“Adrian wasn’t available. This is Naomi. A friend of Alejandro’s,” Hector said and gave him an abridged version of the day’s events.
“Why didn’t you tell me any of this on the phone?”
“You know cells can be monitored. It wasn’t worth the risk, and we didn’t want to hand the bastards any evidence they could use against you.”
Gaspar grunted and closed his eyes.
Hector’s cell rang, and he answered it and then shouted to Jet, “Change of plans. Alejandro just got tipped that a police convoy’s on its way to the estate. He says he’ll meet you at the soccer field a kilometer and a half west of it. Can you divert and find it?”
“Ask him if he can bring three cars. Have them leave their headlights and emergency blinkers on so I can spot them,” she answered.
Another hurried discussion and Hector was back.
“He’s on his way. It’ll be close. The prison breakout was the excuse they needed to raid the estate, and they’re wasting no time.”
“As long as everyone’s gone by the time the cops show, it doesn’t matter. Is there anything incriminating there?” Jet asked, more out of curiosity than anything.
“Of course not. I keep everything in my head. They’ll get nothing,” Gaspar rasped before sitting back with a wince.
“Relax. The hard part’s over. We’ll be on the ground in no time,” Hector said.
“Maybe sooner than we’d hoped,” Jet called from the pilot seat, her voice tight.
“What’s that? What are you talking about?” Hector snapped.
“We’re losing oil pressure. One of the bullets must have hit something.”
“How bad is it?”
She squinted at the gauges and noted that the engine temperature was climbing.
“Just a matter of time until we’re going down.”
Chapter 31
Jet reduced the helicopter’s speed in a bid to avoid having the turbine seize, and paged through the GPS settings until she found the overlay for the area around the estate. She zoomed out and scanned the vicinity and, after a few stressful moments, spotted the soccer field. She punched in a waypoint and returned to piloting, the police scanner suddenly bursting with transmissions.
One in particular caught her attention, and the blood drained from her face. She turned her head and called to Hector.
“They’ve mobilized a helo. It’s in the air.”
“It doesn’t matter. Their radar’s down.”
She shook her head. “Maybe the airports are dead, but the helicopter might have an array. It won’t be as powerful, but if they have a good suspicion of where to look, it could pick us up.”
“That didn’t come up in your planning, did it?”
“It was always a possibility. But there was no way to disable it, so I didn’t see it as worth mentioning. We’ve got some time, but probably not much. I’m going to drop down so we’re just above the buildings. Are there any high-rises I should know about within five kilometers of the estate?”
Hector thought about it. “I don’t think so. But I wouldn’t drop too low, just in case I’m wrong.”
Jet focused on piloting the aircraft, one eye on the temperature gauge and the other on the city lights below. She tilted forward and slowly lost altitude until she was only sixty feet above the ground. Another glance at the GPS told her that the field would be somewhere on the right within another kilometer or two, and she watched the surroundings through the windshield, looking for the headlights.
Another burst of static from the scanner and a terse missive issued forth from a strained male voice. Jet listened, and her pulse began pounding in her ears. The police helo was headed toward the estate. It would be no more than five minutes behind them, maybe less, depending on how fast it was going.
She saw headlights and winking emergency blinkers in the center of a dark patch up ahead. That had to be it. She plotted a course for the field, noting that the fog was getting denser now that they were out of the city limits.
“Hang on. We’re almost there,” Jet said. The temperature gauge continued to climb as the oil pressure dropped, but she ignored it and concentrated on landing. She slowed to a crawl and then dropped gradually, watching the altimeter until the helicopter set down with a thump on the grass. Hector threw the door open as she reduced the revs to idle. She yelled at him over the din. “Get him out of here. The police bird’s going to be on top of us any second.”
Alejandro appeared at the door. He helped his father out of the aircraft and hugged him, ignoring the blood that smeared his shirt, and then Hector and two of his men were carrying him to a waiting SUV. Alejandro moved to Jet’s door. “Let’s go. Leave the damned thing here.”
She studied the temperature gauge. “How far are we from the ocean?”
Alejandro gave her a puzzled look. “Why?”
“If I don’t take off and lead the helo away from here, you’re dead meat. Seconds count.”
“Too far. Maybe eighty kilometers.”
“Damn. Can you think of anywhere else I can ditch this?”
Alejandro’s brow furrowed as he thought. “There’s a river about ten kilometers due west of here. It’s pretty secluded.”
She shook her head. “They’ll be able to recover it in a river.”
“There’s a lake twenty-five kilometers south.”
“Same problem.”
“What’s the alternative?”
Jet paused. “You wouldn’t happen to have any grenades in your car, would you?”
Alejandro turned and yelled at Hector’s men. One of them ran to a black sedan, opened the trunk, and then sprinted to the helicopter, a bag in hand.
“Will a satchel charge do?” Alejandro asked.
“Even better. How do I detonate it?” she asked, taking it from him and setting it in the cabin.
