Survival (11 page)

“Is there any way I can borrow your phone? I have to call my wife and let her know what happened. She’s probably going frantic right now.”

Hannah’s small face poked out of the tent with a rustle, and everyone turned to her. The fisherman eyed her and turned back to Matt. “How old?”

“Two and a half.”

“Mine are one and two. Both boys,” he said with evident pride. “Strong, like their father.”

“We’ve had a pretty rough day,” Matt said, rubbing his face with a tired hand.

The fisherman handed Matt a small, cheap cell phone, the kind sold in convenience stores for next to nothing.

“Thank you.” Matt held out his hand. “I’m Tom,” he said, using one of the names on the three passports in his bag.

“My name’s Luis,” the fisherman said.

“Nice to meet you, Luis.” He stared at the tiny screen. “What’s the nearest town that anyone would have heard of?”

“Oh, maybe Quibdó. But it’s not that close. Maybe sixty-five, seventy kilometers northwest, on the Atrato River.”

“Quibdó?” Matt repeated, the word unfamiliar to his tongue.

Luis smiled at Matt’s attempt. “That’s right.”

Matt dialed Jet’s cell number and listened intently. The line crackled and popped with static, and when the ringing sounded, it was a distorted warble. It went to voice mail, and his mouth tightened into a thin line as he listened to the generic message informing him that the phone was unavailable. He waited for the beep and left his message in English.

“Change of plans. Someone tried to get us. We had to take a lifeboat to shore. Which means they probably know about the fishing boat.” He checked his watch. “Be careful. Hannah’s fine. We’re going to try to make it to the nearest town. It’s called Quibdó. On the Atrato River. But it’s seventy kilometers from here, and it doesn’t sound like there’s an easy way to get there, so that plan might change. My sat phone’s DOA, but leave a message on the voice mail and I’ll call in remotely and check.” He paused, thinking about what else to say. “We were double-crossed. Get to Colombia. We’ll meet up and decide what to do next.”

Matt punched the call off and held it up. “Can I make one more call? I’ll pay for them, of course.”

Luis’s face relaxed. He was clearly worried about the cost of the calls, which made sense. Matt had no idea what a fisherman made in the wilds of Colombia, but he suspected it wasn’t much. The irony that everyone now had cell phones, even if they were dirt-poor farmers in the middle of nowhere, wasn’t lost on him. The world was a vastly different place than it had been when he was growing up. “Of course.”

Matt dialed the sat phone number and entered the code that would allow him to access the voice mail. He listened to the messages, all from Jet, his stomach sinking when he heard her message for Hannah, and then erased them. There was no point in dwelling on how unfair it was that they were again on the run from unknown pursuers. They were, and they would persevere, as they always did.

He handed the phone back to Luis and felt in his pocket for the damp wad of dollars there. He always kept smaller bills on the outside, which made it easy to find a five-dollar bill for the fisherman.

Luis’s eyes widened when Matt gave him the money, and an idea occurred to Matt. He looked Luis up and down and then turned to Hannah and smiled before returning his attention to the fisherman.

“Luis, I won’t lie to you. My little girl is scared and tired, and we’re in real trouble out here. The boat’s gone, destroyed in the storm, and we need help. Maybe we can work something out where you help us get to safety and I make it worth your while, instead of you fishing for a few dollars’ worth of catch tonight?”

Luis looked at his friends and then turned to Matt. “Anything’s possible. What do you have in mind?”

Chapter 16

Puerto de Vacamonte, Panama

Jet watched her adversaries running along the waterfront, any pretensions of subterfuge now abandoned. She counted five including the man on the boat, which was manageable, she thought. The problem was how to get out of the water and to her bag without being seen. She was now by the boatyard ramp, having swum fifty yards into the harbor to a cluster of moored vessels from the fishing boat, instead of returning along the pier as they’d probably expect, and cut over to another group of moored boats.

Three of the five men were walking along the pier, carefully watching the surrounding water, validating her instinct. They weren’t that good, or it would have occurred to them that she might have done the unexpected and wasn’t trying to make it to shore by the dock at all.

