JET - Escape: (Volume 9)

by Russell Blake

  Matt nodded and studied the bell tower. “What do you make of the shooting?”

  “I don’t know. Could be unrelated. But right now, I don’t feel lucky. Do you?”

  She didn’t wait for him to answer, and instead increased her pace to keep the captain in sight, her expression determined as Matt had ever seen.

  When they reached the bridge, Adrian watched his men cast off the lines and ordered his helmsman to get underway. The helmsman did so without fanfare, and soon they were steaming toward the Caribbean.

  Adrian eyed the gauges and shook his head. “We may not have enough fuel to get to Cienfuegos,” he grumbled.

  Jet sidled up beside him and handed him a fat wad of currency. “Perhaps this will soften the blow?”

  Adrian pocketed the money before the helmsman saw it and smiled grimly. “I’m serious. Depending on the seas and the wind, it will be touch and go.”

  “Well, we’re committed now, so do whatever you need to do so we make it. Maybe back off on speed?”

  “I’ll do that, but the truth is you can only conserve so much, and then it’s in Mother Nature’s hands.”

  Jet nodded. “Isn’t everything?” She stepped away from Adrian. “Where should we put our things? My little girl needs to get some rest. She’s not feeling well.”

  “I can show you to your cabin,” Adrian said, and turned to the helmsman. “You’ve got the wheel.”

  The helmsman grunted an acknowledgement. Adrian took a final look at the fuel gauge and motioned to Matt and Jet. “Follow me. It’s not the Hilton, but I have a feeling you won’t have any complaints.”

  Chapter 31

  Ramón spotted figures at the far end of the wharf, making their way to the parking lot, and he sat up, trying to see them better. He was fumbling with his spyglasses when he heard gunfire from the church and stiffened. It was unlike a professional of Fernanda’s stature to be shooting indiscriminately. Then he remembered her weapons cache, and his brow furrowed as he swung the glasses toward the bell tower. She didn’t have an automatic weapon like the one he’d heard. Just the sniper rifle, which fired single shots, and her pistol.

  The shooting had been non-suppressed. Her guns were suppressed.

  Ramón concentrated on the lot again. The figures had reached the jetties, but he couldn’t make them out from the laborers milling about – it was too confused, and now everyone was moving too erratically to be able to spot an anomaly.

  He took a final look at the church and started the car. Whoever had been shooting, there was one person it couldn’t have been – Fernanda. He slowed at the thought. If not her…then could it have been the man or the woman? But how?

  Ramón braked and pulled over two blocks from the church, where he could watch the entrance without being obvious. Think. What should he do? If Fernanda was in trouble, what could he accomplish? Any damage was already done…and he could be walking into an ambush.

  Better to wait and see what happens next. He was in uncharted territory, and he didn’t feel like risking his neck to discover what had gone wrong.

  Minutes ticked by, and two beaten police trucks screeched to a halt in front of the church, their beds full of officers with bulletproof vests and brandishing assault rifles. The trucks emptied out and the cops set up a perimeter, and four of them pushed through the front doors of the church, guns at the ready.

  He watched as the remaining police maintained their positions, rifles pointed at the building like it was going to attack them. More time crawled by, and two of the officers returned from inside the church, shaking their heads. A discussion among the group ensued, and then the officer who appeared to be calling the shots got on the radio while the rest shuffled around nervously.

  One of the cargo ships moved ponderously from the dock, its superstructure barely visible over the rooftops between him and the water, drawing Ramón’s attention. Its smokestack spewed a plume of black diesel smoke skyward as its huge engines rumbled across the waterfront. Ramón stiffened as the last two officers came through the church doors and one of them pointed inside. Ramón could tell from the man’s body language that he was agitated, and he slid down in his seat, wondering how he could get out of there without being seen. Whatever had happened inside was obviously bad, and it would be only a matter of time before the police got their act together and began searching the area.