“There’s a digital timer in the pocket. We weren’t sure how many we’d need for the transformers…”
“All right. Can you get someone to pick me up at the river?”
“Of course. Take the cell phone, and call when you’re ready. I’ll leave now and pick you up. But it’ll take me at least fifteen or twenty minutes to get there.”
“What about your father?”
“He’s tough as shoe leather. There’s nothing I can do while he’s in surgery.” Alejandro paused. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Might as well finish out the inning in style. Now get out of here.”
Alejandro spun and sprinted for the vehicles. Jet juiced the throttle and lifted off, continuing to rise until she was sure that she’d appear on the chase helicopter’s radar. If Alejandro was lucky, the police would think that she’d just dipped too low for them to differentiate from the surroundings, and would continue to follow her once she was back on their screen. She turned her radar on and veered west, praying that the oil pressure would hold sufficiently for her to make it another six minutes.
Jet leveled off at two hundred feet, not daring to go higher, and returned to the GPS, checking for an indication of where the river lay. She quickly found it – nine kilometers away – and saw there was a bridge that spanned it, but no other nearby roads that she could see further north along its course. She entered a waypoint and then shifted her attention to the radar screen’s soft glow, spotting a blip moving fast from the northeast. Jet watched it for several moments and plotted the speed – it would be close. They’d be no more than two or so minutes behind her by the time she reached the river, if that.
The only answer was to push her speed. It was a tradeoff: the risk that the engine would seize and she’d have to land without power versus the risk of being gunned down by police snipers once she was on the ground. The temperature gauge climbed into the red as the helicopter accelerated through a hundred thirty knots, and she white-knuckled the joystick as the aircraft began to vibrate ominously.
Jet only needed the damned thing to hold together another two minutes, tops. Two lousy minutes at tha
t clip and she’d be in the clear. She began gradually reducing her altitude as she neared the river – and realized that she hadn’t breathed for the last half minute.
An alarm sounded, a klaxon wail, and she roared over the rooftops of a community near the river. She took a final glance at the GPS. She was only a half kilometer away and closing fast.
Jet reduced her speed, trying to eke out a little more life from the straining engine, and then the lights disappeared below her and she was facing a cottony bank of fog drifting over the water. She realized that she had no idea how wide the river was just as another red light began blinking on the instrument panel. Whether she liked it or not, she’d run out of time, and she slowed to a hover and descended the final hundred feet into the fog.
All the panel lights illuminated when the altimeter said she was thirty feet off the ground, and the rotor automatically disengaged from the transmission, spinning freely. Her drop accelerated, and she steeled herself for the crash she knew would follow, pulling as much collective as she could before the crash. When the bird hit the riverbed, the impact threw her forward against the harness. The helicopter bounced and then came to rest on its side.
Jet shook herself, checking to ensure that nothing was broken, and then hit the belt release while groping beneath her for the satchel charge. Her fingers found it along with the night vision goggles. She grabbed both and pulled herself to the pilot-side door.
Jammed.
She cursed and clambered into the rear passenger compartment and tried that door, which opened with a creak. Confident that she could now get clear, she opened the satchel and felt for the timer.
There.
She armed it, set the delay for sixty seconds, and pressed the red activation button. The green LED numbers began counting down, and she placed it in the front of the cockpit and pulled herself up and out of the helicopter into a ghostly riparian Neverland of thick fog.
The thump of rotor blades approached as she fumbled with the night vision headset and pulled it on. She activated it, but it was of little use – all she could see was gravel by her feet, with visibility no more than a few meters due to the dense fog. After a last quick look at the mangled helicopter, she bolted away, determined to put as much distance as she could between herself and the aircraft before it blew.
The police helo neared. She could feel the downdraft as she ran, her rubber soles slipping and sliding on the gravel bank. The blades seemed like they were only scant meters overhead, and then the satchel charge detonated, followed instantly by the fuel tank. The fog glowed orange from the fireball’s flash, and she felt a concussive shockwave on her back as she poured on the speed, her breathing coming in ragged gasps as she ran with all her might.
Three minutes later, the shape of concrete pilings materialized out of the dense white haze. She’d reached the bridge. She slowed and retrieved the cell phone from her pocket and called Alejandro.
“I’m at the bridge.”
“I’m still a few minutes away. I’ll call you when I’m there. How did it go?”
She heard voices through the fog. “Can’t talk. I’ve got company. I’ll call when I’m clear,” she whispered and then hung up, frozen in place, listening for a hint of pursuit.
The sound of water lapping at the bank greeted her from her left. Jet turned, head cocked. The fog made it difficult to make out where the voices were coming from, blunting any sense of distance or direction, while the police helicopter’s thumping back by the wreckage masked any nearby noise. She slid the soldier’s pistol from her jacket pocket, flipped the safety off, and then took cautious steps along the base of the bridge.
Another snatch of discussion floated up from down the river. She ducked under the overpass and worked her way to the opposite side, and after a pause, hurried up the bank to where the road curved into the foothills. Once on the shoulder, she called Alejandro again.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Coming up on the bridge now. I can’t see squat. Fog’s too thick.”
