JET - Escape: (Volume 9) (13 page)

Matt joined her, and she led them across the high grass to where the bank sloped down to the river. She pointed at a flat area to their left, where vehicles of all shapes and sizes were huddled on the gravel. “That must be some kind of flea market.”

“Pretty optimistic given the weather.”

“We might be able to use that. Get lost in the crowd as we make our way closer to the water.”

Matt blinked away rain. “You were right about one thing. Nobody in their right mind would want to be out in this.”

A voice called out from near the ambulance, and Jet picked up her pace. “Sounds like the police found the van.”

“You think they’ll shoot?” Matt asked as he trotted behind her.

“They won’t be able to see us in a few more seconds, in this soup.”

They ran in silence, the gravel crunching beneath their feet, and neared the circle of vehicles. Surprised faces stared from the interiors as they darted past, and then they were following the river north.

Matt eyed the muddy water dubiously. “Looks pretty deep from the storm runoff.”

“We’re only looking for one shallow area.”

Shouts followed them from the circle of vehicles, and Jet began running harder again. “They don’t give up easily.”

“Look up ahead. The river widens out. We might be able to make it.”

“I’m way ahead of you. If it’s too deep, keep moving and I’ll swim it until I can feel the bottom.”

“That’s a terrible idea,” Matt said.

“You have a better one?”

He frowned. “Good luck.”

Jet veered toward the river as another flurry of heavy rain pelted them, and splashed into the swollen rush of water. The level reached her knees, then her thighs, and then she was sucked under the surface as she neared the middle, where the current was strongest. Matt fought the instinct to run and try to help her, instead continuing at a flat-out run along the river’s course. A stone gave beneath him and he cursed as his ankle twisted, but he ignored the pain and powered on, Hannah in his arms, his breathing ragged from the exertion.

Jet’s head bobbed from the swirling rapids several yards beyond Matt and she sputtered. He resisted the overwhelming desire to call out for her, and instead continued forcing himself forward. True to her word, she was allowing the powerful current to carry her along. Near a wide bend she slowed and eventually struggled to her feet, the water only hip deep. She waved at Matt and he swung toward her and was in the river within moments. The pull was strong, but he was prepared for it and maintained his footing as Hannah closed her eyes tight in fear.

After a hurried crossing where he almost went down twice, the bottom rose and he found himself in shallows. Jet held out her hand as she scurried up the bank on the Venezuelan side, and he quickly followed her out. Once on dry land, they bolted for the brush line, angry cries from the far shore trailing them, but no bullets. They scrambled into the dense underbrush as thunder roared overhead, and Jet slowed, the tangle of branches tearing at her clothes and impeding her progress.

Matt trudged behind her until they emerged from the brush onto a muddy trail – a road, although not much of one. Jet turned to Matt as they moved to the shoulder and held out her arms. “I’ll take her for a while.”

Matt managed a tired half grin and passed Hannah to Jet. “You recovered from your swim?”

“A little muddy, but nothing the rain won’t wash away.”

“Think they’ll try to follow us?”

“I seriously doubt it. This is a different country, and they don’t have jurisdiction. I mean, anything’s possible, but we’re not going to wait around to find out.” She shrugged at the empty surroundings. “And no sign of the military here. Probably all holed up until the storm passes.”

“You want to stick to the road?”

“I think we have to. According to the satellite images I looked at, there should be some houses or farms up ahead, and then Ureña to the south. We’re a little further north than where I was thinking we’d cross, but not that far off course.”

“I hope you’re right about the Venezuelans not caring about what was happening back in Colombia.”

“I remember from the last time I traveled through Venezuela. The two countries aren’t particularly friendly with each other, so their communications are probably lousy – and that’s borne out by the truck driver’s description. Besides, the Venezuelans don’t have any beef with us.” She slowed further. “You’re limping.”

“Just a light sprain. Nothing to worry about.”

“You sure?”

“I don’t think you can carry both of us.”

Jet smiled as Hannah nuzzled her neck. “Let me know if you want me to try.”

