Free JET - Sanctuary by Russell Blake

went dead in his hand, and Drago switched it off. Forty-three minutes later, he received a 6MB file via an email server with military-grade encryption and a one-time-use password. Drago downloaded the file, printed it out, and then spent an hour reading it and crawling the web for news out of Buenos Aires and Mendoza. The only relevant thread was an aristocrat in Mendoza who’d apparently arranged for the plane that had been shot out of the sky – an incredibly sloppy bit of overkill even by Drago’s elastic standards.
    He called the agent again and ignored the grumbling way the man answered the phone.
    “Bastard. I didn’t even bother to go back to sleep.”
    “You know me well. Consider the contract accepted.”
    “I’ll arrange a transfer, as well as a jet to Mendoza. Can you be ready in an hour?”
    “You sound pretty sure of yourself. Tell me you didn’t already have the plane on call.”
    “There are no secrets between us, are there?”
    “One caveat. The file says I can expect intel support through you. Where are you getting it from?”
    “Wherever I can.”
    Drago’s inner alarm sounded again. “I don’t need any surprises.”
    “That makes two of us. Relax. Everyone’s after the same thing.”
    “I just want it on the record. This looks and feels like a black ops job. Not a hit. Don’t get me into anything I can’t get out of. And don’t hold out on me.”
    “Never. The transfer will happen by the time you touch down in Mendoza. Call me on the way to the airport and I’ll give you the plane info.”
    “Gear?”
    “You won’t be searched by Argentine customs. Bring the minimum you’ll need. Anything specialized I can source locally.”
    “How?”
    “I have friends in low places.”
    Drago packed a black nylon carry-on bag with three changes of clothes, a Heckler & Koch Mark 23 pistol with three spare magazines of hand-loaded ammunition, a laser aiming module and a screw-on suppressor, and a collapsible sniper rifle with two eight-round magazines and a long cylindrical suppressor, all concealed beneath the false bottom. It was heavy, the compartment lined with a layer of lead foil to confound any airport security X-ray gear, and it wouldn’t withstand an in-depth search. Still, if his agent was on his game, there wouldn’t be any reason for concern – on private charter flights there wouldn’t be any security to clear, just a short walk across the tarmac to the waiting plane.
    The jet was a Gulfstream III, older but easily capable of hitting Argentina from Colombia even if its range was considerably more limited than that of its more advanced siblings. Drago settled back into the luxurious seat, his bag strapped into the recliner across the aisle from him, and closed his eyes as the aircraft taxied to the main runway before accelerating and thrusting upward into the night sky, turbines pushing hard to get the plane over the mountain range in the thin atmosphere of Medellín’s high altitude. He peered through the window at the tapestry of city lights disappearing beneath the wing and closed his eyes again, determined to get some rest on the five-hour flight south.
     

Chapter 12
    San Felipe, Chile
     
    Bastian stood by the reception counter, watching the hidden lobby security camera footage at hyperspeed as his men dragged the bodies of their comrades from the courtyard and loaded them into the back of the Ford Excursion like cords of firewood. The captain of the local police had called to alert him that he had ten minutes before the first car arrived – a courtesy that the Verdugos’ generosity had bought that evening.
    He’d begun his scan of the surveillance tape at the point Alejandro and Rodrigo had arrived. There was no way that six men had been taken out without serious reinforcements, and he wanted to see what he was up against. As he fast-forwarded through the hour and a half between when they arrived and when his shooters did, he couldn’t believe that nobody else had