Survival (8 page)

He and Rafael made short work of the rest of the crew, and then they made their way to the lifeboat and sealed themselves in, ready to launch into the water at the pull of a lever.

Carlos’ last thought as the little craft slid down the tracks and then dropped toward the surface of the sea was that it was a nice evening for a boat ride.

Chapter 11

Frontino, Colombia

Fernanda felt the car slow after what she estimated was ten minutes of winding road that climbed at probably a ten percent grade. So they had to be in the mountains. She cocked her head, listening to the sound of the tires change from running on pavement to hard-packed dirt. The blindfold over her eyes effectively obstructed her vision but not her ability to commit the route to memory. Something creaked outside as they rolled to a stop – a gate, she supposed – and then the tires crunched on gravel for thirty seconds before the vehicle rolled to a stop.

A sour, unpleasant smell hit her nostrils as the thug in the seat next to her reached over and untied the blindfold. She forced herself to keep her hands folded in her lap as he fumbled with the black fabric, battling the urge to incapacitate him with one well-delivered strike.

Fernanda had been unimpressed by the security precautions the two men who’d picked her up had taken – consisting of a cursory search, where the driver’s hands lingered just a hair too long on her curves, and the blindfold. If she’d been so predisposed, she could have killed them both in seconds, but that wasn’t why she was here.

Her contact in Panama had given her the introduction to a man who, he assured her, ran much of northern Colombia, with strong ties to the rebels up in the Darién Gap who controlled that swatch of jungle as much as anyone could – it was dangerous beyond belief, infested with every sort of predator and miscreant, completely removed from any laws or government’s jurisdiction, a no-man’s land where those who went in never came out. She’d read up on the area, which was populated by small Indian villages that rarely had contact with the outside world, and by little hamlets with hapless Colombian natives who’d lived there for generations, eking out a sustenance existence from the sea, rivers, or land.

The stretch of coast that she needed help with ran from the Gap south to Buenaventura, a river town that also served as a Pacific port notorious as a cocaine smuggling hotspot where more of the white gold embarked on its journey north to Mexico than from any other place in Colombia. There were two primary corridors – the Pacific Ocean along the Central American coast, and the Caribbean route, each requiring different techniques due to the disparity in patrols. Buenaventura had become infamous due to the cottage industry of submarine manufacture, where the locals crafted fiberglass subs in the hundred foot and up range in jungle factories, some replete with air-conditioning and other creature comforts. These were single-use craft that would be scuttled once they’d delivered their payloads in Mexican waters. Designed with the ability to haul many tons of cocaine, their production cost was a rounding error.

Grimly poor, the port town was one of the most dangerous on the planet outside of an active war zone, although whether that qualification was appropriate was debatable. Colombia was in its fifth decade of civil war, with rebel forces controlling much of the south, parts of the coast, and the north, including the Darién. Originally driven by communist ideology, the rebels had long ago transitioned from freedom fighters to capitalists engaged in protecting the thriving cocaine production that was the primary industry of southern Colombia and northern Peru, Ecuador, and Brazil.

Fernanda’s Panamanian contact had told her that the going rate for a submarine captain was two million dollars, cash. Most only made one trip, preferring to retire once they collected their windfall. Those that were apprehended en route died in prison – the cartels didn’t suffer failure gladly, and it didn’t matter to them what the circumstances were behind a botched voyage. Someone would pay for their loss, and that was inevitably the captain and crew.

Fernanda blinked in the bright sunlight and slipped on a pair of designer sunglasses. The thug next to her opened his door and slid out, and the driver swung hers wide so she could do the same. She stepped onto the gravel and eyed the large ranch-style house before her. It was perched on top of a bluff, a valley stretching into the distance before it, with distinctive tiers of coffee plants spilling down the slope.

She didn’t blink when the sound of gunshots cracked from her left, beyond several satellite buildings that ringed the drive. Pistols, she thought from the timbre of the reports. The thug looked her up and down and grunted.

“This way.”

