Dead Men Don't Bite (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series)

by Andrew Towning

“His name Colonel, is Dillon – Jake Dillon. He’s sixtwo tall, messy dark hair, difficult to put an age on, but I’d say somewhere around forty. Very suave and charming, but the eyes they are as cold as gun metal.”

  “I’ll have him checked out, you have done well Fernandes. Mr Dillon can be assured of a very warm Cuban welcome.”

  Serra smiled to himself, as he replaced the receiver. The line went dead and Fernandes put the phone back into his overall pocket. He took out a single Havana cigar from a torpedo shaped tube and lit it, savouring the moment. Shame about the Englishman. He’d rather liked him, but his family’s safety came first, and he started to carefully put away his tools.

  * * * After skirting around the Key West radar zone, and two miles out from Johnsons, Dillon turned the Skyhawk onto a new course of one-nine-five degrees, next stop Cuba. But the thick cloud, and constant driving rain, was already giving him real trouble. Because of the low altitude they were flying at, he had the added problem of swirling mist that gave only an intermittent view of the ocean two hundred feet below.

  “What in the hell am I doing here?” he said softly. It was Romerez who answered his question. “You’re here Jake, because you’ve got nothing better to do at this precise time – right?”

  “Yes I guess so. But that’s not what I meant, what I actually meant was; what the hell am I doing flying in weather like this.” He got a cigarette out, lit it and sat back in his seat.

  After an hour, Romerez tapped Dillon on the arm and pointed out of her side screen at the coast of Cuba. He switched on the radio set and immediately dropped down to one hundred feet above the choppy waters of the Caribbean, swooping low up the Clara Vista River estuary.

  The accented English speaking voice that Dillon was now listening to through his headphones made the short hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention.

  “Good evening Mr Dillon, Miss Romerez, welcome to Cuba.”

  The Russian built Mi-8 attack helicopter took up position close to the starboard wing of the Skyhawk, the insignia of the Cuban air force boldly emblazoned on its fuselage.

  The helicopter pilot spoke again. “Stay on this course, Mr Dillon, the airstrip is straight ahead, and they’re expecting you. Colonel Serra is looking forward to meeting you both. Who knows he may even invite you both to dinner.”

  “Well, who am I to disappoint Colonel Serra, especially if he’s gone to the trouble of cooking?” Dillon said cheerfully. “Straight ahead to the airstrip it is.”

  He continued his approach into the abandoned airstrip with the helicopter holding steady on the starboard wing. The thought of Colonel Serra, and his idea of hospitality inside a Cuban prison cell sent a shiver down Dillon’s spine. He didn’t seem to have any options open to him, and then he saw it about half a mile away, there were at least dozen-army trucks lining the runway and many soldiers climbing out of the back of them.

  “What do you think of your welcoming committee?” the helicopter pilot asked. “You should be flattered, not everyone gets this much attention Mr Dillon!”

  “Oh, I’m overcome with emotion.” Dillon mocked.

  “Don’t let it go to your head Englishman, because after this it becomes much more basic. Now put down nice and easy, and I’ll say goodbye.”

  Romerez quickly scribbled something onto a notepad and held it out for Jake to read. He looked across to her, and gave her a wide boyish grin, setting the flaps for landing and throttling back. As the rear wheels screeched on the tarmac, he spoke into the mic, “You’ve been great company, but we have an old saying where I come from. If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun.”

  Pulling back on the control column and over to the right at the same time he boosted power so that the light aircraft lifted steeply, scraping the tip of the wing on the runway as he gained height quickly. The Mi-8 helicopter pilot reacted aggressively.

  “Dillon, put your plane on the tarmac immediately, or I will shoot you out of the sky.”

  Dillon continued to gain height, ignoring the Cuban pilot’s command, levelling out at two thousand feet. Romerez searched the sky for the Mi-8 that was already coming up fast on their tail. And, from underneath its main fuselage, tiny white flashes of light appeared, as the Cuban pilot repeatedly fired his forward machine guns at the light aircraft.

  Dillon said, “Tighten up your harness, we’re going for a little roller coaster ride” and pulled sharply back on the control column, rolling the Skyhawk onto its back and banking over to the left, leaving the Cuban pilot high above him.

