“At any rate, thank you. Your gun alerted my brother and me that we were under attack.”
“Let’s try this again. Since you won’t tell me who you are, who are – were – they?”
“Criminals. Rivals. Murderers. We were attacked earlier in another town. I thought we’d be safe here…”
“I’d say not.”
He took a step toward her and hesitated. “I need to get out of here. There may be more on their way.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” she agreed. They watched each other for several beats, and then he returned his pistol to its shoulder holster. She slipped hers back into place at the small of her back as he strode past her, confident, betraying not a trace of fear that she might whip out her gun and shoot him. Then again, there was a courtyard full of reasons for him to believe she wasn’t a threat.
Jet followed him up the stairs. She stopped at her room, where he turned to her and spoke. “Good night, and thanks again. That was extraordinary – I counted six gunmen, five of which you got.” He paused. “If you ever want a job…”
“I need to take care of my family.”
He nodded and moved to a door four down from hers – the room that had had a light on when she’d gone for her soda. Matt swung the door open, and she pushed past him, nervous energy radiating from every pore.
“What the hell–”
“Grab your bag. We need to get out of here. Now. I’ll explain later. Hurry, Matt. There’s no time.” She knelt by her suitcase, retrieved the spare Glock magazine, and exchanged it for her half-spent one, pocketing the other. Hannah was sitting up, her eyes wide with fear, and Jet walked over to her. “Honey, everything’s okay. But it’s time to go. Can you be super good and get moving?”
Tears streamed down Hannah’s face as she nodded, frightened and confused by the shooting and now this.
“Be brave, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.” Jet turned to Matt. “You got everything? I just need my hygiene kit and we’re out of here.” She moved to the bathroom and returned in seconds, packed her kit in her bag, and then shouldered it. “Hannah, you stay next to Matt, okay? Hold onto his shirt. It’s dark out, and I don’t want you to fall.”
Hannah nodded again and moved to Matt, who offered her his infectious grin. “All right, princess. Follow Mommy.” He looked Jet over. “How is Mommy, anyway?”
“I’ll be better once we’re on the road.”
“Want to tell me what happened?”
“Bunch of bad guys. I thought they were after us.” She shrugged.
“But they weren’t?”
“Seems as though we aren’t the only ones with problems.”
Jet switched the lights off and cracked the door open. Seeing and hearing nothing, she swung it wide and stepped out. A young, scared couple was running for the stairs, no bags, and Jet let them get well ahead before she led Matt and Hannah to the pitch-black stairwell.
“Matt, give me your bag. Carry Hannah down the stairs. I don’t want her tripping.”
“I got it,” he said and shouldered the bag before picking Hannah up. “Lead on.”
They made it to the ground level, and Jet turned to Hannah. “I want you to close your eyes tight until I say it’s okay to open them, okay? Promise me you’ll do that, honey.”
Hannah looked at her uncomprehendingly. “Otay.”
“Ready? Now.”
Hannah did as instructed, and Jet motioned for Matt to follow her. They skirted the dead gunmen, and Jet pointed to the lobby and then moved to the nearest body and scooped up his weapon. A Beretta with a suppressor. She felt in his pockets and found two spare magazines, which she slid into her side pockets before catching up to Matt and slipping the gun into his belt.
“Hey. Careful, huh?” he whispered.
“Let’s hope you don’t need it. A Beretta.” Jet led them through the front entrance and was ten meters from the Explorer when she stopped dead. “Damn.”
A Ford Excursion SUV was behind her vehicle, blocking it. She’d parked near the lobby to reduce the odds of a break-in, but hadn’t factored the gunmen’s truck into the equation. She stood staring at the big vehicle, debating whether to go back and search the corpses for keys, when a set of blue-white headlights lit the walkway and a silver Land Rover backed out of a nearby slot. Jet’s gaze locked with the driver’s – the man with the Desert Eagle. He said something to the driver, and the Land Rover backed up until it was even with them. The tinted window slid down with a motorized whine. Two young men eyed Jet, and then Hannah.
“What’s wrong?” the driver asked.
“We’re blocked in. I think it’s the gunmen’s car.”
He twisted around to look and saw three sets of headlights approaching on the road. He swallowed hard. “Good luck. I’ll bet those are reinforcements.”
Jet pulled her Glock out in a fluid motion and pointed it at the passenger’s head. “Unlock the doors. You’re giving us a ride.”
“Screw her, Alejandro,” the passenger hissed.
Alejandro looked at Hannah and then at Jet. “You’re wearing out my gratitude,” he said.
The headlights drew nearer – three black SUVs. Jet could make out an arm dangling out of the nearest with an assault rifle.
“Either you let us in, or we’re going to get shot to pieces. And you’ll be first,” Jet said, her voice low as she shifted the gun to aim at Alejandro. He sighed, hit the power lock button, and the doors unlocked.
“You win. Make it fast. They’re almost here,” he said.
They piled into the back seat, and the Land Rover pulled away before Jet had gotten the door closed. The rifle opened up on full automatic and chunks of pavement flew into the air around them.
