JET - Escape: (Volume 9) (26 page)

The other guard laughed. “Not unless you wanna be peeing red for a week, you.”

Matt shuffled down the hall, past the bloodstains that had yet to be cleaned up from the night before, a guard on either side of him. They moved him from the cellblock to a waiting van and, after passing a chain through the cuffs and locking him to a filthy steel bench in the rear of the vehicle, slammed the door closed.

The ride in the unventilated hotbox was mercifully short, but Matt’s heart sank when he was pulled out into the sun, blinking against the glare. The building looked like a condemned industrial warehouse, the walls partially collapsed in one place and everything coated in grime.

The new guards were just as unfriendly as the ones at the port jail. After processing him, they led him down the cellblock corridor past chambers packed with humanity to the last cell on the end. The maintenance crew responsible for keeping it clean was apparently the same one in charge of doing so at the port. The cell was as noxious as the last, only with eight occupants in a space intended for two.

Once the cuffs were removed and the door locked behind him, Matt gave his cellmates a cold stare, and was relieved when they made room for him without being forced. He could sense fear in the men, and it was quickly obvious that word of his tussle the prior night had spread because nobody met his eye, which was just as well. He didn’t know how long he’d be in for, but he wanted no more trouble, and could only hope that none of his fellow captives had murderous intentions.

He sat down on the floor beside the rest of the unfortunates and, after nodding to the nearest, closed his eyes, determined to make it until Jet could arrange for his release, assuming she’d appeared before the magistrate and worked a deal. His only fear was that she’d also been attacked, but the moment he thought it, the idea made him smile inwardly – he would have undoubtedly heard about it, because anyone foolhardy enough to try it would have been carried out in a body bag.

Matt opened his eyes when footsteps approached from across the cell. He glanced up to find himself looking at a powerfully muscled islander with full-sleeve tattoos and a shaved head. The man glared at Matt and then spat on the floor near his feet.

“Don’t look so tough to me, he don’t,” he said, his Creole accent thick.

Matt didn’t say anything.

“You hear me, you? I said you don’t look tough at all. After hearing ’bout how you laid out two of Renoir’s boys, I figured you’d be a badass. But you ain’t shit, you.”

The other men were staring at him, waiting for a response. Matt didn’t rise to the bait. The bully was clearly trying to establish his dominance over the cell, and anything Matt said would escalate the confrontation. So he remained quiet and kept his expression neutral.

The islander spat again, but no closer, and addressed his cellmates. “See? Ain’t no thing at all. This boy ain’t going to cause no trouble long as I’m around, he ain’t.” A few of the men nodded, and the big man moved back to his corner, his position at the top of the cell pecking order reconfirmed.

Matt closed his eyes again, glad he’d made the right call. His head was splitting and he didn’t need to get into another fight. But now he had a puzzle and a name: Renoir.

And the question was, who was this Renoir, and why had his men tried to skewer Matt in his sleep?

Chapter 47

Adrian waited on the fishing boat for Drago to climb aboard, taking care to keep his hands where they were visible at all times and not make any sudden moves that might set the gunman off. The captain had been in his share of dangerous situations, after a lifetime spent in lowlife ports in Central and South America, and was still breathing. Whatever the man wanted, Adrian intended to give him, because he wasn’t ready to willingly shed his mortal coil quite yet.

The hull shifted and the rotting floorboards creaked as Drago stepped onto the aging vessel. Adrian eyed him nervously. “So here we are. What do you want to discuss that requires all this?” he asked.

“I’m interested in your passengers. I have a bone to pick with them, and I need to know when they’re planning to return to the ship.”

Dawning awareness crept across Adrian’s face. “You’re…you’re the one who was after them…”

“
Is
. I’m the one who
is
after them. And you’re going to tell me what I need to know.”

“I have no idea. The Haitians took them. Ask the coast guard.”

Drago nodded, expecting the response. “Yes, I heard. But I also know that you’re their way off the island, which means you expect them back.”

Adrian shook his head. “No. As soon as we’re allowed, we’re leaving. They can fend for themselves.”

Drago’s eyes narrowed. “You know, one of the things I’m really good at is telling when someone’s lying. It’s like a sixth sense or something. Been that way my entire life. And I know you’re lying. I don’t blame you for it or take it personally, but you will tell me the truth or you won’t be getting off this boat.”

