JET - Escape: (Volume 9) (5 page)

The owner, Isaac, a forty-something geek with five days of salt-and-pepper grizzle on his lean face, his sparse beard compensating for the thinning sprigs of hair atop his egg-shaped head, looked up from his position at the bar. Isaac was a fixture in the restaurant, which prospered in spite of him rather than due to his throwback musical stylings and lackluster menu. Framed flyers behind him announced raves from decades earlier, featuring Isaac in his incarnation as DJ Ice – a period when the young man had transitioned from being a nerdy shut-in wannabe who wore black at all times and for whom the forgettable music of androgynous Brits was a kind of gospel, into a semipopular Medellín club DJ who had enjoyed a decade-long run in the nineties.

Drago knew Isaac had taken his savings, mostly accumulated from his inheritance when his parents died, and opened the restaurant as a kind of shrine to his glory years, a place where the music of Flock of Seagulls and The Cure was always blaring and the good old days had never faded. At least that was his vision. The result had proved to be less than popular as diners objected to the din, especially so when complaints were universally met by an indignant Isaac inviting them to find the door if they didn’t enjoy his theme. He seemed uniquely blind to the effect his attitude had on business, and was now the lord of a kind of musical purgatory, forced to augment his income by dealing psychedelics and ecstasy, and acting as a repository for rumors and trends in the Colombian underworld.

“
Hola
, Isaac. How goes it?” Drago asked as he walked across the empty black and white tiled barroom floor to where Isaac stood, stork-like, his eyes slightly bugging out of his ferret face, looking for all the world like a guilty child molester – which wasn’t far from the truth, Drago suspected.

“Ah, you know. Fighting the battles. Doing what I must to survive.” Isaac lowered a headset he’d been using to queue up the next set of songs remotely and smiled humorlessly at Drago. “What can I get you?”

“Bottle of water and a shot of Jack,” Drago said, waiting for the expected outraged response, which wasn’t long in coming.

“
I. Don’t. Sell. Water
. That’s a scam. I have purified water in a glass. No bottles. Clean as anything the megacorporations peddle. Cleaner, actually.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot. Then a
glass
of water and a shot of Jack.”

Isaac cared passionately about some unusual things. The first time Drago had dined at the restaurant he’d been chastised by Isaac when he’d asked for a bottle of water – a staple anywhere else in Latin America, but not so on Isaac’s turf. The experience had secretly amused him to the point where he asked for one whenever he came for a drink, always with the same result. Isaac’s lack of self-awareness was stunning to Drago, and he never tired of twisting that knife.

Isaac slapped a shot glass onto the bar and poured it to the top with bourbon, and then went to a cooler by the side and poured a glass of water. When he returned, Drago grinned humorlessly and toasted him.

“So what have you heard? You called?”

Isaac had phoned Drago that afternoon and told him to come by. He’d refused to talk on the phone, which was par for the course with them both.

“Yeah. It may not be related, or it might be.”

Drago nodded and drained half the Jack. This was the usual gibberish preamble he knew he’d have to tolerate before Isaac spat out whatever he’d heard. “I understand.”

“There was a big shoot-out last night. South of here.” Isaac lowered his voice, even though the bar was empty at the early hour. “They say Mosises’ son, Jaime, was killed.”

“Mosises?” Drago knew the name. Everyone in Medellín knew it, but he played dumb, forcing Isaac to talk. The more he spoke, the better Drago could evaluate how much of his account was lies.

“Head of the cartel that runs the area. Ruthless. His son, Jaime, had been the face guy for years, but Mosises built it from nothing, and he’s still the power behind it.”

“What does that have to do with the people I’m looking for?”

“Maybe nothing. But the rumor from my sources in the police is that there was a woman involved.”

Drago’s eyes narrowed. “Involved how?”

Isaac looked away. “I don’t know. Just that a woman was part of the fight. This comes third hand.”

“Any description?”

“Not really. You know how that works. But this is where it gets really interesting: there was also a male shooter with a broken hand. A gringo. You mentioned your guy had one, right?”

Drago held Isaac’s stare. “I might have.”

“Word on the street is that Mosises is looking for them. But that’s all I have.”

“Bullshit. What does that mean, word on the street? You’re either looking or you aren’t.”

