Massive Attack (A Guy Niava Thriller Book 1) by Dana Arama (e reader for manga .txt) 📗

at the clubs on the beach. If it was already spring break or some festival, I would say that it’d be worthwhile to locate her immediately, because the activity would be around the clock and the peak hours are at three or four a.m.”

“But don’t we still have a couple of weeks till the beginning of the spring break?” I asked.

She answered, “Yes, so that is why I suggested we settle in first.”

“I think we should keep a low profile --” I began, and she nodded her head vigorously.

“Agreed. There is a chance that someone had already passed on the information that we were arriving on this plane. It is best we look for a room to rent with an hourly rate or a room at a seedy motel, the kind that takes no interest in its guests. That way they won’t keep a register of who comes and goes.” Hourly motels had security cameras – it was a whole industry of porn movies and extortion. The last thing I wanted was for us to walk into the trap of a well-set up room with hidden cameras, so I said, “I’d rather a motel, because even the most wretched of places must follow the law.”

“Good point. So be it. A motel it is.”

“I’m assuming we are going to be followed as soon as the plane lands.”

“Assuming it lands.” There was worry in her voice. “And then we will need to create some kind of diversion in the dark, then go and find a small motel with two available rooms for the night.”

I smiled. That was her way of confirming we were two colleagues working together. I was okay with that.

***

The wheels of the plane barely touched the ground, and then the plane immediately rose back into the air. The sharp angle signaled that there was a problem. I had been in planes threatened by anti-aircraft missiles before. Something in the atmosphere, maybe the angle of the ascent, felt familiar. Barely a moment passed, and a high-pitched siren tore through my eardrum.

“What happened?” Laura asked, alarmed.

“We should try and find out with the pilot,” I answered. “It felt like an attempt to escape a missile.”

“Return to your seats and put on your seatbelts,” the pilot’s voice ordered us. He also sounded worried.

In fact, we hadn’t even unfastened our seatbelts yet. Our conversation stopped and a small strip of sweat broke out on Laura’s hairline. I breathed deeply and waited for the blow to come. The engine sounded as if it was straining against powers pulling it downward, back to the threatening ground below. Finally, we heard the stable humming of the motor. It seemed as if the drama of the previous 30 seconds hadn’t occurred. Only the imprint of Laura’s fingerprints on the arms of the chair revealed how tense she had been during the whole ordeal.

Minutes passed and we didn’t talk or look each other in the eye. Maybe we were afraid that it would surface questions with answers that were really nice sounding lies, like ‘everything will be alright’ or ‘that there is nothing to worry about’. This was a hope that neither of us knew to be true.

“The alert system identified a threat of aircraft damage,” the pilot’s voice echoed through the cylindrical space of the aircraft. “We will distance ourselves from the area until the threat is neutralized, or we will land on another airstrip, in accordance with the timetable and our remaining fuel. We have already notified the land security forces.”

“I wouldn’t object to a glass of whiskey right now.” Laura gave me a pitiful smile. “They can easily harm us, right?” It seemed like a rhetorical question. She knew as well as I did that it was true. I didn’t respond. Instead I said, “More importantly, we must figure out who would know about us landing here. Or, more precisely, can Murat Lenika’s hand reach this far?”

We flew the next ten minutes in silence. The pilot’s announcement broke the tension filling the air, this time sounding much calmer. “We have received the go-ahead to land.” He added, “Ground security has apprehended a group of people responsible for setting off a shoulder missile. They believe it was a case of mistaken identity of the plane. I hope there are no more rogue agents down there.” We didn’t say a word. The danger wasn’t over.

We quickly disembarked the plane and moved rapidly to the main building. That we had landed safely didn’t lower the level of danger, nor the level of caution. If someone had been surveilling the plane and suspected it was the Anti-Drug Authority, he may also have set up snipers to have us shot.

It was almost four thirty in the morning when we walked into the main building. The difference between the number of soldiers and policemen patrolling outside and the emptiness inside was almost absurd. It made me think that maybe they were there because of the incident with our airplane. A fat, sleepy clerk photocopied our passports. I knew he would mostly likely pass on our information, not only to the authorities, but to other group with interest in every stranger who landed here. Two data systems, operating simultaneously. I didn’t like the idea at all. In contrast with the previous times I had been to Mexico, this time, because of Laura, I had to use my real passport. From the main building, we made our way to the center of the stirring city, into the first available taxi we spotted. We stopped in the city center and there, after a walk through a few streets, and after making sure we hadn’t been followed, we stopped a random cab and drove to the other side of the city.

The place we found was called simply “Silvia’s Place.” It was a compromise between the hourly rooms and a simple motel. Silvia lived on the lower floor with her two sons, in what was once the living room of the house. Before we went