JET - Escape: (Volume 9)

by Russell Blake

  “Stat.”

  “Stay on the line.”

  Drago heard computer keys clicking in the background and then his agent’s voice returned. “There’s a commercial flight on a puddle jumper out of Havana at eight tomorrow morning. That appears to be the only thing.”

  Drago did a quick mental calculation. “What about a private plane?”

  “In Cuba? I’ll check, but that’s a long shot. It’s not like there’s a big charter fleet.”

  “Book the puddle jumper for me, but keep on trying to find a private flight.” He gave his agent the name on the passport he was carrying.

  More typing. “Confirmed.”

  “What do you know about Port-au-Prince?”

  “Very little. I’ll do some research. Call me back in an hour.”

  “Will do.”

  Drago twisted the ignition key and the Fiat wheezed to life. Disequilibrium made the landscape blur for a moment, and he took a deep breath, willing it away. The dizziness faded and he closed his eyes, waiting for it to completely pass.

  The phone in his pocket pinged, signaling that Renaldo had sent a text. Now immediately interested in the cartel honcho’s communications, he read the message.

  Which was from a number in Haiti.

  The coast guard took three people off the boat that sound like yours. Man, woman, and child. They’re in the port jail. I will meet your men when they arrive and provide whatever they need. In the meantime, I will see if I can insert someone into the jail. Have your boss call me as soon as possible to discuss. Jon

  Drago grinned. So they had been taken into custody, were behind bars, and wouldn’t be going anywhere.

  He had some breathing room.

  The downside being that yet another amateur was going to make a try for them and no doubt screw it up. The cartel simply couldn’t learn the simple lesson that if you wanted something done right, you needed to hire someone competent.

  Of course, that hadn’t worked out so well for them at the bell tower, but if Drago hadn’t been there, the hitter would have, without a doubt, flipped the little family’s switches in a matter of moments.

  Drago rolled onto the highway, Che’s stern countenance glowering at his departure from a black and white billboard in his rearview mirror, assuring everyone that fighting to the death was the only option.

  ~ ~ ~

  Mosises dialed Jon Renoir’s number and waited for him to pick up. When he did, music was blaring in the background.

  “Allo?”

  “Jon. Turn down the music. I can barely hear myself think.”

  “Of course, Mosises. One moment.”

  The song cut off and the Haitian’s voice returned. “Better?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your man Renaldo relayed my message?”

  “He did. What did you wish to discuss?”

  “The passengers were taken into the jail. I’d like to know what it’s worth to you to have them dealt with while they’re inside.”

  Mosises paused. “I would be very grateful. On a personal basis, and a professional one.”

  “How would you make that gratitude known to me?”

  As Mosises thought, Renoir was angling for a better cut of the cocaine they trafficked in Haiti, as well as that transshipped from the island to the U.S.

  “Perhaps a more generous slice of our pie. But there are limits to what this favor is worth.”

  “Of course. I’d never take advantage of you. Would you say another one percent is fair?”

  Mosises ran the numbers in his head. That amounted to a king’s ransom. He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice when he replied. “I’m afraid you have an inflated view of our profits. The industry has changed, and there are so many intermediaries now it’s a fraction of the old days.”

  Renoir laughed. He remembered those years well enough. “So what are you offering?”

  “I’m sending two men to handle it. You’re meeting them.”

  “Yes, and I will provide whatever support I can. But it would be more of a sure thing if I had my side take care of your problem. There’s nowhere to run in a cell.”

  Mosises considered it. If he said no, Renoir’s assistance might be less enthusiastic, and Ramón and Felix’s efforts hampered. The threat was unspoken, but both men knew how the game was played.

  “I can offer a quarter percent for one year.” Mosises paused. “That’s a lot of money, Jon. We both know it.”

  “Bon. I won’t insult you by going back and forth. A half percent and we have a deal.”

