JET - Sanctuary (23 page)

Once the plane’s blinking lights were out of view, he ascended a metal ladder to the platform above the radar arrays and shrugged off his backpack. He withdrew two compact charges and placed them on top of the junction boxes containing the heavy cables that led to the spinning arrays, and felt around in his bag again.

The radio-controlled detonators were tuned with a special handshake signal to prevent an errant frequency from setting them off. He finished arming the charges in less than a minute, and he smiled as he climbed down the ladder, his backpack now empty except for a sandwich and a newspaper – and the transmitters.

He’d just made ten thousand American dollars, which he was already mentally spending on a motorcycle he’d had his eye on and a proper set of kitchen appliances to keep his wife happy. All he had to do now was press two buttons at ten p.m. and the money was his, no strings attached.

It didn’t trouble him in the least that his act would shut down Chile’s international airport for at least a full day, stranding thousands and costing the airlines and government hundreds of thousands of dollars. The motorcycle was metallic red with an oversized rear tire and a powerful engine, and his domestic situation would improve for months because of his unexpectedly thoughtful household gifts.

The government and the airlines weren’t looking out for his best interests, so he felt no reason to return the favor. He’d press the buttons at the appropriate time, dispose of the transmitters as instructed, and collect his pay with a clear conscience and an untroubled heart.

~ ~ ~

Alejandro stood by the helicopter as Jet did her final preflight checks, the big overhead rotors spinning slowly, the turbine roaring. Hector sat in one of the rear passenger seats with the window open, an AK-47 with a night vision scope next to him and a metal ammo container with ten thirty-round magazines at his feet. Jet adjusted the night vision goggles strapped to her head, verified the coordinates on the dash-mounted GPS, and gave Alejandro a thumbs-up.

“It’ll take approximately ten minutes to get there. I’m going to be flying low and maintaining radio silence. Hector will call you on the cell when we’re going in,” she said.

“We’ll be standing by.” Alejandro glanced into the darkness at the edge of the clearing where a semi-rig was parked awaiting the helicopter’s return, a group of men playing cards by the rear of the cargo bed. They would disassemble the rotor blades within minutes of the aircraft landing, and it would disappear into the truck, to be transported to a safe location where its original paint job could be returned to its factory luster.

She increased the revs. Alejandro waved and trotted away with his head down. Jet gave the powerful turbine more throttle and shifted the pedals as the rotors increased their speed. The surrounding grass blew horizontal from the downdraft, and then the helicopter was airborne, lifting into the night sky until the compound was just a postage stamp as she set a course for Santiago, its lights twinkling through the haze of fog that had materialized once darkness had fallen.

Hector checked and rechecked his rifle, cradling it like a newborn, and then hefted it and peered through the night scope at the landscape rushing beneath his feet. He’d jungle-taped the magazines end to end so he’d be able to change them faster, flipping spent ones over and seating new ones without having to reach for more in the heat of battle. Jet glanced back at him approvingly – he definitely knew his way around a gun. He adjusted his bulletproof vest and gave her a look that betrayed less confidence in her piloting abilities than she had in his firearm skills.

A portable police scanner sat in the copilot’s seat, the volume up loud so she could hear it over the din of the engine and beating of the blades. She increased the helicopter’s speed to a hundred twenty knots and checked her watch. A quick mental calculation told her that she’d be within range in seven minutes.

~ ~ ~

The riot began on the top floor of the southernmost tower as flames flickered out of the barred windows. Unlike the conflagration that had killed so many inmates in 2010, this one was purely for show, and all flammables had been removed from the area where the mattress burned.

Screams of alarm went up immediately, choreographed by the Soto lieutenants that operated the family’s thriving prison drug distribution network. Anything could be had behind San Miguel’s walls for a price, from a girl sneaked in by understanding gendarmes to a pistol to an inmate’s favorite brand of alcohol. The Sotos had the most evolved infrastructure and the largest reach in the prison, and there were hundreds of inmates affiliated with the group, all of whom had been alerted that there would be a major disturbance starting at 9:55 p.m.