Half an hour later the storm had blown itself out, and as they made their way down the road toward the outskirts of Ureña, the sun emerged from the clouds. Soon the warmth became a humid stifle, and the road hardened as if by magic beneath their feet even as their clothes dried from the sun’s glare. By the time they reached the center of the quiet little hamlet, they’d decided to chance a bus to the coast, where with any luck they’d be able to find a boat to Cuba, ending the trail once and for all at the shore of the Caribbean Sea.

Chapter 21

Cúcuta, Colombia

Drago couldn’t believe his eyes when he read the message on his cell, forwarded from Renaldo’s inbox. He read it twice, shaking his head in disgust at the news that the attack on the clinic had been unsuccessful and that the targets had liberated an ambulance and escaped. He stood in the middle of his breakfast and threw a few bills onto the table, and then pushed his way out of the restaurant and made for the rental car as warm rain fell around him.

How the cartel muscle had managed to destroy an entire clinic and miss the only people they were after was beyond him, but he’d seen similar idiocy before. None of which was much consolation – his fears had been realized, and his quarry was no doubt in full flight mode, alert to the slightest threat. Which put him at a serious disadvantage – because now, in addition to whatever morons the cartel had unleashed, he had to contend with a pair of very dangerous fugitives whom he knew from experience were as deadly as coral snakes.

Drago worked through the sluggish traffic toward the border, and was only slightly surprised when the flow slowed to a standstill as he neared the river bridge. He pulled to the side of the road near a park where a slew of vendors had taken refuge beneath the trees from the rain, and locked the door, his bag in hand. He had no idea where Matt and his little family had gone in the ambulance, but if it had been Drago, he’d have made for the border, following the instinct to get out of Colombia and away from rocket attacks.

He walked toward the bridge, ignoring the soaking he was receiving. Once over the river, Drago stopped and looked south. Seeing nothing but rain, he crossed to the north side and squinted in the haze.
There.
By a collection of cars parked at the bank – a group of police arguing among themselves, judging by the waving arms and body language.

Drago returned to the Colombian side of the bridge and edged along the riverbank until he reached a group of cheap houses. He heard angry voices to his left and turned. Three cops were standing by an ambulance parked by a barren field. He didn’t slow or break his stride, but he smiled to himself – he’d made the right call. His quarry was close by.

He continued north until he reached the circle of cars at the river flea market and overheard the policemen arguing over the wisdom of a hot pursuit into Venezuela as they awaited orders from headquarters. Drago didn’t need to listen for the conclusion of the exchange. There was no way Colombian officials would green-light a foray into Venezuela, regardless of the reason. Nobody was going to risk an international incident to catch a pair of border runners with a child in tow, even if they were wanted for questioning – they hadn’t been charged with anything, and until and unless they were, there were no grounds for reaching out to the Venezuelans.

The walk back to the car seemed to take twice as long, and when he made it back, he was dripping wet. The vehicles next to him were in the same spots as when he’d left, so nothing had moved in the fifteen minutes his foray had taken.

There was only one alternative he could see, and he disliked it intensely – he’d have to leave his weapons behind and cross into Venezuela on foot. He locked his bag in the trunk of his car and set off toward the bridge. He had no doubt that the Venezuelans would be on edge with the explosions on the Colombian side, not to mention that when your nation bordered the largest cocaine-producing country in the world, your customs staff was going to be jumpy on even the most relaxed days.

He could have spared himself the worry, because a ragged column of equally soaked Colombians was approaching from the far side of the bridge.

“What’s going on?” he asked one of the group.

“Border’s closed. Don’t know what’s happening.”

“Colombians? Or the Venezuelans?”

“Colombian. There’s police and military everywhere. Don’t know what they’re looking for, but it’s probably going to be closed for hours.”

Drago nodded in agreement even as his mind worked furiously. Naturally the Colombians would close the barn door. The instinct would be to seal the border to prevent whoever fired the rockets from escaping. That would be a fool’s errand, but when governments reacted, it was usually more for appearances than as a result of any actual competence. Colombia was no different from the rest in that regard.