  They settled on a third of a percent, and Renoir signed off with an assurance that everything would be attended to, and that his men would find themselves with nothing to do but enjoy the Haitian weather. Mosises disconnected and frowned. Nothing about this had been easy, and his son had given his life as proof. If the Haitian could end it now, he would have gladly given two percent, but business was business, and he would have lost face with Renoir if he’d overpaid for a simple matter. As it was, he would see if Renoir could perform; if not, Mosises was out nothing. If Renoir was successful, then it was worth whatever Mosises paid, and more, to see Jaime’s killers crushed like the cockroaches they were.

  Mosises ground the smoldering cigar butt he’d been chomping on underfoot and left it for the servants to clean up, suddenly tired, and feeling every minute of his sixty-two years.

  Chapter 41

  Port-au-Prince, Haiti

  The shuffle of soles against the jail floor stirred Matt out of his fugue state. He slowly opened his eyes and found himself regarding two islanders standing outside the barred door, both of them young and wiry, with expressions that were as mean as striped snakes. The shift had changed as night had fallen, and the two new guards showed no interest in Matt as one unlocked the door and the other stood well clear of the men, his hand on his gun.

  “Now, you boys behave or we’ll come in and crack some skulls, you hear?” the smaller guard said.

  Both prisoners mumbled assent and entered the cell. “Jesus God,” the first one exclaimed, eyeing the man slumbering in his own vomit. “That’s foul.”

  Matt stood. “Can we get a bucket of water to wash this down with? It’s really bad,” he asked the guards.

  The guards looked at each other, then at the prone man, and shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  The newcomers sat down on the floor opposite Matt and closed their eyes. The two original prisoners were still out, but the one who hadn’t thrown up moaned occasionally and rolled over. Whatever they’d been drinking, Matt thought, must have been stronger than rocket fuel. He hoped that the guards would take pity on them and bring some water, but he wasn’t optimistic. He hoped that Jet was having an easier time of it.

  Matt didn’t need a watch to know that it was getting late. His inner clock said somewhere around midnight, and he didn’t open his eyes when the bare bulbs lining the corridor were extinguished, leaving only one at each end still glowing. The other cells had quieted as the inmates got what rest they could, and the block was largely quiet, other than the sounds of men snoring and occasionally retching or passing gas.

  The comatose groaner rolled over yet again, and this time struggled to pull himself toward the wall so he could sit against it. His filth-encrusted tank top rustled against the floor, and Matt cracked one eye open to see if he’d make it.

  Which is when he saw the shank in one of the two newcomers’ hands as the other pulled his own knife from his pocket. The two islanders exchanged a furtive look and then rose quietly. Matt remained still, waiting for them to approach. He knew it would be difficult to stab a man who was sitting on the floor due to the lower position, and that they’d be hard-pressed to do so simultaneously. They had no idea he knew they were coming for him, and in the gloom, hadn’t seen the slit of his eyes watching them.

  Matt waited until the lead islander was only three feet away and then sweep-kicked his legs out from under him. He caught the attacker by surprise, and the man hit the con
crete hard, knocking the wind from him. Matt was already rolling, and shot to a standing position as the second islander rushed him.

  The sound of Matt’s cast slamming against the man’s jaw, breaking it like dry kindling, was followed by a tortured scream of agony as the islander fell. Matt followed through with a kick to the head, knocking him out cold. The shank dropped from the killer’s numb fingers, and Matt knocked it away and then dodged the first islander’s clumsy attempt to stab him in the calf.

  Matt silently wished he’d been wearing boots when he kicked the man in the side and heard ribs break. The man howled in pained rage, and Matt answered it with another blow, this time to the attacker’s knife hand. His foot landed solidly on the prisoner’s forearm and the shank skittered across the concrete. The islander screamed a curse and then Matt finished it, delivering a drop kick to the man’s genitals with all the power he could muster.

  The steel corridor barrier slid open and the two guards came running, clubs in hand. When they arrived, they found Matt sitting placidly in his original position, eyes closed.

