JET - Escape: (Volume 9) (17 page)

~ ~ ~

Fernanda shifted in place, her knees sore from the hard surface, and did another slow sweep of the docks. A second crew of dockworkers had arrived and moved to a ship behind the one being fueled, and she eyed each figure to ensure that none of them were the woman or Matt, disguised.

Movement at the edge of the parking lot drew her attention, and she swung the rifle toward two figures striding toward the jetty. She peered through the scope at the back of the pair’s heads, and realized with a start that it wasn’t two people at all – it was three: two adults wearing caps and dark glasses, one of them carrying a child.

Fernanda steadied the rifle as she drew a measured breath, and then a soft scrape from the stairway behind her startled her. She whirled toward it with the rifle as the doorway exploded with muzzle flashes.

Pain shrieked through her chest, but she managed to squeeze off a shot, and then her vision starbursted and she was blinded by agony. She coughed once, a band of pressure suddenly squeezing her ribcage like a vise, and then she tumbled forward, dead before her head hit the cement with a dull thud.

Drago’s lips twitched in victory as he closed the distance between himself and the woman. He toed the rifle away from her lifeless hand and kneeled beside her, taking care not to spoil his pants in the thick pool of blood, and turned her over so he could see her face.

And froze.

Even with part of her cheek blown off, he realized his error. This wasn’t the right woman. She looked similar to the other, but the cast of the eyes was different, less Asian, and her face was a little fuller, the jawline different.

“Damn,” he muttered, trying to process what had just occurred. If this wasn’t her, then…it was another pro, no doubt hired by the cartel.

Which meant the woman was still out there – and now alerted by the gunfire.

His stare drifted to the bell tower aperture, and he snatched the binoculars from his bag and scanned the waterfront. Everyone on the docks was pointing at the church, which wasn’t unexpected. But what was were the two figures now running for the black-hulled cargo ship at the far jetty.

“You,” he hissed under his breath. He lowered the glasses and reached for the rifle, and cursed again when he saw the ruined scope shattered by one of his rounds. The low-powered guns he had were barely adequate for close-in work, and there was no chance of hitting anyone at what looked to be at least three hundred meters and growing by the second, even if he emptied his weapons in their direction, hoping to get lucky.

He raised the glasses again and watched as the pair mounted the ship’s gangplank, and then he scanned down the hull to the stern to see the name.

The
Milan
. Flagged in Liberia.

The tower seemed to sway, and he groped at a vertical beam for support. Fury coursed through him at his blunder. Not only had he shot the wrong person, but his quarry was within easy reach and he was impotent to stop them. The spell faded after a few moments, and he wiped his brow.

Drago looked around the bell tower, regaining his bearings, and made for the stairs. There was nothing to be achieved by remaining any longer, other than having to shoot it out with the police. But if he was fast enough, he might be able to make it to the ship and finish them once and for all.

All he’d need to do would be to evade any cops, bluff his way aboard the boat, and manage to execute two skilled operatives, who were probably armed and waiting for him to make a move – all the while praying that he didn’t have another little episode in the process.

Normally optimistic, he admitted to himself that his odds of achieving that were somewhere between slim and none, which left him with two choices: either continue to the boat and embark on what would almost certainly be a suicide mission, or lie in wait for it wherever it was headed.

Framed that way, there was no choice. He’d need to get out of La Ensenada while he still could, before a manhunt was launched and the town was closed off as the police searched for the church shooter. If he stayed, he was guaranteed to be caught and, even with his pull, would likely die in a Venezuelan prison – his client would disown him, and he’d be left to rot.

That was unacceptable.

He’d be waiting wherever the boat was headed.

And when it arrived, he’d finish the job.

With extreme prejudice.

Chapter 30

Jet and Matt ducked when they heard the chatter of gunfire from the church and immediately sprinted for the
Milan
, zigzagging to create more difficult targets. When they reached the gangplank, a rough-looking seaman with a knit cap pulled low over his brow was staring at the church, the pair of dockworkers manning the fuel line oblivious to their arrival, standing nearby with open mouths. The deckhand barely seemed to register them until Jet spoke.

