Only that apparently hadn’t been as easy as hoped, which was where Drago came in.
The diamond angle had been explained as a simple theft by the target – the property of the contracting client. What a former covert operative had been doing with the property, or how it had come into his possession, was left out of the narrative. Again, this reeked of clandestine involvement: need to know was an obsession for some agencies, the CIA and DOD being two of the biggies.
It didn’t really bother him that he might be doing their dirty work for them, but it did give him pause that they were in such dire straits they’d needed to hire him. His last job for the agency hadn’t gone well. “Too much collateral damage” had been the assessment, meaning that butchering not only the target’s staff of bodyguards but also his family in order to lure him into Drago’s trap had been over the line – this, in a business where no lines existed until after the fact, when armchair quarterbacks bitched about what they would have done differently. It was one of the primary reasons he’d gone independent so many years ago: if a drug lord wanted one of his competitors taken out, there were never any regrets unless Drago failed, which had never happened. Nobody complained about the level of brutality required to accomplish the objective. They merely paid up and said thank you. As it should be.
But get a government involved and look out. Hand wringing, impossible caveats, threats to not pay once he’d performed, worries about some wiseass deciding that the best way for their dirty deeds to never see the light might be to eliminate him…all of these went with that territory, which is why he didn’t like the work, preferring to stay in the private sector.
Having profited handsomely from his decision, he’d made the right choice.
Still, a half million dollars didn’t fall into his lap every day, and it was easily five contracts’ worth of profit when the expense provision was taken into account. Three years’ pay at his going rate for one assignment. Whoever had picked the number had done so knowing there was no way he would turn it down. That made him feel like he was being played, but to what end, he wasn’t sure. What he was sure about was that after this job, he’d be taking a nice year or two of vacation somewhere he couldn’t be tracked – maybe somewhere like the beach towns of Venezuela. A man could do a lot of good living for that kind of money anywhere in that region.
He followed the frontage road to the highway that led south of town, keeping his speed at the limit. Twenty minutes later he spotted the exit that led to the first address. He took the turn, the gleaming contemporary white of a large winery, Bodega Norton, on the right, at the bottom of the small town of Luján de Cuyo. Crossing the overpass, he headed east through endless vineyards, civilization slipping away with each meter. An ancient tractor lumbered along in front of him, its exhaust pipe belching blue smoke, the old man driving it unbothered that he might be holding up traffic. Drago waited until the road widened enough to pass, and the man waved at him as he did so, his leathery face as lined as a Shar Pei’s, his skin the color of burnished bronze.
A sign appeared on the right, and the GPS informed him that the turnoff leading to his first address was thirty more meters up, somewhere a half kilometer off the road, in the middle of the vineyards. Drago slowed as he neared what turned out to be a gravel track that stretched through the vines, and pointed the car down the gray strip, moving cautiously so as not to throw a dust cloud.
To his left rose a walled compound, the iron gates open, the large main house easily visible. Workers were already on scaffolds at the early hour, repairing what looked like bullet holes in the mortar – enough to suggest that a major battle had taken place. He sat watching the men and was startled by a polite honk from behind him; a glass truck was waiting for him to move so it could enter the grounds, presumably to replace the windows that yawned empty in the front façade.
Drago pulled forward and waved at the truck, his mind working furiously. There had been no mention online of an epic shootout in Mendoza, which was the only thing that could have caused the damage he’d seen. He’d done enough of it himself to recognize the signs, but it made no sense. And it gave him pause. How much clout did you have to have to keep something like that hushed up in a country with a supposedly free press?
Another truck approached from down the trail, and Drago rolled down his window and extended his hand, signaling for the driver to stop. The man obliged and leaned over to see what Drago wanted. Drago affected a bemused expression and grinned.
“Is the owner around, you think?” he asked.
“You one of the vendors?”
“That’s right.”
“Talk to Juan. He’s handling all the buys. The owner’s not here, which isn’t surprising given all the damage.”
“I’ll say. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I know. They say there were over three hundred bullet holes inside the house. It’ll take weeks to fix everything. What a mess, eh?”
“Still, good for business.”
“That’s right.” The driver waved and proceeded through the gate. Drago had seen enough and used the drive to turn around and make himself scarce before anyone got too curious. The owner wasn’t there, which left one other possible address.
Drago passed the tractor again as he returned to the highway and offered a salute to the old farm hand, who’d no doubt been working the land his entire life as his father had worked it before him. There must be a certain peace in knowing your place in the universe, Drago mused, your lot in life clearly defined, with the only uncertainty how many summers you had before the ground reclaimed you. He shook off maudlin thoughts and tapped in the second address. The GPS blinked and displayed the new coordinates – also rural, and what looked like a good half hour from the shot-up compound.
His stomach growled, and he realized he hadn’t eaten. He glanced at the screen again and pulled back onto the freeway, resolved to finding someplace for breakfast before paying his next visit, which would hopefully be more productive than his last. Aconcagua’s snow-capped peak thrust into the cobalt sky to the west, reaching to the heavens for as far as he could see, and he mentally filed the area away as a possible destination once he was done with the contract.