“I’m on the west side, just after the bridge.”
“I’ll pick you up in a minute. Watch for my lights.”
She saw the glow of approaching headlights before she heard him. Alejandro’s tires thumped across the bridge, and then he was pulling to the shoulder so she could get in. She swung the door open and slipped onto the passenger seat, still clutching her pistol.
“You probably don’t need that. I promise I won’t attack you,” Alejandro said, his tone dry.
She put the gun back in her pocket. “Let’s go. The police copter landed down the river. I blew our helo to bits, but I’d expect every cop within shouting distance to be on their way. I hope you know this area – we’d be well advised to stick to back roads.”
“I’ve got something better.” He tapped his navigation system to life, and she found herself looking at a roadmap of the area. As Alejandro swung around and recrossed the bridge, they saw the blue and red glow of emergency lights approaching in the fog.
“Shut off your lights and make a right up ahead,” Jet warned.
He complied, twisting the wheel and pulling onto a smaller road.
She activated the night vision goggles again as he slowed. “Keep going straight. Looks like you’ll curve to the left in about fifteen meters.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier if I had those instead of you?”
“Here.” She handed him the headset.
He slowed to pull the headband on and then smiled. “That’s better.” He picked up his speed, and soon they were driving past rows of tiny identical homes. Several minutes later she checked the GPS.
“We should be in the clear. Can’t see them getting roadblocks in place this quick, can you?”
“Never happen.” He removed the goggles and turned on the car’s headlights.
“What’s the news about your father?”
“He should be in surgery by now. We have a doctor who handles these types of situations for our men. He’s very good – probably has more experience with gunshot wounds by now than any doctor in Chile. We’re headed there. Hector said that it looked ugly, but the doctor thought he could patch him up. Cross your fingers.”
She sighed and shook her head. “What a night, huh?”
“You said it. By the way, thank you. We’re all in your debt.”
She eyed him, his face glowing faintly from the dashboard lights. “You’ll get a chance to repay it soon enough. Now tell me what you’ve learned about my daughter.”
Chapter 32
San Felipe, Chile
A dog barked somewhere down the gloomy street from where Drago had parked, likely prowling behind a warehouse fence in what passed for the industrial district of town. Drago darted from shadow to shadow on crepe soles. He carried a black backpack with some tools inside. The six-inch blade of a bread knife protruded from the top, gleaming in the dull moonlight that streamed between the gathering clouds.
A brick façade loomed on his right as he crept along. A weathered aluminum sign in front of it announced the headquarters of AARAM mine equipment and supplies, the lettering only slightly faded by the last winter’s snow. Drago studied the iron fence on the left side of the building and the gate that spanned the width of the driveway that stretched to the loading docks at the rear of the long building.
He’d been watching the building for almost three hours and was satisfied that there was only a single security guard on duty, who emerged from a doorway at the back every forty-five minutes or so to have a cigarette and stretch his legs. The guard had last made an appearance a half hour earlier, and Drago checked the time before making a run for the gate and vaulting up its side. He cringed at the rattle as his body hit the metal, and then he pulled himself over the top, the obstruction child’s play for a man of his talents.
Drago landed in a crouch on the pavement and edged to the nearest dock. His gaze roved over the roofline, looking for security cameras or motion detectors, but he didn’t see any. Confid
ent that the building’s precautions were amateurish, he ran along the loading area until he arrived at the door the security guard used. A bucket half-filled with sand and several hundred stinking cigarette butts rested beside a folding metal chair. Drago flattened himself against the wall and waited for the guard’s final appointment with his addiction.
Nine minutes later, the door groaned open on rusty hinges, and the guard stepped out, already raising a lit match to the cigarette in his mouth. Drago waited until the door had swung closed to make his move. The man must have sensed him at the last moment because he dropped the match, but too late – the blade’s point sliced through his spine at the base of his skull, and he crumpled like a sack of wet dirt, dead by the time he hit the ground. Drago withdrew the knife and wiped it on the man’s shirt, and then knelt beside him and removed his pistol – a Browning HP .40 caliber – as well as the spare clips in the man’s belt compartment, and then dropped them into his backpack. He eyed the dead guard and considered dragging him inside, but then decided to leave him where he’d fallen, which was what an opportunistic thief would have done. After another glance around, Drago slid the guard’s flashlight from his belt and entered the building.
The interior was black as pitch except for a small office near the front, where the faint melody of a radio song echoed from the metal ceiling. Drago snapped the flashlight on and shined the beam on the neatly stacked pallets in the center of the floor. He moved farther into the space. In one corner of the warehouse, the light reflected off stainless steel chain link that stretched to the ceiling – a security cage and the probable location of his objective.
The lock proved impossible to pick, but the chain link was no match for the bolt-cutters he’d brought. He snipped an access way through the fencing and stepped through, unconcerned with keeping his profile low – the workers would know soon enough what had been stolen, so there was no point in subterfuge.
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