“We’re Captain Adrian’s passengers.”

The seaman looked confused, as though he hadn’t understood her. Jet tried again. “Where’s Captain Adrian?”

“Oh, he’s up on deck. By the superstructure.”

“Can we board?”

The crewman was looking over her shoulder at the bell tower, his attention again drawn by the shooting. “Huh? Oh, yeah, you’re passengers. He told me you’d be coming.”

Jet led Matt, who was carrying Hannah, up the gangplank. Once on deck they approached Captain Adrian, who was staring at the church. His eyes darted to them for a moment and then back to the skyline.

“Did that shooting have anything to do with you?” he demanded.

“It’s possible. We need to get under way. Now.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way. We’re fueling. It will take another hour to fill the tanks.”

“Tell them to disconnect the hose. We’re leaving,” Jet said, steel in her tone. “Don’t make me escalate this. You aren’t my enemy, but I’m not going to sit at the dock and wait for whoever was shooting to come for us. Do you understand?”

Adrian’s eyes narrowed. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? This is my ship, and I want you off of it, now. Go figure out your problems on your own. I didn’t sign up for this.”

She pulled her shirt up so he could see the butt of her pistol. “Captain Adrian, tell your men to untie the boat and disconnect the fuel line, or you’ll do it at gunpoint. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will to save my daughter’s life. Do you understand?” Jet’s green eyes locked on his. He held her glare and nodded slowly.

“You’re making a huge mistake,” he warned.

“Maybe, but I’m not sticking around to see who’s shooting. And neither are you.”

Adrian grunted and then called out to his men. “Remove the fuel line and make ready. We’re getting under way. I’ll be in the bridge.”

The seamen and dockworkers on the jetty looked confused. Adrian turned back to Jet and Matt. “You know that hijacking a boat is about as serious an offense as there is, right? Carries the death penalty in a lot of places. I think Venezuela’s one of them.”

“Every second we’re at this dock might be a death sentence. Start the engines and we’ll discuss it on the way out to the ocean,” Matt said.

Adrian regarded him and shook his head. “You’ll never get away with this.”

Jet shrugged. “We will if you keep your mouth shut. I’ll double the fee. Ten thousand. Cash. The only ones who’ll know you took some convincing will be us.”

She could see greed flash across his face. If they were putting out to sea anyway, all he had to do was forget their little tiff and he’d make out like a bandit.

“What are you running from?” he asked quietly.

“I crossed the wrong people. They hold a grudge. But there are limits to how far they’ll go to get us,” she said, only half believing her words. “And I don’t think they saw us come aboard.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Do you see any gunshot wounds?”

“Then what was the shooting about?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t want to wait around to find out.”

Adrian scowled as he considered the offer. “No more threats, is that clear? And keep your gun out of sight. There are no weapons allowed on a cargo ship like this. You could get us all thrown in a Cuban jail if you’re not careful.”

“You’ll never see it again.”

“Ten thousand. Before we get under way.”

“Let’s go up to the bridge. You can count it once we’re away from the dock.”

Adrian nodded and held a small radio to his lips. “Get the engines started.”

The radio crackled. “Yes, sir. Powering up.”

Adrian dropped the radio back into his pocket and gave Jet and Matt a hard stare before turning and marching to the superstructure, his footsteps thudding angrily on the steel deck. Jet and Matt trailed him, and as they neared the watertight door, Matt leaned into her, his voice quiet.

“You think he bought it?”

“I think he wants ten thousand dollars of untraceable money. That makes it easier for him to convince himself.”

“What if we’re wrong and he radios for help? We can still be intercepted.”

“We’ll stay with him at all times. In shifts. Won’t let him pass any messages to his crewmen without us seeing them, no whispered discussions. We can do this, Matt. It won’t be easy, but it’s our best shot.”

Matt nodded and studied the bell tower. “What do you make of the shooting?”

“I don’t know. Could be unrelated. But right now, I don’t feel lucky. Do you?”

