JET - Escape: (Volume 9)

by Russell Blake

  Twenty minutes later Adrian was bleeding, his wrists and legs bound, his fingers broken and twisted at impossible angles. His face was a mass of contusions and cuts, and he was missing most of his teeth.

  Drago stood over him with a rusting gaff in his hand, studying him dispassionately. Adrian looked up at him, the pain from the torture excruciating, and coughed, wincing at the pain his broken ribs sent searing through his body.

  “I…tol…you…every…”

  “Shh. Don’t try to talk. I believe you now. But I had to make sure.”

  “I…”

  Drago took a step forward and slammed the heavy gaff handle against Adrian’s head. Adrian struggled against his bindings and Drago hit him again, and then moved behind him and jerked the point of the metal hook through the captain’s left eye, up into his brain.

  “Did you know that two doctors won the Nobel Prize in medicine in 1949 for basically this procedure? The frontal lobotomy. They came up with the idea of driving a surgical instrument into the front of the brain, through the eye socket, and wiggling it around until enough of the prefrontal cortex was so scrambled the patient wasn’t a problem anymore. Of course, nowadays it’s viewed as barbaric, but at the time it was hailed as the latest thing in psychiatric medicine.” Drago eyed Adrian’s stiffening form and shrugged. “Times change, I suppose. But regardless of your views on medical ethics, nobody would question its effectiveness in keeping you quiet for the duration. Of course, you’ll bleed to death from your other wounds eventually, or at your age, more likely will suffer a heart attack, but you won’t realize it’s happening. Or maybe you will.”

  Drago stepped away from Adrian, pulled the gaff free, and tossed it onto the deck. Adrian tumbled over onto his side. Drago looked down at the front of his pants and shirt to ensure there was no blood splattered on them, and closed his eyes as a wave of dizziness swept over him. He froze and waited for the spell to end and, when it did, glanced back at Adrian. “Now, I’m afraid, charming as the company’s been, I have other fish to fry. A date with the woman. Which I’ve been looking forward to for some time.” Drago looked to the stern where he’d come aboard. “Don’t get up on my account. I know my way off the boat.”

  Drago stopped himself with a muttered oath and then relaxed. It really wasn’t talking to himself if he had an audience. That seemed self-evident. Even if the other party had the comprehension of a starfish, it didn’t violate his rule – not the spirit of it, anyway. His head throbbed with a dull ache as he rationalized, and then he shook it off and gave Adrian a flip salute.

  “Try to stay out of trouble, Captain.”

  The boat rocked slightly as he moved to the rear deck, stepping cautiously around the collected bird droppings that encrusted the deck. The woman was within reach now, and although Matt was in jail, Drago could attend to him after he’d amused himself with her. Whenever Matt was released, assuming he ever was, Drago would be waiting – and a few pops of his pistol would end Matt’s life as surely as stepping on a bug.

  Now it was just a matter of time. He’d sit and watch, and when she appeared, he’d follow her onto the boat, incapacitate her, and have his way with her in the bowels of the ship, her daughter broken in front of her, her last moments spent begging for her life.

  He smiled and moved onto the jetty.

  It wouldn’t be long now.

  Not long at all.

  Chapter 48

  Ramón limped along the street, ignoring the stares from the islanders, to where Clyde had said he’d pick him up, near a shantytown a block away from the destroyed National Palace. Renoir’s man had been reluctant to get too close to the site of the motorcycle accidents, because even in Haiti, the police would be scouring the neighborhood for witnesses, and his face was too known among law enforcement to risk being stopped.

  He withdrew his cell phone when he arrived and shook his head at the sight of the massive white building, its domes collapsed in the big earthquake of 2010, which had demolished so much of the city and delivered a death blow to the already struggling nation. He leaned against the corroding green wrought-iron fence and dialed Mosises.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s me. We had a problem. Felix is dead.”

  “What?”

