Target Deck - 02 (17 page)

“Shore patrol.”

“What?”

Deckard flung open the sliding door and was back out on another balcony. This time the fall wouldn't be enough to kill him, just enough to hurt really, really bad. There was a swimming pool below but of course it was just a little too far for him to jump to. Immediately underneath him were some plastic pool chairs.

The woman chased after him, letting the door slam shut behind her.

“Hey dude,” she squeaked. “Get the fuck out of my room!”

“I'm working on it,” Deckard responded, climbing over the railing.

“What are you doing? Are you on drugs?”

Examining the side of the building, the walls were smooth with no way to climb down, no drain pipes to slide on, not even another balcony to drop down on. He was on the third floor leaving about a thirty foot drop down to the poolside.

“Holy shit,” someone cried out from below. “Look at this action hero!”

Swimmers in the pools stopped and looked up at Deckard hanging off the outside of the balcony. Tourists lounging about set down their cocktails and stared at him in bewilderment.

“That dude is crazy!” someone wearing a Hawaiian shirt yelled. “He's gonna jump!”

Just then a banging came at the hotel room door behind him followed by muffled screams.

“Oh, no,” the blonde exclaimed.

“It's the police,” Deckard explained. “They are after me, not you.”

“It's not the police, that's my fiancé,” she said listening to the screams coming from the other side of the door. “He must know there is another man in the room with me!”

Now everyone at the pool was looking up at Deckard.

“Do it!” someone said. Then in unison they began to chant, “Jump-jump-jump!”

“Should I let him in?” the girl asked.

Looking over his shoulder Deckard could see the door bulge with each thud as her fiancé began trying to kick the door in.

“Who is your fiancé?”

“He's a linebacker for the Miami Dolphins.”

Deckard turned and jumped from the balcony.

It was far from a graceful landing. As a former para-trooper Deckard knew how to execute a Parachute Landing Fall which was meant to help cushion your impact with the ground and prevent injury. Keeping his feet and knees together, he brought his fists up in front of his face for protection. Making contact with the concrete, he stayed loose and rolled to the side, flopping over some pool furniture.

For a moment he saw red and was vaguely aware of the crowd cheering his epic wipe out.

Struggling onto his hands and knees, he was scraped up and bruised pretty good. His entire body felt jarred like he had just been in a car crash.

“That was gnarly man!” one of the partiers said helping him to his feet.

“Thanks kid,” Deckard grunted. “Now get the fuck out of my face.”

The kid took a step back, seeing that Deckard was bleeding from several cuts he'd received during the fall.

“I'LL KILL YOU MOTHERFUCKER!”

Looking up at the balcony he had just jumped from he could see that the Miami Dolphins linebacker had made short work of that door, expecting to find a stranger having an amorous encounter with his fiancé.

“Go Jets!” Deckard yelled back.

The NFL player began climbing over the railing himself as the blonde woman jumped on his back, wrapping her arms around what little neck he had to try to stop him.

The pool party was in stunned, awed silence by the spectacle.

Exit stage left.

Deckard readjusted the strap of the camera bag again and began skirting around the side of the hotel. Behind him he could hear the football player still threatening his life. He could also hear the muffled siren of the hotel's fire alarm coming from inside. Moving into the pump room for the pool, he scanned for police or cartel men, finding that the coast was clear. They were still occupied searching the top floors for both him and Bashir, who was no doubt a crispy critter by now.

Moving around to the front of the hotel Deckard found a dozen police cars parked in the roundabout next to the main entrance. The doors on many had been left ajar as the corrupt cops had stampeded into the hotel. Reaching into his pocket he found some of the screws that he had taken from the work site inside and began placing them under the rear tires of each police car except for one that he reserved for himself. The task was completed in a little over a minute and he hopped into the police cruiser he had left untouched.

The cops had been in such a hurry that they even left the keys in the ignition for him.

Pulling out of the hotel parking lot, he executed a hasty three point turn and was off on the main highway just as the fire department was pulling in. Above the hotel, a column of black smoke rose into the beautiful blue sky.

Driving along the highway, he was suddenly feeling good. Real good.

Another dead asshole and he was slipping away none the worse for wear.

