JET – EXPOSED
Jet eased herself up from Hannah’s bed. She would sleep later.
Using her Satellite connections she logged into her encrypted messages. Maybe Matt had finally sent a message. Their deal, if ever separated, was to check at fifteen minutes past the hour whenever possible.
At first Jet was sure her tired eyes were deceiving her.
There was a strange message waiting for her and it wasn’t from Matt.
“Maya, you are in danger.
Get out now!
Your enemies are near.
My men are offshore.
North five hundred yards along the beach.
A powerboat is waiting.
The local’s name is Jaime. Z-man”
Jet couldn’t believe what she was reading. How did he get this address? How does he know what is going on in my life? Instincts honed with years of training set in.
Jet grabbed her waterproof knapsack, her Sig Sauer, two clips, some energy bars, her knife and jacket.
She cooed gently to Hannah. With closed eyes Hannah murmured, “Sleep time mommy?”
“No mi amor, time for an adventure with Mommy. Let’s get your rain jacket on. We are going on a boat. Hold tight to mommy.”
“Yes, baby, your Maddie doll is coming too.”
Jet adjusted her knapsack; her knife sheathed in her boot, her SIG in hand. She extinguished the lamp and peered out the window. Seeing no one, she slowly eased open the metal door.
The wind howled. Rain whipped up the ocean. She hugged the palms and raced towards the pier.
Jorge and Joachim gunned the motor on their black GMC truck. At two in the morning, winds howled and rain pounded the windshield. They had been on Jet’s trail for two weeks.
The roads in Latin America were bad at best, maybe a little better in Mexico. But this was hurricane season. Roads washed out over the mountains. Rivers overflowed. The boys were tired, done. They wanted this job to be over. And they were worried. Mosises was still pissed. This broad killed his son. She needed a slow painful death. Right now he just wanted to make it messy and get out of here.
“Where is that bitch? We must be getting close.” Jorge pulled into the Pemex station. He adjusted his mud-spattered jeans and tried to tuck in a black Polo t-shirt too tight to cover his distended belly.
“I need to take a piss.”
“I’ll call Mosises and make sure we’re going the right way. It’s black like hell out there.”
“I think that Hurricane will hit this friggin’ beach town tonight. I want to be done, you hear me? Terminado!”
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you Jorge. Me too. Let’s find that bitch and get her and her kid back to Columbia. If they don’t go easy, we kill them both.”
Joachim pulled out the map, trying to read from the overhead light. His squat body was sweating from too much chili. Jorge slapped him across his bald head.
“Idiota! Turn off the light!”
He limped toward the bano, his leg sore where Jet almost severed an artery six months ago. They thought she was gone for good. Then a pimp in Uruguay reported a sighting of her and the kid in Montevideo. Now the hunt was on again. And Jorge was tired.
“Get me black coffee and a torta in the OXXO. Meet me back at the truck. Leave the guns in the box under the floorboards. We passed those Federales on the highway. I’m not going to no Mexican prison. We gotta be careful.”
“What? What do you mean she’s moving? It’s the middle of the night. Hurricane weather! She can’t be moving.”
“Jorge, how far is she?” Joachim screamed. Three days in the truck all for nothing? “The boss said failure is not an option. We’re not going back without her and that kid.”
“We follow this road to the beach, there’s a surfer’s hotel on the right, past the Bancomer in town. “
They tore through the pueblo, hitting potholes big as ditches, and clipped the edge of a Tacos Pastor stand.
“There, see the light, right there!”
“But the tracking device says they are not here. The signal’s disappeared. That’s impossible! This fuckin’ weather!!”
They grabbled their AK47’s, checked the clips and ran down the back lane towards the beach. Jorge tripped over uprooted palm trees, smacked his head on busted coconuts and planted his face in rotting mangos.
“Chingada!!!” He grabbed his fallen weapon and turned it to full automatic.
“Number 14. There!”
They rushed to the door, their noise masked by persistent howling of the tropical storm, and bashed in the door.
“The bed’s still warm. Can’t be gone long.”
They ran from the room, frustrated screams mixed with thunder and lightning.
“Mira! Look!” Jorge pointed to a speedboat bouncing from pitch to pitch just off the shore.
“No one fishing in this storm. Shoot!”
They both fired their AK’s at the same time.
No use. Out of range.
They shook with frustration and anger. Three weeks.
Drenched and pissed.
“I don’t know about you Jorge, but I ain’t going out on that water for nobody. You?”
“Nah. Maybe it’s not them. We just tell the boss they were gone.”
“I got a better idea. Let’s stay in Mexico. They got gangs, cartels, smuggling here. We go back to Columbia without the bitch and the kid, we’re dead.” Jorge turned to Joachim and raised his gun.
Before Joachim could react, Jorge sprayed him with his AK. “Sorry hermano. I’ve had enough of Columbia.”
No one heard him over the rage of the storm. He took the cell phone, destroyed the chip, and threw it in the ocean. Then he dragged the body to the swollen river. The Crocodiles would eat it before morning.
Jorge walked back to his car, turned north towards Michoacán.
He finished off the last of his torta and lit a Cuban cigar. An enforcer from Columbia is welcome anywhere. It was time to disappear.