JET - Sanctuary (32 page)

Franco’s cell phone rang as he slid behind the wheel, the AMG leather interior still exuding the rarefied aroma of new car. He waved his men away and looked at the number, but it was blocked. When he thumbed the call to life, all he heard was the sound of breathing on the other end.

“Who is this?” he demanded, his voice cracking on the last syllable.

Silence. Only the hum of the phone line.

Franco hung up and twisted the ignition, disturbed by the call. The Mercedes seemed to plump like a frank on a hot grill before it exploded in a fireball, and the doors blew off and hit the wall with enough force to gash a deep chunk in the reinforced concrete. Car alarms sounded throughout the space as flames belched from the vehicle, the thick clouds of black smoke billowing from the burning chassis creating a toxic fog in the garage that would prevent the fire department from putting out the fire for half an hour.

The security guard hurried from his position at the gate and dropped his red peaked uniform cap in a trash can as he made his way from the area, rushing against the pedestrians gravitating toward the blaze. A van skidded to a stop at the corner, and he hopped into the passenger seat, offering Hector a grin as the older man pulled away. He looked into the cargo bed, where two of Hector’s men were sitting, Rodrigo’s hooded unconscious form prone on the steel floor next to a large roll of heavy chain, and shook his head.

“You’d think he would have at least tried to scrub his call log.”

“Not the smartest. He really believed he’d get away with it,” Hector said. “But look at the bright side. It’s a lovely day for a boat ride.”

Chapter 41

Santiago, Chile

Jet hugged Hannah tight and then held her at arm’s length and looked her in the eyes. “You need to promise to listen to Matt. Just like it’s me, okay?”

“Otay.”

Jet rose to her feet and gave Matt a long kiss. “I’m going to miss you. Try to stay out of trouble on that luxury cruise. I’ve heard about how those cougars get.”

“With a broken wing, I’m not much danger.”

“You did all right.”

A single tear leaked from the corner of her eye. Matt wiped it away. She hugged him and whispered in his ear, “I’m so tired of this. I just want it all to be over.”

Matt stroked her hair and nodded. “Don’t worry. Everything will work out. Just be careful and take care of yourself. Don’t do anything stupid. Hannah and I are depending on your coming back soon.”

She sighed and cleared her throat. “Count on it.”

~ ~ ~

San Antonio, Chile

Alejandro gazed out over the water at the black and red hull of the cargo ship inching toward the harbor mouth, the tops of the cranes on the massive jetty beside it hidden by low-hanging fog. He’d personally arranged for Matt and Hannah’s departure two days after he’d officially taken over the Soto organization, refusing to allow subordinates to see them off. He’d given the woman his word that they’d make it onto the ship safely. Now that he’d discharged his obligation, he was free to focus on more pressing matters.

Gaspar was recovering nicely and would be smuggled out of the country later in the week, having chosen to remain dead in the eyes of the Chilean authorities and thus free to enjoy his remaining years and considerable fortune incognito in Spain, where one of his untraceable shell companies had invested in an oceanfront home southwest of Málaga.

Alejandro and Gaspar had never spoken of Rodrigo, and Alejandro preferred not to know how his father had handled the difficult matter of determining his guilt and meting out punishment. He had other issues vying for his attention, not the least of which was dealing with the army of attorneys that were already battling the government for Gaspar’s sprawling estate, more for symbolic reasons than anything else – “To keep it out of the clutches of the thieves,” Gaspar had said. And of course, cleaning up the remainder of the mess the Verdugos had left behind in Valparaíso.

Antonio had disappeared, which was just as well, Alejandro thought. There had already been too much killing. It was better to build bridges and incorporate the Verdugo crew into his organization than to continue on a vendetta. His father had preferred a scorched-earth policy, but had relented when Alejandro had argued the wisdom of allowing even those who had once been enemies to find prosperity under the Soto mantle.

Alejandro walked slowly back to the car, silently wishing the voyagers well, intuiting that the road ahead of them would be more difficult than for most. He hoped he’d never get a call from the woman, but knew in his heart that if he did, he’d move the earth to help her, just as his father would have – just as she’d done for them both.

