Dead Men Don't Bite (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (2 page)

“I’ll have him checked out, you have done well
Fernandes. Mr Dillon can be assured of a very warm Cuban
welcome.”
Serra smiled to himself, as he replaced the receiver.
The line went dead and Fernandes put the phone back into
his overall pocket. He took out a single Havana cigar from
a torpedo shaped tube and lit it, savouring the moment.
Shame about the Englishman. He’d rather liked him, but
his family’s safety came first, and he started to carefully put
away his tools.

After skirting around the Key West radar zone, and
two miles out from Johnsons, Dillon turned the Skyhawk
onto a new course of one-nine-five degrees, next stop
Cuba. But the thick cloud, and constant driving rain, was
already giving him real trouble. Because of the low altitude
they were flying at, he had the added problem of swirling
mist that gave only an intermittent view of the ocean two
hundred feet below.

It was Romerez who answered his question. “You’re
here Jake, because you’ve got nothing better to do at this
precise time – right?”

“Yes I guess so. But that’s not what I meant, what
I actually meant was; what the hell am I doing flying in
weather like this.” He got a cigarette out, lit it and sat back
in his seat.

After an hour, Romerez tapped Dillon on the arm
and pointed out of her side screen at the coast of Cuba.
He switched on the radio set and immediately dropped
down to one hundred feet above the choppy waters of the
Caribbean, swooping low up the Clara Vista River estuary.

The accented English speaking voice that Dillon was
now listening to through his headphones made the short
hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention.

“Good evening Mr Dillon, Miss Romerez, welcome
to Cuba.”
The Russian built Mi-8 attack helicopter took up
position close to the starboard wing of the Skyhawk, the
insignia of the Cuban air force boldly emblazoned on its
fuselage.
The helicopter pilot spoke again. “Stay on this
course, Mr Dillon, the airstrip is straight ahead, and they’re
expecting you. Colonel Serra is looking forward to meeting
you both. Who knows he may even invite you both to
dinner.”
“Well, who am I to disappoint Colonel Serra,
especially if he’s gone to the trouble of cooking?” Dillon
said cheerfully. “Straight ahead to the airstrip it is.”
He continued his approach into the abandoned
airstrip with the helicopter holding steady on the starboard
wing. The thought of Colonel Serra, and his idea of
hospitality inside a Cuban prison cell sent a shiver down
Dillon’s spine. He didn’t seem to have any options open to
him, and then he saw it about half a mile away, there were
at least dozen-army trucks lining the runway and many
soldiers climbing out of the back of them.
“What do you think of your welcoming committee?”
the helicopter pilot asked. “You should be flattered, not
everyone gets this much attention Mr Dillon!”
“Oh, I’m overcome with emotion.” Dillon mocked.
“Don’t let it go to your head Englishman, because
after this it becomes much more basic. Now put down nice
and easy, and I’ll say goodbye.”
Romerez quickly scribbled something onto a notepad
and held it out for Jake to read. He looked across to her, and
gave her a wide boyish grin, setting the flaps for landing and
throttling back. As the rear wheels screeched on the tarmac,
he spoke into the mic, “You’ve been great company, but we
have an old saying where I come from. If you obey all the
rules, you miss all the fun.”
Pulling back on the control column and over to the
right at the same time he boosted power so that the light
aircraft lifted steeply, scraping the tip of the wing on the
runway as he gained height quickly. The Mi-8 helicopter
pilot reacted aggressively.
“Dillon, put your plane on the tarmac immediately,
or I will shoot you out of the sky.”
Dillon continued to gain height, ignoring the Cuban
pilot’s command, levelling out at two thousand feet.
Romerez searched the sky for the Mi-8 that was already
coming up fast on their tail. And, from underneath its main
fuselage, tiny white flashes of light appeared, as the Cuban
pilot repeatedly fired his forward machine guns at the light
aircraft.
Dillon said, “Tighten up your harness, we’re going
for a little roller coaster ride” and pulled sharply back on
the control column, rolling the Skyhawk onto its back and
banking over to the left, leaving the Cuban pilot high above
him.
Dillon took the small aircraft down fast, levelling
out at eight hundred feet. The helicopter pilot came in again
angrily firing his machine guns, the large calibre bullets
tearing through the tailplane as Dillon dipped briefly,
before pulling away and downwards towards the coast.
On the helicopter’s second pass the Cessna’s windscreen
disintegrated, leaving Dillon with bloodied hands, and
Romerez with a small cut just above her left eye from the
glass splinters.
Dillon struggled to pull on a pair of flying goggles,
eventually succeeded, dropped the Cessna down to two
hundred feet; white capped waves crashed onto white sand
beneath them, the Helicopter was still on his tail and rapidly
closing the gap between them.
“Still with us?” Dillon said into his mic. “Well let’s
see what you Cubans are really made of, shall we?”
He lifted the nose of the Skyhawk, and climbed
steeply to three thousand feet, levelled out for a moment
before going into a spiral nosedive straight down, the Mi-8
stayed right behind him. Dillon pulled back hard on the
Cessna’s controls which violently shook in his tight grip,
but thankfully responded, and a moment later Dillon was
hurtling just above the ocean towards the shore.
He’d seen it earlier when they’d arrived, a small
gully between two high cliff formations. No time to pull
out now, not at the speed they were travelling, and with the
helicopter right behind them.
The Skyhawk bucked as bullets ripped through the
starboard wing, Dillon tipped the small aircraft through
ninety degrees, the tip of his port wing almost in the water
as they got closer to the cliff face. The Cuban pilot had no
time to pull out at the speed he was travelling, the four large
rotor blades sheared off in all directions of the compass, as
the helicopter ploughed through the narrow gully opening,
and fireballed.
Dillon, came out of the gully fast, trimming as best
he could for flying with bullet holes in the tailplane and
through one wing. The fuel gauge was registering almost
empty; as the single engine started to lose power. There
was a clearing up ahead and to his right. He tried to bank
towards it but was already losing height as he clipped the
pan tile roof of a ramshackle farm building. The last drop
of fuel used, they braced themselves for the belly landing.
In the end, it was the soft earth of the ploughed field
that saved them, slowing the Cessna’s progress so much
that they slid to a shuddering halt at the edge of a small
wooded area.
Releasing the harness straps, they scrambled out
of their seats; both doors were kicked open in an instant.
Dillon came out headfirst into the rain rolling over in the
mud and was on his feet, running with Romerez at his side.
They made for cover towards the nearby farm building as
fast as they could. The Cessna didn’t burst into flames, as
Dillon thought it would, it simply creaked, and hissed a
little in the rain.
Inside the old run down barn, they hid for over an
hour amongst last season’s musty straw bales, before the
contact that Romerez had called using her mobile phone,
came and took them to the safe house on the outskirts of
Havana. Dillon had expected the area to be crawling with
soldiers within minutes, but none came. A spotter plane
flew overhead at least three times, but the Skyhawk was
well concealed by the undergrowth of the wood and the
torrential rain had washed away the gouge that the Light
aircraft had made on landing.

