JET - Escape: (Volume 9) (22 page)

Port-au-Prince, Haiti

The patrol boat neared the coast guard dock and two crewmen hopped from the deck with lines to tie it off. The pilot killed the engines and the vessel quieted.

In the bow chamber, Jet waited with Hannah clutched to her breast as footsteps approached and the door opened.

“We’re here. Everybody out,” the Haitian said, stepping away from the door.

Jet carried Hannah onto the rear deck and squinted against the sun as she surveyed the skyline. Dilapidated government buildings ringed an open area with trash blown across it, and beyond the compound, various crumbling edifices littered the shore. A few islanders rode bicycles along the waterfront, their clothes barely more than rags.

The officer neared them with an evil grin. “Welcome to Haiti. God’s miracle.”

“Where are you taking us?”

“The jail is over there,” he said, pointing to one of the squat concrete bunkers.

“Jail? We haven’t committed any crime,” Matt protested.

“Well, sadly, we don’t have anywhere else we can hold you, so you’ll have to make the best of it.”

“This is…why are you doing this?” Jet demanded. “You can put us up at a hotel and post a guard. Or wait until the ship arrives and keep us onboard.”

“Again, I appreciate your helpful suggestions on how I should conduct official business, but I don’t have the option. So it’s a cell for the night.” His smile widened. “At least there’s a women’s jail and a men’s. Could be real trouble if I stuck you in with the boys.” His leer was genuine. “Lot of them might get the wrong idea.”

“At least put us in one cell, separate from everyone. My daughter’s sick, and she’s just a baby. There’s no good reason to put us with criminals,” Jet said.

“You’re in luck. There’s nobody in the women’s cell right now, so nobody’s going to bother you. But there might be as night falls, so I can’t put your husband in with you. That, and it’s against regulations. There’s a reason it’s called the women’s section,” the Haitian said.

Jet looked to Matt, who shrugged. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Although I intend to file a complaint over this treatment. We both have passports, so this is completely unwarranted.”

“We have our rules, and you’re in our country now. We didn’t invite you,” the officer said, his voice taking on a dangerous tone.

“We were on a boat that ran into trouble. It’s not like we’re here voluntarily,” Matt countered.

“Save it for the magistrate. I’m sure he’ll get it all sorted out. You’ll see him in the morning.” The officer nodded to two of his men, who moved to either side of Jet and Matt. “This way.”

The interior of the jail was worse than the outside and reeked of bleach and body odor. Two whippet-thin men in shorts and sweat-stained T-shirts sat on a bench in front of a counter, their wrists chained to metal eyelets. Both had been in a fight, judging by their faces, which were swollen and crusted with dried blood.

The officer stood with Matt as a female guard processed Jet and Hannah into custody and then led them back into the bowels of the building. As Jet had expected, the officer did a cursory search and confiscated her watch and wad of dollars, and was visibly annoyed when Jet demanded an itemized receipt so the cash didn’t disappear or shrink overnight. The woman looked to the officer for guidance, and he grudgingly nodded as two other cops materialized from the back – the presence of witnesses kept at least that part of the process honest.

The cell was painted a flat gray and was covered with names etched or burned into the paint. The guard held the door open for Jet and Hannah, and then locked it behind them with a dull clunk that echoed off the walls. A stainless steel toilet with no seat occupied one corner, but was broken, judging by the smell, and Hannah’s nose crinkled in distaste as they sat on the floor as far from it as possible.

Two long horizontal barred openings ran below the ceiling, providing meager ventilation in the ugly space. Jet offered Hannah a smile of comfort, but it was no good, and she burst into tears. Jet hugged her to her chest as she sobbed, and it took every ounce of fortitude Jet had not to join her as her eyes welled.

Matt’s processing was faster, but his luck wasn’t as good. He was put into one of the three men’s cells, all overflowing with islanders, their expressions varying from despair to rage and hatred. Matt ignored the catcalls and insults as he was escorted down the corridor, and was relieved to see that there were only two men in his cell. His optimism vanished when he got a better look at them – both appeared to be at the end of their ropes, barely conscious on the hard cement floor and reeking of alcohol. One was sleeping with his head next to a pool of vomit, oblivious to the cloud of black flies buzzing around it.

