JET - Escape: (Volume 9)

by Russell Blake

  Ramón stood, and Felix followed his cue. “Then let’s not waste any time. A pair of 9mm pistols with an extra magazine each, and two submachine guns should be sufficient for starters. Clyde will call when we see the layout.”

  “They’ll be here in an hour. Will FN P90s be okay substitutes for the submachine guns? We’ve got some of those.”

  “Perfect. Nice and small.”

  “Then they’re all yours.”

  “Good. And now, if you’ll excuse us…”

  “I’ll talk to some people – maybe they can get to the magistrate and have the girls released. Might cost, though. You okay if I’ve got to grease the wheels?”

  Ramón nodded. “Do what you need to do.”

  “We’ll be back shortly. We can talk again then,” Felix said.

  Clyde was waiting for them outside, where the temperature was already climbing from baking to unbearable. He didn’t seem to notice, standing to one side, smoking a cigarette and joking with two of the gunmen, who were barely out of their teens.

  “Yes, Señores. Where we off to?”

  “We want to see the courthouse.”

  He took a final drag on the cigarette and blew two long plumes from his nose. “Okay, boss, I gonna have you there in no time, I will.”

  Chapter 43

  Jet looked up as heavy boots approached her cell. The night had passed in snatches of fitful sleep, the buzzing of mosquitoes and flies incessant, the appalling aromas nauseating. They had been brought water and some moldy bread at eight by a truculent female guard, and hadn’t seen anyone since.

  Two uniformed women stood with the coast guard officer, who glowered around the cell before stepping back to let them open the door. The first guard fiddled with the keys while the officer tried a humorless smile. “It’s your big day. Magistrate’s already in court.” He looked at Hannah. “How’s she doing?”

  “Let’s get this over with,” Jet said, keeping her tone neutral, but seething with barely concealed rage at their treatment. The officer tilted his head at the guards and led them down the hallway. “Can we at least clean up so we look presentable?” Jet asked as they neared the door.

  “Don’t worry. We don’t stand on formality much around here. You look just fine.”

  “What about my money?”

  “You’ll get everything back when you’re released. You haven’t been yet.”

  “But I’ll need the money to pay any fine.”

  “Tell that to the magistrate.”

  They walked together to the courthouse a hundred meters away and entered the courtroom, which looked more like an abandoned classroom than a hall of justice. About a dozen islanders slumped on wooden benches, watching the proceedings with desultory expressions, the air thick with humidity.

  The magistrate was an older Haitian clad in an elaborate robe who dispensed with the cases after a cursory pronouncement, which was usually met with stifled groans from the assembly. Jet glanced around the room and turned to the officer, who was sitting down the bench from her. “Where’s my husband?”

  The officer ignored her. She weighed repeating the question, but after a warning frown from the magistrate, decided against it.

  When the case was called, the guard prodded her and she stood. The magistrate read a document and looked at her curiously before pounding the gavel once.

  “Five hundred dollars for the little girl’s entry visa. Fifty for the expense of tending to you for the night,” he said, his English almost unaccented and clearly fluent.

  Jet choked back the outrage at his final words and sighed in relief. “Thank you, Your Honor. My money is being held by the clerk in the jail next door. It will need to be released to me in order to pay.”

  “That’s fine. I hereby authorize it.”

  “What about my husband?”

  “That’s a different matter entirely. He was in a fight last night and badly injured two of his cell mates. I can’t release him – the injured parties have recourse against him, and the regulations are clear. I’d advise you to find an attorney to counsel you in this matter. I’m afraid I have to remand him to the main prison for holding, with no bail, as he’s a flight risk.”

  “What? He was in a fight? He must have been attacked.”

  The magistrate shrugged. “The report says he sustained a head injury in the fight, so I wouldn’t dally in securing representation. While we try to care for all our imprisoned, sadly, we lack the resources to do so in every case.” He looked down his nose at her from the bench. “The main prison isn’t a pleasant place, so best not to delay. These matters can usually be speedily resolved.”

