JET - Escape: (Volume 9) (6 page)

Viega was frozen, and for an instant Fernanda could see the fear in his eyes. It was then that she knew he would agree.

When Viega trudged back up the street to the waiting officers, his shoulders were hunched and he was a different man than the arrogant official who’d met with them.

Ramón glanced at Fernanda and then at the dash clock. “It will be more than an hour. We both know that,” he said. “Perhaps two, just to get our hands on the monk.”

“Yes, but once we have him, it shouldn’t take too long.”

Ramón studied her as he started the big motor. “There’s a building nearby we can use.” He paused. “Are you sure you’re comfortable doing this?”

Fernanda smiled, genuinely amused by his question. “I live for it.”

Chapter 7

Cúcuta, Colombia

Jet and Matt watched Oliveros’ truck rumble away after it dropped them on the outskirts of the border city. Hannah was snuffling, having spent much of the trip crying; her temperature had slowly climbed as they worked their way toward Cúcuta, which had taken longer than they’d thought. Jet looked at her watch – it was already ten p.m. Engine problems had afflicted the truck when it hit high altitude crossing the Andes, and they’d spent three hours by the roadside as Oliveros worked on the carburetor, eventually succeeding in coaxing it back to life.

Matt scanned the surprisingly modern buildings.

“At least we aren’t in the boonies anymore,” he said. “It should be easier to stay anonymous here than in a one-horse town.”

“You’d think so, but so far our luck hasn’t been running that way, has it?”

Matt shook his head. “No, unfortunately it hasn’t. Somebody wants us pretty badly, don’t they? I’ve been thinking about it all day. It has to be related to Tara and the diamonds. If I’m right, you’re only in danger because you’re with me…”

“You’re guessing, and I already told you we’re not splitting up, so that’s not up for discussion.” Jet bounced Hannah gently against her hip as she held her. “Let’s find someplace for the night.”

They set off down a large boulevard and passed a shopping center, the only cars in the lot presumably those of the security guards and cleaning crew. At a busy intersection, Jet flagged down a taxi and asked the driver to take them to the downtown area.

He eyed her doubtfully as she slid into the rear seat. “It’s dangerous at this hour,” he warned.

“Our hotel lost the reservation. We need someplace inexpensive and quiet,” she explained.

“Oh, in that case, there are several near the cathedral. But I wouldn’t go for an evening stroll.”

“We weren’t planning on it.”

The drive took five minutes and went by in silence, other than Hannah’s occasional mewl. The driver dropped them in front of the church, and after telling them where the hotels were, left them standing on a crumbling sidewalk, the only pedestrians on the street.

“Which one you want to try?” Jet asked.

Matt shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me. Something with two exits, though, just in case.”

The first hotel was unsuitable – a three-story colonial building with only a front entrance. The second was better – single-story sprawl, a line of units in bungalows built around a parking area. Jet handled the transaction in the office while Matt waited out of sight with Hannah, and soon they were in the room, which was spare, but serviceable. Jet laid Hannah on one of the two beds while Matt went to the bathroom and wet a hand towel to put on her forehead.

“She’s definitely feverish,” Jet reported. “We need to get to the clinic first thing tomorrow.”

“We can always try the hospital.”

Jet shook her head. “Can’t risk it. We’ve come too far to screw up at this point with a document check.”

“Then it’s aspirin, plenty of water, and rest.” Matt checked the time. “Think any markets will be open at this hour? I’m not sure I trust the tap water.”

“I’ll ask at the office.”

“No, I’ll go. You stay here with Hannah. A woman on the street at this time of night, alone…would be begging for it.”

Jet gazed down at her daughter, the towel soothing her, her eyes closed against the dim light in the room. “No, the hotel people think it’s only me staying here, so you can’t suddenly appear, asking for directions.” She moved to the door. “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”

Matt laughed. “Armed and dangerous. I don’t like the odds of anyone trying to mug you.”

“Let’s hope the local criminal element shows better sense than that.”