~ ~ ~

“Where Mama?” Hannah asked Matt, her tiny hand nestled in his as they watched the port fade into the fog bank behind them. They were standing on the stern of the ship, the steady rumble of the engines beneath their feet reassuring, the black and blue bruises on Matt’s face already fading to yellow and orange.

“Mama is going to join us in our new home. In a little while. Like she told you this morning.”

“Why no Mama?”

“She has something very important to take care of.” Apparently Hannah’s selective two-and-a-half-year-old’s memory was hard at work.

“I want Mama.”

Matt’s jaw clenched as the big vessel’s bow swung north on its long journey up the Pacific coast of South America, ultimately bound for Long Beach, with an unscheduled stop off the coast of Panama to rendezvous with a local fishing boat that would take them to Panama City.

“Me too, Hannah. Me too.”

~ ~ ~

Jet stepped onto the tarmac at Chacalluta International Airport in the northernmost reaches of Chile and shielded her eyes from the sun. Gaspar’s plane had made the trip in two hours and would take off moments after landing for the return trip to Santiago, where it would become Alejandro’s toy. As Gaspar had suspected, the authorities had made a last minute inspection of the plane. Finding no Sotos on board and assured that it was a private charter, they’d disembarked, leaving her to her business.

A forest green Toyota 4Runner was waiting in the small parking lot next to the passenger terminal, just as she’d been told it would be. A pudgy man, badly in need of a shave, was sitting inside reading the paper, munching from a bag of chips. Jet approached and leaned into the passenger-side window.

“Estefan?”

The driver looked up with hungover Bassett hound eyes. “Ah. You must be…my fare.” He squeezed out of the Toyota and opened the rear cargo door. “You can throw your bag back here.”

Jet did so, wondering how the rusting conveyance was going to make it over the Andes – a route that would exceed sixteen thousand feet at its highest point. Estefan smiled as if anticipating her skepticism.

“Don’t worry. It has the heart of a condor and the soul of an eagle.”

She eyed the vehicle. “I’m more worried about the tires of a jalopy and the engine of a lawn mower.”

“I’ve done the trip many times.”

“In this?”

“Don’t worry, be happy.”

The road to Bolivia was largely empty and in far better condition than she’d expected. At one of the two volcanic lakes near the summit, Estefan pulled over next to a waiting semi-rig. “This is your ride across the border.”

She looked at the sad truck, which was easily older than she was. “Really?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be right ahead of you. Going into Bolivia doesn’t take that long, so no more than an hour.”

They got out, and the driver of the semi-rig greeted Estefan like a long-lost relative, and then showed Jet her berth – a slot barely a half meter high by two deep, with little more width than could accommodate her shoulders.

“I hope you don’t get claustrophobic,” Estefan said as the driver helped her inside the compartment, her bag wedged by her feet.

“Let’s get it over with.”

The ride, even though not long, was excruciating due to the truck’s poor suspension, and by the time she saw the sun again on the other side of the border, she felt as though every one of her fillings had been jarred loose, and she badly needed a shower.

Estefan was waiting when she crawled out, a wide grin on his meaty face, and she couldn’t help but laugh. The rest of the trip was anticlimactic after that save for herds of alpaca in the high plains and a breathtaking view of the twin snow-capped volcanoes, Parinacota and Pomerape, in the distance. The road stretched to the far mountains like a runway to the stars, the air crisp at the high altitude and clean in a way Jet couldn’t remember. True to his promise, the 4Runner chugged along valiantly, and they arrived in La Paz as twilight shadowed the sky.

Gaspar had arranged for a Falcon 7X charter, with a flight plan to Lisbon, Portugal, and from there to Moscow. When Jet arrived at the airport, the plane was waiting, the crew alerted by a call from Estefan. Jet gratefully stepped aboard and strapped herself in as a perky young flight attendant announced that she’d be available for anything Jet wanted, and had dinner and breakfast loaded and ready to be served whenever she wished.

