Survival (21 page)

Igor gave them five minutes to get settled and then followed them in. At least twenty minutes remained before the shabby watering hole officially opened. The older man was behind the bar counting change, and looked up when the door creaked on its hinges.

“We don’t open till eight,” he called to Igor, who smiled disarmingly.

“I couldn’t wait.”

“Right, but we’re not open for business yet, so you’ll have to.”

Igor held up a fifty-dollar bill. “I have some questions.”

“That’s nice. Come back in twenty minutes.”

Igor shook his head. “They’ll take no time to answer.”

The bartender sighed and stopped what he was doing. “Look, mister, I’ll be happy to serve you once we’re open, but we’re not yet, and I have shit to do. So scram and come back later.”

One of the meatheads moved toward Igor from where he had been sitting in the shadows, and came up on him from behind. “Is there a problem, buddy?”

Igor smiled at the cloudy mirror over the bartender’s shoulder and turned to face the man. “Not at all. Which do you want broken, nose or jaw?”

The muscle man looked confused, but Igor was already in motion, his blow to the bouncer’s face so fast it was blinding. A sound like a tomato hitting the pavement split the air, and the big man went down holding his brutalized nose.

The second bouncer came in low, a wrestling or ultimate fighting move, but far too slow to be effective against a professional. Igor stepped back, seemingly unhurriedly, and kneed him in the face, snapping his head back. He finished the maneuver by slamming the bouncer between the shoulder blades with both fists clutched together as the man fell to the floor, knocking him senseless.

Igor regarded the pair of downed toughs, out of commission for the moment, and then faced the bartender again. He pulled his pistol from the small of his back and trained it on the man’s forehead. “Will you answer my questions now, or do I break you into pieces for practice? Your girlfriends there aren’t going to help you, so it’s choice time. You either make fifty bucks, or leave here in a body bag. What’s it going to be?”

The bartender swallowed hard at the pistol pointed at his face. “Just take it easy…”

“I couldn’t be more relaxed.”

“What do you want to know?”

“There was a woman in here last night with two creeps.”

The bartender’s eyes darted to the left for a split second, and Igor knew the next words he’d hear would be a lie.

“There are lots of women in here any night with creeps. Look around you. This isn’t Las Vegas.”

Igor thumbed the hammer back on his gun. “I’ll start with your knees. Tell me about the woman, or there will be no more warnings.”

“I…I think I know who you’re talking about. Good-looking. Drank beer.”

Igor smiled encouragement. “I already know she was looking for someone to help her get out of town. When I’m looking for that kind of thing, I usually ask the locals. Bartenders usually know who’s up to what in shitholes like this. And here you are – a bartender.”

“I only told her to watch out for the two scumbags. I swear.”

Igor shook his head sadly and leaned forward as the older man backed away from him, his hands up in a defensive stance. The shot sounded like a cannon in the enclosed space. The bartender howled as he fell to the floor, his knee shattered.

Two minutes later Igor left the bar and trotted to his car, wary of any police that would be attracted by the gunfire. It didn’t fit his schedule to have to explain a recently deceased bartender and two dead sidekicks to the local flatfoots.

And besides. He needed to find his way to Portobelo as quickly as he could.

Because he now knew where the woman was, or where she would be soon enough.

~ ~ ~

Portobelo, Panama

Jet moved soundlessly down the cobblestone street, angry that she’d missed Matt’s call while she was dozing. But he sounded strong, if a little harried, and hadn’t used any of the code words they’d agreed upon if one of them was in trouble. She adjusted her bag and picked up her pace as she checked the time – Juan Diego had said nine, but she planned on being there at seven so she could reconnoiter the area and confirm she wasn’t walking into a trap. She didn’t think that the old smuggler would try to rob her, but after her prior adventure with the two lowlifes, she wasn’t taking any chances.

