“She was special.”
“She should a been more careful ’bout who she opened her legs for.” Ponchet tilted his head, studying Renoir’s dripping form, and then reached down to his belt for his radio and held it to his mouth. “We got him.”
The cop on Renoir’s left nudged the crime lord with his gun barrel. “Come on, you. Nice and easy.”
“I want my lawyer,” Renoir said, his tone resigned, as he took lumbering steps forward on the sand.
“Oh, yeah. Bet you do,” Ponchet agreed.
“You gonna regret this.”
The blow to the back of Renoir’s head stunned him. For a second the sky tilted, the torchlight from the restaurant pinwheeling as he reeled, but he didn’t go down. Ponchet moved close to him and whispered in his ear, “Any more threats, you gonna have broken bones by the time we get to the station, you.”
Renoir bit back the insult that sprang to his lips and instead grunted, his eyes flat and dead as a shark’s, revealing nothing. The little group continued up the strand to the restaurant, which was now silent, the gunfire having died down while the crime boss was bolting for the water. When they reached the concrete stage, Renoir spotted the restaurant owner, and before Ponchet could stop him, yelled out to her, “Call Antoine and tell him what happened. We going to the station. Tell him be quick about it.”
A savage blow from Ponchet’s truncheon caught Renoir in the temple and his knees buckled as he dropped. The surroundings and the horrified expressions on the faces of the band and the diners faded as his vision blurred and he lost consciousness.
Chapter 2
La Virginia, Colombia
Jet squinted in the predawn gloom at the bank on the far side of the river. The leaky boat they’d commandeered after escaping from the monastery had taken them as far as she dared hope, and as morning light glowed beyond the eastern peaks, she made her decision.
“We’ll stay on this side of the river. I remember seeing a decent-sized town on the map. We must be near it by now,” she said.
Jet, Matt, and Hannah had spent the long night on the water, allowing the current to carry them south at a crawl, and had come up with a plan as they’d meandered toward the little hamlet of La Virginia. They would find a computer and contact one of Matt’s old agency acquaintances – a black sheep former analyst named Carl, who had long ago retired to Cuba in an effort to be free of the U.S. intelligence community, his patriotism having waned as he’d seen too much over his years with the CIA. He’d set up shop there and was now an accommodator – helping the locals with forbidden currency and equipment, facilitating illegal transactions, and generally playing middleman on anything that paid in the black-market economy that was the byproduct of communism.
Matt nodded groggily, and Hannah stirred beside him. Jet motioned to the primitive rudder. “You take the helm. Pull in anywhere that looks good. How’s she doing?”
“She feels a little hot to the touch, and you heard her coughing. She’s definitely coming down with something,” Matt said, half-standing as he moved in a crouch to the stern and took the tiller from her. Jet edged forward and sat next to Hannah and then laid a cool hand on her forehead.
“Not too bad,” Jet murmured, as much to herself as to Matt.
“She’s been through an awful lot,” Matt whispered.
“Yes, she has. We all have. But we have to keep moving. We don’t know who’s after us, only that one of the cartels is helping them, which means it’s not safe anywhere in Colombia.”
“It has to be because of the diamonds. Nothing else makes sense.”
“Maybe, but knowing that doesn’t help us. We have to get to either Ecuador or Venezuela. Panama is out of the question after what I went through there. The police will be looking for me for a long time.”
“Venezuela is hostile to the U.S. – I vote for Venezuela,” Matt said. “If it’s the agency after us, they’ll have a hell of a time getting any help.”
“True, but it’s also way too unstable to live there, Matt. I’ve been to Venezuela. It’s always been dangerous, but I hear it’s getting way worse.”
“We’ll talk to Carl and see what he can do for us. Maybe one of the islands? Aruba?”
“Too close for comfort. This all started for me on Trinidad, remember?”
