Wild Case

by Tripp Ellis

  "Could be anywhere. There are a lot of links in this chain."

  "It's time to start talking," I said. "What's in the case?"

  Frankie shrugged innocently. "I don't know."

  "Bullshit."

  "No bullshit. I don't know." She sighed. "I don't ask questions. It's better that way. You know that."

  "Who do you work for? CIA? Cobra Company?"

  Her eyes narrowed at me. She hesitated for a moment. "Cobra Company."

  "Why are we delivering the case to Santiago Martín?"

  "Again, I don't know. It was a question I knew better than to ask."

  I grimaced. "Who is he?"

  Frankie looked at me, perturbed by my continued questioning. She huffed. "If you must know, he's a pretty big narco-trafficker."

  The muscles in my jaw tightened. "Figures. Why are the CIA and Cobra Company in bed with a narco-trafficker?"

  She rolled her eyes. "Come on, you know the drill. The enemy of my enemy is my friend."

  This was one of the reasons I got out of the clandestine business. You played nice with whomever was necessary at the time.

  "Obviously the agency thinks a relationship with Martín would be beneficial,” she said. “There's obviously a high-value asset in this case."

  "Are you sure there's no way to open the case?" I asked.

  She looked at me, incredulous. "You're not opening this case. Even if I had a key, I wouldn't let you."

  I paced around the room, thinking.

  "Look, this is just a minor setback,” she said. “Our mission remains the same. We deliver the case to Santiago Martín, just as planned. From here on out, we schedule our own transportation, and we let no one in the loop."

  I stared at her for a long moment, then nodded in agreement.

  "That means we don't even tell Isabella our plans," she said.

  "I need to call her and let her know things have gone wrong."

  "Fine. But we don't know where the leak is coming from."

  "Isabella is not a leaker," I said.

  "I agree. But someone in the chain is."

  12

  "We have one small problem," I said.

  Frankie arched a curious eyebrow.

  “We have no idea where were going. Unless you know where Santiago Martín’s compound is?"

  Frankie shook her head.

  I moved back to the window and peered past the curtain to the parking lot. Tourists came and went. The bellhop helped with baggage. It was the usual, everyday activity of a luxury hotel.

  I called Isabella and caught her up to speed.

  "Where are you now?" she asked.

  "Not saying. Not until I know who ratted us out."

  "Fair enough."

  "What's in the case?" I asked.

  There was a long pause.

  "I don't know,” Isabella said.

  "Don't run me around."

  "I'm not running you around. I don't know. I don't ask questions. You shouldn't either."

  "I like to know what I'm risking my neck for.”

  "A paycheck, and a debt you owe me," Isabella replied.

  I frowned.

  "Sit tight. I've got a local asset that can help."

  "I'll be here," I said, then hung up.

  No sooner had I slid the phone in my pocket when I heard the squeal of tires at the front of the hotel. I glanced down to the parking lot below. A black SUV had pulled around the fountain and underneath the awning. Two goons hopped out, wearing sunglasses. They marched into the lobby with a purpose. No bags. They weren’t here on vacation.

  I grimaced. "Come on. We're moving!”

  "What?" Frankie sat up on the bed, her eyes wide.

  "We’ve got company."

  Her face crinkled with confusion. "How?"

  "I don't know, but we'll talk about it later."

  She launched off the bed, and we scurried to the door. I cracked it open and peered into the hallway.

  It was clear.

  We stepped into the passage and advanced toward the stairwell. We pushed through the steel fire-door, then spiraled down the staircase.

  “What did you see?” Frankie asked.

  “Two angry looking guys stormed into the lobby.”

  Frankie hissed, “Are you sure they're after us?"

  "I'm not taking any chances."

  "There's no way they could have found us."

  "Maybe they've got spotters? Maybe somebody saw us checking into the hotel? Who knows?”

  “Are you sure you’re not overreacting?”

  I shot her a look.