  So that was where the extortion came in. She wondered what their fine would have been if Matt hadn’t been attacked. Probably higher for him, because they needed at least one of them to be able to get money transferred so they could pay the other’s fine.

  “Your Honor, I’d like to see him, since he’s injured,” she tried.

  “Yes, I’m sure you would, but that’s not an option.” He banged the gavel again with finality. “Next case, State vs. Montpellier.”

  The guard grabbed her arm, and she took a deep breath to dampen her urge to break the woman’s hand. It would do nobody any good, and she didn’t want to further endanger her daughter. They needed to get her pills as soon as possible so they could finish the antibiotic course in the hopes that the one-day delay hadn’t caused the infection to recur. And she needed to find out how much it was going to cost to free Matt – today, if possible.

  Her mind was racing as they headed back to the jail. He’d been attacked, no question, and it didn’t surprise her that he’d taken his assailants down. That he’d been hurt was the unexpected part, but there was no point dwelling on it. She had to get him out. If the prison was worse than the jail, she couldn’t imagine it, and didn’t want him subjected to any further abuse, especially while injured.

  Jet’s items and cash were returned to her, and she counted every bill before walking over to the courthouse, still with her escorts and Hannah, to pay her fines. Once free, she hurried to the exit with her daughter without another word to anyone. She needed to find a lawyer immediately, but had no idea where to start. Her best hope was that a good hotel might have contact information for someone reputable. And she and Hannah definitely could use a shower.

  A line of taxis waited at the curb. She looked them over skeptically. The lead car was a thirty-year-old Toyota Camry, the second an Isuzu pickup truck with a shell, its exterior festooned with a rainbow of neon-painted colors. A middle-aged islander dropped his cigarette into the gutter and approached her.

  “Taxi?” he asked in French.

  “Yes. I want to go to the best hotel in Port-au-Prince.”

  “That would be The Inn at Villa Antibes.”

  “Fine. Let’s go.”

  Jet opened the Camry door and stopped at a stain on the cloth seats. “What’s that?”

  “Oh. Sorry. The last fare was a mother with three kids. One of them had an accident.”

  “I think we’ll take another cab. No offense.”

  The driver shook his head. “No, no, you can sit up front with me. No problem. Let me move my junk.”

  Jet was unconvinced. “I’m sorry, but–”

  The driver already had the passenger door open and was throwing his bag and book onto the soaked rear seat. “There. See?”

  She sighed. The man probably didn’t see many fares every day and seemed desperate to give them a ride. Against her better judgment, she relented. “Fine.” She gave Hannah a small hug. “Come on, honey. We can both fit in the seat.”

  Once they were on their way, Jet saw the driver’s cell phone in his pocket and she remembered to call Captain Adrian. She asked to use it with the promise of a substantial tip, and he almost crashed in his eagerness to hand it to her. She dialed Adrian’s number and was relieved when he answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Is the boat all fueled up and ready to go?”

&n
bsp; “Who is…oh. You. We’re at the dock, and no, we haven’t taken on fuel yet. Still waiting for money to arrive from headquarters.”

  “Did you get into trouble?”

  “They weren’t happy, but I’m not losing my job, either, so in the end it’s fine.”

  “Don’t leave without us.”

  “I can’t go anywhere right now even if I wanted to.”

  “I’ll be by later to get my stuff. I need my daughter’s meds.”

  “Can’t miss the ship at the dock. Biggest one in the harbor.”

  She hesitated. “Adrian, I wanted to say again how sorry I am.”

  “Que sera, sera. You owe me a drink.”

  “You? Drink?”

  “I’ll see you when I see you.”

  She was interrupted when a motorcycle pulled alongside the driver’s side of the taxi, its loud exhaust drawing her attention. The rider withdrew a compact submachine gun and pointed it at the car. Jet ducked down and screamed a warning at the driver, and then gunshots exploded, shattering the window in a spray of broken safety glass.