“That’s right. I keep forgetting.” Matt pointed at a spot on the bank. “Let’s hear what Carl has to say, and we can go from there. It’s going to be daylight soon, and if they’re still looking for us, the more distance we can put between ourselves and the monastery, the better…”
“You can bet they’ll be looking. Whoever sent them is still out there. And don’t forget the shooter at the base of the mountain.” She hesitated. “We have to assume that even though we bought ourselves some time, they’ll figure this out eventually. By then we need to be anywhere but Colombia.”
The boat drifted toward the river’s edge, and the wooden hull scraped on the rocky shore. Jet hopped out and pulled the bow further onto the spit of land, and Matt handed a still-slumbering Hannah to her before climbing out himself. She waited as he pushed the boat back into the current, and they watched it slowly float into the fog.
Matt took in a small circle of stones surrounded by broken glass by the brush line and leaned into her. “Come on. We can take turns carrying Hannah. There’s a trail I can just make out by the fire pit. There’s probably a road somewhere close by.”
Matt led the way, and after several minutes they climbed up a steep grade to a two-lane strip of asphalt. Near a far bend the first rays of dawn glinted off glass – a window set into a building, barely visible in the shadows.
“We must be close,” Jet said.
“Let’s hope so.”
Twenty minutes later they were on the outskirts of town, the area all recently plowed fields, the air redolent of fresh earth and dew. A single cart drawn by a swayback horse bounced along the road. The farmer at the reins in faded coveralls looked ancient, his skin the texture and color of rawhide, a hand-rolled cigarette smoldering between his thin lips as he waved at them in passing.
Day broke over a sorry collection of sorry dwellings arranged haphazardly around the town center, marked by a towering church spire. A few motors sputtered to life in the distance as morning in the rural river town began. Jet and Matt were surprised as they made their way toward the church – the primitive hovels transitioned into a neighborhood of stately two-story homes, and then into a commercial area, the architecture colonial, but the cars surprisingly new.
“There’s more money here than I would have guessed,” Jet said as they walked the quiet streets.
“That’s good, right? It means the likelihood of finding transportation and an Internet café is better.”
“Speaking of which, looks like there’s one on the corner,” she said.
Matt nodded. “Right. You call Carl. We don’t want to risk me being seen. I’m afraid with this cast, I kind of stand out,” he said, holding up his broken hand.
“That and your skin color, white boy. Stay here with Hannah. I shouldn’t be long. You sure he’ll answer his phone?”
“I haven’t talked to him in a couple of years, but he should. I mean, where else is a seventy-year-old going to be at this hour in Cuba?”
Jet handed Hannah to him and stroked her brow with obvious concern. The little girl’s eyes fluttered open and she appraised her mother sleepily. Jet offered a smile. “I’ll be right back, honey. You go back to sleep.”
Hannah coughed and closed her eyes. Matt held her head against his shoulder protectively. “You’re on. Let’s hope they’re open.”
“They are. They’ve already set out a couple of tables on the sidewalk.”
Jet made her way to the café and pushed open the door. A thick man with a mop of unruly gray hair looked up from the counter, surprise painted across his hangdog face. He quickly recovered when she ordered a cup of black coffee and asked about the computers.
“I need to call a fr
iend on Skype. Do you have it here?” she asked in fluent Spanish.
“Of course. There’s a headset hanging on the side of the case. You can call and I’ll bring your coffee to you, if you like.”
“Ah. That would be perfect.”
“Take the station nearest the wall. It’s the newest.”
Jet strolled past four makeshift computer stations, whose flimsy partitions offered slim privacy, and sat at the end unit. To her eye it looked prehistoric, but after a few mouse clicks she was connected, and the line was ringing in her ear. A few moments later, when a gruff male voice answered, the sound was as clear as though he was standing next to her.
“Si?” the voice growled.
“Carl?”
“Who’s this?” the voice demanded suspiciously.
“A friend of yours told me to call. Victor,” Jet said, using the code name Matt had said he’d recognize.
“Who?”
Jet’s heart sank. Either he didn’t remember the sequence, or this wasn’t Carl.
“Victor.”
He hesitated. “I can take a message.”