  “Maybe these two guys are just on their honeymoon, and they’re checking into a hotel for a romantic weekend?”

  My eyes narrowed at her. “They didn't look like the type."

  She shrugged, innocently. ”You never know."

  The stairwell dropped us off at the lobby. I pushed open the door and scanned the area. I didn't see the two thugs that had hopped out of the SUV.

  We casually strolled across the lobby and made our way to the exit. I held up at the main doors and peered into the parking lot.

  The black SUV idled under the awning. The driver wore dark sunglasses and kept glancing around, looking for threats.

  His gaze fixed on me, and I knew we had been made.

  He hopped out of the car, leaving the engine running, and marched toward us.

  I stormed through the automatic sliding doors, marching toward the man. I was going to confront him head on.

  As I stepped under the awning, the driver reached for his pistol.

  I drew mine first and tapped two rounds into his chest. The bang echoed underneath the awning, and the man fell back to the concrete, blood gushing from his chest.

  There were shrieks and hollers all around. The bellhop ducked for cover. Tourists ran into the lobby.

  I motioned to Frankie, then marched to the SUV and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  Frankie raced across the drive and climbed into the passenger seat. She pulled the door shut with a clunk. I twisted the ignition and the engine rumbled to life.

  The two goons ran out of the lobby and drew their weapons.

  I dropped the car into gear, and my foot mashed the pedal. Tires squealed, billowing white smoke. The goons opened fire, bullets peppering the quarter panels. I squealed down the drive and turned onto the street. The back window shattered, shards of glass spraying everywhere as the goons continued to fire.

  "I guess they weren’t on their honeymoon," I said flatly.

  13

  I made a few quick turns, then we dumped the vehicle on a side street and took off on foot. I didn’t think it was a good idea to drive around the city in a stolen car laced with bullet holes. I wasn't sure what the body count was up to, but I was sure the local authorities wouldn't look fondly on my activities, no matter what the reason.

  We walked along the sidewalk for a few blocks to Parque Lleras. We found a café with patio tables that opened to the street. We entered the patio through a small gate and took a seat in the lime-green chairs that surrounded tables with bamboo tops. I made sure to sit in a position where I could see the street, as well as the entrance to the patio.

  Parque Lleras was a collection of bars and restaurants. It was a popular tourist destination. It was relatively calm during the day, but the clubs came to life in the evenings. Throngs of tourists would flood the area, hopping from bar to bar. Music would spill out into the streets. Lights from signage would illuminate the area. You could find just about everything you wanted in Parque Lleras after the sun went down—drugs, hookers, adventure.

  "I don't understand how they found us," Frankie said.

  "Maybe they're tracking our phones?" I suggested.

  "Not possible. I picked up a new burner specifically for this op."

  "So did I."

  "It's what I always do,” she added.

  I nodded in agreement.

  I slid my phone out of my pocket and turned it off. I couldn't access
the battery directly, but with the phone off it shouldn't have been trackable.

  Frankie did the same.

  The only way to track a phone that has been turned off is if you infect the device with malicious code that will continue to transmit GPS data even when the phone is in standby mode. Seeing how this was a brand-new phone, and only one person had the number, I didn't think the security of the device had been compromised. Someone would need direct access to the phone to install the malicious code, or they could send a link via text or email. I would then need to click on the link in order for the code to be downloaded.

  I wasn't that stupid.

  And I hadn’t received any communication on this device until I called Isabella.

  The waitress strolled to the table and smiled. She asked in Spanish if she could get us anything to drink. I ordered two bottled waters.

  "We kind of stick out like sore thumbs," I said to Frankie. "Carrying a silver briefcase handcuffed to your wrist doesn't exactly scream tourist, now does it?"

  Frankie kept the case in her lap, concealing it under the table.

  The sounds of the city filled the air. Engines rumbled, passing down the avenue. Horns honked, and the faint smell of exhaust wafted through the air.