She closed her eyes and saw a map of the harbor in her mind’s eye. The only sure way to escape without being a sitting duck involved a tremendous amount of effort on her part, but she could see no alternative. Resigned to having to swim a while, she pushed off from the boats and pulled herself through the warm water toward the surge at the harbor mouth. Nobody would expect her to exit the harbor and swim around the exterior of the long breakwater, which is why that was exactly what she would do.

It took her twenty minutes to swim the quarter mile to the harbor mouth against the incoming tide, and then another fifteen to make it to the point on the other side of the breakwater. She hauled herself out of the water and sat catching her breath, dripping in the muggy heat that had only slightly cooled since the sun had set. She eyed her watch and, aware of the passage of time and that it was working against her, forced herself to her feet.

She jogged down the beach, keeping low, and when she made it to the entry road, she crouched behind a clump of plants, listening for signs of pursuit. The men were all at the waterfront, their attention focused on where she’d try to exit the water, but that wouldn’t last forever. She needed to get to her bag and shoes, change into something dry, and vanish before they called in reinforcements or wised up to the possibility that she’d taken the road less traveled.

After several minutes watching for signs of life, she darted across the road. The gravel sent sharp spikes of agony through the bare soles of her feet. She ignored the stinging and powered up the hill until she reached the bunker, and wasted no time changing and donning her shoes. Her feet were bleeding, but there was nothing to be done about it right then. She kept her eyes on the wharf and the men working their way along the shore, refusing to be distracted by physical discomfort.

Done, she field-stripped the pistol she’d taken from the dead man, dried it with a T-shirt, and inspected the bullets. It was a Glock 19, so was no worse for wear in the short term from the sea water, and the bullets appeared fine, so they should fire. Satisfied that she had a viable weapon, she reassembled the gun and stuck it in her waistband.

After another glance at the harbor, she slung her bag over her shoulder and eyed her rental car in the far lot. It would pose a problem for her – the passport and driver’s license she’d used to rent it would be compromised if she left it there. It was only a matter of time until it was traced. She hated to lose one of her precious identities, but she could always buy more. She didn’t see any alternative and ignored the pang of regret over the gifts that her little girl would never see.

She clamped her eyes shut and sighed. Toys were the least of her problems. Her daughter and Matt were missing, and…possibly…she didn’t want to think about it. The idea that whoever was after her had killed them chilled her blood and drained her will to go on. No good could come from that kind of speculation, so she drove the negative thoughts from her mind and focused on the immediate.

Whatever had happened, she first needed to get clear of her pursuers, and then she could formulate a plan. Right now she was still in the lion’s den. Objective number one was to escape, and then she’d figure out what to do about Hannah and Matt. She couldn’t afford the luxury of speculation or recriminations.

Jet scanned the harbor surroundings through the binoculars, and when she was satisfied that the men were far enough from the main road that she could make a break for it, she bolted from her hiding place and ran down the hill. There was nobody on the road, no lights or movement, and she crossed to the ocean side and set out, paralleling the strip of asphalt that led into the town. She wasn’t sure what she would do when she got there, but she’d wing it once she was safely away from the harbor.

Her pace settled into a comfortable jog that she could keep up for hours. Lances of pain shot through her feet, reminding her of the inadvisability of her earlier barefoot slog. She ignored the discomfort and concentrated on getting as far as she could from the waterfront. A glance at her watch told her that it had been an hour since she’d been spotted, but she felt safer with every yard she put between herself and the harbor.

She regretted not being able to extract any information from the man she’d killed, but circumstances had dictated that she dispatch him quickly. It would have been nice to learn who was after her and why, but in the end it changed nothing – whoever it was had learned about Matt and Hannah, and had either done away with them or transferred them to another boat before the
Paloma
had entered the harbor.

Jet passed a cluster of beach homes, some with lights still burning, most dark, and continued to drive herself, keeping her stride fluid as she ran on the sand. Once past the homes the shore veered right, toward Panama City, and she left the beach and continued along the road to town.