The woman at the office directed her to a market two blocks away, and she hurried along the sidewalk, her strides long and fluid, covering a lot of ground though she seemed to move normally. The exercise felt good after being crammed into the truck for fourteen hours, and she made it to the shop in a few minutes.

The shopkeeper sold her four one-liter bottles of water and a container of Gatorade for Hannah, along with a collection of candy bars and chips – the only packaged food in the store – and she set off back to the hotel, anxious to get back to her daughter.

At the corner a low-slung sedan with a burbling muffler rolled to a stop next to her, and a face leered from the half-lowered passenger window.

“Hey, Mami. You looking for some action?” a pimply-faced youth called to her.

Jet ignored him and continued walking.

“Come on, sugar. Don’t be that way,” the punk tried again.

Jet’s instinct told her to keep her pace measured and stay quiet. Most troublemakers who were stupid enough to say anything wanted attention, not conflict. Then again, if he got out of the car, she’d be forced to take action. He wouldn’t unless he planned to assault her – which would be the last thing he ever tried.

The driver muttered an insult and the car pulled off with a screech of rubber. Jet continued walking, her breathing measured, her heart rate relaxed. The pair of toughs had just made the smartest decision of their lives, although they couldn’t know how close they’d come.

Jet didn’t tell Matt about the near miss, preferring to remain quiet when she reentered the hotel room. Hannah was awake, and Jet’s heart lurched when she saw Matt sitting by the bedside, holding the little girl’s hand, blotting her head with the towel.

“I brought you something,” Jet said as she approached.

Hannah managed a weak smile. “Hot,” she said, her voice hoarse.

“Yes, you’re sick. Drink this all gone and you’ll feel better,” Jet instructed as Matt moved away from the bed to make room for her.

Hannah drained the entire bottle of Gatorade but waved off the junk food. Jet and Matt exchanged a worried look. For Hannah to turn down candy…

Jet tried a smile. “All right, darling. We’re going to take you to the doctor tomorrow and make you all better. Try to get some sleep, okay?”

Hannah nodded and closed her eyes.

When she was resting quietly, Matt joined Jet at a small wooden table near the only window. She whispered to him as they eyed Hannah. “I’m going to take a shower. Will you be heartbroken if I sleep with her tonight, instead of you?”

Matt gave her a tired grin. “I’m flattered you have such faith in my stamina after two nights with no shut-eye.”

“I figure it never hurts to play to your ego.”

“Can I have a rain check? I feel like a zombie right now.”

“Of course.”

Matt brushed a lock of hair from Hannah’s hot, dry forehead. “What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“We take her to the clinic. Hopefully it’s nothing. Kids get sick all the time, and her immune system is probably low with all the stress and sleepless nights.”

“And then? How do we cross the border without bringing the wrath of the entire Colombian and Venezuelan military down on us?”

Jet shrugged. “I’ll do some research in the morning once I can get online. But one thing at a time – first we see to Hannah, and then we’ll think of something. We always do.” She turned back to Matt and tiptoed to kiss him softly. “You’re a good man, Matt.”

“You deserve better. I’m lucky to have you.”

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “There might be room for two in the shower.”

Matt held up his cast. “The doctor said to avoid getting it wet.”

“Then we’ll have to be careful.”

Chapter 8

Medellín, Colombia

Drago sat in the back of a neighborhood bar near the edge of the renovated old town, waiting for a return call. He nursed a warming beer that had been on the table for a half hour and took in the shabby crowd of workers and lower-middle-class men sharing the watering hole with him. Though they grew increasingly loud and boisterous as the night wore on, he nonetheless felt at home among them – hiding in plain sight.

He’d called his agent, fed him the details of Mosises’ cartel, and asked for some assistance from the client, whose resources were massive and whose reach was global. That had been hours ago, and after circulating through Medellín’s seedier boroughs in fruitless search of information, he’d decided to wait for the agent to contact him again.

When the phone buzzed, he took a pull on his beer, forcing himself to wait until it had rung four times. It was the little things that served as giveaways, and it wouldn’t do to appear to be too anxious.

Drago answered, and his agent’s familiar voice purred in his ear.

