JET - Sanctuary (7 page)

She resolved to shake off the self-doubt, the nagging questions – they weren’t helping and were a masochistic luxury she couldn’t afford, a dangerous distraction. At one point on the drive she’d even wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake taking Hannah from her adoptive family. That had been her lowest moment, when she’d been forced to choose whether to leave the child – her baby, who’d been stolen from her – with strangers. In the end she couldn’t do it. Hannah was her flesh and blood, and David had had no right to kidnap her. Jet had been fortunate that Hannah had adjusted quickly, seeming to sense that Jet was her real mother, but even so it had been a gamble, and a part of Jet wondered how much had been pure selfishness and how much maternal instinct. All she’d known when she’d seen Hannah for the first time was that they belonged together, and she’d done everything she could to ensure nothing would come between them…but now, running from God knew what, the wisdom of her decision seemed questionable.

Jet was preoccupied as she took the stairs down to the vending area. The grounds were quiet, the dim moonlight silvering the dimpled surface of the pool, the only sound an occasional motor from the distant road and the rustle of the surrounding treetops in the mountain wind. She emerged from the stairwell and felt in her pockets for change – the restaurant had exchanged their dollars, and she’d taken care to save Chilean coins for the machines.

Movement from the lit lobby across the courtyard caught her eye. Six men wearing dark clothes entered from the parking lot, knit caps pulled low over their brows and pistols clutched in their hands as the oblivious clerk emerged from the office. Her stomach knotted, and her breath caught in her throat. She watched his hands go over his head, an expression of panic on his face. After a strained exchange she could almost hear, he pointed at the rooms in an unmistakable pantomime of fear. The lead gunman raised his sound-suppressed handgun and fired it point blank into the clerk’s face. A crimson splash spackled the window, and the clerk collapsed behind the counter.

Jet already had her Glock free when the men pushed through the doors and moved deliberately across the pool area toward the stairwell – on a beeline to where she was flattened against the wall behind the vending machine…and the stairs that led to her room.

Damn.
The Argentine fixer must have tipped off Tara’s team – that was the only explanation. She watched the men approach, waiting as they closed the distance, cursing silently when they spread out professionally in order to present more difficult targets. When the first gunman was ten meters away, she leaned forward and opened fire, squeezing off shots with deliberate precision, the bark of the 9mm deafening in the confined space.

Her first shot caught the lead gunman in the head, and he tumbled backward into the pool, dropping his weapon as he fell. Blood seeped through the water like a cloud of ruby ink as he flailed, and she instantaneously dismissed him as a threat and drew a bead on his companion. The second gunman tried to dodge left, but two of her rounds punched into his chest, and he dropped like a sack of wet dirt. Sound-suppressed slugs whistled by her and punched into the soda machine, and she ducked as she fired again and hit another attacker in the stomach. He sat down heavily as though taking a rest, a look of surprise on his face, and she finished him with another shot as the remaining three men threw themselves behind whatever cover they could find.

More shots tore into the vending machine, and soda exploded from it in a hissing spray. Jet ignored it and fired three times at one of the gunmen who had sought refuge behind a stone fountain. Two of her bullets went wide, but the third hit him in the thigh, and she was rewarded with a grunt of pain as another volley of silenced shots blew divots out of the mortar near her head. One of the shooters fired twice, and the overhead lamp shattered in a shower of glass and sparks. The rest of the lights followed in rapid succession, plunging the courtyard in darkness.

She peered around the vending machine, gun steady, trying to make out anything as her eyes adjusted. The only illumination came from the watery glow of the pool and the moon. She saw movement but held her fire – she’d used eight rounds, leaving ten in the magazine. More than enough to take on two live ones and one wounded, but she would make every shot count.

Another burst of fire hit the machine and the concrete next to where she crouched, ricocheting with a whine. There was almost no muzzle flash to fire at – a negative effect of the suppressors. This put her at a decided disadvantage: they knew where she was, but she couldn’t be sure where they were.

There.
A man running in a crouch.

Four shots hammered from the Glock, and two hit him. He went down hard near the pool pump shed, and she quietly waited for the remaining intact shooter to make a move. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough that she could see the man she’d hit behind the fountain, his wound leaking into a bloody pool at its base – she must have nicked an artery, which was fortunate for her as it meant that it was just a matter of time until he lost consciousness. Until then, however, he was still dangerous, although not the biggest threat.