Bingo – that was the correct response. She was speaking to Carl. “Victor really wants to ask about a fishing charter today.”
“He does, does he? Then why doesn’t he call me himself?”
“He’s indisposed. But he told me that if I mentioned Bangkok and a card game, you’d be able to help.”
Carl didn’t say anything for several long seconds. “What kind of trouble are you in?”
“We’re in Colombia. Need to get somewhere safe, where we won’t be asked for a lot of paperwork.”
“Colombia? What part?”
She could hear computer keys tapping in the background as she described their location and situation, and when he spoke again his voice had lost any trace of irritation.
“Looks like you’re about fifteen hours’ drive time from the Ecuadorian border, and maybe twelve to Venezuela. Think you can make it to Venezuela?”
“We’ll do whatever we need to do.”
“How many?”
“Three. Our friend, myself, and a little girl, almost three.”
“Victor’s gone nuclear family on me?”
“A long story.”
“Okay, I’m not sure I want to know. Here’s what you need to do to get to Venezuela. Looks like the closest crossing point is a town called Cúcuta. Northeast of you. Probably take all day to travel there, depending on what you’re driving. Call me once you’re on the ground. In the meantime, I’ll see what I can do. You going to need passports, the whole works?”
“Yes.”
“Won’t be cheap.”
“Nothing in life is.”
“How hot is the water you’re in?”
“Hot enough that we need your help getting to wherever.”
“All right. You have my number. Call when you can. How are you fixed for cash?”
“We can come up with whatever you need.”
“That could run in the quarter mil range. Figure, buck apiece for adults, half for the kid.”
“I understand.”
“Sounds like you do. I’ll get to work and see what can be done on a rush basis.” Carl paused. “I’m assuming this is a rush job?”
“Good guess.”
“I’m intuitive that way. And who should I look forward to speaking with when you call back?”
“Me.”
“Right. And what’s your name?”
“Victoria.”
She could hear a trace of a smile in his voice. “Of course. Okay, Victoria. Safe travels.”
The line went dead just as the proprietor arrived with a steaming cup of fresh brew. Jet thanked him, took several sips, and then pulled up a map of Colombia onscreen and studied the roads leading to Cúcuta. It looked like there weren’t too many options – either head north toward Medellín or east toward Bogotá. Either way, they’d have to get over the Andes Mountains to reach the border, which no doubt accounted for the long drive-time estimates she was seeing online.
She finished her coffee and ordered a cup to go for Matt, bought a bottle of orange juice, and paid. Matt and Hannah were waiting at the end of the block, which was still deserted. She approached and swapped Hannah for the coffee. The little girl didn’t wake up, and Jet let her daughter sleep. The stress of the night escape and being in an open wooden skiff on the river had taken its toll, and if her daughter could catch a few winks before things got crazy again, so much the better.
“I reached him,” Jet said, and gave a quiet report of Carl’s instructions. When she was done, Matt frowned.
“So all we have to do is cross the country without being caught, with the cartel and the authorities actively searching for us.”
“That about covers it.”
He drained his cup and straightened. “Then we better start looking for something to beg, borrow, or steal.”
“I…” Jet froze as a police cruiser rounded the corner at the end of the block and pulled to the curb. “We’ve got company,” she warned, her hand moving automatically to the pistol at the small of her back – a memento from the monastery shootout.
“Easy. Could be routine,” Matt said, gathering Hannah up and handing her to Jet. “Let’s just go on our way.”
“Which is?” Jet whispered as two uniformed officers got out of the car.
Matt looked up the street. “When in doubt, go to church.”
Chapter 3
Matt led them away from the policemen with calm, measured steps, the cast enveloping his hand hidden by his windbreaker, which he’d draped over the plaster. Jet could feel the eyes of the officers scanning her as she followed him down the cobblestone street with Hannah in her arms, the little girl’s head on her shoulder.
Another police vehicle, this one a pickup truck, swung onto the street ahead of them, and Jet stiffened. They were boxed in. If she hadn’t been carrying Hannah, she’d have felt more confident, but as it was, if there was shooting, her daughter would be at risk – which meant that gunfire was off the table.