  And when a Colombian cartel member was found with a gun within footsteps of the scene of the crime, it was a safe bet he would be treated like public enemy number one.

  Ramón rolled down his window, put the transmission in gear, and eased around the corner. The officers didn’t even glance in his direction. He exhaled a sigh of relief. He’d stash the gun and wait for things to calm down, and then once it was safe, try to learn what had happened. There was no other prudent course he could see, and he was sure Mosises would agree when he reported in.

  For now, he had to focus on not drawing attention to himself, and find somewhere to hide his weapon.

  He retrieved his cell phone and thumbed a text message as he drove, outlining the situation. A response blinked on the screen a minute later, instructing him to stay on site and do what he could. Ramón snorted to himself as he surveyed a pile of rubble near the far end of the waterfront street. It would do as a hiding place for the gun, but even as he eyed the heap, a sinking feeling spread through his gut. They’d been right behind their quarry, and then everything had gone upside down on them. He wondered if that was how it had gone down at the monastery. One second Jaime and his best men had been ready to pounce…and the next they were dead.

  Ramón coasted to a stop beside the debris. He couldn’t allow his imagination to get the better of him. He didn’t know what had happened at the church, and would wait until he learned more before making any decisions. In the meantime, he would do as Mosises instructed and stay in position, watching the docks and waiting for the woman to show herself.

  Then, it would be an altogether different game.

  With the police on alert, she and her gringo friend would have a much harder time slipping onto a boat. So the situation could work in their favor if Ramón kept his head.

  Still, the thought that a professional as lethal as Fernanda could have somehow been ambushed didn’t portend good things.

  Ramón ditched the pistol beneath a rotting plank at the edge of the trash pile and returned to the car. In spite of his better judgment, he obeyed Mosises’ instructions and drove to the lot and parked, showing only normal interest in the ambulances and police vehicles on their way to the church. A restaurant was open across the street from the docks, and he found an empty table inside by the picture window and ordered coffee and a pastry, resigned to being there for the duration, judging by the number of emergency vehicles headed to the bell tower.

  Four hours dragged by with nobody but workers and seamen milling around the waterfront. A contingent of soldiers, who looked baffled by why they had been stationed there, guarded the approach, along with four uniformed policemen. Ramón, floating in coffee and jittery from the caffeine, decided to change his view by strolling to a seafood shack a block away and ordering lunch. He was finishing a surprisingly good filet of local rockfish when his phone rang. It was Mosises’ Venezuelan contact.

  “I have someone on the ground in La Ensenada who filled me in on the situation at the church. He’s a member of the police force investigating the murders.”

  “Murders? Plural?”

  “Correct. A priest and a woman.”

  Ramón nodded. “So the woman is dead.”

  “I’m afraid so. Shot a dozen times.”

  “That’s all they have?”

  “Yes. They found her rifle, so they know she was planning on shooting someone or something from the tower. Beyond that, it’s a mystery. One that, knowing how things work here, will never be solved.”

  “Have you spoken to our mutual acquaintance?”

  “Yes. He’s up to speed.”

  Ramón hung u
p and eyed the wharf. There was no point in stalling the inevitable, even if he wanted to. He texted Mosises, who responded after a ten-minute lag. His message was short and to the point: Question the dockworkers and see if anyone saw anything. Find out what ships left and whether any took on passengers.

  Ramón frowned as he considered the order. How was he supposed to do that with police and military everywhere? He debated his alternatives and was about to send a message back, saying it was impossible, when an idea struck him. If he posed as an inspector of some sort, investigating the shooting, and avoided the uniforms, who were largely lounging out of the sun near a stand that sold drinks and cigarettes, he could probably bluff his way through. Few would demand to see identification if he carried himself with enough authority. At worst, if found out, he could claim to be a private investigator following up on an unrelated case involving Colombian runaways.

  It was thin, but there was no reason it wouldn’t hold up.