Her breathing burned in her lungs as she rounded a gentle bend. She blinked sweat out of her eyes and stopped when she saw the red and blue strobing glow of police roof lights. Up ahead on the road two squad cars were parked across the lanes, creating a roadblock.

She squinted in the darkness, thanking Providence for the overcast that blanketed the shore, making her all but invisible in the gloom, through which she could just make out four officers leaning against the hoods, chatting.

A car approached from the harbor and pulled to a stop as she inched along the shore, not thirty yards from the roadblock. Jet stuck to the clumps of plants growing along the beach, moving from shadow to shadow. When she was past the cars, she heard one of the cops talking to the driver.

“Have you seen this woman on the road or at the harbor?”

A pause. Another voice, presumably the driver, answered. “No. Why? What’s she done?”

“Murder. She’s considered armed and dangerous. Be careful. If you see anything suspicious, call emergency.”

“Murder! Anyone who works at the harbor? I run the restaurant there…”

“No. It’s not someone from around here. But that’s all I can say. Drive slowly.”

Jet cursed her luck. The police asking if anyone had seen her meant they had a photograph. That was bad enough, but that whoever was after her had the juice to get the authorities involved told her that she was in worse trouble than she’d thought. And that they’d linked her to the murder…Panama was a small country. They’d be watching the border to Costa Rica, that being the natural direction to escape. And of course the airports and bus stations. Probably the large ports, too, in case she tried to charter a boat.

She’d seen enough. Jet began moving north again, but stopped when she heard bodies moving through the jungle no more than thirty yards ahead.

She held completely still and heard more twigs snapping. There was definitely someone there. Probably more than just one if it was the cops.

Voices reached her. Male. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but whatever it was probably wasn’t good for her. The police had obviously not contented themselves with blocking the road and had put patrols along the jungle perimeter in case she tried to slip by.

Her hand reached for the Glock, her pulse thudding in her ears. Taking out however many cops were in the jungle would pose no challenge, but there was no way she’d be able to outrun a radio. A gun battle would draw a small army to her, seriously complicating her escape.

She’d have to try to evade the patrols. It was the only way.

She just hoped that they hadn’t brought dogs. If they had, she was dead meat.

Jet edged along the faint trail she’d been following, ears straining in the near complete darkness for any hint of where the patrol now was. If she’d had night vision gear, it would have been no contest, but without any she was exposed, and it was entirely possible that the police did have NV goggles. In fact, more than possible. Probable.

She glanced around and spied a promising tree behind her. Jet pulled her bag’s strap tight across her chest and took in the geometry of the trunk and low branches. Her only hope was that if she couldn’t slip past the patrol, she could outwait it and go unnoticed as it moved beyond her.

Jet took a deep breath and ran at the tree. Two steps up the vertical shaft and she pushed off, her body suspended for milliseconds in the air, and then her hands gripped one of the thick lower branches and she used her momentum to swing her legs, once, twice, and then up.

The patrol passed below her ten minutes later. Three policemen toting submachine guns, all wearing night vision gear. She held perfectly still, not daring to breathe as the men moved past her position – none of them looked up, as she’d hoped. She knew that in the dark like this, their instinct would be to keep their eyes on the brush – that was where any threats would come from.

Jet gave the patrol five minutes to continue toward the harbor and then dropped soundlessly in a crouch on the damp ground, the grass cushioning the sound of her landing. After another glance at the time she resumed her push toward town.

Once safely away from the police, she picked up her pace and ran through the brush, ignoring the branches slapping against her as she neared Vacamonte. Fortunately for her, the cops hadn’t stationed more men along the road, figuring that she’d never get by the roadblock or the patrols.

Another misjudgment that worked in her favor.

She came to a planned development of cheap row houses, graffiti marring half the exteriors, and slowed, eyeing the sad collection of corroding vehicles lining the dark street. At the second block she spotted what she was after and moved like a phantom between the streetlights to the motorcycle she’d seen.