“I did as you asked. The client agreed to flex some muscles and just called back. They have located the new cell phone registered to the maid of one of your men, but judging by the traffic on it, she’s no ordinary housekeeper.”

“Really,” Drago said, unsurprised that the NSA would be able to pinpoint a cell in Colombia within a matter of hours.

“She’s on the phone an average of six hours a day. Spread out over twelve hours. So it’s a safe bet she’s the front for your man’s comm system with the cartel.”

Registering cell phones to maids, drivers, gardeners, and the like was a time-honored tradition for cartel honchos in both Colombia and Mexico. “Which one is it?” Drago asked.

“Renaldo.”

“Ah. Where is he?”

The agent gave him an address whose location Drago knew from experience. “That’s a whorehouse.”

“I don’t judge. Although it’s hardly surprising that a drug kingpin might enjoy a bit of slap and tickle, is it?”

“Can they intercept his calls and messaging?”

“Negative.”

“I thought they could do anything.”

“This model phone requires a piece of malware to be downloaded to it in order for anyone to bypass the latest Korean security technology.”

“Then what good is knowing he’s in the whorehouse?” Drago fumed.

“I’ve sent you a link where you can download the malware worm. If you can get your hands on the phone, you can load it from your device onto his, and presto.”

“And I would do that how?”

“With a micro-cable. The instructions are in the email I sent to the usual address. Read it, download the program, and best of luck. If he moves from the whorehouse, I’ll call you back.”

“How do I intercept the calls or the messages?”

“You define where you want them forwarded, and it does so in the background without leaving a trace. It’s like a Trojan horse. Invisible to the user, but you can either listen in or read along, anonymously. Law enforcement uses it all the time.”

Drago hung up and quickly finished his drink. He was only a few minutes from his apartment, where he could get his notebook computer and the cable and be on his way in seconds. What could prove to be more difficult would be locating Renaldo inside the brothel, and then getting to his phone without being discovered.

A refreshing challenge after days of tedium. He hated information gathering, which always seemed like a waste of his time and talents – a necessary evil in his vocation, but uninspiring even under the best of circumstances.

He paid for his beer and slipped out of the bar, just another unfortunate local who’d numbed the worst of the pain for the day and was returning home. As he walked in the crisp high-altitude air, a headache that had been lingering for the last day suddenly worsened, and he sucked in breath as the sidewalk seemed to tilt. He reached out to steady himself against a building until the spell passed. He resumed walking, his pace slower now, and the crude outline of a plan began to form in his mind.

The good news was that the whorehouse Renaldo had chosen was a refurbished colonial mansion in the old section of town, not a defended complex somewhere Drago would have to get past a dozen gunmen. This was a better situation, in that if he was successful, Renaldo would never suspect that Drago was listening to his every word – and right now, the cartel finding Matt and his companions was Drago’s only shot.

Drago stopped at his apartment to collect the necessary gear as well as a sound-suppressed Ruger with the serial numbers filed off and two magazines of subsonic ammunition that would make hardly more noise than a champagne bottle popping open. He gulped down three aspirin and dropped the box in his pocket, and then stepped out onto the street and took a taxi to within a block of the whorehouse.

After wandering apparently aimlessly for a few minutes to confirm he hadn’t picked up a tail, he covered the rest of the distance on foot. A knock at the ancient door brought a hatchet-faced man in a deep purple suit with a black shirt and matching tie. After a brief discussion, the doorman stepped back so Drago could come in.

He hadn’t visited the brothel in almost half a year and didn’t recognize anyone but the doorman. The bar downstairs in what had once been the mansion’s living room held several dozen young women of varying degrees of beauty, some with skin so light it was almost translucent, others with dusky caramel complexions. Drago ordered a vodka and tonic and swept the room with his gaze, his laptop bag still hanging from his shoulder with the pistol and notebook hidden inside.

A stunning example of Colombian womanhood clad only in black stockings, a garter belt, a thong, and a skimpy top sidled up to him. The aroma of cinnamon and vanilla announced her arrival, and when she smiled, her teeth shone as white as polar ice.