JET - Sanctuary (18 page)

Drago’s first impression of San Rafael was overwhelmingly green. Everywhere he looked seemed to be an eruption of trees – olive groves, poplar, pine, oak, and larch, the land a verdant contrast to the arid valley he’d driven through to get there. As he neared town, he trailed a thirties-era flatbed truck laden with bales of hay. Three young men who could have stepped out of the last century rode on the bed with the load. As far as he could see, farmland, vineyards, and unimaginable agricultural abundance thrived in the majestic shadows of the towering mountains.

Alfredo Sintas lived in the wealthiest neighborhood in San Rafael, each home its own small winery. Carefully pruned vineyards served as his backyard and lawn. After doing a slow reconnaissance of the area, Drago parked a block away on a quiet side street and studied the secluded oasis of privilege filled with expansive villas and luxury automobiles. He didn’t bother with his bag, preferring to leave it locked in the car, and took his time walking to Sintas’ house, a dark brown baseball cap pulled low over his brow and a pair of cheap sunglasses shielding his eyes.

He walked up the drive, checking his watch as his gaze roved over his surroundings to confirm nobody was watching. He had little worry, but it was a habit born of long experience, and his glance took in everything while seeming to wander aimlessly.

A newish BMW sedan was parked in the driveway in front of the garage, and Drago felt the hood with his hand as he brushed by it – cool to the touch, so not a recent arrival. He’d debated more circuitous approaches but had decided on the direct route: a knock at the door, a case of mistaken address. He was nearing the front porch when he spied a man in his sixties at the side of the house, wearing a red sweater and slate-blue corduroy trousers, chopping at the dark brown soil of a vegetable garden with a hoe. A man in touch with nature, Drago thought approvingly, as he moved to the side gate.

“
Señor
Sintas?” Drago called, his tone harmlessly friendly and slightly puzzled.

“Yes, that’s right,” Sintas said, looking up from his work, equally perplexed.

“Ah, good. I’m afraid your friend isn’t going to make his appointment,” Drago said, opening the gate.

“My friend? What are you talking about?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t remember his name. Older fellow, lives in a magnificent villa on the outskirts of Mendoza? Drives a Toyota Land Cruiser?”

“Hector Garabaldi?” Sintas said as Drago stopped inside the gate, ten meters away. “Why, he just called. What happened?”

“Was that his name? Sorry. I’m terrible with that sort of thing.” Drago pulled his pistol from where he’d had it at the small of his back. “What happened was that he had an accident. He sent me here in his stead. He promised you’d be able to answer my questions for me, and assured me you’d be cooperative.”

Sintas eyed the weapon, confusion playing across his face. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Ah, as to who I am, that’s not important. As to what I want, that’s easy. Let’s go inside, and we can discuss it.” Drago motioned with the gun, a small smile on his face, looking almost embarrassed that he’d had to disrupt the man’s idyllic morning.

Sintas hefted the hoe, and Drago could read his intent. “
Señor
Sintas, I really don’t want to hurt you, but if you follow through on your ill-advised idea about making a try for me with the hoe, I’ll be forced to shoot you in the stomach, which I can assure you is incredibly painful. What will then happen is your bowels will leak into your abdominal cavity, slowly poisoning your blood, which can take many hours and is an agonizing death under the best of circumstances.” Drago sighed. “Now, I don’t think either of us wants that. I’d prefer to be invited in, to sit and talk, perhaps like new acquaintances if not old friends, learn what I need, and then leave you in peace, aware that you’ve sat with death and walked away unharmed. There aren’t many men who can make that claim, but I’m feeling generous today, and it’s too beautiful out for more killing.”

“You’re insane.”

“Ah, well, perhaps. But that doesn’t change anything, does it? Put the hoe down, keep your hands where I can see them, and let’s go inside. I trust there’s nobody else in there? No housekeeper or mistress?”

Drago could see the internal struggle as Sintas calculated whether he could reach Drago with the hoe before he could fire. He arrived at the sensible conclusion – which was no – and did as instructed, his eyes narrowing as he slowly lowered the hoe handle and laid it on the ground.

“What are those? Tomatoes? And is that basil?” Drago asked.

Sintas ignored the questions. “What do you wish to know?”