“It’s weird. Just a few whispers. I tried to find out more, but it dried up. Seems like only the top dogs in the Mosises cartel know what’s going on. They’re on red alert now that Jaime’s taking the dirt nap.”

Drago nodded again. Of course they would be. Information in this case was power. When a major crime figure went down, everyone’s position in the organization was in question. Drago expected Mosises’ operation was no different, which meant that getting more details was going to be difficult, if not impossible. He could find someone and torture them, but they’d have to be pretty high in Mosises’ crew to know anything, and it sounded like right now the cartel was where Drago was: looking for phantoms.

“Who’s next in line for Jaime’s spot?” Drago asked.

“There are a number of contenders. Two nephews – Felix and Ramón. A cousin: Renaldo. Those are the main ones. Then there’s Paulo and Estéban, but they’re not as tight, at least as far as I know.”

Drago chewed on the information for a while and then slipped a hundred-dollar bill to Isaac. “That’s for the water.” He slid another four hundred folded tightly. “And the drink.”

“If I’d have known you were willing to pay those kinds of rates, I’d have offered you the bottle. You like the new girl working the door? She can be arranged.” Isaac winked conspiratorially. “I hear she’s a virgin.”

Drago smiled. “I’m sure she is, every night.”

Isaac laughed, and then his face grew serious. “I’ll call if I hear anything more.”

Drago made for the beaded curtain as The Cult’s “Love Removal Machine” blasted over the speakers. He waved nonchalantly, unwilling to display his excitement at the lead, and called out to Isaac over his shoulder as he exited.

“Do that.”

Chapter 6

Santuario, Colombia

Fernanda paced outside the crime-scene tape draped from wooden poles encircling the tram station at the base of the monastery hill, Ramón by her side. “How is it possible that the police still don’t know how they escaped? Or where they went?” she seethed.

“You know everything I do. They’ve been interrogating the monks all day, but there’s a practical limit to the amount of leverage the police can exert. They’re cooperating, but their stories are basically the same. It all happened fast. Nobody had any idea what was going on, then the lights went out, and then there was shooting…” Ramón shook his head. “Our man will be down shortly. He’s stepped in and is now overseeing the investigation. The locals aren’t up to the challenge, and they were eager to hand it off.”

“Who is he?”

“Alberto Viega. Captain. From Medellín. The federal police have taken over the case, and he’s the top official in that group who handles fieldwork.”

“You had a hand in him getting involved?”

Ramón smiled slightly. “Let’s just say that he took an immediate interest once he heard that Mosises’ son had been murdered.”

Fernanda looked around. There were several dozen officers of various stripes loitering near the base of the monastery, and at least fifty more up top, she knew from Ramón’s reports. If the ones above were as useful as these, they might as well be deaf and blind. Nobody was getting anything done, and every minute that went by was another advantage for her quarry. “When can I talk to him? Privately?” she snapped.

Ramón shrugged. “He said shortly. That was twenty minutes ago.”

“What about the equipment I requested?” Fernanda asked.

“We’re working on it.”

“But you can get it?”

“Of course. But if you don’t mind me saying so, some of it’s rather…I mean, it seems like hunting squirrels with heavy artillery.”

Fernanda’s expression was stony. “You don’t need to understand my methods.”

“I meant no disrespect.”

Fernanda softened. Ramón was about her age, certainly no older, and wasn’t the enemy. “I’m sorry. I haven’t slept in two days, my…friend…was killed by these people only a couple of nights ago…I didn’t mean to bite your head off.”

“Maybe you should get a few hours of rest? Nothing happens quickly in Colombia.”

“Right. So I’ve heard. But I need to accelerate things. We’re losing them – they could be anywhere by now.”

“Well, not really. I mean, in theory, yes, but there are roadblocks in place, and the police have mobilized and are on the lookout for anyone suspicious…”

“Suspicious. But you haven’t circulated the woman’s photo or the description of the man?”

“No. Mosises feels it would be ill-advised. He’s the boss.”

“I suppose I have to agree with him, to a point. These are professionals. Our best odds lie in tracking them from their escape point, not shotgunning out a description and hoping for the best. Besides, if some local cop runs across them and tries to take them, they’ll kill him in seconds, and then any element of surprise we have will be lost.”