Fernanda followed the man along the drive until he veered off onto a dirt path that led to a grove of trees. More shots echoed from beyond the trees, as well as the sound of laughing male voices.

On the other side of the grove stood four men, pistols in hand. A bottle of Ballantine’s sat on a card table, which was ringed by lawn chairs set on the trimmed grass of a small clearing. The men turned and watched as she neared, and then one of the men – older, impeccably attired in linen pants, a Robert Graham shirt, and black suede Gucci loafers – tilted his head in greeting.

“Welcome. We have a mutual friend who explained that you have a pressing problem you’d like some assistance with?” The man’s eyes took in every inch of her. “I’m Mosises. Make yourself at home.”

He approached and shook her hand. She noted that in spite of his full head of silver hair, he had a youthful demeanor and an alert gaze.

“I’m Fernanda. And yes, I need some help.” She recounted an abridged version of her predicament, leaving out why she was looking for the man and little girl. When she was done, he turned back to his companions.

“Have they set up the new targets?” he asked.

One of the men, younger than the rest, nodded. “As you instructed.”

“Good.” Mosises glanced at Fernanda. “We’re having a little contest here. I got some new Berettas in, and there’s some question as to who’s a better shot.”

Mosises raised his weapon and fired off six rounds at a paint can sitting down the slope about thirty yards away. Four of the shots struck it left of center. The last two missed it entirely. Yellow paint streamed from the holes, and Mosises frowned. Fernanda looked at the can and shook her head.

“Are those hand loads or factory?” she asked.

Mosises raised one eyebrow. “Factory.”

“Then either you pull to the left, or the sight’s off.”

He reappraised her. “Sounds like you know your weapons.”

“I’ve had time on my hands,” she allowed.

“How’s your shooting?”

She shrugged. “Better than some.”

Mosises called to the nearest man. “Oscar, give her your gun.”

The stocky Oscar waddled over to her and offered her the Beretta. She tested the weight in her hand and smiled. “Feels like you’ve still got, what, nine shots left?”

Oscar’s eyes widened. “That’s right.”

Mosises pointed with his gun at the paint can next to the one he’d hit. “Do your worst.”

Fernanda flipped the safety off and carefully squeezed off six shots using a two-handed grip. All six placed within a three-inch grouping. She engaged the safety and handed the gun back to Oscar.

“That one’s fine.”

Mosises gave her his pistol. “Try this one.”

She repeated the performance, and six shots consistently punctured the far left of the can. Fernanda smiled as she handed him back the gun. “Told you. Pulls to the left.”

Mosises returned her smile with a laugh and tossed the gun onto one of the chairs. “Very nice. Come. Let’s discuss how I can help you.” He paused for a moment, considering. “What exactly do you require?”

“I need men to scour the coast where these two could be. If that’s not feasible, then to put the word out that you are to be informed when they’re spotted. Our friend told me that you run this area.”

Mosises gave a last look at the cans. “It’s true that I have considerable influence, but that’s a huge stretch of coastline. Based on what you’re describing, at least 200 kilometers. And most of it’s uninhabited. Jungle. So I’m not sure there will be much chance of scouring.”

“Then you can’t help me?”

“I didn’t say that, did I? I can put a helicopter in the air and have it run up the coast, as a start. And as you suggested, I can circulate that I’m looking for these two. But it’s not going to be easy…or cheap.”

“Name a price,” Fernanda said evenly.

Mosises grinned. “You have an interesting way of putting things. But you did confirm that my gun needs adjustment, which saved me a lot of money in lost bets over the course of the day.” He named a figure.

Fernanda’s face was a blank. “I’ll have to make some calls to confirm, but that seems doable.”

“It sounds like the clock’s ticking for you, so I’ll take that as a yes and will deploy some men. If you can’t make good on it, let me know as soon as possible. How long will it take you to get a definitive?”

She glanced at her watch. “One hour, at most.”

His grin widened. “Is there anything else you’d like me to arrange?”

“Just find them.”

