JET - Sanctuary (22 page)

“Very well. Stay in Argentina until you hear from me. At worst you’ll have a day or two of fine wine and gourmet food.”

“While I appreciate the vacation tip, that’s not going to get us paid, now, is it?”

“Leave your phone on. I’ll call when I have something.”

Fernanda hung up, placed the phone on the table, and watched as a group of high school students walked by, talking overly loudly, a few of the boys smoking, the girls with forbidden piercings adorning their young faces. A kit of pigeons paraded in lockstep across the cobblestones to where a pair of old women were throwing them chunks of stale bread while a lone saxophonist blew a haunting riff from a doorway, his case empty except for a few tarnished coins. She regarded Igor and sighed.

“I love Rio, but I could get used to this.”

“You’d be bored inside of a week, my love.”

“We could always fly back and whack someone for old time’s sake whenever we got the urge.”

He slid his hand across the table and took hers. “Always the romantic, aren’t you?”

“That’s why you married me.”

“That and the sex.”

She glanced at her watch. “Speaking of which, we have some time to kill. Race you back to the room?”

“That’s my girl.”

Chapter 29

San Felipe, Chile

The flight to Santiago from Mendoza had taken an hour to clear for the flight plan and another half hour for the actual flight. Unfortunately, Drago didn’t have anyone available in Chilean immigration to walk him through, so he’d been forced to leave his weapons in a locker in Mendoza for later retrieval. Renting a car had been a pain, everything taking twice as long as it should have, and by the time he made it to San Felipe, twilight was bruising the sky with magenta and purple.

Drago drove to the hotel, but was taken aback when he saw what must have been the town’s entire police force in front of it. He parked in the lot and made his way to the office, where a heavy-set woman stared at him from behind the reception desk like a vulture. A worker was replacing the glass in one of the windows, and Drago’s practiced eye took in the bullet holes on the far side of the courtyard, each marked with a piece of blue painter’s tape, presumably for ballistics.

“What happened here?” he asked, his tone friendly.

“Hotel’s closed until day after tomorrow,” the woman snapped, her patience obviously frayed.

“Oh. That’s a shame. I need a room.”

“Not here, you don’t. There are technicians and police everywhere. Sorry.”

Drago nodded sympathetically. “How about the restaurant? I could use a cup of coffee.”

“I’ve got one girl working. She can do coffee, but no food.”

“Sounds like a deal. Are those bullet holes?” Drago said, peering through the window at where the police were largely standing around, talking and smoking.

“Like I said, the hotel’s closed. Yes, there was a shooting here. First and only time in thirty-seven years we’ve had any problems at all. A gang from out of town, they’re saying. Bastards. I’ll be lucky if I see any customers this season now, even though none of it has anything to do with the hotel.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. If it’s any consolation, I’ll be back. But in the meantime, where would you recommend staying?”

She reluctantly gave him the name of another hotel. “They’re okay. Not as nice as my place, but still, not terrible.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Drago entered the restaurant and sat by the window. A couple of pensioners were nursing their coffees at the next window, clearly entertained by the comings and goings of the police. Drago ordered a cup of coffee from the bored waitress and leaned over with a wave at the old men.

“Hell of a thing, isn’t it?”

Both shook their heads and frowned. “It’s a different world these days,” the one facing Drago said. “No place is safe anymore.”

“A crime. What happened?”

“Gangs. What else? Shot the place up. I heard there were a dozen of ’em killed. Slaughtered ’em like hogs.”

“Really? Any idea what it was about?”

“Who knows? Drugs, money, power. Animals, all of them.”

“Good Lord. Were there any survivors?”

“Not that I know of. Although I’m suspicious of all the army in the area today.”

“Oh?”

“Haven’t you noticed? There’s some big deal happening in the hills. I keep my nose clean, you know, but you see things when you’ve got time on your hands. Hear things.”

The other pensioner nodded at his friend’s sage observations. “There was another shootout up there somewhere around a mine. My nephew runs a market at the edge of town. He overheard the soldiers talking.”