“It’s a small thing. Probably not worth either of our time. Let’s go inside and discuss it. The alternative is not a pretty one, as I mentioned. We can be civilized about this, yes? We aren’t animals, after all.”

Sintas moved to his side door with the deliberate care of a much older man. Drago closed the distance to him lest he get any ideas about inadvisable heroics and followed him into the house. The decoration was dated and more feminine than Drago had expected – no doubt the deceased wife’s touch. The hardwood floors showed signs of recent work, the varnish fresh and shiny and the joinery meticulous.

“Please, sit. Over here,” Drago said, leading him to a couch in the living room. Sintas complied, and when he was seated, Drago sat across from him in an easy chair.

“What do you want to know?” Sintas said, his eyes boring into Drago as though he could kill him with the intensity of his stare.

“Your friend Garabaldi gave your contact information to a troubled young woman, with the encouragement that you could arrange for anything she might need. She’s helping a very dangerous fellow. You don’t want any part of this, I assure you. Has she contacted you?”

Sintas didn’t blink. “No. I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

Drago exhaled, clearly disappointed. “You know, it’s an interesting thing. A practiced liar will tell a lie and never blink while he’s doing so. The tendency is for an honest man to look away for an instant, or for his eyelids to flutter. But a skilled liar will hold absolutely still, having mastered the giveaways that people automatically and correctly associate with prevarication.” Drago paused as Sintas glared hate at him. “You didn’t blink. If I wasn’t as practiced a liar myself, I’d have believed you. Unfortunately, I am, and I can tell you’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You just did it again, when you insisted you weren’t. So that’s two lies.” Drago sighed resignedly. “I’m afraid I wasn’t clear. I require this information, and you will tell me. You will do it either willingly, in which case we shall part as friends, or unwillingly, in which case you’ve seen your last sunset, tasted your last dinner, drunk your last glass of fine wine. The choice is entirely yours. Believe me when I say that I hope you choose wisely.”

Sintas glowered at him defiantly. “I told you the truth.”

Drago adjusted the position of the pistol ever so slightly and squeezed off a shot. The round blew the older man’s kneecap off.

Sintas’ scream of agony shattered the stillness of the house. Drago didn’t move, his smile fixed in place. After several moments of watching Sintas writhe in pain, Drago stood and walked to the kitchen, taking his time, and removed an ice tray from the freezer. Another howl of anguish echoed through the house, and he dropped four into a plastic bag, reconsidered and added two more, and then moved back into the living room. He stood in front of Sintas and inspected the bloody wound, then set the bag down on the coffee table and returned to his seat.

“Hold the ice on it. It will begin to numb in a few minutes. Not enough so it stops hurting, but enough so you can speak coherently.”

Sintas’ mouth gawped, but nothing came out but a wheeze.

Drago nodded. “I hope I’ve made myself clear. Because of your reluctance to be honest with me, you’ll be walking around on one stick for the rest of your life. But you’ll be alive. Piss me off any further and it’ll be two sticks. I can see you’re paying attention, so I’m going to share something with you.” Drago sat back. “The American Indians used to have a remarkable way of torturing their prisoners. I mean, they had many; it was considered great sport. But the one I’m thinking of in particular shows how inventive they were. They’d broil the victim’s appendages, slowly, over many hours, and when the nerves went dead, they’d cut their hands and feet off, and then repeat the process on the stumps. They could make the process take days.” Sintas seemed to be following what Drago was saying, so he continued. “You need to ask yourself whether you want to continue to try to lie to someone who carries that sort of information around in his head, hoping for a chance to use it.”

Twenty minutes later Drago left the house, walking unhurriedly. Of course he’d lied about allowing Sintas to live – which Sintas, being a liar, had also intuited – so he’d had to alter his approach and make him beg for a quick death instead.

In the end, he got the information he wanted. His quarry was in Chile, a town called San Felipe. Or had been until recently. The woman was looking for a way out of the country – something unofficial. She’d missed her appointment with Sintas’ man that morning and hadn’t called yet to reschedule, but Drago was optimistic. He had Sintas’ cell phone, so when she did, he’d know. And when he found her, he’d find his target.

From there, it was simply a matter of choosing the correct persuasion.