“I’m telling you the truth. But you don’t have to believe me. You can just watch the gangplank until we head out to sea.”

“I intend to. However, it would be most helpful to understand exactly when they’re going to arrive.”

“I swear I don’t know.”

Drago shook his head as though disappointed, and cocked the hammer back on the pistol. “I can see you’re not taking this seriously. That’s a shame. If you’re not going to help me, you’re my enemy, and I see no reason not to end this now. Make your peace with whatever God you pray to, because you’re about to meet him.”

Adrian believed the gunman. His eyes met Drago’s, and it was like looking into an open grave. He shuddered and looked away. “She called earlier. She’s coming sometime today. That’s all I can tell you. I swear I’m telling the truth.”

“Why’s she coming?”

“To get her kid’s pills.”

“Where’s your crew? Be specific.”

“Everyone’s hanging out up in the galley. It’s air-conditioned.”

“Where is that on the boat?”

“Up two levels from the cabin level, in the superstructure – one level below the bridge and my cabin.”

“So the lower part of the boat is empty?”

“Yes.”

“Nobody in the cargo area?”

“No. Everyone stays in the superstructure, where it’s cool.”

Drago moved so quickly he was a blur. The gun butt caught Adrian on the temple, stunning him. He dropped to his knees and Drago hit him again at the base of the neck. Adrian’s breath blew from his mouth like a muffled sneeze and he fell to the deck, unconscious.

Twenty minutes later Adrian was bleeding, his wrists and legs bound, his fingers broken and twisted at impossible angles. His face was a mass of contusions and cuts, and he was missing most of his teeth.

Drago stood over him with a rusting gaff in his hand, studying him dispassionately. Adrian looked up at him, the pain from the torture excruciating, and coughed, wincing at the pain his broken ribs sent searing through his body.

“I…tol…you…every…”

“Shh. Don’t try to talk. I believe you now. But I had to make sure.”

“I…”

Drago took a step forward and slammed the heavy gaff handle against Adrian’s head. Adrian struggled against his bindings and Drago hit him again, and then moved behind him and jerked the point of the metal hook through the captain’s left eye, up into his brain.

“Did you know that two doctors won the Nobel Prize in medicine in 1949 for basically this procedure? The frontal lobotomy. They came up with the idea of driving a surgical instrument into the front of the brain, through the eye socket, and wiggling it around until enough of the prefrontal cortex was so scrambled the patient wasn’t a problem anymore. Of course, nowadays it’s viewed as barbaric, but at the time it was hailed as the latest thing in psychiatric medicine.” Drago eyed Adrian’s stiffening form and shrugged. “Times change, I suppose. But regardless of your views on medical ethics, nobody would question its effectiveness in keeping you quiet for the duration. Of course, you’ll bleed to death from your other wounds eventually, or at your age, more likely will suffer a heart attack, but you won’t realize it’s happening. Or maybe you will.”

Drago stepped away from Adrian, pulled the gaff free, and tossed it onto the deck. Adrian tumbled over onto his side. Drago looked down at the front of his pants and shirt to ensure there was no blood splattered on them, and closed his eyes as a wave of dizziness swept over him. He froze and waited for the spell to end and, when it did, glanced back at Adrian. “Now, I’m afraid, charming as the company’s been, I have other fish to fry. A date with the woman. Which I’ve been looking forward to for some time.” Drago looked to the stern where he’d come aboard. “Don’t get up on my account. I know my way off the boat.”

Drago stopped himself with a muttered oath and then relaxed. It really wasn’t talking to himself if he had an audience. That seemed self-evident. Even if the other party had the comprehension of a starfish, it didn’t violate his rule – not the spirit of it, anyway. His head throbbed with a dull ache as he rationalized, and then he shook it off and gave Adrian a flip salute.

“Try to stay out of trouble, Captain.”

The boat rocked slightly as he moved to the rear deck, stepping cautiously around the collected bird droppings that encrusted the deck. The woman was within reach now, and although Matt was in jail, Drago could attend to him after he’d amused himself with her. Whenever Matt was released, assuming he ever was, Drago would be waiting – and a few pops of his pistol would end Matt’s life as surely as stepping on a bug.