“Easy,” Matt cautioned from ahead. “Nice and easy. Just a family out for an early morning walk, that’s all,” he said as the vehicle neared.
Jet fought the urge to draw down on the truck as it rolled to the curb just ahead of them. She kept her expression blank as she passed the front fender, unable to make out anything through the filthy windshield, but stiffened when the driver’s door swung wide as she drew alongside. Her hand crept to the pistol nestled in her waistband.
“Buenos días,” a scratchy male voice said from within the truck cab.
“Buenos días,” Jet replied softly, hoping that she didn’t look too rough from her night of monastery assaults and river escapes.
A plump man with sergeant’s stripes on his short-sleeved shirt climbed from behind the wheel and stood next to the truck as his companion stepped out and stretched. Neither looked particularly alert, and Jet kept walking.
The policemen sauntered over to where the squad car was parked. A surreptitious glance over Jet’s shoulder found the other cops leaning against it, smoking, waiting for the newcomers to arrive. After some jocular greetings, they all made for the café she’d only moments before exited, laughing about needing extra-strength coffee to fully recover from the prior night’s excesses.
Matt disappeared around the corner, and she followed. Two blocks down the smaller street lined by bright green and red buildings, they arrived at the town church. Matt slowed as Jet caught up to him, and they wordlessly approached the bell tower, a beige monolith jutting into the air with an ornately crafted iron clock just below the spire’s roof, showing six forty.
“Now what?” Matt asked.
“We either steal a car or hitch a ride. Either way, we need to be well clear of this dump. They’ll figure out we’re not on the mountain, if they haven’t already, and then the search will be on.”
“Maybe we should split up?” Matt suggested.
Jet shook
her head, her emerald eyes flashing. “Not a chance in hell.”
“Okay then. Just a suggestion. Because if they’re looking for a white guy with a cast and a little girl, we wouldn’t be that hard to spot…”
Jet moved to the park across the street from the church, where a decades-old split-axle bobtail truck with Venezuelan plates was parked. As she neared, she saw a short man wearing a sweat-stained baseball cap, eating breakfast from a paper plate. He was standing beside an old woman in peasant garb, whose makeshift cart held several large pots and an assortment of containers. Jet sniffed cautiously and was rewarded with the mouthwatering aroma of pastry and some sort of egg stew.
She struck up a conversation with the man as the crone loaded a polystyrene bowl with the breakfast concoction, and quickly learned that he was headed back to Venezuela with a cargo of produce and coffee purchased from his cousin in the nearby town of Cartago.
Fifteen minutes later, Jet and Matt were crowded into the truck cab with Hannah in Jet’s lap as the truck lurched along the winding streets toward the main road. The driver, Oliveros, had been amenable to making some easy cash by giving them a ride as far as Cúcuta, where they’d be on their own – he’d hinted that he had a relationship with a particular customs inspector who would be working the following morning, and Jet knew better than to ask whether they could cross the border with him, jeopardizing his transaction.
He killed time by describing their route, which would take them north toward Medellín, and then cut over toward the Andes a hundred and thirty kilometers before they reached the city. From there they would be on Highway 45, which ran north, paralleling the mountain range until they veered east to Pamplona, a burg on the far side of the summit that was known for its university. From there it would be north again, a few hours’ drive along torturous roads, and then they’d be in Cúcuta, with any luck at all, by sunset.
They learned that Oliveros, married with three children, hailed from Valera, a hill town built in the ridged valley that ran between the Cordillera de Mérida mountains, and had lived there his entire life. His modest import shipments paid for a simple life in Venezuela, but he wished he had more money so he could move – the country had changed radically since Chávez had died, and was now run by criminal cartels that used violence and murder as their stock-in-trade, extorting simple businessmen like Oliveros by threatening his family if he didn’t engage in smuggling for them.
JET - Escape: (Volume 9) Page 2