  During the day, the area was relatively safe. El Poblado was an upscale area that was popular with tourists and ex-pats. There wasn't much crime. Mostly muggings and pickpockets. As long as you kept your wits about you, and didn’t do blatantly stupid stuff, you'd be fine. There were 11 murders in the district last year and most of those were related to illicit activities. The typical rule of thumb was to avoid engaging with drug dealers and prostitutes.

  I had no desire for prostitutes, but we were already in bed with a narco-trafficker.

  "What do we do now?" Frankie asked.

  "We wait for Isabella to call with her local contact,” I said. "I'll turn on my phone and check at random intervals, but I won't leave the device powered on for long."

  The waitress sauntered across the patio with two bottles of water on a tray. From the corner of my eye, I saw a sedan with tinted windows pull to the curb. The passenger window rolled down and a machine gun protruded through the window frame.

  I pushed over the table and pulled Frankie down to the ground, taking cover behind the tabletop.

  Gunfire erupted, spraying molten copper across the patio. The stream of bullets tore into the waitress, spewing geysers of blood. The crimson liquid splattered other patrons. Shrieks and hollers filled the patio.

  A stray bullet exploded a bottle of water as the waitress tumbled to the ground.

  The tray clattered against the concrete and rolled several feet before crashing into the base of another table.

  Several patrons were peppered with bullets as the drive-by shooter unleashed his fury. Blood spatter spewed.

  Bullets smacked into the tabletop as we crouched behind it. Bamboo splintered, and the slugs left deep craters in the wood.

  When I heard the shooter drop the magazine to reload, I popped up like a prairie dog and fired over the tabletop. I put two shots into his skull. His head exploded like a cantaloupe dropped from a 10-story window. Blood splattered the windshield, and what was left of the goon fell back against the center console.

  The driver of the car mashed the gas, spun the tires, and got the hell out of there. The car squealed as it took a hard right, and the rumble of the engine vanished into the city.

  "Are you hurt?” I asked.

  Frankie shook her head.

  I took her hand and pulled her from the concrete. We rushed out of the patio and sprinted down the sidewalk, then turned down an alleyway and kept running.

  The heel of her shoes snapped, and she turned her ankle. She stumbled a few steps, kicked off her shoes, then followed along, barefoot.

  "Next time choose better footwear," I grumbled.

  "I didn't think I'd be doing a lot of running.”

  14

  We sprinted down the alley. Frankie limped slightly. We crossed another street, and raced in between two luxury high-rises. The brown brick buildings towered over the city. We took a left at the next block, and hailed a cab. We hopped into the backseat, and the driver asked, “Where to?"

  "Just drive."

  His foot hit the gas, and the car eased down the block.

  He took a right on Carrera 34, heading south.

  "Explain how that just happened?" Frankie asked.

  I couldn't explain it. It didn't make sense. I thought for a long moment, then it dawned on me.

  We curved down the two-lane road, winding through the city. We passed apartment complexes and towering high-rises. The roadway was lined with trees and grass. The city seemed to sprout out of the once dense jungle.

  I took a moment to catch my breath, and I sunk against the seat.

  Horns honked, and a car behind us weaved in and out of traffic, crossing the dotted yellow line. I craned my neck around and looked through the rear window at a sedan gaining on us. It was taking unnecessary chances, darting into oncoming traffic, passing slower cars.

  There was no doubt it was chasing us.

  "¡Más rápido!" (Drive faster) I shouted in Spanish.

  A moment later, the sedan pulled in line behind us.

  "Take the next right!” I barked.

  The driver complied.

  We veered right, and the car behind us followed.

  "I'll pay you $200 American if you lose the car behind us." I dug into my pocket and flashed two crisp green Benjamins.

  The cab driver’s eyes widened in the rearview mirror. He didn’t verbally reply. He reached a hand back and snatched the bills. His foot mashed the gas, and the chase was on.