Matt turned to the guard as the man slammed the door shut. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Welcome to the Port-au-Prince Ritz. Let us know if you need anything.”

“How about a bucket of water to rinse that mess away, for starters?” Matt said, inclining his head at the vomit.

“I’ll put in your request with room service.” The guard paused theatrically. “Oh. Wait. They’re not working today.” The man gave Matt a gap-toothed grin. “It’s Sunday. I forgot.”

“Come on. Just a bucket of water.”

“Let me check with the concierge. Oh. That’s right. We don’t have one.”

The guard sauntered away, leaving Matt standing at the bars, watching him go. The stench of unwashed bodies and their various excretions was overpowering, but he’d been in worse predicaments and wouldn’t let this faze him. A bead of perspiration trickled down his face from his hairline and he shook it off, willing the anger that threatened to explode from him away. This was bad, but he was alive, in reasonable condition, and it was only for a few hours, which could go by quickly or take forever, depending entirely on his outlook.

The heat enshrouded him like a blanket, adding to the oppressiveness of the cell, and he resolved to make the best of a terrible situation and use the time to rest.

He slid down the wall near the bars and closed his eyes, forcing his mind away from the dire scene in the jail. The shrieks and howls and yells receded as he drifted to the calm place he’d inhabited for hours on end while in the jungles of Laos, aware of his surroundings but distant enough so that his body seemed separate. The connecting door to the cellblock slammed behind the guard and Matt shifted on the hard cement floor, doing his best to ignore the chaos and misery around him, and resigned himself to a long wait.

Chapter 40

Cienfuegos, Cuba

The afternoon heat had reached its zenith, the interior of the car uncomfortable even with the air-conditioning blowing full blast, when Ramón’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the caller ID and sat up straighter as he answered.

“Yes?”

“You need to fly to Haiti,” Mosises snapped. “Our contact there is trying to arrange for a charter flight from Havana.”

“Haiti? Why?”

“Renaldo checked online this morning using the website that tracks ship-locator chips, and the damned thing was off the Haitian coast, dead in the water. He called our man on the ground in Port-au-Prince, and he confirmed through his sources that the boat ran out of fuel. It’s being towed into port as we speak.”

“Port-au-Prince…” Ramón repeated.

“Yes.”

“What about weapons?”

Mosises laughed drily. “It won’t be an issue. Leave what you got in Cuba. You don’t want to risk a problem at customs.”

“Can we fly out of Cienfuegos?”

“No. The airport doesn’t have any charters, and there are no flights to Haiti from there. As it is, we’ll probably have to pay through the nose to find someone on short notice like this, and there’s the air traffic clearance to obtain, but it’s not that long a flight. Like I said, our man is working on it. He should have something ready later.”

“What do they speak in Haiti?” Ramón asked.

“A little English. Mostly French.” Mosises hesitated. “I’ve got our Haitian contact trying to get more information on the ship. I’ll call you when I know something.”

“Okay. We’re on our way back to Havana,” Ramón said, smiling. Felix didn’t speak English, whereas Ramón did – yet another advantage for him once they reached Haiti.

“Text me when you get there.”

Ramón hung up and filled Felix in on the conversation.

“So we drove all the way here for nothing?” Felix demanded.

“Take it up with the old man if you want. They didn’t know until this morning.”

“I can’t believe they weren’t checking its progress every couple of hours.”

“Renaldo’s in charge of that, and he wasn’t about to lose sleep to track a boat. You know Mosises doesn’t even have Internet. It took him years just to get up to speed on phone messaging.”

Ramón shifted into gear and rolled toward the driveway. “We should have enough gas to get back to Havana. At least that will save time.”

“I knew I should have slept through this.”

“I’d have you drive, but you smell like a brewery.”

The sedan pulled onto the street and tore off, tires chirping as Ramón gave it gas. In the shadows of the abandoned building Drago watched it go, wondering what had happened. He hadn’t checked the feed from Renaldo’s phone all morning, but now fished his cell from his bag and activated it.