  Dillon took the small aircraft down fast, levelling out at eight hundred feet. The helicopter pilot came in again angrily firing his machine guns, the large calibre bullets tearing through the tailplane as Dillon dipped briefly, before pulling away and downwards towards the coast. On the helicopter’s second pass the Cessna’s windscreen disintegrated, leaving Dillon with bloodied hands, and Romerez with a small cut just above her left eye from the glass splinters.

  Dillon struggled to pull on a pair of flying goggles, eventually succeeded, dropped the Cessna down to two hundred feet; white capped waves crashed onto white sand beneath them, the Helicopter was still on his tail and rapidly closing the gap between them.

  “Still with us?” Dillon said into his mic. “Well let’s see what you Cubans are really made of, shall we?”

  He lifted the nose of the Skyhawk, and climbed steeply to three thousand feet, levelled out for a moment before going into a spiral nosedive straight down, the Mi-8 stayed right behind him. Dillon pulled back hard on the Cessna’s controls which violently shook in his tight grip, but thankfully responded, and a moment later Dillon was hurtling just above the ocean towards the shore.

  He’d seen it earlier when they’d arrived, a small gully between two high cliff formations. No time to pull out now, not at the speed they were travelling, and with the helicopter right behind them.

  The Skyhawk bucked as bullets ripped through the starboard wing, Dillon tipped the small aircraft through ninety degrees, the tip of his port wing almost in the water as they got closer to the cliff face. The Cuban pilot had no time to pull out at the speed he was travelling, the four large rotor blades sheared off in all directions of the compass, as the helicopter ploughed through the narrow gully opening, and fireballed.

  Dillon, came out of the gully fast, trimming as best he could for flying with bullet holes in the tailplane and through one wing. The fuel gauge was registering almost empty; as the single engine started to lose power. There was a clearing up ahead and to his right. He tried to bank towards it but was already losing height as he clipped the pan tile roof of a ramshackle farm building. The last drop of fuel used, they braced themselves for the belly landing.

  In the end, it was the soft earth of the ploughed field that saved them, slowing the Cessna’s progress so much that they slid to a shuddering halt at the edge of a small wooded area.

  Releasing the harness straps, they scrambled out of their seats; both doors were kicked open in an instant. Dillon came out headfirst into the rain rolling over in the mud and was on his feet, running with Romerez at his side. They made for cover towards the nearby farm building as fast as they could. The Cessna didn’t burst into flames, as Dillon thought it would, it simply creaked, and hissed a little in the rain.

  Inside the old run down barn, they hid for over an hour amongst last season’s musty straw bales, before the contact that Romerez had called using her mobile phone, came and took them to the safe house on the outskirts of Havana. Dillon had expected the area to be crawling with soldiers within minutes, but none came. A spotter plane flew overhead at least three times, but the Skyhawk was well concealed by the undergrowth of the wood and the torrential rain had washed away the gouge that the Light aircraft had made on landing.

  * * * Dillon stood at the small porcelain washbasin in the corner of the bedroom. His reflection looked back at him from the old cracked mirror that was hung on the wall. Three days stubble and too many cuts about his face did no
t enhance his otherwise rugged good looks. His whole body felt as if it had been put through a mangle and then hung out to dry. Early morning sunlight squeezed through the wooden shutters of the safe house, creating an abstract on the whitewashed walls; fine particles of dust floated lazily, with no purpose or direction, in mid air highlighted by the thin shafts of light. From the kitchen came the welcome aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and crispy cooked bacon and eggs.

  Romerez sent two text messages after breakfast. The first, to report to Dan Parker that they had been compromised on their arrival. And the other was to one of her regular contacts on the island, to find out the location of Harry Caplin’s hacienda. This done, they then had to work out a plan of how and when they were going to snatch the drug baron, and successfully get him and themselves off the island alive. Knowing Harry, as Dillon did, he knew that finding him was going to be the only easy thing about the entire mission.

