Authors: Russell Blake
Chapter 39
Turbo, Colombia
Jet mounted the rusty stairs of the retired school bus that was her overnight passage to Medellín and paid the driver in dollars, which he stared at as though he didn’t recognize the currency before nonetheless pocketing the money. She eyed the half-full interior, taking in the ragged seats, some with the stuffing torn out and others patched, a smell of onions and sweat permeating the fabric, and moved to the rear of the compartment. She sat across from a woman with the stony countenance of a carved statue, years of hardship etched into her mahogany-colored face, whose luggage appeared to consist entirely of black garbage bags spread out on the seat and floor beside her.
The bus lurched into motion, the transmission protesting as it accelerated to no more than twenty miles per hour, the chassis shaking like a satellite on reentry. Jet tried to ignore the sweat running down her spine and the sheen on her face from the mad dash on the bicycle, with no success. After a few minutes, she half-stood and heaved on the window until she forced it open, the ventilation barely sufficient to dry her over the course of an hour.
She removed her phone from her pocket and powered it on – she was trying to conserve the battery, having been unable to charge it since Portobelo – and the voice mail indicator blinked at her along with the low-battery warning. Jet checked her messages and listened to the one from Matt assuring her that he and Hannah were fine at the monastery, but that there was no cell service there. Frustrated at not being able to communicate with him, she dialed the new number he’d left and it went to voice mail. She left him a short message confirming she was on her way, and then signed off, the phone beeping its warning in her ear.
Jet switched off the phone and stared through the dirty lower portion of her window. The film of road dust rendered everything a hazy brown. She’d be reunited with Hannah and Matt by tomorrow afternoon, worst case, and then they’d have to make some tough decisions about where they would go. In a perfect world, she would have been able to extract details from the assassin she’d killed in Acandí and have been able to formulate a better plan than to stay on the run. But Jet had long ago given up on the hope that the world would be anything close to fair, so she focused on what she could control rather than what she couldn’t.
Her fingers moved to the leather lanyard around her neck and the little satchel containing her emergency stash of diamonds. They had their passports and, thankfully, plenty of money. Armed with that, they should be able to disappear. Matt and Hannah weren’t on any immigration radar in Colombia and neither was Jet, so anyone trying to follow them would be out of luck. In that respect, they were fortunate – it would make it easier to disappear for good, since they’d already effectively done exactly that.
Their biggest problem was that they couldn’t go north – she was wanted in Panama, so traveling through Central America and perhaps settling somewhere in Costa Rica or Mexico wasn’t an option. Maybe Medellín or Cali? She’d heard good things about them – that the cartel violence that had marred both for a decade was long over, and the cities were relatively safe, with good infrastructure. Nobody knew they were in Colombia, and the country was in the same state of perpetual civil war that it had been for fifty years, so the computer systems that would have made them easily tracked in more developed regions simply didn’t exist. It was one of the beauties of developing countries – they were easy to move around in without triggering any alarms.
Two hours after the bus picked her up, after a series of stops to let passengers off and take a few on, the antique conveyance rolled to a stop in the jungle town of Chigorodó. Several young soldiers with machine guns climbed aboard and took the first row of seats, their serious faces telling Jet that they weren’t there for show. They seemed to know the driver and held a quiet conversation with him as he continued south, the headlights of the old bus the only ones on the road.
The suspension managed to make a lousy trip into a truly terrible one, as each pothole and rut delivered a jarring blow to her sacroiliac. Jet tried to get comfortable on the stiff seat, the stink of partially combusted fuel, exhaust, and questionable hygiene an added bonus, but it was no good. Even with all that, though, she was still feeling more upbeat than she had been for days, knowing that soon she’d have her daughter in her arms.
Eventually she drifted off, the creaky old school bus bouncing along and the stops few and far between, and she managed to get a few hours of fitful sleep before the first orange rays of dawn painted the morning sky as the bus rolled into the central terminal in Medellín, already jammed with travelers making their way out of the city.