  Ramón sent a message to Mosises, outlining his idea, and the response came in seconds: Do it.

  He paid the check, walked to the first jetty, and began questioning the workers, who were largely not very bright and who hadn’t seen anything. When he reached the second dock, he struck paydirt as the sun dropped into the horizon. A short, wiry man with deep wrinkles that hinted at nights with rum and chemical fortification nodded as Ramón began his questions.

  “Only boats that left today were the Milan, this morning, and the Sea Star, about an hour ago,” he said.

  “Did they take on any passengers that you know of?”

  “We were fueling the Milan, and right after the shooting, some people went aboard. What was odd is that the captain cut off the fueling early. We’ve been scratching our heads about that all day. I mean, he could have made a mistake on how much he needed, but that would be a first.”

  Ramón raised an eyebrow. “Really? Do you remember anything about the people?”

  “Just that they seemed like a nice family. Of course, everyone was more interested in the shooting at that point. I mean, it had just happened. Sounded like a war broke out or something.”

  “A family?”

  “Right. Mother, daughter, husband.”

  Ramón didn’t react, not wanting to arouse suspicion in the seaman’s eyes. “That’s kind of odd, isn’t it? Why would anyone want to be a passenger on a cargo ship?”

  The worker shrugged. “Takes all kinds. But she was a looker. I remember that.”

  “And the man?”

  A head shake. “Sorry. Don’t remember.”

  Ramón nodded. “The Milan, huh? Any idea where they were headed?”

  “Yeah. Same as usual. Cuba. They do a run every week.” The man’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Just trying to be thorough. What was the shooting like? Did you see anything?” Ramón asked, changing the subject to more lurid fare.

  “No. It all happened so fast. But it was like firecrackers going off, you know? Pop pop pop.”

  “Fast like that, huh?”

  “Yes. A machine gun. I know from my army days. You don’t soon forget the sound.”

  “You said the family showed up after? How long after?”

  “Oh, like, maybe thirty seconds. Almost immediately.”

  “Are you sure?” Ramón said, failing to hide his surprise. He would have bet money that the answer would have been five or so minutes, to allow the woman to get out of the church and reach the docks.

  “Yeah. Everyone was still looking over at the church. It had just happened.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  Ramón continued his questions for another minute, but got nothing more. He left the dockworker to his duties, his mind racing. They were on the ship.

  But if the mystery woman hadn’t killed Fernanda, who had?

  The thought that they were missing an important piece to the puzzle lingered like the aroma of decaying fish as he texted his findings to Mosises and awaited further instructions, which wound up taking an hour to reach him. When Ramón received the message, his eyes widened.

  Mosises was out for blood, all right.

  Chapter 32

  Maracaibo, Venezuela

  Drago sat on the veranda of his hotel, staring out at the Caribbean. The islands at the mouth of the lake rose from the water like sentries. His hair was still damp from a shower, and he had a glass of passable rum in hand, his bare feet up on the railing, the warm evening breeze pleasant.

  The run from La Ensenada had been harrowing, and he’d narrowly avoided being stopped at a roadblock only seconds after passing a pair of police cars that had screeched to a halt on the road north, blocking the flow of vehicles out of town. Of course they’d been too late, but the response had been faster than he’d thought it would be – in Colombia he would have had hours from the first cops arriving on the scene. Apparently the Venezuelans were more competent than the police in his adopted home. Worth remembering, lest he underestimate them.

  He’d spent the morning working his way from La Ensenada on rural roads that ran along the shore of the lake, skirting the main highway in case there were any more roadblocks – there probably wouldn’t be, but he wasn’t feeling like pushing his luck after gunning down the wrong woman. He still couldn’t believe how similar the two looked, but it was unlike him to make mistakes, and that had been a massive one.

  Drago had disassembled the MAC-10 and tossed the pieces into a lake at a deserted beach halfway between the two cities, sea birds picking at the sand in search of food the only witnesses. Once he was rid of the weapon, he felt better – now there was no way to tie him to the shooting.