A few random gunshots echoed through the cavernous overcrowded cell blocks, mostly for effect, but a few in genuine retaliation for ill-considered insults or settlement of old scores. Prisoners pounded on the doors that sequestered them in the buildings, and after enough screams of “fire,” the guards manning the building where Gaspar Soto was housed opened the gates so there wouldn’t be a repeat of the prior blaze’s devastating human toll.

Gaspar strode through the throng of prisoners surrounded by an entourage of his family’s most dangerous enforcers, still wearing his tuxedo shirt and trousers from the prior night, dried blood staining the front. The crowd of inmates parted like a human sea before a tanker’s bow, and Gaspar made his way to the edge of the building where he would be least visible from the guard towers, just in case a trigger-happy shooter on the last minutes of his shift decided to bag a trophy.

One of the henchmen, his shaved head revealing a web of scars from countless street fights, checked his watch and leaned in to Gaspar. “One minute.”

Gaspar nodded and studied the chaotic scene before him – prisoners milling around, a few fake fights on the periphery to attract the guards’ attention, a dead body of a hated rival passed overhead like a slam dancer at a rock concert. Inside the cell block, the windows of the top floor glowed as flame licked from the apertures. Unbeknownst to the guards, several Soto loyalists were waiting near the burning mattresses with water to douse them when the lights went out.

A cell phone warbled, and the shaven-headed bodyguard handed Gaspar the phone. Hector’s voice had never sounded better.

“Get ready. It should happen any second. Stay on the phone.”

“Okay.” Gaspar could hear the thumping of helicopter blades on the line – the most welcome sound he could have imagined.

A series of muffled explosions greeted his ears, and the prison lights dimmed before flickering and going black. One of the bodyguards barked into his cell phone, and the fires on the upper floor darkened amidst clouds of smoke.

“It’s done,” Gaspar told Hector.

“We should be there in about two minutes or so. Get into position.”

~ ~ ~

The air traffic controllers stared at their screens in horror. The worst nightmare of any airport was losing its radar. The monitors blinked at them, but the four aircraft that were on approach had disappeared.

“Shit. What happened?” the supervisor demanded, punching buttons and raising a radio to his lips.

A young man with longish hair looked up at him with a drawn expression. “All the feeds are dead.”

“Do we still have the planes on the comm line?”

Another controller did a series of checks, his voice even, betraying no alarm, and then nodded. “Yes. We’re still live with all four. One has fuel issues and needs to touch down within thirty minutes at the outside.”

The supervisor wiped a limp hand across his face. “Find out what the hell happened. I want this fixed immediately. In the meantime, advise the inbound to assume a holding pattern with at least a thousand meters between them. If we aren’t back online in ten minutes, divert all flights and bring in the one in fuel trouble using his radar. Obviously, all departing flights are canceled until we have our eyes back.”

“Yes, sir.”

~ ~ ~

Jet saw the entire area around the prison go dark when the helicopter was a minute out; she’d already slowed her speed in anticipation of the blackout. Hector was talking to Soto, and once the lights went off, she shut down her running lamps and brought the aircraft directly over the exercise yards. She flipped the night vision goggles down over her eyes, switched them on, and was relieved to see the yard light up in the screen’s green glow.

“We’ll be on the ground in twenty seconds. I’m going in hard, so hang on. Could be a nasty bump. It’s been a while since I’ve flown one of these things.”

“Now she tells me,” Hector grumbled, his gun barrel hanging out the window.

Jet wasted no time in losing altitude. They dropped quickly and landed in the exercise yard with a bone-rattling jolt. Hector threw the door wide, gun at the ready, and Jet could make out the crowd of unruly prisoners – and a man she presumed to be Gaspar Soto rushing to the helicopter, his men shielding him from the towers.

Beams of light cut through the night from the guard posts, and in spite of the distance, the fuselage of the helicopter reflected their glow. Flashlights had always been a risk, which was one of the reasons they’d gone to the trouble of painting the bird to look like a police aircraft – a few seconds of hesitation as the guards tried to figure out whether the police had arrived to help with the riot could mean the difference between a safe escape and being shot out of the sky.