  Chapter 44

  Port-au-Prince, Haiti

  Drago stood in line at customs with the rest of the passengers from the Havana flight, his agent having been unsuccessful in securing a charter the prior day. The queue shuffled forward slowly, the immigration staff unmotivated in the heat to do much of anything faster than tortoise speed. When it was Drago’s turn, the uniformed woman paged through his passport, stamped it without comment, and handed it back to him. He smiled fake gratitude at her and checked his watch for the tenth time since landing – every minute he was held up was another that his quarry could escape again, and he was determined not to allow that to happen.

  His agent had contacted another client, a mercenary who had done work in Haiti, who’d put him in touch with a local arms merchant. There was a Beretta 9mm pistol waiting for him to pick up for the giveaway price of twelve hundred dollars. Drago hurried to the taxi stand and gave the driver the address, his patience eroding as the temperature climbed.

  The cab dropped him off in front of a restaurant near the harbor. The exterior was painted Day-Glo colors and advertised “Family Style Island Fare” in English, French, and Spanish. The front door was locked, but opened a crack after he knocked. A boy no older than ten looked him over.

  “Who you?” he asked in English.

  “I’m here for Bobo.”

  “Yeah? Why dat?”

  “He has something for me. I’m Daniel,” Drago said, using his current alias.

  “Dad? Daniel here!” the boy yelled into the darkened interior of the restaurant. Footsteps approached and an older version of the boy filled the door.

  “Come on, then. Got your package in the back, I do.”

  Five minutes later Drago departed, the Beretta in his belt, its butt covered by his loose shirt, as a taxi Bobo had called for him rolled up the dusty street. Drago marveled at the amount of refuse a poor country could produce – judging by the mounds of it clogging both sides of the road, trash collection day took place annually, if that.

  The jail was half a mile away but took forever to get to due to the congested streets, what with every manner of broken-down bicycle and barely running vehicle blocking the way. When they arrived, he paid the driver and jumped out, relieved to be rid of the broiling interior, the car’s climate control having expired around the time Drago was born.

  Drago walked along the path to the jail and veered off at the last moment to an area at the side where two guards were smoking. He tapped out a cigarette from a pack he’d bought in Cuba, mostly out of curiosity to see whether Cuban tobacco really made a difference in the taste, and asked the men for a light. One of the guards leaned forward with a lit match, and Drago took an appreciative puff and nodded.

  “Thanks.”

  He made small talk with the men in English, asking about restaurants and safety, and offered them some of his cigarettes, which they gratefully accepted. Eventually he steered the conversation to their jobs and the inmates.

  “I heard some people were pulled off a boat and brought in yesterday.”

  “Yeah? Where you hear that?”

  “I’m an attorney,” Drago said, as though that answered the question.

  “Oh. Yeah, they was here.”

  “Was?”

  “Two of ’em was released this morning. Third’s gone to tha main jail, he did.”

  “Which one was released? Man or woman?”

  “Oh, the woman. Her and the kid.”

  “Well, that saves a ton of work for me,” Drago said. “Any idea where they went?”

  “No, boss. Gone is gone, you know?”

  He nodded. “I do. Want another cigarette for the road?”

  “Sure.”

  Drago took slow steps back to the street, slowing to fake interest in the display of pirated movies a toothless hag had fanned out atop the world’s filthiest blanket. His worst fears had been realized – the woman had managed to elude him again. Not so Matt, but he was behind bars, safe for the time being from Drago.

  “Tree movies for da price a one, today only,” the vendor tried in English, after an offer in French was met by Drago’s puzzled stare.

  “That’s tempting. Say, where are the big ships here? The cargo boats?”

  She pointed off to her right. “Dey on da harbor, course.”

  “Of course.”

  “You gonna buy something?” Her face took on a conspiratorial expression. “Maybe you like a lil company? Friendly boy or girl? Clean, they are.”