Jet disembarked and studied a route schedule, and then purchased a ticket for the next bus headed to Santuario, departing in an hour and twenty minutes. Pocketing her change, she followed her nose to a café outside the station that was serving breakfast fare with cups of strong black coffee. Taking a table near the back of the small dining area, she studied the menu for a moment and then ordered the special. She eyed her fellow travelers as she waited for her food – a motley crew of the impoverished and the desperate, mostly laborers, with a few obviously foreign backpackers thrown in for seasoning, their dreadlocks and tattoos and sunburned pale skin displayed like badges of honor.
The food was delicious, and she was able to charge her phone, which brightened her mood somewhat. She tried Matt’s cell again, but not unexpectedly he didn’t answer, and she didn’t leave a message.
If Jet had thought the night bus from Turbo was bad, it was a first-class ticket on a 747 compared to the dilapidated rust bucket that creaked into the depot to ferry her to Santuario. She surveyed the bus, wheezing like an asthmatic, and shook her head as the driver took her ticket. At this rate it looked doubtful that she’d make it by nightfall. More likely was that they’d wind up stranded by the side of the road while the hapless driver scratched his head under the open hood.
She thought the bus wasn’t going to make it on the uphill climb to the town of Santa Barbara, as gears ground and the engine strained; it would have been faster to jog alongside than sit on the wood slab that served as a bench. By the time they were on the downward slope, it had taken three hours to travel just under forty kilometers. The exhausted bus shivered like a malarial victim, making her estimation of her arrival time at the monastery look wildly optimistic.
When her cell warbled at her, she practically jumped out of her seat. She fumbled the phone from her pocket and answered on the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
“Hey. You here yet?” Matt asked, as though he’d seen her only a few hours earlier.
“I’m working on it. I’m on the bus ride from hell. Probably be late afternoon, best case.”
“The monastery is at the top of a mountain on the north end of town. The only way up is the cable car, so when you arrive, that’s what you need to take. The monk who’s helping us will leave it at the bottom for you.”
“How’s Hannah holding up?”
“Oh, fine. She’s a trooper. A perfect angel…like her mom.”
“Now I know you’re blowing smoke.” She paused. “I was followed from Panama.” She told him about the cigarette boat and the two men aboard. “Do you have any idea who these guys are?”
“Nope. Could be some of Tara’s crew? You took care of all the Russians, right?”
“Correct. Although you never know. There could have been more lurking in the background. But I nipped that one at the source, so I seriously doubt it’s them. As far as Tara’s group, you’d know more about what they’re capable of than I would.”
“The answer is anything. They have the reach and the scale to do anything,” he said softly. “Including following you to get to me.”
“But the diamonds are gone. They know that.”
“Which is why I thought we’d be in the clear.” He hesitated. “I hope that wasn’t wishful thinking. Looks like it might have been.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter at this point. We’re clean. So start thinking about where you want to settle down. Because I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of living out of a suitcase and looking over my shoulder.”
“Let’s talk about it when you get here. Meanwhile, I’ll put on my thinking cap.”
“Me too.”
When Jet disconnected, she checked her watch and exhaled in exasperation. The schedule had promised that the bus would arrive in Santuario by three, but there was no way that was going to happen. It was nearly three now, and by her calculations they still had at least four more hours to go. Obviously the Colombian idea of promptness was fluid. One of the aspects of Latin American society that taught patience, she told herself, shifting on the plank in a futile attempt to get comfortable.
She watched the little town of Riosucio drift by in slow motion and closed her eyes, willing herself to a calm place where the irritation she was feeling could melt away, leaving her focused, relaxed, and above all, vigilant.
Chapter 40
Santuario, Colombia
Matt turned to the door as Franco entered with more bags of food, a bottle of milk, and two fresh towels. He set them on the table and smiled warmly at Hannah before clearing his throat and addressing Matt.
“I’m glad to hear your stay is coming to an end. You must be relieved.”
“Yes. I want to thank you for your hospitality. It’s been a lifesaver. Literally.”
“I’m in that business. Although I don’t draw the line at soul saving, either.”
Both men smiled, and then Matt grew serious. “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve been thinking. Those who are looking for me are dangerous. I’d hate for anything to happen to Hannah. So…do you have any weapons in the monastery?”