  Ramón gave him a brief report of the motorcycle chase and their ultimate failure. When he finished, Mosises remained quiet for an ominous stretch before speaking so softly Ramón had to strain to hear him.

  “The man is still in jail?” Mosises asked.

  “That’s correct. But they moved him out of the port facility into the main prison complex.”

  Another wait. “What is your plan?”

  “I’ll have Renoir put out the word to see if he can locate her, but in the meantime, I’ll watch the prison. She’s going to have to show up to pay his fine and get him released, and when she does, I’ll be there. If she uses an intermediary, I’ll follow the man once he’s free and take them all out at once.”

  “What about having Renoir’s men try again while he’s inside?”

  “I think we can expect the same result as the last time.”

  “It’s not like you’ve met with much success.”

  “True, but that’s because Felix didn’t follow my instructions. He went charging in instead of waiting until they arrived at their destination. You know he was a hothead. The plan was to discover where they were going and make our play once they were out in the open.”

  Mosises sighed. “I don’t have to tell you how disappointed I am with this.”

  “No. We both are.”

  “I’m going to fly some more people there. Sounds like you need help.”

  “I don’t, but I appreciate anything you can do. It’s a big city, and Renoir only has so many resources.”

  “Yes, that was one of my fears. Everyone seems to overestimate their own competence…and underestimate that of our quarry.”

  Ramón’s ears grew hot at the barb, but he remained calm. “I won’t let you down.”

  “I’ve heard that assurance before. This time, see that you don’t.”

  Mosises hung up without saying anything else, his warning resonating long after the line went dead. Ramón knew the cartel boss well enough, and when he grew impatient, as he was now, he became dangerously unpredictable.

  A multicolored tap-tap, which passed for an island bus but was in reality a van or truck with room for a dozen riders on two benches in the rear, slowed to see whether he wanted a ride, but he waved it off.

  Clyde’s SUV appeared out of a cloud of dust at the end of the block and barreled toward Ramón, slowing at only the last moment to let him aboard. Ramón did his best to hop into the high vehicle without showing he was hurt, but it was no good, and he winced as he sat down.

  Clyde took in Ramón’s abraded trousers and shook his head. “Didn’t go so good, huh? Shoulda let the boss take care of it, you should. He’s got guys would do it, no questions asked.”

  “Too late now.”

  “Where’s your buddy?”

  “He didn’t make it.”

  Clyde nodded. “Where to, then, boss?”

  “I need a car.”

  “I can drive you around, I can.”

  “I want my own car. As soon as possible.”

  “Easy enough.” Clyde placed a call and relayed the request.

  “Take me to the main jail,” Ramón said, when Clyde had disconnected.

  Clyde turned onto a smaller street. “Hell, boss, you coulda walked there, you could. Isn’t more than two blocks away.”

  Ramón tried to stop the groan that escaped from his lips, but it was too late. A minute later they were passing two U.N. peacekeeping force armored personnel carriers parked in front of the high prison periphery wall. Island women made their way along the Rue de Centre with baskets and pots perched atop their heads, seemingly oblivious to the war machines mere footsteps from them, the soldiers appearing bored at the monotonous duty.

  Ramón opened the door at the
corner and got out. Clyde glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “You sure you all right here, you? You look a little rough, know what I mean?”

  “I’ll fit right in. Just bring me a car. And try to be quick about it.”

  “We’re stealing it as we speak. Shouldn’t be that long.” Clyde grinned. “Want some new pants, at least? What size are you? Look to be about a thirty-two waist, you.”

  “That would be good. And make it thirty-four.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  Ramón watched him drive off and patted the pistol in his pocket, its weight not nearly as reassuring as it had been earlier in the day. The main prison doors were forty meters away, and he could easily make out the few visitors entering to commiserate with the inmates. A market with a tattered awning down the block had set three circular plastic tables out on the sidewalk, and he pulled up a chair, resigned to waiting as long as it took for the woman to show or Matt to come out.