  “What the hell…” the first guard said, his voice trailing off when he saw the makeshift weapons by the door.

  “You. Get up and face the wall. Now,” the second guard ordered.

  “Your boys here had an accident,” Matt said, his voice calm. “They slipped and fell when they were coming at me with the knives you let them in with,” he said, clearly and distinctly, so all the other prisoners could hear him. “Do you usually allow prisoners into cells with lethal weapons?”

  “Face the wall,” the second guard barked, but the first one was still staring at the shanks.

  “Ben,” he said in French, “how did they get the knives? Didn’t you search them?”

  “Obviously not well enough.” Ben moved behind Matt as he stood facing the grimy cement.

  “I didn’t do anything but defend myself,” Matt said, and then everything went black and he crumpled to the ground as a spike of pain lanced through the back of his skull.

  Ben stood over him, his truncheon in his hand, and nodded. “That’ll take some of the fight out of you, tough guy.”

  The other guard shook his head. “Ben…”

  “Pick up those knives and give me a hand dragging this pair out of here. I don’t want to leave them in the cell so he can kill them.”

  “Don’t you think if he’d wanted to kill them, they’d be dead?”

  “Shut your trap and help, you,” Ben snarled, and then caught a glimpse of the conscious prisoner watching them in silence. Ben moved toward him with an ugly expression. “Talk to anyone about what you seen, I find you, you hear?”

  The man nodded. “Don’t want no trouble.”

  “So what happened?” Ben demanded.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see.”

  “That’s right. You don’t know nothing, you don’t. You best stay out of things don’t concern you. Man has to choose his battles, you understand, you?”

  The prisoner nodded slowly again, any fight draining from his face. “I do.”

  Five minutes later the two injured prisoners were being watched over in the hallway by the guards as they waited for the doctor to arrive. Neither was in any condition to go back into a cell, and the guards knew it. Nobody looked in on Matt, who lay face down on the floor, a thin stream of blood coagulating on his face from where the truncheon had split his head open, his eyes closed, spared the indignity of his position by the numbness of oblivion.

  Chapter 42

  Port-au-Prince, Haiti

  The props of the twin engine King Air slowed as it coasted to a halt at the outer edge of the tarmac in front of the Guy Malary Terminal – the small plane area at Port-au-Prince International Airport. The pilot cut the power and the ground crew chocked the wheels.

  Ramón and Felix stepped from the plane and stretched. The flight had taken three hours, and they’d been forced to wait until four a.m. to depart due to Cuban air traffic control. But now they were in Haiti, and they surveyed their surroundings with fatigue.

  Felix yawned and rubbed the dusting of stubble shadowing his face. “Did I complain about Cuba being a shithole? This must be the septic tank it drains into. What’s that stench?” he said, sniffing the air with a frown.

  “Smells like raw sewage to me. Should we cross this off your list of favorite vacation spots?” Ramón asked, needling him.

  They were interrupted by two uniformed officials walking toward them across the tarmac, one clutching a clipboard in his hand, the other fiddling with the pistol in his belt holster. The pilot and copilot hopped down from the plane and opened the storage hatch, and handed Felix and Ramón their overnight bags.

  “This way, you,” the clipboard bearer said. His French-accented English was difficult for Ramón to understand, but he got the gist of it and directed Felix to follow the man into the shade of the terminal awning.

  A third official stood by a collapsible plastic table with rusting legs and motioned for them to put their bags on it. They complied, and he did a quick search and then nodded. Next stop was passport control, which was a rickety stand with a bored fat man behind it, more interested in scratching himself than their papers.

  When they were through with the formalities, a tall local in a cream-colored shirt, burgundy shorts, and muddy sandals stepped forward and called to them in broken Spanish.

  “Señores, welcome to Haiti. Take your bags for you?” he offered, holding out a hand.

