Alejandro cried out ten meters to her right, but Jet was focused on the flash. There. The gunman was also on his stomach, a submachine gun with a night vision scope on it clearly visible, and Matt was lying to one side. It would be a difficult shot, but not impossible at that range, and she slowed her breathing in preparation to fire as she flipped the selector switch to single shot.
As if he could sense the danger, the man leapt from his position with the grace of a panther. Jet resisted the urge to pull the trigger – he had his weapon trained on Matt now, who was struggling to his feet. Her entire awareness narrowed to a dark tunnel, the only object in existence the shooter. The river was only a few meters behind them, and they’d disappear from view in seconds, leaving her fully exposed when she had to cross the ground.
Her shot caught the gunman in the chest and spun him halfway around. Matt must have seen the tiny red dot on the man’s shirt just before she fired because he hurled himself to the side, leaving his captor in full view for an instant – just long enough. She squeezed off another shot and saw the impact as it slammed the man backward and out of her field of vision, and then she was up and sprinting for the rise before her conscious mind had caught up to what instinct had driven her to do. She switched her fire selector to burst as she neared the spot where Matt had dived and threw herself onto the hard gravel, ignoring the pain as she landed, her gun at the ready.
On the other side of the rise, Matt was lying on his back, the wind knocked out of him. There was no sign of the shooter, but she swept the surface of the water with her weapon as she leaned toward him.
“Did you see where he landed?” she asked.
Matt coughed and grimaced. “Over there.” He pointed with his good hand. “In the water. You hit him.”
The surface of the river undulated like a black serpent as she forced herself to her feet and approached it. Watching for any irregularity in the streaming water, she thought she saw something and fired, again and again, to no obvious effect.
Matt called out to her. “You can only kill a man once.”
“I like to make sure they’re dead.”
“The water’s got to be freezing. I saw him fall in. Probably pretty deep through this ravine – cuts straight through the rock.”
Jet continued her vigil for a half minute and then turned to Matt. “Who was he?”
“The people who sent Tara must have hired him. Freelancer. But…I don’t know. Different. Like a machine or something – he was about the best I’ve seen.”
“There’s always someone better.”
Matt struggled to his feet. “I guessed that was you shooting your way in before the avalanche.”
“You know me well.”
“I knew there was no way you would leave Hannah to her fate.”
“Or you.” She moved to Matt and hugged him, then pushed her goggles away from her face and gave him a long kiss. His arms moved around her waist, and he pulled her close, and then they froze when a voice hissed at them from the river.
“How touching,” Drago said, rising from the water, pistol in hand. “You almost had me, you know. But you didn’t figure for a Type IV vest, did you? I liberated it from one of the guards after I blew his brains against the wall. I’ll admit I’ve never been a fan of ceramic plates until now.”
Matt released her, and Jet slowly turned, her M4 pointed at the ground. Drago’s pistol was aimed at her head, the barrel unwavering.
“Drop the pop gun, sister.”
She locked eyes with Drago as the moon came from behind a cloud and saw the intent in his dead pupils. Her moment of hesitation only lasted until he cocked the hammer on his pistol and smiled.
A burst of gunfire blasted from the bushes and knocked Drago backward into the river. Jet was swinging her rifle up when he sank beneath the surface and disappeared. She emptied her rifle at the area where he’d sunk and was still squeezing the trigger, the bolt locked open and the weapon empty, when Matt approached and put his hand on her shoulder.
“It’s over.”
She pulled her pistol from her belt and shook her head. “No, it isn’t. My rounds didn’t stop him the first time. There’s no reason to believe Alejandro’s did any better.”
Matt shook his head. “Not necessarily. Each shot weakens the vest, as does age. You have no idea how old that thing was or how many bullets it’s stopped. Looked to me like those punched through it.”
Alejandro approached carrying his rifle. “It was a good thing that submachine gun was a 9mm. My vest stopped them, although it feels like somebody used me for a punching bag.”