  “I’ll get back to you,” he said, and moved off in the direction she’d indicated, walking slowly in the oppressive heat.

  The Milan wasn’t hard to locate, and Drake did a quick lap of the area around the docks, which were as bleak and filthy as everything else he’d come in contact with since setting foot on the island. What passed for a fishing fleet was moored behind the vessel, and the dirt expanse that fronted the water was empty except for the ever-present trash, a few feral cats rummaging through rotting fish skeletons, and a single-room diner at the far end, servicing the wharf.

  Lacking anywhere else to watch the boat from, he made his way to the diner and sat outside in the shade with a sweating bottle of soda. Other than a few dockworkers shambling along carrying tools, the area was deserted. A lone pelican that looked on its last legs made a slow circling approach. Drago watched as it folded its wings and plunged into the water and then emerged a moment later swallowing its prize. The circle of life and death complete, he thought, and then sat up straighter when an older man wearing a captain’s hat climbed down from the Milan and approached the diner.

  Drago nodded to him, one expat to another, and waited as he went inside and ordered a drink. Drago bided his time, knowing the heat inside would drive the man out soon enough, and didn’t have to wait long before he reappeared with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

  “Want a light?” Drago asked in English, and the man nodded. Drago obliged with the lighter he’d purchased from the shopkeeper, and the man sat at a table nearby. “Hot enough for you?” Drago asked, sipping his Coke.

  “Scorcher,” the man agreed.

  “You crew on that rig?”

  “Captain.”

  “Oh. Don’t see many like that around here. Lose a bet?”

  “Problems. Had to find a port. This was closest.”

  “Well, hope it gets fixed soon.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Where were you headed?”

  “Cuba.”

  “Really? I’ve never been. What’s it like?”

  “Ten times cleaner than this.”

  “That’s not saying much, is it?” Drago rose and held out his hand. “Name’s Daniel.”

  “Adrian. What are you doing here?”

  “Writing an article on Haiti. Usual suffering human-interest stuff.”

  “Oh. Sure.”

  Drago lit one of his own cigarettes a
nd nodded at the Milan. “How many crew does a boat like yours use?”

  “Dozen to twenty, usually. Sometimes more. Depends.”

  “That doesn’t seem like a lot.”

  “The big container ships and tankers use even fewer. Doesn’t make sense that the larger they are, the less crew’s required, but there you go. A lot of stuff is automated these days.”

  “That’s interesting. And passengers?”

  Adrian hesitated. “Usually only cargo. Bananas. Dry goods. That sort of thing.”

  “Oh. Another guy, maybe one of your crew, said you had passengers this trip. This ordeal has to be rough for them.”

  Adrian didn’t say anything for a long beat. “One of my crew told you that? What did he look like?”

  “I thought he was crew. Kind of short. Dark skin. Don’t remember his name.”

  The captain finished his beer. “Couldn’t have been one of mine. Nobody’s been off the ship.” He sniffed and pushed his chair back. “Funny you’ve never been to Cuba. I’d recognize a Cohiba cigarette anywhere. Very distinctive aroma. Didn’t realize they exported them.”

  “Yeah, there’s a shop in town that sells all kinds. Probably get them cheap because we’re so close here.”

  “Could be.” Adrian straightened and tossed his bottle into the trash.

  “Captain Adrian, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Captain, I’ve got a pistol leveled at you under this shirt. I really don’t want to blow a hole in you big enough to put my fist through, which the hollow-point slugs it’s loaded with will, but if you don’t do exactly as I say, I’ll have no choice. Do you understand?” Drago lifted his shirt so Adrian could see the gun.

  Adrian’s face went pale. “I don’t have much money on me.”

  “That’s okay. I do. But that’s not what I’m after.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you to take a walk along the water with me.”

  Adrian looked confused. “Why?”

  “Because I want to talk to you, and I don’t want anyone to overhear us,” Drago said, standing.