Dillon stood at the small porcelain washbasin in the
corner of the bedroom. His reflection looked back at him
from the old cracked mirror that was hung on the wall.
Three days stubble and too many cuts about his face did not
enhance his otherwise rugged good looks. His whole body
felt as if it had been put through a mangle and then hung
out to dry. Early morning sunlight squeezed through the
wooden shutters of the safe house, creating an abstract on
the whitewashed walls; fine particles of dust floated lazily,
with no purpose or direction, in mid air highlighted by the
thin shafts of light. From the kitchen came the welcome
aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and crispy cooked
bacon and eggs.

Romerez sent two text messages after breakfast.
The first, to report to Dan Parker that they had been
compromised on their arrival. And the other was to one of
her regular contacts on the island, to find out the location
of Harry Caplin’s hacienda. This done, they then had to
work out a plan of how and when they were going to snatch
the drug baron, and successfully get him and themselves
off the island alive. Knowing Harry, as Dillon did, he knew
that finding him was going to be the only easy thing about
the entire mission.

Later that morning, Dillon and Romerez found
themselves high on a hillside crouching in the pouring rain
at the side of a narrow dirt track that wound its way down
to a large hacienda. Looking through powerful binoculars
at the high security walls, and lookout towers surrounding
the palatial residence of Harry Caplin, made a sobering
sight. They waited and watched patiently, until it was dark
before making their move. Dillon felt uneasy going through
the window, because, for someone who was paranoid about
security, Harry’s place was remarkably easy to break into.