  Later that morning, Dillon and Romerez found themselves high on a hillside crouching in the pouring rain at the side of a narrow dirt track that wound its way down to a large hacienda. Looking through powerful binoculars at the high security walls, and lookout towers surrounding the palatial residence of Harry Caplin, made a sobering sight. They waited and watched patiently, until it was dark before making their move. Dillon felt uneasy going through the window, because, for someone who was paranoid about security, Harry’s place was remarkably easy to break into.

  The room was oak-beamed with natural stone walls that were adorned with hand made tapestries hanging here and there. A roaring log fire burned in an open hearth, a stack of chopped wood piled high at the side of it. Caplin sat on a large sofa with his feet up reading a book and drinking from a crystal glass, a bottle in an ice bucket beside him. As Dillon stepped out of the shadows, Harry glanced up, a large smile on his face. He then took the bottle from the ice bucket, and filled another two glasses.

  “Been expecting you Ace. Champagne? It’s the best, just the way you like it.” He laughed as he got up, adding. “Miss Romerez, you really don’t need to skulk in the shadows you know, I won’t bite – promise.”

  Romerez stepped out, a gun held up in her right hand.

  “Hell Jake, I’d like to say it was good to see you after our last encounter, but I’m getting an odd feeling of deja vu here. You and me along with a female who has a dangerous look on her face and a gun in her hand. What is it with you stiff assed Brits?”

  Dillon said in a relaxed voice. “Harry, Harry, Harry, it’s very simple really. You see, Romerez and I are here to take you quietly back to Florida for a very long holiday. All expenses paid of course. You see, for some bizarre reason, the Miami D.A. wants you back on drug trafficking charges. He even has a cosy nine by nine bed-sit, just for you to spend your twilight years in.” Dillon walked over to the side table, and picked up the glass of Champagne that Harry had poured for him, and turning, added. “So tell me Harry, who was it that fed us to you and the Cuban Colonel?”

  “Down here in the land of plenty Ace, if you’ve got the money, and believe me I’ve got plenty, you can buy anything you want; including information from the Feds. In fact it saddens me to have to say it, Ace. But you, and the little lady here, were both dead long before you even left Johnson’s Field.” He said it with no malice, as he walked over and stood in front of the fire, sipping the Champagne. He looked up adding. “Jake, I’d say that your problems are just about to start. You’re either mad or very naïve, if you think that I’m going back to the States with you and the little lady over there. In fact, I’d start re-thinking my strategy before my boys come bursting in here if I were you son?”

  “But, you haven’t answered my question Harry. Who was it?” Jake asked bluntly, sitting down on one of the enormous sofas.

  “You know I can’t tell you that Ace, not even for old times sake.”

  “Well how about as a last request then?”

  Caplin looked down at Dillon, thinking just for a second, “Well if you put it like that Ace, his name’s Fernandes, he’s the one. Serra has a hold on him, if he doesn’t feed back information, his family gets the chop, if you know what I mean.”

  “Oh I know exactly what you mean Harry.” Dillon replied, giving Romerez a quick sideward glance. The Glock automatic that Dillon was carrying in the holster under his arm felt somehow comforting.

  Caplin refilled his glass again, and then casually walked across the room to a mahogany desk. He started to sit. The slight movement of his hand, would have gone unnoticed under normal circumstances. As it was, the small dart struck him before he was able to push the small button under the highly polished top. Immediately keeling him over, and down onto his knees. The fine Persian rug softening his fall. The glass of Champagne flew out of Harry’s hand, and smashed into a million tiny pieces as it hit the flagstone floor a few feet away.

  Dillon had only glanced up briefly at Romerez, which had been enough. She had fired the small silenced weapon just once. It spat out the dart that hit Caplin in the side of the neck, the liquid inside the phial had an immediate effect on the big American. He was flat on his back within seconds, but still wide-awake, not able to move or speak. His eyes said everything. The disbelief and pure anger at being caught off guard in his own home.

  They wasted no time in putting on white paramedic jackets and trousers, that Romerez had been carrying in her rucksack, over their ordinary clothing. Dillon squatted down by Harry and spoke quietly. “Now what’s all this about you not going back to the States with us Harry? Romerez, as you now know is an expert shot, she could easily have killed you, but I give you my personal assurance, as I did before in Dorset, that you’ll be all right in a few hours. I know that you can hear and see me, old son, because the drug that is now in your system has rendered your whole body incapable of any movement, but not affected your sight or hearing. You’ll be like that for about six hours. Just enough time in which to get you off this island and back to Florida and afterwards you’ll be back to your old cheerful self again. Now you just lay back and enjoy the ride.”