The fort was quiet at sunset, and beams of gold glinted off the surface of the calm harbor water. The surrounding trees swayed from a mild trade wind blowing from the northeast, carrying with it the fresh scent of open sea. Young lovers ambled in pairs along the waterfront, the rusting cannons thrusting from the fort walls long an empty threat to the vessels moored offshore. Jet slowly walked around the outer perimeter of the crumbling battlements, noting areas that would have been ideal if she were a sniper or was laying an ambush, all of them devoid of threats.

The dock was several hundred yards away, empty. As the last of the crimson sunset faded into the hills behind the fort, Jet eyed the trees and the strolling couples, searching for anything out of place. Nothing triggered her internal alarms, but she still stuck to her disciplined scan, leaving nothing to chance, constantly moving, now nearly invisible as the shadows came to stay.

She sat beneath one of the trees, invisible in the darkness, watching the area. After an hour went by, out on the water the throaty rumble of a moving vessel drifted across the harbor. Faint red and green running lights signaled the boat’s location. The clank of an anchor rode lowering into the water echoed off the fort’s walls, and soon afterward the distinctive whine of a small outboard approached.

A tiny hard-bottom skiff materialized out of the darkness at the dock two minutes later, and Juan Diego’s distinctive profile glowed in the dim light of the dock lamp. Jet took a final glance around to confirm she was unobserved, and then made her way to the dock, moving along the waterfront at a rapid clip.

When she reached the dock, the old smuggler looked up at her from his position in the rear of the tender, a scowl pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“You bring the money?” he demanded.

“Of course.”

“Where’s your friend?”

“Change of plans. It’s just me.”

Juan Diego’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t say anything, only nodded. Jet moved to the boat and tossed him her bag, and then climbed aboard and sat in the front. He backed away from the dock, swung the stern around, and pointed the bow at the dark shape of a fishing vessel a hundred yards from shore.

“Gonna be a long trip. Hope you don’t get seasick,” Juan Diego said.

“How long?”

“It’s about three hundred kilometers, so probably twenty, twenty-two hours or so, assuming nothing unforeseen.”

She calculated quickly. “Then we’ll arrive tomorrow around twilight?”

“
Mas o menos
– more or less.”

“How fast does the boat run?”

“Eight knots, but it’s not all in a straight course. There’s some strategy to avoiding the patrols on the Panamanian side.”

“And the Colombians?”

Juan Diego laughed harshly. “Little lady, not too many are trying to sneak into Colombia. The traffic’s in the opposite direction. Let me worry about the Colombians – I haven’t seen a navy boat in their border waters in three years.”

They approached the vessel, a steel-hulled craft seventy feet in length, much of that devoted to rear deck and booms supporting nets and floats. She could barely make out the name of the boat in the darkness –
Providencia
.

Juan Diego pulled to the stern, and Jet and he disembarked as a wiry crewman tied the skiff’s bow line to a rear stanchion. Juan Diego led Jet to the pilothouse, which stank of nicotine and alcohol, and after glancing at the instruments, waved at a crewman on the bow, who engaged the electric windlass and raised the rusty anchor.

Igor arrived at the fort as the dark shape of the skiff pulled away from the dock. He parked at the edge of the lot and ran the length of the waterfront as the tender made its way to the fishing boat, cursing under his breath when he reached the empty dock. He stood at the water’s edge and watched impotently as the distant figures of a woman and man climbed aboard an old fishing vessel, barely visible in the night. He knew his pistol was useless at that range, and fought to contain his rage at being so close to his quarry but unable to stop her from escaping.

The fishing boat pulled away as he searched the waterfront for any craft he could steal that would get him close enough to board the departing vessel. Finding nothing, he squinted in the gloom and just made out the boat name in white lettering on the dark blue stern. Igor repeated the name to himself as he withdrew his phone from his pocket and placed a call to his Panamanian contact. The man might be able to have the boat intercepted by a cooperative customs vessel.

Igor waited the usual few minutes while the man’s underlings went in search of him, but when he came on the line and Igor explained the problem, he wasn’t encouraging.

“I’ll see who we have working the border, but it’s been difficult for the last six months. There was a big shake-up, and now all the patrols have multiple agencies on them to reduce the chances of them taking bribes to let shipments get through.”

“The woman’s wanted for murder,” Igor reminded him.