Where is the other gunman?
Seconds ticked by, and she began to get a sinking feeling. Had he made it to the far stairwell by the lobby while she was ducking their fire?

If so, Matt was unarmed. A sitting duck.

And Hannah was in the room.

She scanned the courtyard, weapon clenched in a two-handed grip, and backed away from the vending machine, feeling with her feet, eyes locked on the pool area, alert for any movement.

Nothing.

She was almost to the stairs when a hail of shooting peppered the walls. She threw herself onto the ground, rounds sizzling by her head. The wounded man from the fountain was limping forward, his belt cinched around his upper thigh, pinning her down with his fire as a dark form ran toward her in a crouch from the periphery. She couldn’t get off a shot, and she crawled to the side, trying to shield herself from the rain of bullets.

Jet tried to get up, but her foot slipped on the soda, and her leg went out from under her. She was bringing her weapon to bear, ready for the running shooter to present himself, when a loud series of explosive shots blasted from the dark stairwell behind her. She turned and swung her gun to face the new attacker and found herself drawing a bead on a young man holding the unmistakable form of a Desert Eagle, pointed beyond her at the pool area. He fired again, and the wounded attacker cried out as a .45 round shredded through his chest, and then her mystery ally raced past her into the courtyard. Another shot sounded from near the pool, the Desert Eagle’s low boom – the wounded man had been taken down.

She lowered her weapon as he returned and stood motionless, noting in the moonlight that his gun pointed slightly down in a professional ready position, although it could be brought into play in a split second. He approached until he was two meters away and studied her as though surprised she was a woman.

“Who are you?” he asked in Spanish, keeping his voice low.

“Who are
you
?” she volleyed, but kept her weapon by her side.

“That’s of no matter,” he said. “Now answer me. What are you doing with a gun, shooting it out with these men?”

“I didn’t have much of a choice, did I? They killed the clerk, and they were coming for me next.” She stopped as their gaze connected. Her eyes narrowed with realization. “Or were they? No. That’s not right, is it? They were after you, weren’t they?”

“At any rate, thank you. Your gun alerted my brother and me that we were under attack.”

“Let’s try this again. Since you won’t tell me who you are, who are – were – they?”

“Criminals. Rivals. Murderers. We were attacked earlier in another town. I thought we’d be safe here…”

“I’d say not.”

He took a step toward her and hesitated. “I need to get out of here. There may be more on their way.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” she agreed. They watched each other for several beats, and then he returned his pistol to its shoulder holster. She slipped hers back into place at the small of her back as he strode past her, confident, betraying not a trace of fear that she might whip out her gun and shoot him. Then again, there was a courtyard full of reasons for him to believe she wasn’t a threat.

Jet followed him up the stairs. She stopped at her room, where he turned to her and spoke. “Good night, and thanks again. That was extraordinary – I counted six gunmen, five of which you got.” He paused. “If you ever want a job…”

“I need to take care of my family.”

He nodded and moved to a door four down from hers – the room that had had a light on when she’d gone for her soda. Matt swung the door open, and she pushed past him, nervous energy radiating from every pore.

“What the hell–”

“Grab your bag. We need to get out of here. Now. I’ll explain later. Hurry, Matt. There’s no time.” She knelt by her suitcase, retrieved the spare Glock magazine, and exchanged it for her half-spent one, pocketing the other. Hannah was sitting up, her eyes wide with fear, and Jet walked over to her. “Honey, everything’s okay. But it’s time to go. Can you be super good and get moving?”

Tears streamed down Hannah’s face as she nodded, frightened and confused by the shooting and now this.

“Be brave, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.” Jet turned to Matt. “You got everything? I just need my hygiene kit and we’re out of here.” She moved to the bathroom and returned in seconds, packed her kit in her bag, and then shouldered it. “Hannah, you stay next to Matt, okay? Hold onto his shirt. It’s dark out, and I don’t want you to fall.”

Hannah nodded again and moved to Matt, who offered her his infectious grin. “All right, princess. Follow Mommy.” He looked Jet over. “How is Mommy, anyway?”