Which meant he’d have to come up with a better plan. And it certainly wouldn’t involve trying to make it across a rainstorm-engorged river surrounded by inquisitive Colombian cops.

He returned to the car and secured his bag of goodies before heading back into town to talk to his pilot and see whether he could get into Venezuela under the radar. Barring that, he’d have to wait for the border to reopen, and hope that Renaldo’s phone delivered some information more helpful than the chronicle of screwups it had graced him with so far.

Chapter 22

Ureña, Venezuela

After stopping at a three-story cinderblock hotel with the appearance of a marginally renovated prison painted a hue of orange unknown in nature, and getting directions to the highway stop where the bus north picked up passengers, Jet, Matt, and Hannah made their way to Carrera 1, the two-lane strip of battered pavement that wound through the mountains and connected to the main highway that ran to the Caribbean Sea.

A retired school bus hissed to a squeaking stop as they arrived, and four leather-skinned laborers disembarked. Jet confirmed with the driver that the bus was going all the way to the port city of Maracaibo, and then paid the fare in dollars, which were gladly received.

They trundled down the narrow central aisle and claimed a vacant bench seat adjacent to a pair of ancient women whose stern countenances poked from beneath frayed head scarves, their faces lined from lifetimes of hardship, eyes dull with age. The bus lurched forward with a grinding of gears, and in a few minutes Hannah fell into an uneasy sleep in Jet’s lap, her head resting on her mother’s chest.

The heat was abated by meager ventilation from the open windows, though the bus rarely exceeded walking speed as it labored up the long grade. The muggy stifle cooled with the higher altitude as they neared San Pedro Del Rio, on the far side of the range, and remained bearable for the rest of the journey. Once past the small town, they left the switchbacks and dead man’s curves of the smaller hill road, merged onto a wider highway, and picked up speed.

The bus stopped for a ten-minute lunch in San Juan de Colón, and Jet was reassured to find Hannah’s appetite returning. Matt bought enough food to feed a battalion and had the cook box it up for the ride, and soon they were bumping and swaying along again, making better progress as the highway flattened out.

The monotony of the trip was broken up only once, at a National Guard checkpoint at the
alcabala
bridge, when a trio of soldiers barely older than Matt’s haircut boarded the bus, clutching machine guns and stared menacingly at the passengers. Fortunately, the driver appeared to know them, and after a few lighthearted remarks about the lack of pretty young girls aboard, the soldiers returned to their posts and the bus was on its way again.

Daylight was fading as they drew near their destination – the port of La Ensenada, the smaller cousin of the massive commercial harbor of Maracaibo. After considerable discussion, Jet had convinced Matt that their chances of finding a Cuba-bound cargo ship willing to carry three undocumented voyagers would be better in a less prominent hub, and they’d decided to find a hotel near the waterfront. Hannah could get some much-needed rest, and Jet would scour the ubiquitous bars that catered to seamen for a captain who wanted to earn some easy extra cash.

The driver grinned a dull yellow smile at Jet as he slowed to a stop and they stepped down to the street, and thanked her again for the dollars he’d converted for her. He had offered to change as many as she wanted into the local currency over lunch, and she’d taken him up on the offer, figuring that she’d attract less attention with bolivars instead of greenbacks. The driver waved at Hannah and roared away with grinding gears.

Matt surveyed the squalid surroundings and offered Jet a smile. “Charming. And we thought Colombia was grim?”

“We’re not looking for a resort, just a flophouse for the night.”

“Doesn’t seem like the kind of place where there would be all that many hotels.”

“That’s okay. A lot of the time in Venezuela, as well as in Cuba, the locals augment their income by renting out a room to guests.”

They walked along the main street toward the water, past a cemetery with crumbling headstones, a few wilted bouquets leaning against the markers. At the corner they stopped at a market. Jet bought water and juice, and as she paid, asked the young man working the counter about any guest houses in the area. He gave her directions to two near the waterfront, and they continued their trek as the sun disappeared behind the hills.