Franco’s eyes narrowed as he considered the question. “We have an old shotgun for hunting, but I’d have to look around for shells that aren’t older than I am. It’s been years since anyone hunted.” He stopped, thinking, and then snapped his fingers. “But there is a weapon one of our brethren used to use for boar hunting when he was younger. I have to warn you, though, it’s ancient and bulky. Not exactly the kind of thing you could carry around and not attract attention, if you take my meaning.”
“Really? What is it?”
“A crossbow. They say it’s at least two hundred years old, and the last time it was fired was probably decades ago. But it might still be serviceable. I’m afraid I wouldn’t know – that’s not my strong suit, as you might have guessed.”
“A crossbow? Hmm. In a pinch it would be better than nothing, I suppose. Could I trouble you to get it for me so I can see if it’s in working order?”
Franco glanced at Hannah and frowned. “Do you really think you need a weapon here, in God’s house? You’re quite safe, I assure you.”
“I’m sure we are. But I’d rather be safe than sorry. It’s always possible that the girl’s mother is followed, and if that’s the case, I’d rather be as prepared as I can be, instead of…trusting fate.”
Franco nodded. “The Lord does help those who help themselves. Your point is taken. I’ll see if I can sneak away with the crossbow without anyone noticing. All I ask is that when you leave, it stays with the monastery. It’s part of our history…”
“Of course.”
“No guarantees it even works. Like I said, not my specialty.”
“I can usually make anything work in a pinch.”
“A resourceful man. An admirable quality in uncertain times.”
Franco moved to Hannah, patted her head, and then walked to the door. “I’ll return when I have the item, and I’ll root around for some shells for the shotgun.” He smiled. “I trust you’re comfortable enough?”
“It’s exactly what we needed, Franco,” Matt assured the kindly monk. The truth was their chamber was drafty at night and hot during the day, there were mice that had the run of the place after dark, and the water pressure was slightly worse than nothing. But it was safe, which made it a kind of paradise.
When Franco left, Matt sat with Hannah and distributed food from the bag: a selection of rolls, pastries, fruit, and cheeses that were mouthwatering, if not the healthiest selection. They were just finishing up when Franco returned carrying a burlap sack with the distinctive outline of a crossbow inside.
“I tried to blow most of the dust off of it, but perhaps you can clean it more thoroughly,” he said. “And there’s a case with six arrows in it – I think that’s what they call them, right?”
“Or quarrels. Thank you, Franco. I’ll get to work on it. It’ll give me something to do while I wait for Hannah’s mother to arrive. She’s on a bus.”
Franco looked heavenward. “Ah, well, then it’s in His hands when she’ll get here. The buses in Colombia are notoriously unreliable.”
The monk took his leave, and Matt removed the crossbow from the sack and examined it. The wooden stock was scarred – a working man’s hunting bow, not a museum piece. The bow string was in good shape, and thankfully didn’t snap when Matt strapped on the accompanying belt, bent his knees, and slipped the attached hook on the string, and then drew it by straightening his legs. A primitive but effective accessory, far more practical than the rack and pinion or lever systems he’d seen in museums.
When he was confident the medieval-looking device was stable, he took a quarrel from the leather quiver and eyed it. Wood, with a sharp steel tip, it would be lethal at whatever the bow’s range was – likely at least fifty yards, possibly considerably more. The prod appeared to be in perfect shape and fit snugly. He sighted on one of the heavy wooden beams that supported the bed and cautioned Hannah to take cover behind him and, when she was out of harm’s way, fired at the wood column.
The bow snapped with a loud crack and the quarrel plunged through the beam, embedding itself three inches. Matt eyed the damage with satisfaction. Anyone on the receiving end of that would be stopped as surely as being hit with a fifty-caliber round at close range.
He set the bow down and moved to the bed, and spent the next ten minutes working the quarrel out using the bread knife Franco had brought to cut the loaves with. When it was free, he slipped it back into the quiver and selected another, and after repeating the cocking procedure, set the crossbow out of Hannah’s reach in the tall wardrobe on the far wall.