“I’ll be better once we’re on the road.”

“Want to tell me what happened?”

“Bunch of bad guys. I thought they were after us.” She shrugged.

“But they weren’t?”

“Seems as though we aren’t the only ones with problems.”

Jet switched the lights off and cracked the door open. Seeing and hearing nothing, she swung it wide and stepped out. A young, scared couple was running for the stairs, no bags, and Jet let them get well ahead before she led Matt and Hannah to the pitch-black stairwell.

“Matt, give me your bag. Carry Hannah down the stairs. I don’t want her tripping.”

“I got it,” he said and shouldered the bag before picking Hannah up. “Lead on.”

They made it to the ground level, and Jet turned to Hannah. “I want you to close your eyes tight until I say it’s okay to open them, okay? Promise me you’ll do that, honey.”

Hannah looked at her uncomprehendingly. “Otay.”

“Ready? Now.”

Hannah did as instructed, and Jet motioned for Matt to follow her. They skirted the dead gunmen, and Jet pointed to the lobby and then moved to the nearest body and scooped up his weapon. A Beretta with a suppressor. She felt in his pockets and found two spare magazines, which she slid into her side pockets before catching up to Matt and slipping the gun into his belt.

“Hey. Careful, huh?” he whispered.

“Let’s hope you don’t need it. A Beretta.” Jet led them through the front entrance and was ten meters from the Explorer when she stopped dead. “Damn.”

A Ford Excursion SUV was behind her vehicle, blocking it. She’d parked near the lobby to reduce the odds of a break-in, but hadn’t factored the gunmen’s truck into the equation. She stood staring at the big vehicle, debating whether to go back and search the corpses for keys, when a set of blue-white headlights lit the walkway and a silver Land Rover backed out of a nearby slot. Jet’s gaze locked with the driver’s – the man with the Desert Eagle. He said something to the driver, and the Land Rover backed up until it was even with them. The tinted window slid down with a motorized whine. Two young men eyed Jet, and then Hannah.

“What’s wrong?” the driver asked.

“We’re blocked in. I think it’s the gunmen’s car.”

He twisted around to look and saw three sets of headlights approaching on the road. He swallowed hard. “Good luck. I’ll bet those are reinforcements.”

Jet pulled her Glock out in a fluid motion and pointed it at the passenger’s head. “Unlock the doors. You’re giving us a ride.”

“Screw her, Alejandro,” the passenger hissed.

Alejandro looked at Hannah and then at Jet. “You’re wearing out my gratitude,” he said.

The headlights drew nearer – three black SUVs. Jet could make out an arm dangling out of the nearest with an assault rifle.

“Either you let us in, or we’re going to get shot to pieces. And you’ll be first,” Jet said, her voice low as she shifted the gun to aim at Alejandro. He sighed, hit the power lock button, and the doors unlocked.

“You win. Make it fast. They’re almost here,” he said.

They piled into the back seat, and the Land Rover pulled away before Jet had gotten the door closed. The rifle opened up on full automatic and chunks of pavement flew into the air around them.

“Hold on,” Alejandro yelled and floored it as he swerved and rounded the corner. Two of the SUVs followed while the third rolled to a stop at the motel entry.

The big Land Rover engine roared as Alejandro drove the vehicle to its limit and Jet strapped Hannah in. Matt and Jet twisted to watch the pursuing vehicles, which were already falling back on the long straightaway, their motors no match for the souped-up Land Rover’s acceleration.

As they continued to pull away from the gunmen, Alejandro glanced in the rearview mirror at Jet, who was still clutching the Glock. “Easy. This is my brother, Rodrigo. I’m Alejandro. Put your gun away and buckle up, because judging by the welcoming committee back there, we’re in for a rough ride.”

Chapter 11

Medellín, Colombia

A lamp shone through the wooden blinds in the window of the third-floor condo in one of Medellín’s best neighborhoods, an area that had been gentrified after the decline in cartel-related violence in the new millennium. Time had worked its magic on Colombia, and even though the country was still embroiled in a fifty-year-long civil war, with a good half of the nation under rebel control, life went on in the metropolitan areas, and the beleaguered city was enjoying a renaissance as a retirement destination for gringos.