Matt glanced at him. “You’re lucky. A few inches higher and they would have hit above the armor.”
Alejandro adjusted his NV goggles and offered a pained smile. “That’s about how my whole day’s gone.” He looked at Jet. “Are you okay?”
She was still staring at the river, having lowered her goggles back into place, her pistol clenched in her hand, watching for any sign of Drago in the swirling eddies and currents.
It took ten minutes without any signs of life for Matt to convince her that the assassin was really gone this time.
They walked together back up the hill to where Hannah was waiting, Matt stiff from the interrogation beating and Alejandro limping from a slightly sprained ankle. Only Jet strode seemingly effortlessly, occasionally stopping to look back at the river snaking through the ravine as though at any moment the phantom hit man might rise up for a final reckoning – an impossibility after being underwater that long, but a lingering fear in the part of her mind where her nightmares brooded like starving wolves.
Chapter 39
Santiago, Chile
The driver who had been waiting for Jet and Alejandro’s return from the camp picked everyone up at the turnout after Alejandro called him; the cell signal was faint but fortunately usable, the line of sight to the San Felipe valley through the pass clear. The group was quiet on the long drive back to Santiago, and Alejandro drank several liter bottles of water on the way. Jet had contrived a dressing for Alejandro’s wound from the first aid kit in the back of the SUV, and he dozed the final half hour of the trip.
Jet went through the contacts and messages on the Russian’s phone, and her heart skipped several beats when she came to one from someone named Filipov, written in Russian. She reread it three times as the vehicle bounced down the road, Hannah cradled in her arms, asleep. When she was sure she hadn’t misinterpreted the missive, she elbowed Matt, who was slumbering beside her, head leaned against the window, her jacket rolled up as his pillow.
“What?”
“There’s a message on the Russian’s phone.”
“And?”
“It’s from an attorney in Moscow, asking for a progress report on the contract and responding to a question about what would constitute proof that I was the person in question and was dead. This Filipov answered back that a DNA match would be optimal, and reminded him that anything less would result in nonpayment of the ten-million-dollar contract price,” she whispered, not wanting Alejandro or the driver to hear.
Matt let out a soft whistle. “Ten million. Who would want you dead badly enough to be willing to take out a contract on you?” he whispered back.
“I have no idea. Unless it’s somehow connected to one of the jobs I did there. Or Grigenko.”
“Hmm. I suppose it’s conceivable that he had a failsafe policy in the event he was killed. I’ve heard of that before – you set aside enough money to ensure that whoever killed you would be signing their own death warrant in doing so. A kind of mutually assured destruction. But like most doomsday weapons, it only works if everyone knows about it, so it should be fairly straightforward to check.”
“If there’s an open contract on me…” She didn’t have to finish the thought, her expression grim.
“For that kind of money, you can expect a constant string of aspirants.” He took her hand and squeezed. “It’s not good news. Trust me, I know how it feels.”
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“But…that kind of an arrangement would have to be dependent upon the attorney, right? I mean, it’s not like it could be assigned – even in Russia, I’d imagine it’s illegal to engage in murder for hire, so it’s not like there’s an actual written document that’s enforceable.”
Matt thought about it. “Right. The term ‘contract’ is a euphemism. Call it a hit.”
“So if the attorney were to meet with an accident…”
Matt’s eyes narrowed. “Moscow can be a dangerous place.”
“Exactly. I have no sympathy for him if he’s hiring mercenaries. Live by the sword, and all that.”
“What are you thinking?”
She squeezed his hand back. “Guess.”
When they arrived at the doctor’s home, there were even more gunmen than before. Hector met them outside the guesthouse, his usual dour expression on his face, and hustled Alejandro into the operating suite after a brief nod to Jet. The doctor was able to patch up Alejandro in a matter of minutes, the entire procedure consisting of cleaning the wound, suturing it, and giving him a bottle of orange juice to drink. Alejandro refused anything for the pain and, once he was through with the doctor, sat with his father in quiet discussion for a half hour, occasionally interrupting the dialogue to make a phone call.
