JET - Sanctuary (6 page)

The DJ changed songs, and the new beat pulsed on the floor with fresh urgency. The throng squealed with glee as the hypnotic groove hit its stride. Half the dancers were singing along with the gangsta lyrics; the town was about as far from the Brooklyn hood as you could get, and yet the words were familiar to everyone. Rodrigo knocked back his second drink as he finished another cigarette and leaned into his brother, one eye on the ladies, who were fluffing their hair and smiling for all they were worth.

“I’m going to hit the can. Keep them entertained for me, will you?”

Alejandro nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

Rodrigo stood and, after whispering something in the ear of one of the girls, weaved to the restrooms in the rear of the club like a seaman on a pitching deck. Alejandro grinned at the girls, who were becoming more alluring with each swallow of his high-octane drink. The nearest girl was bouncing on the cushions to the beat, and after another swig of liquid courage, she reached over and took Alejandro’s hand to pull him onto the dance floor. He wasn’t in the dancing mood, but his resolve melted when he saw the look in her eye.

A half-dozen men burst through the entry, knocking the bouncers aside. The bodyguard by the DJ booth responded like lightning and had his Glock pistol out within a second of seeing the distinctive shape of guns in the hands of the intruders.

Gunfire erupted. The girl who’d been trying to coax Alejandro onto the dance floor jerked as slugs thudded into her. Screams rang through the club from the panicked crowd, and the DJ jerked the volume down and dove for the floor. Alejandro whipped out his Desert Eagle .45 from beneath his jacket as he overturned the table for cover and fired four shots, hitting two of the gunmen. The nearby bodyguard also fired rapidly at the shooters, but a round slammed into his chest, and he tumbled backward, still squeezing the trigger, hitting random dancers running for cover. A hail of bullets smacked into the heavy wooden table, sending chunks of wood flying. Thankfully none penetrated it, and Alejandro loosed another four shots at the doorway.

The bodyguard by the entry blew off the back of the nearest assailant’s head. With four of the six gunmen down, the remaining two hesitated as more shooters forced their way through the club doors. Pandemonium reigned inside, the partygoers now cringing wherever they could hide. Bodies littered the dance floor, which was slick with fresh blood.

The club lights went dark, the only illumination muzzle flashes. Alejandro edged along the booth and ducked into the corridor that led to the bathrooms – and the rear exit. Two bodies bumped into him, jostling him as they stumbled along in search of cover, but Alejandro ignored them as his eyes adjusted to the pitch black of the hallway. The shooting receded behind him, and then he reached the heavy steel exit door. He manhandled it open, pistol clutched in front of him, ready for anything. There in the dark was Rodrigo in his silver Land Rover, his face drawn, his eyes startled.

Alejandro pulled open the passenger door and screamed as he climbed in. “Get out of here. Now.”

Rodrigo mashed the accelerator and the powerful vehicle lunged forward with a roar. “What the hell happened? What was that?” he demanded, visibly shaken.

“Has to be the Verdugos. Bastards. It’s a bloodbath.”

“Are you hit?”

“No. But it’s a miracle. How about you?”

“I heard the shooting as I was coming out of the john. Didn’t seem to be a good idea to go back in.”

“You’re lucky. They were loaded for bear.” Alejandro described the scene in the club. Rodrigo took a hard left and watched the rearview mirror for any signs of pursuit. “Let me have your cell,” Alejandro said. “Mine was on the table. It’s history now.”

Rodrigo dug his phone out of his pocket and handed it to his brother, who called their father, Gaspar. His heart sank when the call went to voice mail. “Shit.”

He dialed another number, and the same thing happened. When he got lucky on the third ring, Hector, Gaspar’s most trusted lieutenant, sounded worried. “We’ve been getting reports that your dad was arrested at the restaurant, but we haven’t been able to confirm it. None of our contacts with the police are answering their phones. Not a good sign.”

Alejandro explained what had happened.

Hector cursed. “With whatever’s going on in Santiago, I’m not sure it’s going to be safe here for you. Sounds like the Verdugos are trying to stage a takeover. And there are only two ways back to the city from where you are. If they’ve got the cops working with them, you could be stopped at a roadblock, and that would be it.”

“What are you doing?” Alejandro asked.