  Romerez called for the ambulance which arrived at exactly the same time as three of Harry’s security people came rushing through the heavy double doors, machine pistols in their hands.

  Dillon and Romerez lurked in the shadows until the paramedics and security guards were all in the room and shouting at each other. Making it very easy for them to fall in behind the group now gathered around Caplin’s inert body.

  Dillon pushed his way through and examined him. Standing up he spoke quickly in faultless Spanish to the guards, and explained that Mr Caplin had suffered a near fatal stroke and was now completely paralysed. His only chance of survival was to get him to the hospital in Havana as quickly as possible.

  Dillon rode in the back of the ambulance with the nurse and the armed guard, who had insisted on staying with Harry. Romerez sat up front with the two paramedics as they travelled at high speed around the winding roads, the siren blaring and lights flashing. Dillon’s opportunity came as the ambulance negotiated a tight bend, the back end of the heavy vehicle lost its grip on the gravel at the edge of the road; throwing the thickset Cuban off balance. Dillon hit the guard hard in the temple with the butt of the Glock, instantly knocking him out with the blow.

  They drove on to the next crossroad. The unconscious guard was tied up and left under a tree at the roadside. Dillon, one of the paramedics, and Romerez jumped back inside the ambulance, Romerez said to the others, “Boy is he going to have a mother of a headache when he wakes up. Now let’s get the hell out of here before someone back at Caplin’s place becomes suspicious and comes after us.” The nurse stood up and pulled at the all in one trouser uniform she was wearing. Velcro gave way with a ripping sound to reveal well fitting stone washed denim jeans, and a colourful loose blouse. Romerez caught Dillon staring in amazement. “Jake, let me introduce you to Sanita, Georges and Manuel they all work for me from time to time here in Cuba.”

  “It’s good to meet
you all, and well done back there I thought for one moment that those guards were going to rumble us. Now comes the tricky part, how to get dear old Harry here, out of Cuba. Serra will be almost certainly watching the radar for any unauthorised movement in the air, and the minute we take off, he’ll send up the Migs, of that I’ve got no doubt.”

  “This isn’t a problem Mr Dillon. We’ve already thought of what that sadist Colonel Serra will do. He’s not the only one with informants you know,” Sanita said with a sneer, adding. “We’ve already fed false information to a well-known source of his, that the three of you will be making your getaway in a private jet ambulance. But in fact we’ve got a very fast power boat waiting for you up ahead at a small cove.”

  Harry’s eyes flickered at the mention of the boat. Sanita continued looking directly at him.

  “Ironically this type of craft is favoured by drug runners because of the large fuel tanks and exceptional speed it can achieve, even in open water.”

  Five minutes later the ambulance stopped at the roadside above a small deserted beach of white sand. Sheer cliffs rose up on both sides with steps carved out of the rock, that wound there way down to a wooden jetty that stuck out thirty foot into the water.

  Georges and Manuel went round to the rear of the ambulance and threw open the doors. Without delay, they lifted the gurney that Harry was still strapped to, and carried him down to the sleek, black, twenty-foot boat which gently bobbed up and down with each wave that lapped against the rickety wooden structure.

  Once on board, Dillon checked the chart for that area of coast. The distance to Key West was ninety-five miles. The rain that had not relented since leaving Johnson’s Field was now all but gone. The sea as flat as glass as they nosed their way out of the small bay. Dillon opened up the throttles to maximum, keeping them there as they raced up through the Straits of Florida towards the rendezvous point. Thousands of tiny stars lit up the clear night sky, but there were no Migs or Mi-8 helicopters in the air that night, not even a sighting of the Cuban Coastguard. The false information given to Colonel Serra, had to Dillon’s surprise, worked. Romerez went below to check on Harry Caplin; returning with two cigarettes, the ends of which glowed brightly. She handed one of them to Dillon, who took it, as she slipped into the seat next to him.