“You still believe they’ll make for one of the borders?”

“Think about it. They’re in a strange country. Being pursued. They were just involved in a minor war here. Wouldn’t you want out as soon as possible?”

“Sure, but it’s not as easy as it sounds. We’ve put word out at all the ports along the Caribbean and Pacific coasts, and if strangers start nosing around for passage north, we’ll know in seconds. And we have people watching the airports – Mosises has clout there. He agreed to circulate their description among the airport security force and the immigration people, so the borders are effectively locked down. They try to get on a plane, we’ll be all over them.”

“They could charter one. They wouldn’t be stupid enough to try to fly commercial. There’s no chance they make a mistake like that. These people are smart. And they’ve got skills. As a half dozen of your best cartel badasses lying dead up there should tell you.”

“The only thing left are the land routes, and we’re watching those, too.”

“Borders can be porous.”

“True, but these aren’t superhighways we’re talking. And there aren’t a hundred crossing points – only three. Easy enough to watch them.”

She frowned and peered up at the monastery. “So far, nothing about this has been easy.”

The cable car station began humming as the overhead cables fed through giant metal wheels. Moments later the car arrived from above, and four men hopped down from it, two in uniform, two wearing civilian clothes. Ramón turned and touched Fernanda’s elbow. “Come on. Let’s go for a walk,” he whispered. “Viega will join us when he can.”

Fernanda allowed him to lead her down the hill to where the vehicles were parked. He unlocked the doors to his SUV and moved to the driver’s seat. “Get in.”

“Are you sure he’ll join us?”

“Hundred percent.”

They didn’t have to wait long. Three minutes later a figure emerged from the shadows and climbed into the rear seat. Ramón twisted toward him. “This is a friend of mine, Fernanda.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Viega said, taking her hand in his, maintaining the contact just a little too long.

“I’m helping our acquaintance in this sad time,” Fernanda said, hoping the reminder of Mosises would force the inspector’s attention back to business. It worked, because Viega released her, any trace of good humor gone.

“Here’s where we stand,” he said. “We’ve been through the complex with a fine-toothed comb, we’ve interviewed everyone in triplicate – and other than a handful of bodies, some of them shot with an old crossbow, we’ve got nothing. Nobody knows who the man and woman were, nobody knows what they were doing at the monastery…” Viega snorted in frustration. “Nobody knows anything.”

“That’s impossible,” Fernanda said.

“Yes, but knowing and proving are two different things, and there are limits to how hard we can push the priests.”

“Why?” Fernanda asked quietly.

Viega hesitated. “Because they’re…they’re holy men, young lady. That affords a certain protection.”

“Not from me, it doesn’t.” Fernanda turned in her seat to fix Viega with a cold stare. “Who’s your most promising lead?”

“There’s one monk I think knows more than he’s letting on. He’s polite, answers all our questions, but the others defer to him, and I get the sense he’s leaving a lot out. His name’s Franco.”

“I want him,” Fernanda said. “Now would be good.”

“I…I can’t just haul him somewhere and let you go to work on him,” Viega protested.

Fernanda’s eyes glittered like obsidian in the faint light. “You can, and you will.”

Viega shook his head. “I don’t know who you think you are, but this meeting is over,” he said, reaching for the door handle.

Ramón cleared his throat. “I understand your reluctance. But these are unusual circumstances. Mosises will be most unhappy to learn that you could have assisted us but chose not to. Most. Unhappy,” Ramón said, over-enunciating each syllable.

The blood drained from Viega’s face. “There are limits. Even for me.”

“No, there aren’t,” Ramón corrected. “There are only limits to what you’re willing to do for us. Let me frame it another way. If you don’t bring this Franco to the location of our choosing within the hour, I’m going to make a call that will almost certainly ruin your life. Alternatively, you’ll cooperate, and at the end of it, you’ll walk away a wealthy enough man so nobody will dare touch you, and with Mosises’ full backing. I think you understand what that means. Worst case, a priest dies of a heart attack while helping the authorities with their investigation. It’s unfortunate, but is certainly plausible. Some won’t be happy, but their protests won’t amount to much. Whereas you will have your every fantasy realized. To me it’s not a hard choice, but it’s not mine to make.”