“Hold on,” Alejandro yelled and floored it as he swerved and rounded the corner. Two of the SUVs followed while the third rolled to a stop at the motel entry.
The big Land Rover engine roared as Alejandro drove the vehicle to its limit and Jet strapped Hannah in. Matt and Jet twisted to watch the pursuing vehicles, which were already falling back on the long straightaway, their motors no match for the souped-up Land Rover’s acceleration.
As they continued to pull away from the gunmen, Alejandro glanced in the rearview mirror at Jet, who was still clutching the Glock. “Easy. This is my brother, Rodrigo. I’m Alejandro. Put your gun away and buckle up, because judging by the welcoming committee back there, we’re in for a rough ride.”
Chapter 11
Medellín, Colombia
A lamp shone through the wooden blinds in the window of the third-floor condo in one of Medellín’s best neighborhoods, an area that had been gentrified after the decline in cartel-related violence in the new millennium. Time had worked its magic on Colombia, and even though the country was still embroiled in a fifty-year-long civil war, with a good half of the nation under rebel control, life went on in the metropolitan areas, and the beleaguered city was enjoying a renaissance as a retirement destination for gringos.
The metropolis was nothing like it had been when Vince Drago had first taken up residence there seventeen years earlier, when it was still wide open. It had been a place where an enterprising young man with certain unorthodox skills could make serious money without fearing messy legal entanglements – and if that young man had a taste for nose candy, so much the better; cocaine was cheaper than flour in Medellín.
Drago rubbed his hand over his smooth chin – the goatee had been shaved off within hours of the bar fight – and eyed the screen of his computer monitor. He typed in a few commands and double-checked the blind email account again to ensure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, and then sat back, a smile on his face. His agent had contacted him with a job, but one unlike anything he’d fielded in recent memory: high dollars to track and execute one target – and not even a guerilla or cartel kingpin surrounded by an entourage of killers.
It sounded like child’s play. That immediately made him nervous; h
e was naturally distrustful of anything that seemed too easy. Harsh experience had taught him nothing in life was ever simple or facile. So when a client came along offering a dream contract with insane pay, his immediate instinct was to decline it.
He took a long hit of the joint he’d rolled and held the smoke deep in his lungs before exhaling a pungent cloud at the open window. There had to be a catch. Drago was a specialist, and a highly paid one to boot. Hiring him to do a routine hit was like using a sledgehammer to kill a fly.
He stood and went into his bedroom. After a few moments, he returned with a cell phone equipped with a signal scrambler. He powered it on and dialed his agent’s number and waited as it rang.
“This better be good,” the agent growled.
“It’s Drago. We need to talk.”
“Do you have any idea what time it is here?”
“Time to tell me about the contract.”
The agent cleared his throat. “Fine. The fee is half a million, plus expenses. I’ll send a dossier via encrypted email within…the hour.”
“Who’s the client?”
“No idea. I was contacted by an intermediary.”
“Who?”
“You wouldn’t know him.”
“Try me.”
The agent hesitated. “Simon Belem.”
Neither man said anything for several seconds. Drago broke the silence. “You know who he fronts for.”
“I asked. This isn’t one of theirs.”
“And they’d never lie about something like that.”
“After your last dance with them, I think it’s safe to say you’re not on their Christmas list. This isn’t company business.”
“Then why that kind of money?”
“You have to find the target to collect. And…well, you’ll see when I send the file over.”
Drago’s stomach did a small flip. “What?”
“The target has something you need to recover. For an additional bonus.”
“Something,” Drago echoed.
“Diamonds.”
“How many diamonds are we talking about here? And what sort? In jewelry?”
The agent hesitated. “I don’t see why you need to know that. What does it matter?”
Drago explained with an air of exaggerated patience. “It matters because how many he has and in what form will impact how he behaves. Will he be looking for a pawn shop? An international fence? Is he going to be unloading one or two, or trying to get rid of a handful? If they’re worried that I’d try to take them myself, then they shouldn’t hire me.”
“Loose stones. Millions worth. How many they’re unsure of. Perhaps tens of millions.”
Drago flicked a match to life, lit the joint again, and took another hit. “The plot thickens.”
“Is there anything else? If you take the deal, we get a quarter mil now and the balance upon completion. It’s on the level. You should live so long that you get more like this.”
“Don’t lose that optimism.”
“Good night. Call me in the morning and let me know how you want to proceed.”
The phone went dead in his hand, and Drago switched it off. Forty-three minutes later, he received a 6MB file via an email server with military-grade encryption and a one-time-use password. Drago downloaded the file, printed it out, and then spent an hour reading it and crawling the web for news out of Buenos Aires and Mendoza. The only relevant thread was an aristocrat in Mendoza who’d apparently arranged for the plane that had been shot out of the sky – an incredibly sloppy bit of overkill even by Drago’s elastic standards.
He called the agent again and ignored the grumbling way the man answered the phone.
“Bastard. I didn’t even bother to go back to sleep.”
“You know me well. Consider the contract accepted.”
“I’ll arrange a transfer, as well as a jet to Mendoza. Can you be ready in an hour?”