Coming up to a police checkpoint, Deckard flipped on the cruisers lights and sirens, blowing right through it as the policemen on duty waved him on.

Fishing around for his CIA issued cell phone, he reminded himself that the mission wasn't over yet.

“You fly plane?”

“How the fuck did you think you got here,” the CIA pilot answered the mercenary's question.

The two Kazakh trigger pullers that Deckard had left in the Gulfstream as a security detachment had been playing twenty questions with the two pilots since he had departed.

“You spend lot of time in airplane?”

“It is what I love,” the pilot responded proudly. “I did my twenty in the Air Force. I couldn't stop flying if I wanted to.”

“You fly plane,” the second mercenary interrupted. “Meanwhile, your wife at home playing like promiscuous Uzbek whore!”

The two mercenaries burst out laughing.

“Laugh it up you little brown fuckers!” the pilot fumed. “It's only a matter of time before we invade whatever country you two are from!”

Hearing his smart phone ring, the pilot answered while the Kazakhs continued to have some fun as his expense.

“It's him,” he shouted to shut the two of them up. “He's coming in.”

The mercenaries flipped a switch and they were all business, throwing on their plate carriers and readying weapons.

“Shit,” the pilot cursed. “Start it up!” he yelled to the co-pilot sitting up in the cockpit. “He's coming in hot!”

A smooth extraction had been too much to hope for.

Stepping on the gas, the police cruiser raced across the bridge, passing over transparent turquoise waters as Deckard left Cancun and shot down the road that led through the mangrove swamps. Looking in the rear view mirror he could see several black military type vehicles belonging to the
federales
chasing after him.

His subterfuge slowed down the police but they had figured it out fast enough to call in the big guns. At least the Army hadn't shown up yet.

Clearing the hump in the middle of the bridge, Deckard decelerated slightly as he felt the rear wheels sliding out from under him. Bringing the police car back under control he gunned it down the highway. He held the steering wheel with his hands placed at the nine and two o' clock positions to help make the hair pin turns at high speed that he would need to negotiate.

When he came to the first turn, he held the wheel tight, slowly spinning it until his forearms crossed over each other. The cruiser protested the harsh treatment but Deckard pushed the vehicle to its limits until coming out of the turn when he quickly brought the wheel back to the 12 o'clock position.

Passing another one of Bashir's abandoned hotel projects, Deckard took the car squealing around another turn towards the airport. Looking in the mirror again, it seemed that he had bought himself some breathing room.

Reaching for the smart phone, he redialed the pilots.

“Hey, we kicked the engines,” the pilot picked up. “Where are you?”

“A couple minutes out. Head away from the commercial terminals and stop on the taxiway. I'm going to have to ditch the vehicle and meet you there. They are right on my ass.”

“We haven't been granted clearance by the tower yet.”

“Fuck clearance if you don't want to spend thirty years in a Mexican prison!”

Deckard threw the phone in the passenger seat next to the camera bag as the car threatened to careen off the side of the road. He had noticed on his way out of the airport that they had gone under an overpass. The highway actually passed under the taxiway that connected to the two landing strips at Cancun's airport.

Now he was flooring it down the straightaway, the needle on the speedometer creeping up over a hundred miles an hour. The aging police cruiser wasn't a Ferrari but it was getting his ass out of Dodge and that was all that mattered at the moment.

Up ahead was some kind of modern art type monument in between the two lanes of traffic where he saw the police were quickly establishing another checkpoint. They were probably shutting down the airport itself at that very moment but hadn't caught on to which plane he had come in with yet.

Deckard slowed and cut the wheel again, crossing the median and blasting into the opposing lane of traffic. Tactical driving was a piece of cake once you overcame your aversion to breaking every traffic law known to man. The police looked dumbfounded at Deckard as he shot by. The oncoming lane only had a few cars on it and it was easy for the drivers to avoid each other even as they honked their horns at the renegade cop car.

He slowed slightly to avoid traffic when passing through a four way intersection. By now the
federales
were back in sight in his rear view mirror, giving chase as he closed on the airport. He had hoped for a little more stand off when he made his move, but it was what it was.