“Digging in. I left headquarters with some of my best men and went to one of the safe houses. I don’t want to take any action until I understand what we’re facing.”

“Probably a good idea. Do you have the attorneys working on locating my dad?”

“Of course. But it’s late, and you know how the wheels of justice roll here. It’ll probably be tomorrow before anything happens.”

“Damn. You’re right, but it’s still a tough one to swallow. I’ll call you later.”

Alejandro terminated the call, lost in thought, and then handed the phone back to his brother. “Make a right up here.”

“Where are we going?”

“Hector says Santiago’s out, and he’s right. We need someplace where we can regroup until we know what’s happening.”

“What’s happening is a hit squad blew our nightclub apart.”

“Right, but we can’t just drive around all night. That’s asking for it. We need to get off the road. Only we can’t check into a hotel – if our names are on a watch list, we’re screwed.” Alejandro scowled. “So we’re getting the hell out of here. We’ll go to the Olivier hotel in San Felipe. We own a large enough stake in it that they won’t ask any questions.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Nobody else knows we’ve got a piece of the hotel. It should be safe, at least for one night. It’ll buy us breathing room. Which we need right now.” Alejandro felt in his pocket for his spare pistol magazine, ejected the almost empty one, and slammed the full one home. “Stick to back roads. We’re in no hurry, and I don’t want to attract any attention.”

“What a disaster.”

Alejandro nodded, his face grim. “Tell me about it. But they missed us, so now they have a whole different level of pain coming their way.” Alejandro eyed Rodrigo’s taut expression. “You okay? You want me to drive?”

Rodrigo shook his head. “I’m fine. Nothing like a gunfight to sober you up.”

“That’s the truth.”

Chapter 9

Valparaíso, Chile

A thick bank of fog hung over the Pacific port city like a leaden blanket, slowing the late night traffic to a crawl. A buoy bell tolled somewhere in the harbor, its muffled pealing a steady beat over the sonorous drone of big trucks working the waterfront, their jobs never done. The blaze of megawattage work lights on the wharf did little to penetrate the haze. A row of pelicans stood like guards along the barnacle-encrusted pilings, their somber countenances turned toward the city like disapproving clerics.

Four blocks from the bustling docks, Franco Verdugo sat on a vintage leather sofa the color of dried blood, a glass of Scotch in his hand. Colonel José Campos sat across from him with the drink’s twin. Smoke drifted from a pair of Cuban cigars in a silver ashtray on a coffee table fashioned from a centuries-old sea chest. The dark wood-paneled office was decorated in a nautical theme, vintage sextants and barometers and compasses mounted to the wall next to oil paintings of tall ships at anchor in the port’s long-passed heyday. Colonel Campos, the head of the armed contingent responsible for the port’s security, leaned forward and raised his cigar to his lips and puffed at it before studying the cylinder of ash on the end with satisfaction.

“Nobody does it quite like the Cubans, eh, my friend?” Franco asked and then took another long sip of Johnnie Walker Blue.

“They may not have much of a country, but damned if they don’t know how to make a cigar,” Colonel Campos agreed. “Thank you for another marvelous dinner. Your man outdid himself.”

Franco had a private chef who prepared his lunch and dinner, one of the top talents in Chile, who’d formally trained in Paris before returning to his homeland. The evening’s repast of poached salmon in an herb beurre blanc sauce, washed down with a bottle of local chardonnay, had been extraordinary, the fish so fresh it had practically flopped off the plate.

“Yes, he’s worth every penny of the ridiculous sum I pay him. You’d think he was my mistress the way he drains my coffers.”

Campos laughed good-naturedly.

A cell phone trilled in Franco’s shirt pocket. He rose from the couch as he retrieved it, held it to his ear, and walked to the window overlooking the harbor.

“What?” he barked, gazing out into the gray fog, the lights of the neighboring buildings barely visible. He listened intently, his face darkening, and Campos busied himself with his drink, suddenly fascinated by the swirl of amber nectar in the crystal tumbler. “What do you mean, they escaped? How is that possible?”

Bastian Romirez, Franco’s capo, spoke in a hushed voice. “A fluke. We went in with enough firepower to start a war, but they managed to slip by when the lights went out. And it gets worse. We lost five men in the process,” he said, dreading the outburst he knew would follow.