Hector reached out a hand to Gaspar and pulled him into the cabin. He slammed the door shut behind Soto, and Jet lifted off just as rifle shots thumped into the cabin housing. Hector opened fire at the tower where the muzzle blasts had lit up the night with their orange blossoms, and emptied half his magazine in a fully automatic burst. More shooting echoed from the tower. A few rounds struck the side of the helo, and then Jet was clawing out of range and banking away.

Hector turned to Gaspar, whose face was white with shock. He put the assault rifle aside and leaned forward.

“Where are you hit?” Hector yelled over the engine’s roar.

“Bastards. We nearly got away clean,” Gaspar snarled and moved a bloody hand from the side of his abdomen, just below his rib cage. A slug had punched through the cabin and caught him. Hector took a long look at the wound before sliding a nylon bag from beneath the seat. He peered into the sack and pulled out a field dressing.

“Lift your shirt,” he said.

“Damn. Hurts like a bitch,” Gaspar said, but complied.

Hector wiped away the worst of the blood and taped the dressing in place and then fished his phone from his pocket and placed a call. Alejandro answered on the first ring.

“Your dad’s been shot. We’ll need a doctor and probably an operating suite. Call Salazar and have him ready,” Hector said.

“How bad is it?”

“Bad enough.” Hector held the phone away and leaned toward Jet. “How long until we’re back at the house?”

“Maybe eight minutes.”

“Gaspar’s hit. Abdomen. Make it five if possible.”

Jet twisted in her seat and eyed the gangster, taking in his pallor and his blood-soaked shirt, and then returned her attention to piloting. She increased the speed to a hundred thirty knots and then pulled the night vision goggles off her head, dropped them next to the police scanner, and called over her shoulder, “I’ll do my best.”

Gaspar seemed to register her for the first time. “Who’s she? Where’s Adrian?” he demanded, asking about his pilot.

“Adrian wasn’t available. This is Naomi. A friend of Alejandro’s,” Hector said and gave him an abridged version of the day’s events.

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this on the phone?”

“You know cells can be monitored. It wasn’t worth the risk, and we didn’t want to hand the bastards any evidence they could use against you.”

Gaspar grunted and closed his eyes.

Hector’s cell rang, and he answered it and then shouted to Jet, “Change of plans. Alejandro just got tipped that a police convoy’s on its way to the estate. He says he’ll meet you at the soccer field a kilometer and a half west of it. Can you divert and find it?”

“Ask him if he can bring three cars. Have them leave their headlights and emergency blinkers on so I can spot them,” she answered.

Another hurried discussion and Hector was back.

“He’s on his way. It’ll be close. The prison breakout was the excuse they needed to raid the estate, and they’re wasting no time.”

“As long as everyone’s gone by the time the cops show, it doesn’t matter. Is there anything incriminating there?” Jet asked, more out of curiosity than anything.

“Of course not. I keep everything in my head. They’ll get nothing,” Gaspar rasped before sitting back with a wince.

“Relax. The hard part’s over. We’ll be on the ground in no time,” Hector said.

“Maybe sooner than we’d hoped,” Jet called from the pilot seat, her voice tight.

“What’s that? What are you talking about?” Hector snapped.

“We’re losing oil pressure. One of the bullets must have hit something.”

“How bad is it?”

She squinted at the gauges and noted that the engine temperature was climbing.

“Just a matter of time until we’re going down.”

Chapter 31

Jet reduced the helicopter’s speed in a bid to avoid having the turbine seize, and paged through the GPS settings until she found the overlay for the area around the estate. She zoomed out and scanned the vicinity and, after a few stressful moments, spotted the soccer field. She punched in a waypoint and returned to piloting, the police scanner suddenly bursting with transmissions.

One in particular caught her attention, and the blood drained from her face. She turned her head and called to Hector.

“They’ve mobilized a helo. It’s in the air.”

“It doesn’t matter. Their radar’s down.”

She shook her head. “Maybe the airports are dead, but the helicopter might have an array. It won’t be as powerful, but if they have a good suspicion of where to look, it could pick us up.”