Alejandro explained what had happened.
Hector cursed. “With whatever’s going on in Santiago, I’m not sure it’s going to be safe here for you. Sounds like the Verdugos are trying to stage a takeover. And there are only two ways back to the city from where you are. If they’ve got the cops working with them, you could be stopped at a roadblock, and that would be it.”
“What are you doing?” Alejandro asked.
“Digging in. I left headquarters with some of my best men and went to one of the safe houses. I don’t want to take any action until I understand what we’re facing.”
“Probably a good idea. Do you have the attorneys working on locating my dad?”
“Of course. But it’s late, and you know how the wheels of justice roll here. It’ll probably be tomorrow before anything happens.”
“Damn. You’re right, but it’s still a tough one to swallow. I’ll call you later.”
Alejandro terminated the call, lost in thought, and then handed the phone back to his brother. “Make a right up here.”
“Where are we going?”
“Hector says Santiago’s out, and he’s right. We need someplace where we can regroup until we know what’s happening.”
“What’s happening is a hit squad blew our nightclub apart.”
“Right, but we can’t just drive around all night. That’s asking for it. We need to get off the road. Only we can’t check into a hotel – if our names are on a watch list, we’re screwed.” Alejandro scowled. “So we’re getting the hell out of here. We’ll go to the Olivier hotel in San Felipe. We own a large enough stake in it that they won’t ask any questions.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Nobody else knows we’ve got a piece of the hotel. It should be safe, at least for one night. It’ll buy us breathing room. Which we need right now.” Alejandro felt in his pocket for his spare pistol magazine, ejected the almost empty one, and slammed the full one home. “Stick to back roads. We’re in no hurry, and I don’t want to attract any attention.”
“What a disaster.”
Alejandro nodded, his face grim. “Tell me about it. But they missed us, so now they have a whole different level of pain coming their way.” Alejandro eyed Rodrigo’s taut expression. “You okay? You want me to drive?”
Rodrigo shook his head. “I’m fine. Nothing like a gunfight to sober you up.”
“That’s the truth.”
Chapter 9
Valparaíso, Chile
A thick bank of fog hung over the Pacific port city like a leaden blanket, slowing the late night traffic to a crawl. A buoy bell tolled somewhere in the harbor, its muffled pealing a steady beat over the sonorous drone of big trucks working the waterfront, their jobs never done. The blaze of megawattage work lights on the wharf did little to penetrate the haze. A row of pelicans stood like guards along the barnacle-encrusted pilings, their somber countenances turned toward the city like disapproving clerics.
Four blocks from the bustling docks, Franco Verdugo sat on a vintage leather sofa the color of dried blood, a glass of Scotch in his hand. Colonel José Campos sat across from him with the drink’s twin. Smoke drifted from a pair of Cuban cigars in a silver ashtray on a coffee table fashioned from a centuries-old sea chest. The dark wood-paneled office was decorated in a nautical theme, vintage sextants and barometers and compasses mounted to the wall next to oil paintings of tall ships at anchor in the port’s long-passed heyday. Colonel Campos, the head of the armed contingent responsible for the port’s security, leaned forward and raised his cigar to his lips and puffed at it before studying the cylinder of ash on the end with satisfaction.
“Nobody does it quite like the Cubans, eh, my friend?” Franco asked and then took another long sip of Johnnie Walker Blue.
“They may not have much of a country, but damned if they don’t know how to make a cigar,” Colonel Campos agreed. “Thank you for another marvelous dinner. Your man outdid himself.”
Franco had a private chef who prepared his lunch and dinner, one of the top talents in Chile, who’d formally trained in Paris before returning to his homeland. The evening’s repast of poached salmon in an herb beurre blanc sauce, washed down with a bottle of local chardonnay, had been extraordinary, the fish so fresh it had practically flopped off the plate.
“Yes, he’s worth every penny of the ridiculous sum I pay him. You’d think he was my mistress the way he drains my coffers.”
Campos laughed good-naturedly.
A cell phone trilled in Franco’s shirt pocket. He rose from the couch as he retrieved it, held it to his ear, and walked to the window overlooking the harbor.
“What?” he barked, gazing out into the gray fog, the lights of the neighboring buildings barely visible. He listened intently, his face darkening, and Campos busied himself with his drink, suddenly fascinated by the swirl of amber nectar in the crystal tumbler. “What do you mean, they escaped? How is that possible?”
Bastian Romirez, Franco’s capo, spoke in a hushed voice. “A fluke. We went in with enough firepower to start a war, but they managed to slip by when the lights went out. And it gets worse. We lost five men in the process,” he said, dreading the outburst he knew would follow.
Instead, Franco’s voice grew glacial. “The father is in custody. Everything on the Santiago end is going according to plan. How in the name of God could something as simple as a nightclub execution turn into a disaster?”
“I honestly don’t know. But that’s not important. We know where they’re headed.”
Franco set his drink on his desk and poured himself two more fingers of Scotch as he digested the information. “I don’t need to tell you to finish this quickly, do I? You know what’s in the balance.”
“I have men en route. It will be over in an hour or two, and then you can begin the mop-up operation.”
