wasn’t as good. He was put into one of the three men’s cells, all overflowing with islanders, their expressions varying from despair to rage and hatred. Matt ignored the catcalls and insults as he was escorted down the corridor, and was relieved to see that there were only two men in his cell. His optimism vanished when he got a better look at them – both appeared to be at the end of their ropes, barely conscious on the hard cement floor and reeking of alcohol. One was sleeping with his head next to a pool of vomit, oblivious to the cloud of black flies buzzing around it.

  Matt turned to the guard as the man slammed the door shut. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Welcome to the Port-au-Prince Ritz. Let us know if you need anything.”

  “How about a bucket of water to rinse that mess away, for starters?” Matt said, inclining his head at the vomit.

  “I’ll put in your request with room service.” The guard paused theatrically. “Oh. Wait. They’re not working today.” The man gave Matt a gap-toothed grin. “It’s Sunday. I forgot.”

  “Come on. Just a bucket of water.”

  “Let me check with the concierge. Oh. That’s right. We don’t have one.”

  The guard sauntered away, leaving Matt standing at the bars, watching him go. The stench of unwashed bodies and their various excretions was overpowering, but he’d been in worse predicaments and wouldn’t let this faze him. A bead of perspiration trickled down his face from his hairline and he shook it off, willing the anger that threatened to explode from him away. This was bad, but he was alive, in reasonable condition, and it was only for a few hours, which could go by quickly or take forever, depending entirely on his outlook.

  The heat enshrouded him like a blanket, adding to the oppressiveness of the cell, and he resolved to make the best of a terrible situation and use the time to rest.

  He slid down the wall near the bars and closed his eyes, forcing his mind away from the dire scene in the jail. The shrieks and howls and yells receded as he drifted to the calm place he’d inhabited for hours on end while in the jungles of Laos, aware of his surroundings but distant enough so that his body seemed separate. The connecting door to the cellblock slammed behind the guard and Matt shifted on the hard cement floor, doing his best to ignore the chaos and misery around him, and resigned himself to a long wait.

  Chapter 40

  Cienfuegos, Cuba

  The afternoon heat had reached its zenith, the interior of the car uncomfortable even with the air-conditioning blowing full blast, when Ramón’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the caller ID and sat up straighter as he answered.

  “Yes?”

  “You need to fly to Haiti,” Mosises snapped. “Our contact there is trying to arrange for a charter flight from Havana.”

  “Haiti? Why?”

  “Renaldo checked online this morning using the website that tracks ship-locator chips, and the damned thing was off the Haitian coast, dead in the water. He called our man on the ground in Port-au-Prince, and he confirmed through his sources that the boat ran out of fuel. It’s being towed into port as we speak.”

  “Port-au-Prince…” Ramón repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “What about weapons?”

  Mosises laughed drily. “It won’t be an issue. Leave what you got in Cuba. You don’t want to risk a problem at customs.”

  “Can we fly out of Cienfuegos?”

  “No. The airport doesn’t have any charters, and there are no flights to Haiti from there. As it is, we’ll probably have to pay through the nose to find someone on short notice like this, and there’s the air traffic clearance to obtain, but it’s not that long a flight. Like I said, our man is working on
it. He should have something ready later.”

  “What do they speak in Haiti?” Ramón asked.

  “A little English. Mostly French.” Mosises hesitated. “I’ve got our Haitian contact trying to get more information on the ship. I’ll call you when I know something.”

  “Okay. We’re on our way back to Havana,” Ramón said, smiling. Felix didn’t speak English, whereas Ramón did – yet another advantage for him once they reached Haiti.

  “Text me when you get there.”

  Ramón hung up and filled Felix in on the conversation.

  “So we drove all the way here for nothing?” Felix demanded.

  “Take it up with the old man if you want. They didn’t know until this morning.”

  “I can’t believe they weren’t checking its progress every couple of hours.”

  “Renaldo’s in charge of that, and he wasn’t about to lose sleep to track a boat. You know Mosises doesn’t even have Internet. It took him years just to get up to speed on phone messaging.”

  Ramón shifted into gear and rolled toward the driveway. “We should have enough gas to get back to Havana. At least that will save time.”

  “I knew I should have slept through this.”

  “I’d have you drive, but you smell like a brewery.”

  The sedan pulled onto the street and tore off, tires chirping as Ramón gave it gas. In the shadows of the abandoned building Drago watched it go, wondering what had happened. He hadn’t checked the feed from Renaldo’s phone all morning, but now fished his cell from his bag and activated it.

  Two minutes later he was packing his gear.

  Was anything about this operation going to go according to plan? He’d never been involved in anything so unpredictable before. From Argentina to Chile to Panama to Colombia to Venezuela to Cuba, and now…Haiti?

  He called his agent as he trotted to the car. “I need any information you can get me on flights from Cuba to Port-au-Prince.”

  True to form, his agent didn’t sound surprised or inquisitive. “What’s your timing?”