by Trevor Scott
Then he saw Sirena on the floor in the center aisle. She also looked up and smiled at Jake. He nodded his head and then pointed toward the right side of the church, indicating he’d take that shooter.
Jake vectored toward the outer corridor and peeked around the tall column. About halfway down that aisle he saw movement. Jake aimed his gun and quietly walked closer, keeping Sirena’s position in his peripheral vision to his left.
Someone yelled in Arabic across the church and then the shooter in front of him turned his gun on Jake shooting twice. But Jake had just enough time to lean behind another column, the bullets smacking the stone next to his head. He lowered himself and quickly rounded the corner, caught his target ahead, and fired three times. When Jake’s bullets hit the man, he immediately dropped to the stone surface, his body making a familiar thud.
In German, Jake yelled “Einen Toten.” Then he rushed forward and found the man he had shot. Even in the subdued lighting, Jake could see that the man had two shots center mass and the third one entered just below his left eye. He was definitely dead.
More shots rang out—first the silenced ones and then the follow-up from Sirena.
Jake hurried now back toward the front of the church.
Sirena continued to shoot as the man ran toward the front door.
By the time Jake reached the front, the big door was swinging closed. The man had escaped.
“You all right?” Jake asked as Sirena found her way toward the front door also.
“Yes. I’m just pissed. I should have known this was a set-up.”
“The contact didn’t show?”
“He showed,” she said. “He talked before those assholes killed him.”
“They must have had the guy under surveillance,” Jake surmised. “Come on. We need to get the hell out of here. Someone had to hear the shots.”
As Jake cautiously opened the front door, he could hear sirens in the distance. With his gun leading his way, Jake descended the church steps, his eyes canvassing the scene from right to left and back again. He could feel Sirena just behind him.
When they reached the bottom of the steps, they covered the small square looking for anything out of place.
“He’s gone,” Sirena said. “We better move. Those sirens are closing in on us.”
Holstering their guns, the two of them ran back the way they had come. Instead of making a direct approach to their villa, they doubled back numerous times, stayed in place in the shadows at other times, to make certain they were not followed. Only when both of them were entirely sure they had not been followed, did they quietly open the front gate, enter, and lock themselves inside. Then they went inside the villa.
18
Jake was out of breath as he entered the main living area of the billionaire’s villa.
Sirena was pacing like a tiger in a cage. She took off her coat and threw it to the sofa.
Sinclair Tucker and Jean Paul Talbot stood in anticipation, wondering what had happened, since Sirena was clearly not happy.
Father Francesco Murici sat silently in one of the leather chairs, his hands on his lap as if praying. He too seemed to be waiting breathlessly.
Stopping in the center of the room, Jake shook his head. “Somehow they knew we were coming,” he said.
“Bloody hell,” Tucker said, and then ran his fingers through his hair nervously.
“What happened?” Jean Paul asked. Then he pointed at Jake’s arm. “Are you hit?”
Jake checked out the right sleeve on his leather jacket. He saw the rip in the goat skin, but didn’t feel any pain. Taking his jacket off, he saw that the bullet had missed his arm. Another jacket ruined, Jake thought.
With his adrenaline coursing through his veins, Jake was having a hard time controlling his breath. Part of that, he knew, was from having to take a life. It was never easy. But it was easy to rationalize when he had no choice. And these men had not given him any alternative. They had taken the first shot, killing an innocent man in a place of God. Considering their Arabic screams, Jake guessed that wasn’t a problem for radical Islamic terrorists on a Jihad.
“Spill it,” Tucker said.
Jake deferred to Sirena, since the two of them hadn’t had a chance to talk about what had gone down in the church.
Sirena sat onto the end of the leather sofa and started the story. “I went in and found the guy praying in one of the forward pews. I talked to him for just a minute. He said that was all he knew, stood up, and someone shot the guy with a silenced gun. He was dead before he hit the floor. I started shooting. Got pinned down from both sides. Jake came in and took out one guy, and the second man, the killer of our contact, escaped.”
Father Murici crossed himself.
Then she told them about the helicopter company flying out of the Tenerife South Airport. “We need to look into Tenerife Helicóptero Tours in the morning.”
“No,” Jake said. “We need to go tonight. The shooters had to assume the man told you about the tour company.”
“Why didn’t they just kill the man before he got to the church?” Jean Paul asked.
Tucker smiled and nodded to Jake.
“Because they didn’t know what he knew,” Jake explained. “And they wanted to see who might be on to them. Now they know.”
Sirena said, “They only know that someone is on to them.”
Sinclair Tucker produced a set of keys, jangling them in front of his face. “That billionaire keeps a vehicle in the garage out back.” He lifted the main auto key. “And it’s a Mercedes.”
“How much have you guys had to drink while we were gone?” Jake asked.
“Not nearly enough,” Tucker said, “but not enough to impair our judgment or reaction time.”
“All right,” Jake said. “We leave in five minutes. Arm yourselves.” Then he turned to the priest. “Padre you stay here and hold down the fort.”
The priest didn’t complain. Tucker and Jean Paul hurried upstairs to get their weapons. Sirena went up to replenish the magazine she had drained.