“We can’t afford for Alejandro to rally his father’s men. Rodrigo’s a hothead and an idiot, but Alejandro has leadership ability. This entire move depends on a decisive victory, not months of trench warfare. We need a fast win.”
“And you’ll have it.”
Franco terminated the call and continued staring into the fog as though it concealed more than the surrounding buildings. Eventually he returned to his seat, shaking his head.
“As you heard, we had a glitch. But Bastian assures me it will be taken care of.”
“Yes, I couldn’t help but overhear.”
“My problem is that if Alejandro, the eldest son, survives, the war chest the Sotos have accumulated could cause serious problems for us. They could afford to bring in mercenaries, buy off whoever they need…the entire coup depends on eliminating the leadership in one swoop. As long as Alejandro’s alive, he poses a threat.”
“He’s well thought of. One hears things.”
“The father has been grooming both sons for a decade. But Alejandro is the clear successor. The younger…well, he’s rash and lacks his men’s respect. Not a leader.”
“You have a contingency plan to eliminate him?” Campos asked nervously. Had he backed the wrong horse on this one? He routinely played both sides – the Sotos controlled some shipments moving through the port, though the Verdugos ran the majority. When Franco had taken him into his confidence, it had seemed like a no-lose proposition, and he’d pulled strings and used his considerable influence to arrange for officers loyal to the Verdugos to take the elder Soto into custody, with his allies in the force sidetracked. But that would only last so long, and if there wasn’t a decisive outcome by morning, it could unravel on them – and when Soto dug to find out who had been responsible for his detainment, there would be swift and absolute reprisals. Only hours ago, the outcome had seemed predestined. But now…
Franco lifted his glass and waved his cigar with studied nonchalance. “Of course. Come. Let’s not have such a long face. By the end of the night there will be only one organization controlling everything.” He paused and regarded Campos with a confident stare.
“And I remember who my friends are.”
Chapter 10
San Felipe, Chile
Jet rose from the bed in the darkened room, unable to sleep, and then went to the dresser and pulled her shirt and pants on. Matt stirred on his bed, checked his watch, and then squinted at her.
“What’s up?” he whispered, not wanting to wake Hannah.
“I can’t sleep. Might be dinner. I’m going to get a soda and walk around a little.”
“At this hour?”
“I’d rather be sleeping, but my body isn’t accommodating. You want anything?”
He shook his head and lay back against the pillow. “No, thanks.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she said. He waved a tired hand.
Jet moved to the door and, after hesitating, retrieved the Glock from the night table and slipped it into her waistband at the small of her back, and then pulled her top over the grip so it wasn’t visible – a habit that was going to be automatic with her for the foreseeable future, as it had been for so many years in her covert life. She pocketed the key and opened the door and, after taking a cautious look down both directions of the second-story concrete walkway, pulled it closed behind her.
Her running shoes made no noise as she padded to the stairwell. There was only one light on in a nearby room; the rest were dark, either empty or with their occupants blissfully asleep even as Jet’s stomach roiled and her thoughts raced. The roadblock in Argentina had been an ominous sign that Tara’s group hadn’t given up, but they’d been left with nothing to go on, so hopefully they’d eventually tire of their assignment and be recalled to whatever hole they’d crawled out of. But she understood that she and Matt could no longer be complacent – that false sense of security had nearly gotten them killed. Whether she liked it or not, they had to return to their former state of constant vigilance, leaving nothing to chance and expecting the worst.
That was part of what was eating at her. What kind of life would that be for Hannah? Would they be doomed to having to move every few months? Right now it was manageable, but what about when her daughter was older? When she was school age? They couldn’t keep flitting around the globe forever. Eventually they would have to settle down – perhaps somewhere rural where there were few people and even less technology. Reality dictated that even in this day and age, outside of first world countries it was practically impossible to find someone who was determined to stay hidden and who had decent field craft.
She resolved to shake off the self-doubt, the nagging questions – they weren’t helping and were a masochistic luxury she couldn’t afford, a dangerous distraction. At one point on the drive she’d even wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake taking Hannah from her adoptive family. That had been her lowest moment, when she’d been forced to choose whether to leave the child – her baby, who’d been stolen from her – with strangers. In the end she couldn’t do it. Hannah was her flesh and blood, and David had had no right to kidnap her. Jet had been fortunate that Hannah had adjusted quickly, seeming to sense that Jet was her real mother, but even so it had been a gamble, and a part of Jet wondered how much had been pure selfishness and how much maternal instinct. All she’d known when she’d seen Hannah for the first time was that they belonged together, and she’d done everything she could to ensure nothing would come between them…but now, running from God knew what, the wisdom of her decision seemed questionable.
Jet was preoccupied as she took the stairs down to the vending area. The grounds were quiet, the dim moonlight silvering the dimpled surface of the pool, the only sound an occasional motor from the distant road and the rustle of the surrounding treetops in the mountain wind. She emerged from the stairwell and felt in her pockets for change – the restaurant had exchanged their dollars, and she’d taken care to save Chilean coins for the machines.