Now it was just a matter of time. He’d sit and watch, and when she appeared, he’d follow her onto the boat, incapacitate her, and have his way with her in the bowels of the ship, her daughter broken in front of her, her last moments spent begging for her life.

He smiled and moved onto the jetty.

It wouldn’t be long now.

Not long at all.

Chapter 48

Ramón limped along the street, ignoring the stares from the islanders, to where Clyde had said he’d pick him up, near a shantytown a block away from the destroyed National Palace. Renoir’s man had been reluctant to get too close to the site of the motorcycle accidents, because even in Haiti, the police would be scouring the neighborhood for witnesses, and his face was too known among law enforcement to risk being stopped.

He withdrew his cell phone when he arrived and shook his head at the sight of the massive white building, its domes collapsed in the big earthquake of 2010, which had demolished so much of the city and delivered a death blow to the already struggling nation. He leaned against the corroding green wrought-iron fence and dialed Mosises.

“Yes?”

“It’s me. We had a problem. Felix is dead.”

“What?”

Ramón gave him a brief report of the motorcycle chase and their ultimate failure. When he finished, Mosises remained quiet for an ominous stretch before speaking so softly Ramón had to strain to hear him.

“The man is still in jail?” Mosises asked.

“That’s correct. But they moved him out of the port facility into the main prison complex.”

Another wait. “What is your plan?”

“I’ll have Renoir put out the word to see if he can locate her, but in the meantime, I’ll watch the prison. She’s going to have to show up to pay his fine and get him released, and when she does, I’ll be there. If she uses an intermediary, I’ll follow the man once he’s free and take them all out at once.”

“What about having Renoir’s men try again while he’s inside?”

“I think we can expect the same result as the last time.”

“It’s not like you’ve met with much success.”

“True, but that’s because Felix didn’t follow my instructions. He went charging in instead of waiting until they arrived at their destination. You know he was a hothead. The plan was to discover where they were going and make our play once they were out in the open.”

Mosises sighed. “I don’t have to tell you how disappointed I am with this.”

“No. We both are.”

“I’m going to fly some more people there. Sounds like you need help.”

“I don’t, but I appreciate anything you can do. It’s a big city, and Renoir only has so many resources.”

“Yes, that was one of my fears. Everyone seems to overestimate their own competence…and underestimate that of our quarry.”

Ramón’s ears grew hot at the barb, but he remained calm. “I won’t let you down.”

“I’ve heard that assurance before. This time, see that you don’t.”

Mosises hung up without saying anything else, his warning resonating long after the line went dead. Ramón knew the cartel boss well enough, and when he grew impatient, as he was now, he became dangerously unpredictable.

A multicolored tap-tap, which passed for an island bus but was in reality a van or truck with room for a dozen riders on two benches in the rear, slowed to see whether he wanted a ride, but he waved it off.

Clyde’s SUV appeared out of a cloud of dust at the end of the block and barreled toward Ramón, slowing at only the last moment to let him aboard. Ramón did his best to hop into the high vehicle without showing he was hurt, but it was no good, and he winced as he sat down.

Clyde took in Ramón’s abraded trousers and shook his head. “Didn’t go so good, huh? Shoulda let the boss take care of it, you should. He’s got guys would do it, no questions asked.”

“Too late now.”

“Where’s your buddy?”

“He didn’t make it.”

Clyde nodded. “Where to, then, boss?”

“I need a car.”

“I can drive you around, I can.”

“I want my own car. As soon as possible.”

“Easy enough.” Clyde placed a call and relayed the request.

“Take me to the main jail,” Ramón said, when Clyde had disconnected.

Clyde turned onto a smaller street. “Hell, boss, you coulda walked there, you could. Isn’t more than two blocks away.”

Ramón tried to stop the groan that escaped from his lips, but it was too late. A minute later they were passing two U.N. peacekeeping force armored personnel carriers parked in front of the high prison periphery wall. Island women made their way along the Rue de Centre with baskets and pots perched atop their heads, seemingly oblivious to the war machines mere footsteps from them, the soldiers appearing bored at the monotonous duty.