  Ramón and Felix shook their heads. The islander shrugged and led them through the tiny building to a waiting SUV illegally parked in the red zone out front, a traffic policeman smiling at them as they neared. Their escort gave the cop a high five and he moved off to other chores, leaving them to climb into the vehicle and make their way to the street.

  “We’re going to go see Papa Jon,” the man said. “I’m Clyde. Me, I can get you anything you want, I can.”

  “Where are we going?” Felix asked as the ruined structures disintegrated further into shacks.

  “Jon has a kind of office in Cité Soleil. It’s not fancy but gets the job done.” Clyde cackled. “That it do.”

  Ten minutes of driving and they arrived at a prefab corrugated metal structure with at least twenty gunmen standing around it, AK-47s the clear weapon of choice. Clyde led them into the building and motioned to a desk at one end. Both walls were lined with crates, and a mini-split air conditioner in the corner blasted Arctic chill into the roasting air.

  Renoir rose from behind the desk and offered his toothy grin, a smile that resembled nothing so much as a barracuda’s. “Gentlemen. Welcome. Have a seat and let me bring you up to date,” he said in passable Spanish.

  They sat in front of the desk, Felix’s eyes locked on the chromed Desert Eagle resting casually by an ancient phone.

  “How was your flight?” Renoir asked. “What can I get you to drink? Water? Juice? Beer?”

  “Nothing,” Ramón said, shaking his head.

  “Okay, then. Here’s the situation. Last night, two of my boys got taken down by your man when they tried to slit his throat in jail. I don’t know how, but they’re beaten up pretty good, they are.”

  “You sent a pair of hit men in, and they couldn’t get the job done?”

  “Something happened. I’m trying to find out what. Needless to say, they won’t be working for me much longer.”

  “Was the man hurt at all?”

  “Took a blow to the head. But he’ll be fine. Has a minor concussion and a bump.”

  “Then the effort served no purpose,” Ramón said quietly. “What about the woman and the little girl?”

  Renoir sat back in his chair and rocked gently. “That’s a different matter. We couldn’t get anyone in last night, but I’m working on it for today. The problem is she’s scheduled to appear before the magistrate at ten, so we’re running out of time.”

  Ramón thought for a moment and then nodded. “Do you know this magistrate?”

&nb
sp; Renoir grinned again. “It’s a small island. Everybody’s related to somebody who knows somebody.”

  “It would be best if they were released immediately.”

  “What?”

  “That would be the best scenario. We can be waiting for her and the man when they’re back on the street.” Ramón paused. “We’ll need weapons. Preferably submachine guns. And pistols.”

  “You planning to do this close in, eh?” Renoir asked.

  “I don’t know. I want to go over to the court and look at the area. But a long-distance kill is out of the question. Mosises wants to make a point with this one.”

  “Fine by me. But there’s a problem.”

  Ramón’s stare stayed on Renoir’s face. “Yes?”

  “The man’s being charged for getting in a fight.”

  “Then he’s going to be held longer?”

  “Looks that way to me. Way these things work is the magistrate is going to fine him big time.”

  Felix leaned forward. “That could work in our favor.”

  “How?” Renoir asked.

  “Divide and conquer. We can strike when she leaves, and kill him later, at our leisure.”

  “You want me to have another try at him while he’s locked up?” Renoir offered.

  “No, we’ll take it from here. All we require is weapons. And transportation.”

  “Easy. You met Clyde. He’ll be happy to drive you around.”

  “And if we need our own vehicles? Cars, motorcycles? We’d prefer to be on our own for this.”

  Renoir spread his hands, palms upturned. “What is it you say? Mi casa, tu casa. But I have to warn you. Haiti is crazy dangerous, and without Clyde, it could be you run into all kinds a trouble. You’re safe here in Cité Soleil, but once you leave, you’re on your own.”

  Ramón nodded. “I understand. Get us guns while we’re looking over the courthouse, and we’ll know more later what vehicles we need.”

  “No problem on the guns. You just let me know what you want, and they’ll be here like magic.”