Movement from the lit lobby across the courtyard caught her eye. Six men wearing dark clothes entered from the parking lot, knit caps pulled low over their brows and pistols clutched in their hands as the oblivious clerk emerged from the office. Her stomach knotted, and her breath caught in her throat. She watched his hands go over his head, an expression of panic on his face. After a strained exchange she could almost hear, he pointed at the rooms in an unmistakable pantomime of fear. The lead gunman raised his sound-suppressed handgun and fired it point blank into the clerk’s face. A crimson splash spackled the window, and the clerk collapsed behind the counter.
Jet already had her Glock free when the men pushed through the doors and moved deliberately across the pool area toward the stairwell – on a beeline to where she was flattened against the wall behind the vending machine…and the stairs that led to her room.
Damn. The Argentine fixer must have tipped off Tara’s team – that was the only explanation. She watched the men approach, waiting as they closed the distance, cursing silently when they spread out professionally in order to present more difficult targets. When the first gunman was ten meters away, she leaned forward and opened fire, squeezing off shots with deliberate precision, the bark of the 9mm deafening in the confined space.
Her first shot caught the lead gunman in the head, and he tumbled backward into the pool, dropping his weapon as he fell. Blood seeped through the water like a cloud of ruby ink as he flailed, and she instantaneously dismissed him as a threat and drew a bead on his companion. The second gunman tried to dodge left, but two of her rounds punched into his chest, and he dropped like a sack of wet dirt. Sound-suppressed slugs whistled by her and punched into the soda machine, and she ducked as she fired again and hit another attacker in the stomach. He sat down heavily as though taking a rest, a look of surprise on his face, and she finished him with another shot as the remaining three men threw themselves behind whatever cover they could find.
More shots tore into the vending machine, and soda exploded from it in a hissing spray. Jet ignored it and fired three times at one of the gunmen who had sought refuge behind a stone fountain. Two of her bullets went wide, but the third hit him in the thigh, and she was rewarded with a grunt of pain as another volley of silenced shots blew divots out of the mortar near her head. One of the shooters fired twice, and the overhead lamp shattered in a shower of glass and sparks. The rest of the lights followed in rapid succession, plunging the courtyard in darkness.
She peered around the vending machine, gun steady, trying to make out anything as her eyes adjusted. The only illumination came from the watery glow of the pool and the moon. She saw movement but held her fire – she’d used eight rounds, leaving ten in the magazine. More than enough to take on two live ones and one wounded, but she would make every shot count.
Another burst of fire hit the machine and the concrete next to where she crouched, ricocheting with a whine. There was almost no muzzle flash to fire at – a negative effect of the suppressors. This put her at a decided disadvantage: they knew where she was, but she couldn’t be sure where they were.
There. A man running in a crouch.
Four shots hammered from the Glock, and two hit him. He went down hard near the pool pump shed, and she quietly waited for the remaining intact shooter to make a move. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough that she could see the man she’d hit behind the fountain, his wound leaking into a bloody pool at its base – she must have nicked an artery, which was fortunate for her as it meant that it was just a matter of time until he lost consciousness. Until then, however, he was still dangerous, although not the biggest threat.
Where is the other gunman? Seconds ticked by, and she began to get a sinking feeling. Had he made it to the far stairwell by the lobby while she was ducking their fire?
If so, Matt was unarmed. A sitting duck.
And Hannah was in the room.
She scanned the courtyard, weapon clenched in a two-handed grip, and backed away from the vending machine, feeling with her feet, eyes locked on the pool area, alert for any movement.
Nothing.
She was almost to the stair
s when a hail of shooting peppered the walls. She threw herself onto the ground, rounds sizzling by her head. The wounded man from the fountain was limping forward, his belt cinched around his upper thigh, pinning her down with his fire as a dark form ran toward her in a crouch from the periphery. She couldn’t get off a shot, and she crawled to the side, trying to shield herself from the rain of bullets.
Jet tried to get up, but her foot slipped on the soda, and her leg went out from under her. She was bringing her weapon to bear, ready for the running shooter to present himself, when a loud series of explosive shots blasted from the dark stairwell behind her. She turned and swung her gun to face the new attacker and found herself drawing a bead on a young man holding the unmistakable form of a Desert Eagle, pointed beyond her at the pool area. He fired again, and the wounded attacker cried out as a .45 round shredded through his chest, and then her mystery ally raced past her into the courtyard. Another shot sounded from near the pool, the Desert Eagle’s low boom – the wounded man had been taken down.
She lowered her weapon as he returned and stood motionless, noting in the moonlight that his gun pointed slightly down in a professional ready position, although it could be brought into play in a split second. He approached until he was two meters away and studied her as though surprised she was a woman.
“Who are you?” he asked in Spanish, keeping his voice low.
“Who are you?” she volleyed, but kept her weapon by her side.
“That’s of no matter,” he said. “Now answer me. What are you doing with a gun, shooting it out with these men?”
“I didn’t have much of a choice, did I? They killed the clerk, and they were coming for me next.” She stopped as their gaze connected. Her eyes narrowed with realization. “Or were they? No. That’s not right, is it? They were after you, weren’t they?”
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