He was humming as he drove back toward the city, its buildings gleaming in the sun, an interloper in God’s country, man’s puny outpost insignificant when framed against the majesty of the mountains and the endless azure sky. The beauty of the area notwithstanding, the contractor’s comment about the number of bullet holes inside the house gave Drago serious pause, and he wondered, not for the first time, what he’d gotten into.
Chapter 18
When Hannah awoke the next morning, she had both her coats over her. Her little head peered out from the folds like a turtle. Jet stirred and cracked an eye open as Matt stood and brushed off his pants, gazing around at the mine buildings in the light of day.
Jet couldn’t imagine the grounds looking any shabbier. Everything was coated with a layer of beige dust, and the ground was littered with discarded bolts and broken tools as well as the remnants of crates and pallets. An exhausted-looking forklift with oversized tires occupied a position on the periphery near two portable toilets she’d missed in the dark.
The buildings were little better, structural afterthoughts near the mine’s entry, a dark aperture in the side of the mountain that looked like a worm had bored into the earth. Rodrigo and Alejandro were near the opening, Rodrigo limping slightly, smoking his first cigarette of the day. Jet roused herself and sat up, smiled at Hannah, and rooted in her jacket pockets for a breakfast bar – one of several items she’d scavenged from her bag. Hannah yawned and stretched, and Jet tore open one end of the package and handed her the bar.
“That’s breakfast, honey. Don’t do your usual act and refuse to eat. We don’t have time for it, and if you don’t eat, you’ll go hungry,” Jet warned, anticipating the battle she had to fight with the toddler almost every other morning. Fortunately Hannah seemed to appreciate
the seriousness of her mother’s tone and set to wolfing it down, traces of the strawberry jam filling coating her face as she ate. Jet smiled at the vision and shook her head and then tossed Matt one of the bars. “Here you go, big boy. Man needs to keep his energy up.”
He caught it and inspected it. “Mmm. Prune. Once a fella gets to a certain age, it’s the little things that impress…”
“I grabbed everything I could fit. If you don’t want it, I’ll trade you. I got grape.”
“I like to think of prunes as really wrinkled grapes. Makes them go down better. I’m good.”
Alejandro walked over to them, leaving his brother by the shaft. “Good morning. I just realized I never caught your name.”
“Sorry. It’s Naomi,” Jet said, keeping with her current passport’s moniker. “This is Doug and Hannah.” Matt’s passport identified him as Douglas Hess, his former Argentine identity now discarded along with Jet’s Rebecca ID.
“Pleased to officially meet you. I wanted to thank you again for the help. The car was a good idea.”
“No problem,” Jet said. “All in a day’s work, along with gunfights in the middle of nowhere.”
“Which was impressive as hell, by the way. I think I already mentioned that, but it bears repeating.”
“You know, I was thinking about one thing, though. You mentioned last night that you were attacked at a nightclub?”
“That’s right. We barely escaped with our lives.”
“And then again at the hotel.”
“Correct.”
“How do you think they found you?”
“I…I don’t know. I mean, it’s common knowledge that we’re partners in the club, but the hotel…I figured someone must have talked.”
“That’s a possibility. But there’s another you might want to consider.”
“What?”
“They could have put a tracking device on the car.”
“I actually thought of that. Moot point now, but it’s a good one, nonetheless.”
“True, but along those lines, they could also be triangulating your cell phones.”
“I lost mine at the club.”
“But your brother has his.”
Alejandro’s face changed. “Damn. I’m such an idiot. Of course.” He turned to Rodrigo and waved him over.
Rodrigo reluctantly hobbled toward them. “What is it?” he demanded.
“Your phone,” Alejandro said.
Rodrigo went white. “What about it?”
Alejandro held out his hand. “Let me have it. That might be how they’ve been tracking us.”
Jet nodded. “It’s a definite possibility. You need to pull the battery.”
Rodrigo rolled his eyes as he withdrew his phone from his pocket, flipped off the back, and removed the battery. “There. Satisfied?” he asked Alejandro.
“Don’t get all defensive. It’s a good point. If they have the right contacts through the phone company, they could track us to within a few meters,” Alejandro explained.
“Whatever.” Rodrigo walked back to the mine, obviously annoyed at having been ordered around by his brother in front of strangers.
Alejandro shook his head. “I have to apologize for Rodrigo. He gets defensive. And I imagine it’s been hard on him, watching his car destroyed, being chased all over hell and back…”
“You’re both alive, and you also were in a gun battle. I don’t see why he’s being temperamental. You’re the one who got shot at,” Matt said. “Maybe he just doesn’t like us.”
“No, it’s just been a long night, and he’s in pain. He doesn’t mean anything by it,” Alejandro insisted.
Jet shrugged. “I overheard you talking on the trail. Your father was arrested yesterday?”
Alejandro’s face hardened. “That’s none of your concern.”
“No offense, but doesn’t it seem like a lot of things went wrong in a short period of time? As you say, it’s none of my business, but it sounds coordinated. If it was, then being tracked on your phones is the least of your problems.”