Two minutes later he was packing his gear.

Was anything about this operation going to go according to plan? He’d never been involved in anything so unpredictable before. From Argentina to Chile to Panama to Colombia to Venezuela to Cuba, and now…Haiti?

He called his agent as he trotted to the car. “I need any information you can get me on flights from Cuba to Port-au-Prince.”

True to form, his agent didn’t sound surprised or inquisitive. “What’s your timing?”

“Stat.”

“Stay on the line.”

Drago heard computer keys clicking in the background and then his agent’s voice returned. “There’s a commercial flight on a puddle jumper out of Havana at eight tomorrow morning. That appears to be the only thing.”

Drago did a quick mental calculation. “What about a private plane?”

“In Cuba? I’ll check, but that’s a long shot. It’s not like there’s a big charter fleet.”

“Book the puddle jumper for me, but keep on trying to find a private flight.” He gave his agent the name on the passport he was carrying.

More typing. “Confirmed.”

“What do you know about Port-au-Prince?”

“Very little. I’ll do some research. Call me back in an hour.”

“Will do.”

Drago twisted the ignition key and the Fiat wheezed to life. Disequilibrium made the landscape blur for a moment, and he took a deep breath, willing it away. The dizziness faded and he closed his eyes, waiting for it to completely pass.

The phone in his pocket pinged, signaling that Renaldo had sent a text. Now immediately interested in the cartel honcho’s communications, he read the message.

Which was from a number in Haiti.

The coast guard took three people off the boat that sound like yours. Man, woman, and child. They’re in the port jail. I will meet your men when they arrive and provide whatever they need. In the meantime, I will see if I can insert someone into the jail. Have your boss call me as soon as possible to discuss. Jon

Drago grinned. So they had been taken into custody, were behind bars, and wouldn’t be going anywhere.

He had some breathing room.

The downside being that yet another amateur was going to make a try for them and no doubt screw it up. The cartel simply couldn’t learn the simple lesson that if you wanted something done right, you needed to hire someone competent.

Of course, that hadn’t worked out so well for them at the bell tower, but if Drago hadn’t been there, the hitter would have, without a doubt, flipped the little family’s switches in a matter of moments.

Drago rolled onto the highway, Che’s stern countenance glowering at his departure from a black and white billboard in his rearview mirror, assuring everyone that fighting to the death was the only option.

~ ~ ~

Mosises dialed Jon Renoir’s number and waited for him to pick up. When he did, music was blaring in the background.

“
Allo?
”

“Jon. Turn down the music. I can barely hear myself think.”

“Of course, Mosises. One moment.”

The song cut off and the Haitian’s voice returned. “Better?”

“Yes.”

“Your man Renaldo relayed my message?”

“He did. What did you wish to discuss?”

“The passengers were taken into the jail. I’d like to know what it’s worth to you to have them dealt with while they’re inside.”

Mosises paused. “I would be very grateful. On a personal basis, and a professional one.”

“How would you make that gratitude known to me?”

As Mosises thought, Renoir was angling for a better cut of the cocaine they trafficked in Haiti, as well as that transshipped from the island to the U.S.

“Perhaps a more generous slice of our pie. But there are limits to what this favor is worth.”

“Of course. I’d never take advantage of you. Would you say another one percent is fair?”

Mosises ran the numbers in his head. That amounted to a king’s ransom. He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice when he replied. “I’m afraid you have an inflated view of our profits. The industry has changed, and there are so many intermediaries now it’s a fraction of the old days.”

Renoir laughed. He remembered those years well enough. “So what are you offering?”

“I’m sending two men to handle it. You’re meeting them.”

“Yes, and I will provide whatever support I can. But it would be more of a sure thing if I had my side take care of your problem. There’s nowhere to run in a cell.”

Mosises considered it. If he said no, Renoir’s assistance might be less enthusiastic, and Ramón and Felix’s efforts hampered. The threat was unspoken, but both men knew how the game was played.

“I can offer a quarter percent for one year.” Mosises paused. “That’s a lot of money, Jon. We both know it.”