  All that remained was for his agent to get back to him.

  He’d called in with the name of the ship and requested a rundown on it – everything he could discover. A crew list, the captain’s history, ownership, and most importantly, the itinerary. Once he knew where it was headed, he would be at the port when it arrived and make short work of his targets.

  The couple no doubt believed they’d left any problems behind in Venezuela, their departure undocumented on a tramp cargo vessel, even after the gunfire. They had no way of knowing it was connected to them, even if they had suspicions. Nobody had shot at them, and the likely explanation was a turf battle or a drug deal gone wrong in a country where gunfights were a daily occurrence. Like Mexico’s border towns, Venezuela had been taken over by criminal gangs that battled one another as well as the army and the police, and the port cities were the most hotly contested areas due to the value of the goods moving through them.

  He had no question that the pair would be on alert, but they would likely relax with time, once on land, when nobody came after them. Then, when they least expected it, he would strike.

  Drago allowed himself the daydream of extracting his vengeance, picturing the terrified eyes of the woman as he inflicted the unspeakable upon her and her little girl, with Matt nearby, dead or dying. He smiled at his arousal, an affirmation that he was not only still alive but vital, and took a pull on his cocktail.

  His phone rang inside the hotel room. He rose, found the cell on the bed, and stabbed it to life.

  “I’ve sent you everything I could get,” the agent said, without preliminaries. “The ship’s bound for Cienfuegos, Cuba. Liberia registry. Owned by a consortium out of Caracas. Does a circuit between the ports, carrying cargo both directions.”

  “Where’s Cienfuegos?”

  “Southern part of the country.”

  “Not by Guantanamo, is it?” Drago asked softly, wondering if there was more in play than he was aware of. The U.S. had an infamous presence there. Could this Matt be involved in more than diamond theft?

  “No, in the center, closer to Havana.”

  “Hmm. You’ll forgive my ignorance of Cuban geography.”

  “I imagine you’ll be a quick study.” The agent paused. “But a piece of good news. The ship carries a locator chip. Its track can be followed in real time.”
r />   “Really?”

  “Yes. I included all the information you’ll need to do so.”

  “When does it arrive in Cuba?”

  “Day after tomorrow. Scheduled for early afternoon. You’ve got time.”

  “That’s fortunate. I suppose you know my next request.”

  “I’m already on it. The usual weapons, I presume?”

  Drago smiled to himself. “You’re a gem.”

  “All in the interests of closing out the contract. The client is growing increasingly impatient with each passing day.”

  “The target has proved more resourceful than anyone believed.” Drago didn’t mention his blunder with the woman.

  The agent hesitated. “Are you quite sure you’re up to this?”

  Drago’s exasperated exhalation was audible. “Is this back on the table again? I made it clear I can fulfill the contract.” He paused. “Is it you or the client who is questioning my abilities?”

  The agent’s voice tightened. “The client isn’t questioning anything but the timing.”

  “Fine. I’m tip-top. The contract is simply more complicated than we first assumed. It has nothing to do with my condition.”

  “Very good. Check your inbox…and good luck. I’ll get back to you about equipment in Cuba. I trust you can get there on your own?”

  “Yes. I’ll let you know if I need help with that.”

  Drago disconnected and forced himself to a calm state. He wasn’t accustomed to anyone doubting his competence, and the inference from his agent was that he was slipping. It cut particularly deep because of the mistake with the woman. Would he have made a similar error before his hospitalization? And the headaches and dizziness – was he really fully functional, or was he deluding himself? Had he lost his edge? And if so, was he so impaired that his ability to carry out the contract was at risk?

  Self-doubt was like a slow poison, insidious and destructive and, in his business, deadly. Skepticism and pragmatism were strengths, but wondering about whether you were losing it went nowhere good.