Alejandro stared off into the distance before giving a grudging nod. “You have a point. It occurred to me that we might have a leak in our organization.”
“If you do, then you can’t be certain that you aren’t telegraphing your moves the second anyone else knows about them. Seems like pure luck that you got out of yesterday alive. You may not be so lucky today,” Jet said.
Alejandro’s eyes narrowed as he studied her. “What’s it to you, anyway? Why the interest in my well-being?”
“We have a problem. You might be able to help us. Like I’ve helped you so far.”
“A problem,” Alejandro repeated.
“Yes. We need to get out of Chile. Without attracting any attention from immigration. We’re thinking a boat fits the bill.”
Alejandro considered it. “I see. And what is it that has caused you to have this need?”
“Let’s just say that we ran afoul of the wrong person. Leave it at that.”
“Someone in Chile? I know everybody. It’s not that big a country, population-wise. I could have a word with them – that’s usually sufficient.”
“No, not here. Let’s just say that borders might pose a problem.”
Alejandro switched into business mode. “Do you need papers as well as your transportation facilitated?”
“If they’re high quality, sure. Never hurts to have more papers. Does that sound like something you could handle?”
Alejandro smiled. “There’s almost nothing I can’t handle, Naomi.” He kicked a rock. “Once I get off this mountain, we can talk. I have some obvious housekeeping matters to attend to, but after that, yes, I can help you with this. Do you have money?”
“Some. Enough.”
“Even better. Nobody works for free. It will be expensive to find a discreet captain and an immigration official who will look the other way.”
“I’d hope you could do a good deal, considering what we’ve been through together.”
“Any deal I do will be a good one for you,” Alejandro said. “Don’t worry about any of this. It’s not difficult. In Chile, anything is possible.”
“That’s good to hear,” Matt said.
Jet smiled. “Anything else I can do to help, just ask. I have some skills.”
Alejandro nodded. “Yes, I’ve noticed. But I think we’re close to being done with the dangerous phase of our adventure.”
“What will you do?”
“Convince the miners to give us a ride to the nearest phone, get my people coordinated and arrange for a pickup, and deal with business. Once things have settled, we can discuss your predicament further.”
“What time do you think they’ll be here?” Jet asked, glancing at her watch. “It’s coming up on seven.”
“I’d imagine any time. I’m surprised nobody’s arrived yet.”
Jet watched Hannah get to her wobbly feet and look around. Now that she’d eaten her bar, it was potty time. “I hope you’re right.”
Alejandro rolled his head, trying to loosen up his stiff neck muscles, and adjusted his shoulder holster. “So do I.”
Chapter 19
Mendoza, Argentina
Towering trees shimmered in the wind on the periphery of the home at the second address, a country villa the size of a small hotel, also ringed by vineyards, the nearest neighbors so far away Drago could barely make out their house. He’d arrived a half hour earlier, left his car near the main road, and walked the rest of the way, his bag over his shoulder and his pistol in his pocket, the suppressor alongside it where he could fit it in a matter of moments.
The villa would pose a challenge – he’d spotted four competent-looking security men patrolling the exterior, all of whom appeared to know their business. That didn’t cause Drago to hesitate, but merely to formulate a more involved plan. They’d have to be neutralized in a manner that would prevent the occupants from noticing, which would be no mean feat in broad daylight. Then again,
there was a reason he was considered to be the best. Now it was time to earn his money.
The security men stayed outside while he watched, but he couldn’t depend on that. He could just go by what he’d observed through the small binoculars he’d brought. Through the high-magnification lenses, the men’s faces looked like they’d been carved from mahogany, although he thought he detected an air of boredom in their eyes – a positive for him, because complacency could buy him the time he’d need to dispatch them.
He decided his best odds would come from using his sniper rifle, which would be reasonably accurate at up to five hundred meters, even with the wind. Drago practiced with it regularly in the Colombian countryside, so he had full faith in his abilities, and he was no more than two hundred meters away, making for easy shooting. He spent another hour timing the security retinue’s routine and noted that the leader, an imposing man with a head of thick black hair and mirrored aviator sunglasses, tended to stay on the front porch, out of the sun, while his subordinates did rotations around the grounds.
Drago assembled his rifle, affixed the scope, and was watching the lead guard through the telescopic sight, the crosshairs on his temple as a matter of habit, when a stir among the men caught his attention. A handsome woman in her sixties emerged from the front door, followed by a younger one – obviously her daughter, based on the resemblance – holding the hand of a little girl. The older woman knelt down and kissed the little girl on the cheek, and then a dignified elderly man strode onto the porch. Drago didn’t need to guess that this was the patriarch – his aristocratic bearing, shoulders as square as a doorway, his posture ramrod straight, announced him as such even from that distance.
The head bodyguard hurried to one of two white Toyota Land Cruisers parked near the front entrance and opened the passenger door. The older woman moved to climb in as the little girl waved to her, the morning sun shining on her bronze skin, and then the silver-haired man marched to the driver’s side as the daughter and her child returned to the house. The guard tapped two of his men, who rushed to the rear doors and got into the SUV, leaving two to guard the villa in their absence.
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