The flight to Lisbon took twelve hours, and after an hour on the ground for refueling and replenishing, she was hurtling east, where an attorney who believed that you could erase people from the insulated safety of an office would soon be getting the last rude awakening of his life.

Chapter 42

Moscow, Russia

The broad boulevards of Moscow were already icing over, the sidewalks knee-deep in snow from the storm that had blown through overnight and continued all through the miserable day. Anatoly Filipov stood at his office window, staring down at the pedestrians slogging through the freezing slush, and shivered as he turned back to his desk, to consider the pile of documents that had accumulated throughout the day, a blizzard of paper that matched the one outside for its intensity.

A French antique clock on the wall chimed softly – it was seven in the evening, several hours after his offices normally closed, but he’d had a lunch that had run long with a pair of up-and-coming players in the petroleum industry who wanted to upgrade their legal counsel, and had hoped to catch up on the work that hadn’t gotten done while he’d been pressing the flesh. Unfortunately, circumstances had conspired against him, and he’d have to come in early if he was going to have any shot at climbing from under the pile.

As one of the top legal minds in Moscow, Filipov was always in demand, and because of the amount of power and influence he wielded as the right-hand man to a number of oligarchs, his firm had more business than it could handle. His brother, who was his partner, specialized in structuring deals, whereas Filipov loved making them. It was a good fit, and the firm was successful beyond any of his aspirations, now with over thirty employees.

But there were some things that had to be handled personally, and much as he’d have liked to pass them on to a subordinate, anything that made it into his inner sanctum required his, and nobody else’s, attention.

Filipov sat back in his executive chair and rubbed a tired hand across his face. He felt older than his years, no doubt because of the constant stress of his position. And his mood hadn’t improved when for days now Leonid hadn’t responded to his messages. He’d gone from cautiously optimistic after the last missive when Leonid had requested clarification on what Filipov would accept for identification of the target to despondency after Leonid had gone dark. Two follow-up requests from Filipov had gone unanswered, and in spite of his distance from the operation, Filipov felt anxious.

He sighed and yawned. Tomorrow would bring its own set of challenges, and possibly news from Leonid. There was no point to dwelling on that which he couldn’t influence. Filipov placed a quick call to the garage to alert them he was on his way down so they could pull his car around, and then grouped the documents on his desk into three piles: critical, urgent, and to-do ASAP. He’d be in earlier than usual in the morning and hit the ground running – the downside of having the rich for clients was that they, like spoiled children, expected their needs to be attended to instantly, and they didn’t care for excuses.

He moved to the door, turned off his office light, and then walked down the marble hall to the lobby, noting with approval that over half his staff was working late. They would likely remain in the office until the wee hours, billing insane amounts for their time. It was a good business, but on days like this one, retirement seemed far more appealing than usual. It wasn’t like he still needed money – he had enough to last him ten lifetimes no matter how lavish a lifestyle he indulged himself in. It was that he thrived when in the game, immersed in the corridors of power, making moves that would make or break whole companies and change lives. While the prospect of rest was appealing, he couldn’t see himself relegated to a life of brunches and soirees.

The uniformed attendant all but saluted when Filipov descended the stairs and approached his car, which was purring at the curb, the heater warming the interior. An icy wind blew a flurry of snow as he climbed behind the wheel, but the attendant didn’t seem to notice.

The short drive home was annoying, traffic coagulated at a major intersection where a truck and motorcycle had intersected in a grisly fashion, and Filipov tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for the police to wave him around the grim scene. His sense of impatience was unwarranted – he was divorced, his two children grown, and he lived alone, so there was nobody waiting for him to get home. Dinner would consist of whatever delicacy his housekeeper had prepared and left for him in the refrigerator, washed down with a half liter of excellent vodka while watching the international news stations distort world events.

He immediately sensed something off when he stepped into the foyer and placed his briefcase and keys on a long side table. It was subtle, but there, as if the atmosphere was electrically charged. Filipov flipped on the light switch and the hallway illuminated, the polished wood floors glistening, nothing different from when he’d left that morning. As he made his way to the kitchen, he shrugged off the feeling of unease; his nerves were overly sensitive, a function of the stress he was under.