  He called Renoir. “Do you have anyone inside the main jail who can alert me when the man is scheduled to be released?”

  “I do.” Renoir paused. “Clyde tells me that you had some…problems. Sorry to hear that.”

  “Appreciate it. Please call when you hear something about the prisoner. Clyde’s getting me a car. Put it on our tab.”

  “Yeah, that and the motorcycles.”

  “Charge Mosises whatever you think they’re worth.”

  Renoir laughed. “Oh, I will, you can be sure of that.”

  “Not my concern. But the prisoner is.”

  “I understand.”

  Chapter 49

  Jet walked along the waterfront toward the Milan’s ebony hull at the far end of the main jetty. In her hand she had a white plastic bag of take-out food she’d bought at a stand where the taxi had dropped her off, and to anyone watching, she hoped she looked like a delivery person, wearing a cheap baseball cap with an embroidered marlin on it in rainbow colors pulled low over her brow and a pair of sunglasses bought from a street vendor for the equivalent of six dollars shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare.

  She moved with an unhurried gait, eyes roving over the area, alert for any watchers. She wanted to believe that the attack on the taxi had been a carjacking gone wrong, but her operational instincts told her it hadn’t been. Somehow their pursuers had tracked them to Haiti, and she had to assume that the boat was compromised.

  Jet spotted a figure sitting at a building on the far side of the field as she neared the Milan and recognition flooded her. It was the assassin she’d shot to pieces in Chile, whom she’d assumed had died in the river. But she was now committed, and it would look suspicious if she didn’t follow through. Her pace didn’t change as she neared the gangplank, expecting to be challenged by a crew member or Haitian military, and she was surprised when there was nobody guarding it. She looked around, as a delivery person might do, and then proceeded up the ramp.

  Once on deck she dared a final peek at the man from the corner of her eye and rushed to her cabin, anxious to retrieve the diamonds and the gun. When she neared the door, she slowed – it was possible the assassin had an accomplice waiting inside. She listened, ears alert for any hint of movement, but didn’t hear anything. Jet stood, frozen, but detected no signs of life – she was alone on the cabin level. A nervous glance at her watch confirmed that too much time had already gone by – the killer could even now be making his approach.

  She swung her cabin door open and stepped into the stateroom, looking for any evidence that it had been searched, but saw nothing out of place. She quickly moved into the bathroom, located the gun, and then pulled the leather lanyard with the diamond pouch over her head. Hannah’s pills went into her small bag along with her own few things, and after slipping on Matt’s windbreaker, she was out in the corridor, a round chambered in the pistol.

  At the superstructure entry she crept down the length of the ship to where she could see the café. A peek over the edge of the gunwale confirmed her fear – the killer was no longer there, nor was he on the gangplank.

  Which meant he was on the ship, having recognized her in spite of her improvised disguise.

  Now she had two options: she could make a break for it and hope he didn’t gun her down as she descended the gangplank; or go on the offensive and hunt him down.

  She straightened and took soft steps back to the superstructure. If she could wound the assassin, she might be able to learn who had hired him. That would be optimal, although not necessary – in the end, that someone wanted them dead was enough, and any of her or Matt’s enemies were lethal enough to pose an ongoing threat.

  Jet continued past the superstructure entry and rounded the stern, doing her best to keep her steps silent on the steel plating. The killer was probably inside the ship, having entered while she’d been retrieving her things. Which meant that he thought he had the upper hand – a slim advantage for her, but hopefully sufficient.

  She neared the starboard-side superstructure entry and spotted what she’d remembered – a steel ladder up to the second-level deck, where there was another watertight door. Jet slipped the gun into her windbreaker pocket and clambered up the rungs, keenly aware that while she was doing so, she was exposed. When she reached the upper deck, she stopped. The crew dining area was to her right, and she could hear a radio and good-natured joking about sexual exploits drifting from the galley, including physically impossible suggestions from a crewman with a resonant deep voice.