“You sound pretty sure of yourself. Tell me you didn’t already have the plane on call.”
“There are no secrets between us, are there?”
“One caveat. The file says I can expect intel support through you. Where are you getting it from?”
“Wherever I can.”
Drago’s inner alarm sounded again. “I don’t need any surprises.”
“That makes two of us. Relax. Everyone’s after the same thing.”
“I just want it on the record. This looks and feels like a black ops job. Not a hit. Don’t get me into anything I can’t get out of. And don’t hold out on me.”
“Never. The transfer will happen by the time you touch down in Mendoza. Call me on the way to the airport and I’ll give you the plane info.”
“Gear?”
“You won’t be searched by Argentine customs. Bring the minimum you’ll need. Anything specialized I can source locally.”
“How?”
“I have friends in low places.”
Drago packed a black nylon carry-on bag with three changes of clothes, a Heckler & Koch Mark 23 pistol with three spare magazines of hand-loaded ammunition, a laser aiming module and a screw-on suppressor, and a collapsible sniper rifle with two eight-round magazines and a long cylindrical suppressor, all concealed beneath the false bottom. It was heavy, the compartment lined with a layer of lead foil to confound any airport security X-ray gear, and it wouldn’t withstand an in-depth search. Still, if his agent was on his game, there wouldn’t be any reason for concern – on private charter flights there wouldn’t be any security to clear, just a short walk across the tarmac to the waiting plane.
The jet was a Gulfstream III, older but easily capable of hitting Argentina from Colombia even if its range was considerably more limited than that of its more advanced siblings. Drago settled back into the luxurious seat, his bag strapped into the recliner across the aisle from him, and closed his eyes as the aircraft taxied to the main runway before accelerating and thrusting upward into the night sky, turbines pushing hard to get the plane over the mountain range in the thin atmosphere of Medellín’s high altitude. He peered through the window at the tapestry of city lights disappearing beneath the wing and closed his eyes again, determined to get some rest on the five-hour flight south.
Chapter 12
San Felipe, Chile
Bastian stood by the reception counter, watching the hidden lobby security camera footage at hyperspeed as his men dragged the bodies of their comrades from the courtyard and loaded them into the back of the Ford Excursion like cords of firewood. The captain of the local police had called to alert him that he had ten minutes before the first car arrived – a courtesy that the Verdugos’ generosity had bought that evening.
He’d begun his scan of the surveillance tape at the point Alejandro and Rodrigo had arrived. There was no way that six men had been taken out without serious reinforcements, and he wanted to see what he was up against. As he fast-forwarded through the hour and a half between when they arrived and when his shooters did, he couldn’t believe that nobody else had come in. He’d have bet money that he would see at least a few of the Soto crew put in an appearance, but he would have lost his wager, because the lobby remained empty – and there was no other way in or out of the hotel.
His eyes narrowed as he watched his men enter the lobby at the start of the attack and then move into the courtyard after shooting the clerk. Followed by nothing in the lobby for four minutes, according to the counter, then the first of a number of couples and individuals running for the door. Bastian guessed the gun battle was already over by then – this appeared to be the guests clearing out after the shooting had stopped, which made sense.
Wait. There. He stopped the tape when he came to Alejandro, gun in hand, moving through the lobby, followed by his brother. Bastian pressed play and watched as nothing else happened, and finally a couple with a small child ran past the reception desk. Then nobody more.
Which was impossible.
Where were the shooters who’d helped the Sotos?
&
nbsp; None of it made sense.
He rewound and stopped at the couple with the child. There was something…familiar there. What was it? The man was wearing a baseball cap, and from the elevated angle of the camera, Bastian couldn’t make out much of his face. But the woman…
Bastian stared at the image and grunted, then paged through his iPhone messages until he came to one he’d received from Antonio earlier in the evening. He opened the attachment and stared at the photo, and then held the phone up next to the monitor as he muttered to himself.
“Well, I’ll be damned…”
“What is it?” asked his second-in-command, Felipe, as he nervously checked the time.
“The woman. On the tape. If I’m not mistaken, it’s the same one as in the photo Antonio sent us earlier. The one with the half-million-dollar price on her head.”
“What? Let me see.” Felipe rounded the counter and stared at the image for a few moments before nodding. “Could be. Hair’s shorter. But the face…”
Bastian stood. “Time’s up. The cops will be here in another couple of minutes.”
“You’re going to leave the tape?”
“I have to. That was part of the deal with the cops. Don’t worry, though – all our men are dead, so they won’t be talking. And if it gets the Sotos into even more hot water, hey, call that a win.”
They jogged out to the SUV, and then Felipe veered left to where the gunmen’s SUV was parked, keys in his hand. He slid behind the wheel and started the engine and was following Bastian’s vehicle out of the lot when the first set of emergency lights appeared on the road from town.
Bastian placed a call on his cell phone as his driver put distance between them and the hotel. The cab stank of blood and human waste from the bodies in the cargo area, but he ignored it as he waited for an answer. When the call picked up, the voice on the other end of the line sounded excited, and there was considerable background noise.
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