“I didn’t realize San Felipe was so dangerous.”

That got both old men started on the general moral decline of Chile in particular and young people in general. Drago listened politely, milking what more he could from them, and then excused himself from the discussion to place a call on his cell. When his agent answered he sounded out of breath.

“Yes?”

“I’m in Chile in a shit hole called San Felipe. Seems like something went down at the hotel the Argentine told me about. But that’s ancient history. Do you have any contacts that could monitor the Chilean military and get me info on a shootout at a mine outside of town? I just heard about it, and I’m going to ask around, but I’m leery of attracting too much attention.”

“You think that has anything to do with your man?”

“San Felipe is the kind of place where the locals sit around outside watching the snow melt for excitement. There was a gun battle at the hotel where his girlfriend was supposed to meet the Argentine’s contact, and now another one at a mine close to town. What do you think?”

“I’ll get right on it.”

“Do that. You know my number.”

Drago disconnected and engaged with the old men again, but that well had run dry. He chatted up the waitress but learned little new, other than that there had been about ten guests staying at the hotel when the gunfight had taken place the prior night, and all had cleared out before the police arrived.

“Can you imagine what that must have been like? Were any of the guests hurt?” Drago asked, pretending to be charmed by the young woman’s rustic beauty.

“Not that I heard. And one of the policemen said that it was super weird because there were no bodies when they got here. Blood everywhere and the walls looking like a shooting gallery, but not one body. Creepy.”

Drago didn’t think so. The gangs had wanted to remove as much evidence as possible before the cops arrived. That they’d been able to told him the locals had been in on it. “Yeah. I can’t believe you’re even working today.”

“Tell me about it. But what’s funny is that with all the police, I’ve had a pretty good day so far. They tip okay.”

Eventually Drago decided to drive up into the foothills and see if he could spot any of the rumored military presence. There was no telling when the agent would get back to him, and he was going stir-crazy, having gotten so close so quickly only to hit a wall. He stopped at the only market on the way out of town and chatted up the man behind the counter, but learned nothing he didn’t already know, except that the clerk had heard the shootout had happened at least twenty-five kilometers up the main road.

Drago exited the little market and pointed the car north, hoping to at least get a glimpse of the army deployment before the agent called. It was either that or listen to another hour of oldsters lamenting the collapse of civilization, and he didn’t think he could manage that without a few stiff drinks under his belt. He was just entering the curvy part of the mountain road when two army Jeeps passed him going in the opposite direction, three soldiers in each.

An auspicious sign, he thought to himself and slowed by another ten kilometers per hour. After thirty more minutes he reduced his speed to a crawl as he joined a column of cars in the near complete darkness that inched by a dirt road with an armored troop transport blocking it, a contingent of rifle-toting soldiers surrounding the vehicle. A faded sign announced the road as private property and that trespassers would be reported to the authorities by Epsilon Mines.

Drago passed a number of other tracks leading into the hills, but none with any armed presence. Near the top of the pass he spotted a compound far up the side of the mountain, its lights blazing, and when he rolled down his window, he could hear the steady far-off drone of a diesel generator. He recorded his position as a waypoint on his handheld GPS and turned around at the next road. When he checked his cell, he saw he had no signal and picked up his pace to get back to town.

As he neared San Felipe, his cell phone chirped at him, and he saw that he’d missed three calls, all from his agent. He hit redial, and the familiar voice answered on the second ring.

“I’ve been trying to reach you for an hour.”

“I was indisposed.”

“I got a report of some chatter on the military frequencies in the hills around San Felipe. A mention was made of two prisoners being held.”

“Where did you get the report from?”

“A trusted source.”

Drago smelled the CIA or NSA all over that, but didn’t comment. There were few groups that could precisely target radio communications anywhere in the world, and he didn’t want to question the man too closely.