Jake pulled out his Glock and replaced the partially used magazine with a full one. He still had plenty of firepower and didn’t expect to need it. Now he sat near the priest, who gave Jake a concerned look.
“How do you feel, Jake?” the priest asked.
“Glad to be alive.”
“I understand. But you took a life tonight.”
If the priest knew how many people Jake had been forced to kill over the years, he would probably force Jake into hundreds of Hail Marys and Our Fathers.
“Listen, Padre. As a Catholic Priest you know there is good and evil in this world. I have nothing on my conscience to report. These people are evil. If they want to martyr themselves in hope of finding seventy-two virgins, I’m glad to help them on their journey.”
Father Murici couldn’t help from smiling. “You have an interesting take on the Jihadists.”
“We should all have this attitude,” Jake said. “The crazy bastards want to kill every Christian and Jew on this planet. And most people think if they’re just tolerant everything will be fine.”
“But it won’t,” the priest said. “We know this now.”
“Who knows this now? The church?”
“Elements within our church,” the priest explained.
Jake considered the good priest more seriously. “You know more than you’re saying, Father. What the hell is going on?”
Before the priest could answer, Tucker, Sirena and Jean Paul rushed down the stairs shoving extra magazines into their pockets. All three looked ready for a fight.
“More later,” Jake said to the priest. “Lock the back door behind us.”
After the three others went out the back door toward the garage, Jake hesitated a moment and pointed his finger at the priest. “You need to go upstairs and find a weapon you’re comfortable with.”
“I’m a man of God now,” the priest said.
“Yeah, well God created man who developed gu
ns to protect ourselves from the bad guys. You can’t do God’s work when you’re dead.”
Father Murici thought about that. “Good point. I think I saw a nice Beretta I used in the Italian Army.”
Jake patted the priest on his arm and left him alone. He got out to the back garage and found Sinclair Tucker behind the wheel of a newer black Mercedes M-Class SUV. Jake opened the driver’s door and pulled Tucker out from behind the wheel.
“What the hell?” Tucker complained.
“You’re used to driving on the wrong side of the road,” Jake said. Then he looked into the back seat at the options. Sirena or Jean Paul? “Jean Paul. I take it French intelligence taught you how to drive.”
“Of course,” the Frenchman said, as he unbuckled himself and got out.
Then Jake got into the front passenger seat and turned toward Sirena. “I’ll need your expertise with helicopters,” he said.
“No problem,” she said in agreement.
Jean Paul powered open the garage door and then opened the back gate with another button, pulling out into a secluded alley.
“Start heading south out of town,” Jake said, and then started to play with the onboard GPS. He found a listing for airports and pressed the Tenerife South Airport. A disembodied woman speaking Spanish began to give them directions. “Maybe I should switch this to English.” He found the language button and did just that.
It was 60 kilometers from Santa Cruz de Tenerife to Tenerife South Airport on the expressway. They made the drive in thirty minutes. This was the main airport on the island, with flights to most European capitals. But, as Jake had found out with a quick internet search, the airport also housed helicopter tour companies, including Tenerife Helicóptero Tours. Being early evening, commercial flights were still coming and going, but Jake guessed the private tour companies would be closed.
The Frenchman pulled into the parking lot of the private tour company and kept the Mercedes running. There were two cars in the lot and the lights were still on in the tour company office.
Jake looked back at Sirena. “The two of us will go in and see what we find.”
Sirena nodded and unbuckled.
Then Jake looked at the Frenchman. “Hang out and watch our back. Everyone needs to connect via Bluetooth and listen in.”
“You got it,” Jean Paul said. “I can connect us all through the Mercedes system.”
They all connected and did a quick comm check. They were all able to speak and hear everyone else.
Sinclair Tucker gave Jake a thumbs up.
Jake and Sirena got out and wandered toward the front door. Although a sign read Closed in Spanish, Jake tried the door anyway. The glass door was locked.
He considered their options. Since the building butted up against the flight line, he had to assume that their helos would be either out there or in the hangar for maintenance.
“What do you want to do?” Sirena asked.
Shrugging, Jake pounded on the front door. Nothing. “Can you pick this lock?”
“It’s a pretty solid dead bolt,” she said.
“Bloody hell,” Tucker said through Bluetooth. “Just kick the fucker in.”
“They have a security system,” Sirena said. “We don’t need that.”
“I agree,” Jake said. “What about the other side of the building?”
Sirena shook her head. “The security fence with razor wire extends from the perimeter to the edge of the building. I saw it as we pulled in.”
Jake pulled out his phone and found the number for the tour company. “Someone is in there,” he said. “Could be maintenance guys working on the aircraft.” He hit the number and waited for the phone to ring.
He could hear the number from the outer office. Suddenly a man in coveralls appeared from another door and picked up the phone. Jake handed his phone to Sirena and got out of sight along the building wall.
She spoke to the man very seductively, telling him she would like to book a tour but needed to speak in person. She was at the front door.
The man turned and looked, seeing Sirena and raising his brows once he realized she was gorgeous. He smiled and came to the door, unlocking the dead bolt.