She didn’t wait for him to answer, and instead increased her pace to keep the captain in sight, her expression determined as Matt had ever seen.

When they reached the bridge, Adrian watched his men cast off the lines and ordered his helmsman to get underway. The helmsman did so without fanfare, and soon they were steaming toward the Caribbean.

Adrian eyed the gauges and shook his head. “We may not have enough fuel to get to Cienfuegos,” he grumbled.

Jet sidled up beside him and handed him a fat wad of currency. “Perhaps this will soften the blow?”

Adrian pocketed the money before the helmsman saw it and smiled grimly. “I’m serious. Depending on the seas and the wind, it will be touch and go.”

“Well, we’re committed now, so do whatever you need to do so we make it. Maybe back off on speed?”

“I’ll do that, but the truth is you can only conserve so much, and then it’s in Mother Nature’s hands.”

Jet nodded. “Isn’t everything?” She stepped away from Adrian. “Where should we put our things? My little girl needs to get some rest. She’s not feeling well.”

“I can show you to your cabin,” Adrian said, and turned to the helmsman. “You’ve got the wheel.”

The helmsman grunted an acknowledgement. Adrian took a final look at the fuel gauge and motioned to Matt and Jet. “Follow me. It’s not the Hilton, but I have a feeling you won’t have any complaints.”

Chapter 31

Ramón spotted figures at the far end of the wharf, making their way to the parking lot, and he sat up, trying to see them better. He was fumbling with his spyglasses when he heard gunfire from the church and stiffened. It was unlike a professional of Fernanda’s stature to be shooting indiscriminately. Then he remembered her weapons cache, and his brow furrowed as he swung the glasses toward the bell tower. She didn’t have an automatic weapon like the one he’d heard. Just the sniper rifle, which fired single shots, and her pistol.

The shooting had been non-suppressed. Her guns were suppressed.

Ramón concentrated on the lot again. The figures had reached the jetties, but he couldn’t make them out from the laborers milling about – it was too confused, and now everyone was moving too erratically to be able to spot an anomaly.

He took a final look at the church and started the car. Whoever had been shooting, there was one person it couldn’t have been – Fernanda. He slowed at the thought. If not her…then could it have been the man or the woman? But how?

Ramón braked and pulled over two blocks from the church, where he could watch the entrance without being obvious.
Think.
What should he do? If Fernanda was in trouble, what could he accomplish? Any damage was already done…and he could be walking into an ambush.

Better to wait and see what happens next
. He was in uncharted territory, and he didn’t feel like risking his neck to discover what had gone wrong.

Minutes ticked by, and two beaten police trucks screeched to a halt in front of the church, their beds full of officers with bulletproof vests and brandishing assault rifles. The trucks emptied out and the cops set up a perimeter, and four of them pushed through the front doors of the church, guns at the ready.

He watched as the remaining police maintained their positions, rifles pointed at the building like it was going to attack them. More time crawled by, and two of the officers returned from inside the church, shaking their heads. A discussion among the group ensued, and then the officer who appeared to be calling the shots got on the radio while the rest shuffled around nervously.

One of the cargo ships moved ponderously from the dock, its superstructure barely visible over the rooftops between him and the water, drawing Ramón’s attention. Its smokestack spewed a plume of black diesel smoke skyward as its huge engines rumbled across the waterfront. Ramón stiffened as the last two officers came through the church doors and one of them pointed inside. Ramón could tell from the man’s body language that he was agitated, and he slid down in his seat, wondering how he could get out of there without being seen. Whatever had happened inside was obviously bad, and it would be only a matter of time before the police got their act together and began searching the area.

And when a Colombian cartel member was found with a gun within footsteps of the scene of the crime, it was a safe bet he would be treated like public enemy number one.

Ramón rolled down his window, put the transmission in gear, and eased around the corner. The officers didn’t even glance in his direction. He exhaled a sigh of relief. He’d stash the gun and wait for things to calm down, and then once it was safe, try to learn what had happened. There was no other prudent course he could see, and he was sure Mosises would agree when he reported in.