Jet waited with Matt and Hannah in the doctor’s house at his invitation. Jet sat next to her daughter’s sleeping form on the sofa as Matt slumbered in an overstuffed chair. Her body had been pushed to its limits, but her mind was still racing, formulating a strategy in response to the new information she’d acquired from the dead Russian’s phone. By the time Hector entered the kitchen through the back door, she’d made several difficult decisions, and she joined him there, leaving Matt and Hannah to their dreams.
“Gaspar and Alejandro would like a word with you if you could spare a few minutes,” Hector said.
She nodded. “Sorry about your men.”
Hector shrugged. “They knew what they were getting into. Their families will be looked after.”
Jet took a final look at Matt and Hannah and followed Hector to the guesthouse. Alejandro was standing by Gaspar’s bed, and he motioned to a chair.
“Have a seat.”
Jet did as asked and waited.
Alejandro cleared his throat. “My father and I have been discussing your situation. I told him about your desire to leave Chile without having to deal with customs formalities. But I wanted you to lay things out for him so he understands exactly how we can help you.”
Jet shifted her gaze to Gaspar. “I have a couple of things in mind. First, I’d like to get my daughter and Doug out of Chile as soon as possible. Alejandro suggested by ship, which I’m fine with. Most of them go by Panama, if I’m not mistaken, so that would be as good a place as any for a destination.”
Alejandro nodded. “That can be easily arranged, out of San Antonio, which is smaller than Valparaíso and under our control. It’s a busy port.”
“What kind of pull do you have with the Chilean government?” Jet asked.
Gaspar cleared his throat. “What do you need?”
“Three Chilean passports would come in handy. With new names. The genuine article, so if they’re checked, they’ll show up in the system as legitimate.”
Gaspar appeared to consider it. “That will take several days, but it can be done. Political asylum, or perhaps newly recovered birth certificates – many records were destroyed in the last earthquake. I know the person to call.”
She smiled at his response. “Finally, I need to get to Moscow as soon as possible.”
Alejandro’s stoic composure cracked. “Moscow! Russia?”
“Exactly. But I first need to get across the border into either Peru or Bolivia without going through immigration.” She could feel the weight of Gaspar’s stare. “I have my reasons.”
Gaspar exchanged a glance with Alejandro, and then looked at Jet. “Using your own passport or a new Chilean one?”
“Time is of the essence. If you can get a passport in twenty-four hours, I’d say on the Chilean. If it would take longer, I’ll use my current one.”
Gaspar adjusted the bed control, trying to get comfortable. “You’re in a hurry, are you?”
Jet’s expression was unreadable. “I need to attend to an errand as soon as possible.”
“I see. Alejandro, can you arrange for someone to meet our guest near the border?” Gaspar’s eyes bored into her. “I am deeply appreciative of your actions today. I owe my son’s life, and probably my own, to you. That makes you…if not family, someone I cannot say no to.” He hesitated. “I have a jet – an old man’s vanity, but one that comes in useful from time to time. A Lear. It can take you north, and we’ll have one of our people drive you across the border to La Paz, Bolivia, where we can arrange for a larger charter to get you to Europe.”
“That would be wonderful. I have some money…”
Gaspar waved her offer away. “Consider it my pleasure. I would have paid many, many times that to be out of that hellhole, much less have my son safe.”
Alejandro glanced at his watch. “The government offices won’t open for another four hours. I’ll put everything into motion first thing. We’ll need to get photographs of you all this morning so there are no delays.”
Jet nodded. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”
Gaspar smiled, a somewhat pained expression. “As I said, the pleasure is mine. Good luck with your ‘errand,’ young lady. Although I’m quite sure you won’t need any.”