“Yes, but it’s a big ocean, and without something more to go on than our say-so, I’m afraid the odds of convincing the Panamanian navy to intercept them aren’t good.”

“What about a fast boat? Something that can overtake it? I can get anywhere you need me to be within minutes.”

“That’s more likely. Let me make a few calls and see what I can do. I’ll be back to you shortly.”

Igor hung up with a curse, furious that the woman had managed to slip away yet again. In all his years in the business, he’d never seen anything like it. No matter what he did, they were always one step behind; but now that she was on a slow boat to nowhere, he would even the odds, one way or another.

~ ~ ~

The final fifty miles to Santuario seemed to drag on forever. The hills proved practically too much for the old Dodge, which slowed to barely twenty miles per hour. Matt’s jaw was sore from gritting his teeth and willing the conveyance faster as each curve posed a laborious challenge, chicken coops tipping dangerously and bald tires struggling for grip.

Armando became more talkative as the hours passed, and eventually got around to asking what Matt intended to do once they got to Santuario.

“That’s a good question. I’d hoped it would still be light out, so we could check out the town, maybe find someplace discreet to spend a few days.”

Armando didn’t say anything for several beats, and when he did, his tone was serious. “Do you have any idea who the goons in the black SUVs back there were?”

Matt answered honestly. “No.”

A big part of his problem was that he had absolutely no idea. If he did, then he could at least try to come up with an offensive plan, rather than running away as he was being forced to do.

Armando drove in silence for a minute before glancing over at Matt. “Is someone looking for you, other than the police for breaking that guy’s hand?”

“It’s possible. But the truth is, I don’t know who, and I don’t know why.”

“How did you wind up staying with Carlita and her family? It’s not exactly a tourist destination.”

“Yeah, I got that. It’s a long story. Our boat sank on the coast and we were in real trouble. Luis offered us some hospitality. It seemed like a good idea.”

“Which doesn’t explain the two SUVs.”

“I know. Believe me, it’s a mystery to me too. But I have to assume whoever it is means us harm.” Matt debated how to frame his next statement. “I’ve made a fair number of enemies in my life.”

“And you think one of them may be after you here?”

“After the last couple of days, anything’s possible. I think my boat was sabotaged. If that’s the case, it could be that whoever did it is trying to finish the job.”

“Sabotaged?” Armando asked, surprised.

“I believe so. We were lucky to make it to shore.”

Armando absorbed that. “Is it likely that whoever it is could be working with one of the cartels?”

“I’d say that’s possible, based on the two black SUVs, if you’re right about them being
narcotrafficantes
.”

“Then you’re really screwed. They’re like cockroaches – their men are everywhere. You won’t be safe in Santuario. Someone will see you, and they’ll make a call, and before you know it a gunman will be emptying an AK into your room.”

Matt shrugged. “What’s my alternative? Is there a bus from Santuario to someplace safer?”

“That’s the point. If you’ve got a cartel after you, no place is safer.”

Matt gave him a sidelong glance. “You’re not doing anything to improve my outlook, Armando.”

“Sorry.” Armando lapsed back into silence, concentrating on the road for five minutes before clearing his throat. “I may be able to help.”

“How? And why?”

“My brother is a monk at a monastery just outside of town. There are only a few other monks, and there are several unused buildings that have been sitting empty forever – apparently the monk business isn’t as popular as it was a hundred years ago. Maybe he could get you into one of them? Nobody would see you there, and even if the cartel had people asking questions in the towns along the road, they’d come up empty.”

Matt considered the suggestion. “How about the why?”

Armando glanced at Hannah dozing on the seat next to him. “If you have a cartel after you, they won’t spare your little girl. They’re animals. Human life means nothing to them.” He hesitated. “And of course, there’s always money.”

“How much are you thinking?”

He shrugged. “Whatever’s fair. I don’t know your financial circumstances.”

They went back and forth and arrived at a compromise, and Armando called his brother, Franco, and explained the situation. After a heated discussion, Franco agreed to help, and Armando terminated the call with a nod to Matt.