Instead, Franco’s voice grew glacial. “The father is in custody. Everything on the Santiago end is going according to plan. How in the name of God could something as simple as a nightclub execution turn into a disaster?”

“I honestly don’t know. But that’s not important. We know where they’re headed.”

Franco set his drink on his desk and poured himself two more fingers of Scotch as he digested the information. “I don’t need to tell you to finish this quickly, do I? You know what’s in the balance.”

“I have men en route. It will be over in an hour or two, and then you can begin the mop-up operation.”

“We can’t afford for Alejandro to rally his father’s men. Rodrigo’s a hothead and an idiot, but Alejandro has leadership ability. This entire move depends on a decisive victory, not months of trench warfare. We need a fast win.”

“And you’ll have it.”

Franco terminated the call and continued staring into the fog as though it concealed more than the surrounding buildings. Eventually he returned to his seat, shaking his head.

“As you heard, we had a glitch. But Bastian assures me it will be taken care of.”

“Yes, I couldn’t help but overhear.”

“My problem is that if Alejandro, the eldest son, survives, the war chest the Sotos have accumulated could cause serious problems for us. They could afford to bring in mercenaries, buy off whoever they need…the entire coup depends on eliminating the leadership in one swoop. As long as Alejandro’s alive, he poses a threat.”

“He’s well thought of. One hears things.”

“The father has been grooming both sons for a decade. But Alejandro is the clear successor. The younger…well, he’s rash and lacks his men’s respect. Not a leader.”

“You have a contingency plan to eliminate him?” Campos asked nervously. Had he backed the wrong horse on this one? He routinely played both sides – the Sotos controlled some shipments moving through the port, though the Verdugos ran the majority. When Franco had taken him into his confidence, it had seemed like a no-lose proposition, and he’d pulled strings and used his considerable influence to arrange for officers loyal to the Verdugos to take the elder Soto into custody, with his allies in the force sidetracked. But that would only last so long, and if there wasn’t a decisive outcome by morning, it could unravel on them – and when Soto dug to find out who had been responsible for his detainment, there would be swift and absolute reprisals. Only hours ago, the outcome had seemed predestined. But now…

Franco lifted his glass and waved his cigar with studied nonchalance. “Of course. Come. Let’s not have such a long face. By the end of the night there will be only one organization controlling everything.” He paused and regarded Campos with a confident stare. “And I remember who my friends are.”

Chapter 10

San Felipe, Chile

Jet rose from the bed in the darkened room, unable to sleep, and then went to the dresser and pulled her shirt and pants on. Matt stirred on his bed, checked his watch, and then squinted at her.

“What’s up?” he whispered, not wanting to wake Hannah.

“I can’t sleep. Might be dinner. I’m going to get a soda and walk around a little.”

“At this hour?”

“I’d rather be sleeping, but my body isn’t accommodating. You want anything?”

He shook his head and lay back against the pillow. “No, thanks.”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she said. He waved a tired hand.

Jet moved to the door and, after hesitating, retrieved the Glock from the night table and slipped it into her waistband at the small of her back, and then pulled her top over the grip so it wasn’t visible – a habit that was going to be automatic with her for the foreseeable future, as it had been for so many years in her covert life. She pocketed the key and opened the door and, after taking a cautious look down both directions of the second-story concrete walkway, pulled it closed behind her.

Her running shoes made no noise as she padded to the stairwell. There was only one light on in a nearby room; the rest were dark, either empty or with their occupants blissfully asleep even as Jet’s stomach roiled and her thoughts raced. The roadblock in Argentina had been an ominous sign that Tara’s group hadn’t given up, but they’d been left with nothing to go on, so hopefully they’d eventually tire of their assignment and be recalled to whatever hole they’d crawled out of. But she understood that she and Matt could no longer be complacent – that false sense of security had nearly gotten them killed. Whether she liked it or not, they had to return to their former state of constant vigilance, leaving nothing to chance and expecting the worst.

That was part of what was eating at her. What kind of life would that be for Hannah? Would they be doomed to having to move every few months? Right now it was manageable, but what about when her daughter was older? When she was school age? They couldn’t keep flitting around the globe forever. Eventually they would have to settle down – perhaps somewhere rural where there were few people and even less technology. Reality dictated that even in this day and age, outside of first world countries it was practically impossible to find someone who was determined to stay hidden and who had decent field craft.