Alejandro led her out of the guesthouse. “I’ll have Hector take you to a photographer at nine. I’d attend to it myself, but my hands are full at the moment.”
“I can only imagine. Any decision on your brother? Has he surfaced?”
Alejandro didn’t answer. “I want to add my own thanks to my father’s. Once you’re finished in Moscow, you can always call on me if you need something. I have a long memory, and the offer’s sincere.”
“Let’s hope I never have to.”
Alejandro’s phone rang. He checked the screen and held it to his ear. “Will you excuse me?”
“Of course.”
Jet returned to the house, where the two loves of her life were blissfully unaware of the arrangements she’d just put into motion, sleeping peacefully after thirty-six hours of hell on earth. Hannah shifted as Jet sat beside her, and Jet eyed her daughter, thumb in her mouth, eyes screwed shut, breathing easily, and wondered whether there would ever come a time when there wouldn’t be danger lurking just over the horizon, threatening their lives and happiness.
She closed her eyes as the first faint rays of a new dawn filtered through the curtains, exhaustion catching up with her, the manic adrenaline jitters finally calmed now that, at least for a few hours, they were safe.
Chapter 40
Valparaíso, Chile
One of the two young women, barely out of her teens, pulled the sheet over her naked body as the other smirked at Rodrigo and lit a cigarette. Rodrigo had taken a shower and fortified himself with another couple of lines of cocaine, and was feeling eerily sober considering he’d gotten no sleep for two nights and had drunk a half bottle of top-shelf Scotch in the last few hours. He studied his reflection in the dresser mirror with blurry red eyes – the four days’ dusting of beard looked good on him, he thought. Maybe he’d keep it for a while.
Now that he was the effective head of the Soto empire, he could say or do anything he wanted. He had absolutely no doubt that Antonio and Franco would make short work of Alejandro – for all his brother’s airs, he wasn’t the leader their father had been, and the men wouldn’t follow him into battle the same way. With the empire in disarray, a swift strike would sever that head, leaving Rodrigo at the helm.
As it should be. He was the smartest of the pair, as proved by his negotiating this deal with the Verdugos from a position of strength. He’d be able to enjoy all the financial benefits of the business with none of the risks. Fr
anco and his group would do all the heavy lifting, and Rodrigo could live like royalty, spending half his year in Europe and the other half in South America, perhaps racing a sailing yacht in different events around the globe, or maybe living in Beverly Hills and producing films. His talents were squandered in Chile – he was a renaissance man, bigger than their provincial country, and he couldn’t wait to get clear of it.
His father had never understood him. It had gotten so that Rodrigo didn’t even try to reason with the old man, who was obsessed with the organization he’d built and had failed to see the path it would have to follow to prosper. Merging the two gangs was not only brilliant, but necessary. As things in the narco-trafficking business changed, the organization had to change with them – wisdom his father was blind to.
No matter. What was done was done.
He extracted a wad of bills from his pocket and disdainfully flipped several onto the dresser. He’d had his fun and the girls had served their purpose, and now he needed to get things straight with Franco. The smoking girl pulled the sheet back to give him a view of her perfectly sculpted thighs and flat stomach, the smile on her face as knowing as a judge’s. He felt a stirring but shook it off. It was time to get something to eat and then see Franco.
“Ciao, darlings. See you around, eh?” he said as he pulled on his jacket.
“You don’t like us anymore?” the smoker said, affecting a pout.
“It’s not that. Things to do. Maybe I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“You have other girls?”
He grinned. “Of course.”
“But not like us.”
He winked at her. “Nothing like you.”
The brothel was in a large colonial home near the La Matriz del Salvador church, its green shutters clashing with the garish pink exterior. Rodrigo looked through the window at the surrounding buildings and shook his head – it would be a miracle if there was a decent restaurant anywhere nearby. He went to the bathroom and blew his nose, ignoring the blood, and then sauntered to the bedroom door.
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