The room was oak-beamed with natural stone walls
that were adorned with hand made tapestries hanging here
and there. A roaring log fire burned in an open hearth, a
stack of chopped wood piled high at the side of it. Caplin sat
on a large sofa with his feet up reading a book and drinking
from a crystal glass, a bottle in an ice bucket beside him.
As Dillon stepped out of the shadows, Harry glanced up, a
large smile on his face. He then took the bottle from the ice
bucket, and filled another two glasses.

“Been expecting you Ace. Champagne? It’s the best,
just the way you like it.” He laughed as he got up, adding.
“Miss Romerez, you really don’t need to skulk in the
shadows you know, I won’t bite – promise.”

Romerez stepped out, a gun held up in her right
hand.
“Hell Jake, I’d like to say it was good to see you after
our last encounter, but I’m getting an odd feeling of deja vu
here. You and me along with a female who has a dangerous
look on her face and a gun in her hand. What is it with you
stiff assed Brits?”
Dillon said in a relaxed voice. “Harry, Harry, Harry,
it’s very simple really. You see, Romerez and I are here to
take you quietly back to Florida for a very long holiday.
All expenses paid of course. You see, for some bizarre
reason, the Miami D.A. wants you back on drug trafficking
charges. He even has a cosy nine by nine bed-sit, just for
you to spend your twilight years in.” Dillon walked over
to the side table, and picked up the glass of Champagne
that Harry had poured for him, and turning, added. “So
tell me Harry, who was it that fed us to you and the Cuban
Colonel?”
“Down here in the land of plenty Ace, if you’ve got
the money, and believe me I’ve got plenty, you can buy
anything you want; including information from the Feds.
In fact it saddens me to have to say it, Ace. But you, and the
little lady here, were both dead long before you even left
Johnson’s Field.” He said it with no malice, as he walked
over and stood in front of the fire, sipping the Champagne.
He looked up adding. “Jake, I’d say that your problems
are just about to start. You’re either mad or very naïve, if
you think that I’m going back to the States with you and
the little lady over there. In fact, I’d start re-thinking my
strategy before my boys come bursting in here if I were you
son?”
“But, you haven’t answered my question Harry.
Who was it?” Jake asked bluntly, sitting down on one of
the enormous sofas.
“You know I can’t tell you that Ace, not even for old
times sake.”
“Well how about as a last request then?”
Caplin looked down at Dillon, thinking just for
a second, “Well if you put it like that Ace, his name’s
Fernandes, he’s the one. Serra has a hold on him, if he
doesn’t feed back information, his family gets the chop, if
you know what I mean.”
“Oh I know exactly what you mean Harry.” Dillon
replied, giving Romerez a quick sideward glance. The Glock
automatic that Dillon was carrying in the holster under his
arm felt somehow comforting.
Caplin refilled his glass again, and then casually
walked across the room to a mahogany desk. He started
to sit. The slight movement of his hand, would have gone
unnoticed under normal circumstances. As it was, the small
dart struck him before he was able to push the small button
under the highly polished top. Immediately keeling him over,
and down onto his knees. The fine Persian rug softening his
fall. The glass of Champagne flew out of Harry’s hand, and
smashed into a million tiny pieces as it hit the flagstone
floor a few feet away.
Dillon had only glanced up briefly at Romerez, which
had been enough. She had fired the small silenced weapon
just once. It spat out the dart that hit Caplin in the side
of the neck, the liquid inside the phial had an immediate
effect on the big American. He was flat on his back within
seconds, but still wide-awake, not able to move or speak.
His eyes said everything. The disbelief and pure anger at
being caught off guard in his own home.
They wasted no time in putting on white paramedic
jackets and trousers, that Romerez had been carrying in her
rucksack, over their ordinary clothing. Dillon squatted down
by Harry and spoke quietly. “Now what’s all this about
you not going back to the States with us Harry? Romerez,
as you now know is an expert shot, she could easily have
killed you, but I give you my personal assurance, as I did
before in Dorset, that you’ll be all right in a few hours. I
know that you can hear and see me, old son, because the
drug that is now in your system has rendered your whole
body incapable of any movement, but not affected your
sight or hearing. You’ll be like that for about six hours. Just
enough time in which to get you off this island and back to
Florida and afterwards you’ll be back to your old cheerful
self again. Now you just lay back and enjoy the ride.”
Romerez called for the ambulance which arrived at
exactly the same time as three of Harry’s security people
came rushing through the heavy double doors, machine
pistols in their hands.