Sirena pushed inside past the man and Jake followed her closely.
“Do you speak English?” Jake asked the man.
“Yes, of course. But not good.”
“Are you the mechanic?” Jake asked.
The man smiled. “I am the mechanic, but I am also one of the pilots. I own the company.”
“Great,” Jake said. “We would like to hire your largest helicopter for our company. A tour of this island and perhaps a couple more.”
The owner saw dollar signs. “How many people?”
Jake and Sirena shared a glance. He deferred to her.
“Fifteen to twenty,” she said. “Depending on how many want to go.”
“We can handle that,” the owner said. “When would you like to go?”
Jake pointed at the man. “We want only your best pilot and your best helicopter.”
“Not a problem,” the man said, raising his hands in protest. “I will be your pilot. I am the only one who flies our largest craft.”
Interesting, Jake thought. “All right. May we see this helicopter? Our chief executive officer is very particular about flying.”
“Yes,” Sirena agreed. “We must see the helicopter.”
“That’s fine. I’m working on it now in the hangar. Nothing serious. Just scheduled maintenance. Come with me.”
The owner led Jake and Sirena into the hangar, which was expansive and seemed to be shared with other commercial aviation companies. Under the subdued lighting sat an older helicopter, which Jake was familiar with, having flown in one back in the 1980s. But this one, instead of familiar military markings, was painted a deep blue, like the ocean, with a symbol on the side and the name of the tour company in white letters.
The helo was large, but Jake wasn’t sure it was big enough to have flown out to sea and pick up fifteen people from the medical ship, along with the kidnappers.
“Is that big enough?” Jake asked, both to Sirena and the company owner.
“Hmm,” Sirena said. “That’s an old Sikorsky H-34. Capacity for fifteen to sixteen.”
“Oh no,” the owner said. “You are thinking about the military version. I bought this one ten years ago at auction from the French Navy. But since then, this one has been fitted for civilian use. We have twenty seats. Plus room for about five more in jump seats if needed.”
Sirena wandered around the helo giving it serious consideration.
While she inspected the aircraft thoroughly, Jake couldn’t help watching the business owner check out Sirena’s ass.
“She is a beauty,” Jake said. “Maybe a little old and well used.”
The Spaniard smiled. “Are we talking about the helicopter?”
Sirena came back and said, “I don’t know. She’s a little loose for my taste. Not sure I’d want to take her out over water.”
The helo owner gulped and said, “We do it every day. We fly to Gran Canary, and to all the other islands.”
“Seriously,” Sirena said, “what’s her range fully loaded.”
“Up to three hundred kilometers,” the man said enthusiastically.
Sirena laughed.
Jake calculated the range in his head. Without refueling, lingering on station on the medical ship while taking on passengers, that might have reduced the range significantly. But they had to assume they took on fuel somewhere in Morocco. Could they make it to the southern Atlas range? Not a problem, he thought.
“You’re telling me you’re the only person who has flown this helo since you’ve owned it,” Jake said.
“Absolutely.”
“What about to Africa?” Jake asked. “Will she make it to Morocco?”
The man nodded.
Exchanging a glance, Jake pulled Sirena aside and whispered in German, “I think it’s time to bring it home
.”
The Spaniard looked extremely nervous. He shuffled his feet and seemed to be perspiring more now.
“What’s the matter?” Jake asked the guy.
The man bolted back toward the office and Jake caught up with him, shoving the man against the cement wall before punching him in the kidney and dropping him breathlessly to his knees. The Spaniard gasped for air.
“Now,” Jake said, “we’re gonna have a little talk. And you’re gonna tell me the truth.”
The man went from his knees to his butt, a look of horror on his face. “I don’t know anything.”
“We’ll see. My friend is going to check out your onboard GPS and computer.”
“I don’t keep records,” the man pled.
A few seconds later Jake heard Sirena in his earpiece. “He’s wiped the GPS clean.”
Jake turned to the man and stepped on the guy’s left hand, bringing instant pain. “What about a flight recorder?” His question went to both the Spaniard and Sirena.
“I’ll check,” Sirena said.
“This is an old helicopter,” the Spaniard said. “It doesn’t have a flight recorder.”
“Hey guys,” came the voice of Sinclair Tucker. “We’ve got company.”
19
Jake and Sirena pulled their guns almost simultaneously. Then Jake grabbed the helicopter owner by the collar of his overalls and lifted the man to his feet.
Shifting his head toward the far end of the hangar, Jake shoved the man toward an area with fixed-wing light aircraft in various stages of repair.
“What’s going on?” the Spaniard asked.
“The guys you worked for want you dead,” Jake said.
Just as they got to the door for the next company, which would lead to an office, Jake saw movement coming from the door they had used to get into the hangar.
Flashes of light came immediately after a man jumped out into the hangar.
Sirena returned fire, her gun echoing through the cavernous hangar. But the man had jumped back inside the office.
“Back up coming,” Tucker said in Jake’s earpiece.
Jake tried the office door, but it was locked. He pointed his gun just feet from the lock and fired once, hoping his bullet wouldn’t ricochet. The lock was nearly destroyed. He shot again and the lock popped out the back side.