  The driver made a hard left. Inertia thrust me against the door. I tried to keep one eye on the roadway ahead, and one eye on the sedan behind us.

  Tires squealed as we raced through the city, but I don’t think the driver understood the full magnitude of the situation. He got a better idea how dire things were when the bullets started flying.

  A goon hung from the passenger window and spewed bullets from an Uzi. They peppered the trunk and shattered the back window. Shards of glass sprayed everywhere.

  This car wasn’t bullet resistant.

  Frankie ducked behind the seat as bullets continued to fly. They snapped through the cabin and pinged off sheetmetal.

  The driver's eyes rounded, and fear bathed his face. He shrieked something in Spanish, then veered a hard left. The inertia flung us both to the right side of the car, even though we were seat-belted in. The taut band tugged at my hips.

  The cab had serious under-steer, and we damn near missed the turn.

  The thugs screeched around the corner behind us.

  The cabdriver pulled the right wheels onto the curb and veered around the traffic. There was a stream of cars stopped at the light. We threaded the needle between the row of cars and the street lamps.

  The thugs followed.

  I angled my weapon through the rear window and blasted several shots, cracking the thug’s windshield.

  More bullets sprayed.

  I crouched low in the backseat amid the shards of broken glass that sparkled like diamonds. Another slew of bullets snapped through the cabin. The cabdriver’s head exploded in a cloud of red goo, painting the front windshield. He slumped to the side, and the car swerved, slamming into a light pole.

  The front right quarter panel crumpled.

  Metal twisted.

  Glass shattered.

  The impact spun us clockwise. The rim of the tires caught on the curb, tumbling the vehicle upside down. I felt like I had been tossed into the spin cycle. Sparks showered as the roof of the car slid across the concrete sidewalk. I hung from my seatbelt. Shards of glass fell to the ceiling, and the smell of the overheating engine filled my nostrils.

  I released the buckle of my seatbelt and dropped onto the roof, still upside down.

  Frankie did the same.

  The thugs screec
hed to a halt behind us. The passenger door opened, and the goon with the Uzi stepped onto the sidewalk.

  I managed to twist around and get on all fours, glass crunching under my palms. I angled my weapon through the broken window and squeezed off a few rounds at the goon as he approached.

  He sprayed a flurry of bullets in my direction.

  Metal pinged and popped.

  Bullets snapped through the air.

  I kept firing.

  A bullet clipped the goon in the knee, and he dropped to the sidewalk in agony.

  Another shot finished him off.

  He lay on the sidewalk, blood pooling around his body.

  I squeezed out of the car and sprang to my feet, taking cover behind the rear quarter panel. The rear wheels still spun. The car was upside down like a turtle baking in the summer sun.

  I fired several shots at the driver, smashing through the front windshield. A bullet hit his head and knocked him back against the head rest. He bounced forward, laying on the horn.

  I helped Frankie crawl out of the car, her hands spotted with blood from crawling across the glass. I grabbed hold of her hand, and we took off running down the sidewalk.

  "It's the case!” I shouted.

  We darted across the street, ran up the next block, made a few twists and turns, then dashed into the lobby of a luxury high-rise.

  We composed ourselves and strolled to the elevator bank, our chests still heaving for breath. I pressed the call button and waited for the elevator to arrive. The door slid open, and we stepped into the compartment. I pressed the button for the top floor.

  "What are we doing?" Frankie asked.

  I pulled out my cell phone and powered it up. After the device booted, I waited for it to connect to the network.

  It never did.

  There was no signal.

  I had never been in an elevator with good reception, and this one was no different. It was exactly what I hoped for.

  "No cell signal. No GPS tracking." I grinned.

  "You think the case has got a tracking device?"

  "Of course it does. Something this valuable? You wouldn't let it out of your sight, would you?"

  She shook her head. "But that would mean…"

  I nodded. "The GPS tracking data has been compromised."