Chapter 25

San Felipe, Chile

The winding road down the mountain seemed to take forever to navigate in the Jeep. Jet kept the SAF submachine gun in her lap the entire time, wary of their escape having been too easy. She busied herself by listening to the chatter on the handheld radio clamped to the dash in a metal holder, and almost jumped out of her seat when a deep voice came on the air and reported that the captives were on their way to the provisional headquarters.

Jet turned to Alejandro. “You heard that. Captives. That has to be Matt and Hannah.”

“Probably, and there’s a slim possibility that it also means Rodrigo, but there’s not much we can do right now. I have contacts in the military I can talk to once we’re safe, but we’re not there yet.”

“That’s bullshit. Of course there’s something we can do. We just escaped from a mine that should have been a death trap. Don’t talk to me about not being able to do anything.”

“Look, even a temporary army headquarters is going to be swarming with soldiers. We’re talking serious fortification. There’s no way we’d be able to get them out in broad daylight. You’d be dead before you got out of the car.”

“I have to try,” she countered. “That’s my daughter we’re talking about.”

“I know. But you have to do more than try. You have to succeed. Which means you’ll need more than a gun and guts. You will need a plan and probably a lot of help. So calm down, let’s deal with our present circumstance, and then we’ll see what can be done. Nobody’s going to be helped by you going off half-cocked.”

Jet fumed in silence, but grudgingly conceded to herself that Alejandro made sense. While her instinct was to go in with guns blazing, it would do Hannah no good to have her mommy killed while trying to rescue her.

Once they rolled into town, Alejandro’s posture changed and he visibly relaxed, but he was still detached and quiet, no doubt thinking through his next moves and the likelihood that his brother had turned traitor. Part of her sympathized with his predicament, but a larger part refused to get more involved than she already was.

“Where’s this safe house?” she asked.

“On the west side of town. In a quiet residential neighborhood.”

“How do you intend to get in?”

“I know the combination. We have a realtor’s lock on the back door with a key inside.”

“Do you control San Felipe, or do the Verdugos?”

“We do. Or rather, I would have said that we did until yesterday. After the hotel shootout, I’m not taking anything for granted.”

“Can’t you just make a call and get a dozen armed men to appear by magic?”

“Under normal circumstances I’d say sure, but…” He sighed. “I don’t want to jump to any conclusions, but Rodrigo was in charge of this area, along with Los Andes, while I spent much of my time in Santiago. If you’re right – and I’m not saying you are – and he participated in these attacks, then it’s also possible that some or all of his men might not be loyal.” He hesitated. “I’d just as soon leave them out of it for now.”

Alejandro stiffened when a police cruiser swung out of a side street and took up position behind the Jeep. Jet flipped the safety of the FAMAE SAF off and did her best to avoid staring at the squad car in the rearview mirror. She clutched the weapon with a death grip as they went one block, and then another, and then the police car turned into the parking lot of a small restaurant. Jet returned the safety to the locked position and began breathing again.

The safe house was located in a working-class neighborhood, the homes jammed in close to one another, iron bars across the doors and windows, the vehicles older and the houses in disrepair. It was obvious to Jet that the population of San Felipe wasn’t prosperous, which could work in their favor: older cars were less likely to have state-of-the art alarm systems.

Alejandro made a right onto a tree-lined lane and glanced at her. “The house is halfway down this block on the left-hand side.” The Jeep crept along at a moderate pace as it approached the dwelling, and then Jet grabbed his arm.

“Keep driving. There’s a man in that green sedan twenty meters up, my side. See his head?”

“Now I do. You’re good.”

“There are a bunch of cigarette butts on the street beneath his window. He’s been there for a while.”

“Shit.” The single syllable held not only anger, but sadness. There weren’t a lot of possible explanations for a watcher being outside of a safe house that only the top members of Alejandro’s organization knew about.

“Just keep driving, maintain your speed, and laugh as you pass him like I’m telling you the funniest joke you’ve ever heard. Most soldiers are young and just putting in their time trying to make the best of things, and we’ll appear a lot less suspicious if you’re laughing than if you’ve got that grim look,” she warned. “The mind tends to automatically discount smiling or laughing people when searching for threats.”