“If they’re anywhere on that coast, I’m your best shot, but there’s no guarantee. I hope that’s acceptable.”

“Of course.”

He studied her and grinned. “Then we have a deal.”

Chapter 12

SW of Nuquí, Chocó, Colombia

Matt eyed the lifeboat’s fuel gauge as he studied the shore, his face set with grim determination. Hannah was slumbering nearby; the excitement of making an escape in the middle of the night via freefall lifeboat during a huge storm had kept her awake until daybreak. The sturdy little diesel engine purred along as it had for the last twelve hours, but it was a good thing that land was in sight because it was running on fumes and would likely die at any moment.

He estimated they’d averaged six knots, or roughly seven miles per hour, although that had increased as the seas flattened. The first three hours in the water had been hellish, and it had been all he could do to maintain a course east as the mammoth swells pushed them along like a leaf on a river.

He’d taken the precaution of packing their bags when he’d watched the sinking fishing boat drift off in the night and thought he’d seen someone on board as it faded into the gloom. There was no way that the saved men would have left one of their own on a sinking ship, so that meant that, if his eyes hadn’t played tricks on him, the boat was fine and the mayday was a ruse.

Taking no chances, he’d moved Hannah to the upper deck where the two freefall lifeboats were stored, bows facing downward. He’d secured the little girl and their things inside and readied the starboard one for launching. The boat was fully enclosed, so he had no fears about them drowning or being capsized in the storm – which had turned out to be a good thing, because when he’d crept down to where the newcomers were drying off in the galley, he’d spotted the crew tied up and a gunman guarding them. Matt had considered overpowering the man, but with a broken hand he lacked complete confidence, and he had no idea how competent the other assailants were. He had to assume the worst.

Any question in his mind that the boarding might have been an act of piracy was put to rest when he’d peeked around the corner on the stateroom level and seen two men go straight to his door. He hadn’t waited for any more confirmation and moved stealthily back to the lifeboats on the upper deck and warned Hannah to hold on tight.

The launch had been rough, but the shock of dropping into the ocean had quickly worn off as he started the motor and set a course for land. The moving walls of water pushed them along with a mind of their own.

He gazed through the small windows at the approaching shore and was startled when a geyser of water shot into the air no more than twenty yards to starboard, followed by the mottled gray-brown of a leviathan body. A second whale joined its partner, spraying spume at the sky, and Hannah awoke at the loud noise.

“Look, honey. It’s a whale! Come here and I’ll hold you up so you can see.”

Nothing happened for thirty seconds, and then one of the whales breached again. Hannah’s eyes widened at the sight of such a large creature only a short distance away, and she gasped. Matt smiled at the sound. Everything was new and fresh when you were two and a half, but even at forty-something, a whale coming up for air within spitting distance was an impressive sight.

“That’s called a whale. It’s like a big fish, but it breathes air like we do.” He thought about what else he knew about whales. Years of being a clandestine operative with the CIA hadn’t prepared him for being a nature guide, so he winged it, figuring his audience wasn’t that discriminating. “It’s the biggest animal in the world.”

They watched the whales for a few minutes, and then he set Hannah back down. “We should be on land soon. Our boat ride is almost over.”

Hannah nodded solemnly, as though her permission were required, and then stretched her arms out and yawned. Matt turned his attention back to the coast, looking for a hospitable spot to land the boat. The entire shore was jungle with a black sand beach stretching into the sea, not a creature to be seen other than a few pelicans floating just outside the surf line.

“Hang on, sweetheart. We’re going to beach the boat.”

“Beach?”

“We’re going to pull it up onto the sand.”

She smiled. Even though she hadn’t complained, Matt could tell that the novelty of boat rides had worn thin on the little girl. He didn’t blame her. He’d had enough of the seafaring life to last a long time.

The motor sputtered once with a hoarse cough, and a breaking wave lifted them and pushed them towards the beach. Another came in behind it, and then they were surfing toward the shoreline. Matt gave the dying engine full throttle to try to maintain any control over their direction and keep them from being pushed sideways and rolling.