The agent continued. “I have coordinates for the location of the only base in the area. Recent intel shows that it’s now occupied after having been abandoned for years. I’ve forwarded you all the information I have.”

“Good.”

“Is there anything else?”

Drago thought for a moment. “Yes.” He told his agent what he needed, and after a long pause the man responded with his usual deadpan tone.

“It could take a while.”

“Be better if it didn’t.”

Chapter 30

Santiago, Chile

The guard’s uniform seemed too large for his thin frame. His web belt with its baton, radio, and handcuffs hung loose as he circled the area that housed the prison’s backup generators. He had a face like a hatchet, a sparse mustache, and looked younger than his thirty-seven years, though his shoulders were perennially hunched as if the burden of his age had broken him prematurely.

A corrugated metal roof extended over the generators, a large stainless steel diesel fuel tank positioned well away from the oversized motors. He’d been told exactly what to do, and it had sounded simple enough on the telephone, but now, with his fellow guards only meters above him in the watchtower, nothing seemed more difficult.

Fortunately, as he knew from his own experience on the wall, the guards would be looking inward, not out into the perimeter area where the equipment was housed. There was always the chance that one of them might see him, but he already had a story outlined that, if not ironclad, was plausible enough to buy him the time to get clear of the cursed prison, never to return.

Voices echoed from the nearby tower, and he froze. Laughter, an overly loud insult, more laughter. He flipped open the lock-blade knife he’d retrieved from his boot and approached the first generator. Even in the dim light he could make out the belt he was to cut.

It was harder than he’d thought it would be, tough, and he’d broken a sweat by the time he finished sawing the second one apart and moved to the third. Only that one final deed and his job would be done, his debt to the Sotos paid, with a substantial bonus to sweeten the deal. His downfall had been gambling, not drugs or women, but it had almost been his undoing and had resulted in his being a virtual indentured servant to the family, chartered with smuggling in contraband and weapons and phones. Now, with a few swipes of his knife, he was done with all that – or at least, would begin to get paid for his efforts rather than working off an ever-burgeoning debt, presuming he went unobserved and could return to his shift unsuspected.

The final belt fell from the pulleys. He stepped back, slipped the folding knife back into his boot, and returned to the main building. He’d excused himself from his duty on the tower earlier to use the bathroom, letting his companions have a good laugh over his discomfited expression and complaints over the quality of food served from the backs of pickups at the curb outside the prison gates.

~ ~ ~

A utility truck parked in front of the concrete-and-steel enclosure a block from San Miguel prison. A man in gray coveralls and an orange hard hat got out of the passenger side and carried an oversized tool kit to the structure’s door. Two minutes after arriving, he’d jimmied the padlock and entered the dark space, a small work lamp on his hat lighting the way. The eight transformers were half the size of an economy car, and a hum vibrated the air as he placed the satchel charges beneath the connection points. After checking his watch, he switched on the detonators’ digital timers and set them all for exactly fifty-seven minutes later – ten o’clock p.m. on the nose.

He patted each charge like a beloved pet. After looking around to ensure he hadn’t missed anything, he returned to the door, which he bolted shut and padlocked again.

Nobody noticed the truck pull away on the darkened street, nor would they have been interested in a power company vehicle on its appointed rounds. The driver gave the passenger a high five as they rolled through the intersection, the lights of the prison receding behind them, and the passenger spoke into a two-way radio.

“We’re locked and loaded. Repeat. Locked and loaded.”

~ ~ ~

Lorenzo peered down the corridor to ensure he was unobserved, and then took the stairs to the roof two at a time. He opened the steel door, moved out onto the flat tarpaper surface, and hurried to the steel rungs leading to the tower. A breeze was blowing from the west, and he paused to watch a plane stop at the end of the runway before lurching forward, jet engines roaring as it reached takeoff speed and lifted into the night. Patches of white fog drifted over the surrounding fields, thickening into a white wall at the edge of the runway lights – not yet dense enough to interfere with the airport’s operations, but an ominous portent.