  Jet crept past the galley’s watertight entrance and continued to the opposite side, remaining below the level of the windows. At the next door, she twisted the lever handle and frowned when the hinges protested like a wounded bird.

  Committed in spite of the noise, she pulled the door open, stepped silently to the stairwell, and descended again to the cabin level. Her room was at the far end of the corridor, with four crew quarters doors between hers and the stairs. She moved on silent feet, her running shoes soft against the unyielding nonskid of the deck, and spotted one of the crew cabin doors open. She was nearly to the door when a voice hissed from behind her.

  “Looking for something?”

  She froze, hands in her pockets, and slowly turned to find herself facing the assassin. He held a pistol easily in one hand, a smirk on his face, and…something more frightening in his leaden eyes.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, stalling for time.

  “My feelings are hurt that you don’t remember me. Chile? A river? Nighttime?” He took a step toward her, reaching up to touch the back of his head with his free hand for a moment before slowly lowering it.

  She shrugged. “Oh. But you’re alive. I’ll have to work on my marksmanship.”

  “Maybe in your next life. Where’s your little one?”

  “Safe. Who are you working for? Whatever they’re paying, I’ll triple it.”

  Drago appeared to consider the proposition. “Sorry. Professional ethics prevent me from accepting. I’m sure you understand.”

  “That’s a shame. We could both have walked away from this, no harm done.”

  “Afraid that’s not how it works, as you well know.” Drago paused and took another step toward her. “Your skills are exceptional. Where were you trained?”

  “Moscow.”

  He smiled. “Liar.”

  She shrugged. “How about you?”

  “I’m a citizen of the world. Let’s just say I’ve been through many experiences that have molded me.”

  Jet understood that if the man had intended to simply kill her, he’d have already made his move. No, his expression revealed that he wanted something more.

  Something worse.

  His eyes flicked to the side in sudden awareness. “Remove your hands from your pockets, slowly,” he ordered. The muscles in his gun hand tensed, a telltale sign that the exchange was over.

  Three shots exploded through Matt’s windbreaker from Jet’s pistol. All hit Drago squarely in the chest.

  The assassin fired wild
ly and his bullet grazed Jet’s arm. The gun drifted to the side and his mouth worked as though he was trying to speak, but nothing came forth but a burble of bloody froth. She ducked as he struggled again to steady his weapon to shoot her, and she pulled her pistol from the shredded pocket and fired a final shot using a two-handed combat grip. The parabellum slug took most of his skull off, and he dropped like a felled tree.

  She moved nearer, her pistol trained on his inert corpse, and kicked his weapon away. “You lost your edge in the river. Should have stayed in whatever hole you crawled into,” she murmured, and then looked at the far stairwell. The crew would be down within moments to see what the racket was – the gunshots wouldn’t be audible outside the ship, but would certainly have been heard above, even with the radio and two stories of dense superstructure between the galley and the cabins.

  After a final glance at the dead assassin, Jet sprinted for the stairwell as she heard footsteps clomping down the far stairs. She took the steps three at a time and vanished from the stateroom level before anyone spotted her. Once on deck, she confirmed that nobody was around to see her depart and then made her way down the gangplank. After she’d gone fifty meters along the waterfront without any pursuit, she veered off to the busy street across the field, where she disappeared into the throng of islanders going about their business.

  Once the cops arrived, it would mean hours of questioning to establish what had happened, and since nobody had seen anything, all they could ultimately have were suspicions. At the speed the locals worked, it would take the better part of the day and evening.

  She hoped that would be long enough.

  Chapter 50

  Jet sat in front of Frantz with Hannah by her side. The office was quiet except for the soft whirring of the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead. His friend Emmanuel, a local jeweler, inspected the diamond she’d placed on the desk, turning it in the light, then laying it on a sheet of white paper and examining its color. He fished a loupe from his pocket and studied the stone for several minutes before straightening and placing the diamond back on the paper.