Dillon and Romerez lurked in the shadows until the
paramedics and security guards were all in the room and
shouting at each other. Making it very easy for them to fall
in behind the group now gathered around Caplin’s inert
body.
Dillon pushed his way through and examined him.
Standing up he spoke quickly in faultless Spanish to the
guards, and explained that Mr Caplin had suffered a near
fatal stroke and was now completely paralysed. His only
chance of survival was to get him to the hospital in Havana
as quickly as possible.
Dillon rode in the back of the ambulance with the
nurse and the armed guard, who had insisted on staying
with Harry. Romerez sat up front with the two paramedics
as they travelled at high speed around the winding roads,
the siren blaring and lights flashing. Dillon’s opportunity
came as the ambulance negotiated a tight bend, the back
end of the heavy vehicle lost its grip on the gravel at the
edge of the road; throwing the thickset Cuban off balance.
Dillon hit the guard hard in the temple with the butt of the
Glock, instantly knocking him out with the blow.
They drove on to the next crossroad. The unconscious
guard was tied up and left under a tree at the roadside.
Dillon, one of the paramedics, and Romerez jumped back
inside the ambulance, Romerez said to the others, “Boy is
he going to have a mother of a headache when he wakes up.
Now let’s get the hell out of here before someone back at
Caplin’s place becomes suspicious and comes after us.” The
nurse stood up and pulled at the all in one trouser uniform
she was wearing. Velcro gave way with a ripping sound to
reveal well fitting stone washed denim jeans, and a colourful
loose blouse. Romerez caught Dillon staring in amazement.
“Jake, let me introduce you to Sanita, Georges and Manuel
they all work for me from time to time here in Cuba.”
“It’s good to meet you all, and well done back there
I thought for one moment that those guards were going
to rumble us. Now comes the tricky part, how to get dear
old Harry here, out of Cuba. Serra will be almost certainly
watching the radar for any unauthorised movement in the
air, and the minute we take off, he’ll send up the Migs, of
that I’ve got no doubt.”
“This isn’t a problem Mr Dillon. We’ve already
thought of what that sadist Colonel Serra will do. He’s not
the only one with informants you know,” Sanita said with
a sneer, adding. “We’ve already fed false information to
a well-known source of his, that the three of you will be
making your getaway in a private jet ambulance. But in fact
we’ve got a very fast power boat waiting for you up ahead
at a small cove.”
Harry’s eyes flickered at the mention of the boat.
Sanita continued looking directly at him.
“Ironically this type of craft is favoured by drug
runners because of the large fuel tanks and exceptional
speed it can achieve, even in open water.”
Five minutes later the ambulance stopped at the
roadside above a small deserted beach of white sand. Sheer
cliffs rose up on both sides with steps carved out of the
rock, that wound there way down to a wooden jetty that
stuck out thirty foot into the water.
Georges and Manuel went round to the rear of
the ambulance and threw open the doors. Without delay,
they lifted the gurney that Harry was still strapped to, and
carried him down to the sleek, black, twenty-foot boat
which gently bobbed up and down with each wave that
lapped against the rickety wooden structure.
Once on board, Dillon checked the chart for that
area of coast. The distance to Key West was ninety-five
miles. The rain that had not relented since leaving Johnson’s
Field was now all but gone. The sea as flat as glass as they
nosed their way out of the small bay. Dillon opened up the
throttles to maximum, keeping them there as they raced
up through the Straits of Florida towards the rendezvous
point. Thousands of tiny stars lit up the clear night sky,
but there were no Migs or Mi-8 helicopters in the air that
night, not even a sighting of the Cuban Coastguard. The
false information given to Colonel Serra, had to Dillon’s
surprise, worked. Romerez went below to check on Harry
Caplin; returning with two cigarettes, the ends of which
glowed brightly. She handed one of them to Dillon, who
took it, as she slipped into the seat next to him.
As they approached the pontoon mooring at Key
West, Dan Parker was there with a special team of agents
ready to receive their prized guest. The still paralysed Harry
Caplin was lifted off of the boat and into the back of an
unmarked van. Dan Parker told the tired duo of the various
events that had led up to the mechanic Fernandes being shot
dead trying to escape custody.
Dillon’s thoughts were already back in London, with
the nagging doubt as to whether he was still suspended
from active duty. Harry Caplin had been the cause of all
his recent problems, but would his part in apprehending
the drug trafficker put him back on the active assignment
roster? Only Edward Levenson-Jones, his boss at Ferran &
Cardini International was in a position to know that.