JET, no. 3

by Russell Blake

  Within thirty seconds, the ear bud crackled, and he heard Jet’s whispered voice.

  “He’s inside the salon. Three guards around him. No. Wait. He’s heading upstairs. Maybe to the entertainment deck, or maybe to the command center level on the bridge.”

  “On my way,” he breathed back as he crept to the superstructure, his neoprene-sheathed feet silent on the hull’s slick surface.

  ~ ~ ~

  Jet slowly traversed the dark main salon, trying to spot where all the security was stationed. She counted eight bodyguards on the back deck, and three had gone upstairs with Grigenko, leaving at least another nine onboard, if the CIA background document on the ship was correct. The Russian traveled with a contingent of twenty-four men when he was on the yacht, not counting the crew, the helicopter pilot, the mechanic, the captain and first mate, and the deckhands and domestic staff. She counted four guards on the wharf now. That left twelve somewhere above the salon.

  She walked onto the rear deck among the rest of the guests and glanced up at the superstructure rising three stories above her. She could see the outlines of two men on each level watching the wharf for threats. That totaled six visible on all external upper decks and eight on the main one, with four on the dock.

  Jet inched around the musicians and back into the salon’s gloom, retreating to a quiet corner.

  “You have six bad guys inside near Grigenko. There are six more outside on the upper decks and eight down here. Four on the dock. Over.”

  “I’m proceeding up to the command level. When the lights come back on, I’m going to need the second distraction within no more than one minute. Are you ready?”

  “Affirmative. On your mark.”

  She knew from studying the ship’s schematic that there was another service stairway near the galley, forward of the bar. It was almost impossible to see inside, but she felt her way along until she reached the forward bulkhead, and then groped along the joinery until she found the entry to the stairs.

  “I’m in position.”

  “Okay. I’m at the entertainment level. I see two inside. Preparing to neutralize.” David’s words were barely audible.

  Just then, the air-conditioning units and the refrigeration kicked on with a hum, followed by the lights.

  Applause sounded from the rear deck, and the band increased its tempo, a few of the partygoers clapping along as the mugging bass player plucked theatrically at the strings of his stand-up bass and gave it a twirl.

  One of the security men cleared his throat and called for the attention of the gathering as Jet slipped her cell phone out of her purse and pressed the number six speed dial number.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. The power is now back on, so if you would join me in returning to the salon, I would appreciate it. The harbor department frowns on excess noise on the marina, and now tha–”

  Jet pushed the number one key on her phone, and the lights flickered and then went out again.

  The crowd groaned, and the band slowed its pace to a funeral dirge tempo, engendering laughter and a smattering of applause. She took the opportunity to move into the stairwell that led to the entertainment level and softly took the steps one at a time, retrieving her makeup bag as she climbed. After feeling inside and pocketing the casino card, she found the mascara and twisted the top counter-clockwise, watching as it slowly wound back to the original position with a series of small clicks. She dropped it back into the bag, placed it at the top of the stairs and inched away from it, the light from the dark tinted windows barely sufficient to see.

  The bag detonated with a hiss of white-hot phosphor, then the other contents exploded outward, spraying liquid fire on the carpet and wood railing, which immediately ignited.

  As the flames spread, Jet heard the distinctive popping of a pistol from the same level. She darted to the recessed metal box near the stairs and pulled the handle of the fire alarm, which sounded a klaxon wail throughout the yacht – she’d known that the emergency warning system was on a different battery bank and had left it intact.

  The guards on the outside deck turned to see flames licking at the drapes and pushing from the stairwell to the aft portion of the entertainment deck salon. As they approached the glass doors at a run, Jet saw the nearest guard tumble backward as his chest tore open, then the man behind him spun around as a slug shattered his skull. Both men lay motionless in a spreading black pool of blood, so Jet sprinted to the nearest and pulled his pistol free, chambering a round before turning. She caught a glimpse of David moving up the far stairs to the command level and called up to the exterior deck.

  “Oh my God! There’s a fire down here. Fire! FIRE!” she screamed at the two guards she’d seen earlier – she repeated the yell to the people outside on the main deck. The panic was instantaneous as the throng fought to get off the boat, fire now pouring from the entertainment level windows.

  One of the guards above her leaned over the railing with an alarmed look on his face and, seeing a woman, looked past her to the lower deck. His partner joined him, and she screamed ‘fire’ again, but the second man was quicker on his feet and sensed a threat, woman or not. He was pulling at his shoulder holster when she squeezed off a shot at him, hitting him in the center of the chest, and then fired at his partner, who took two rounds in the throat.

  Screams of horror emanated from below as the crowd went berserk after hearing the sounds of the shots, scrambling and clawing to get away from the new threat of gunfire even as the security men around them drew their weapons, adding to the mayhem.

  She swung onto the metal ladder that led from the entertainment deck to the command center and was three quarters of the way up when she heard the percussive blast of the FN P90, still loud even with the suppresor. Shots answered it, and the little gun chattered back.

  Jet rolled onto the command level, using a fallen guard as cover – one of the windows near her went opaque as bullets pounded into it. She crawled to the access door, and when a guard’s head moved into view, she blew the top of it off.

  The clamoring of the alarm was even louder on this deck, and her ears rang from tinnitus caused by the guns’ detonations. She heard more shooting inside, and then her ear bud came to life. David’s strained voice echoed in her ear.

  “I’m hit.”

  No.

  “Where are you? How bad?”

  He wheezed and then answered, “By the surveillance room. I took one in the chest. Not good.”

  “I’m coming. Where’s Grigenko?”

  “Near the bridge. He’s still got two bodyguards with him. The rest are dead.”

  “I’ll be with you in a second. Hold on.”

  She moved into the dark, the layout of the bridge level burned into her brain from studying the blueprint.

  Another shot rang out, and she heard a grunt of pain in her ear bud. They were killing him.

  She ran in a crouch to where she thought David would be, and then a pistol butt slammed into the back of her head, and she collapsed, even as she tried to spin to fire at her assailant. Her gun clattered uselessly by her feet as her legs lost the ability to support her, and then she blacked out, the dim glow of the emergency lighting on the controls from the far bridge spinning giddily as the night rushed in and everything went silent.

  Chapter 32

  Jet smelled smoke, and when she cracked her eyes open, she saw that she had been dragged near David, whose breath was burbling in his throat, blood seeping through one of the chest wounds with each labored breath.

  “Sir, you need to get out of here now. The police are at the dock and are demanding to be allowed onboard, and the firefighters are right behind them. The boat cannot be saved – this level will be engulfed in a matter of minutes. You have to leave.” Vaslav, the head of the security detachment, was holding Grigenko back, keeping him from approaching.

  “I want to be the one to shoot her,” Grigenko insisted, and then a sharp crack and a muffled explosion sho
ok the ship from directly beneath them.

  “Any more shooting now that the police are right by the ship is going to have them stopping everyone from leaving, and that will be extremely complicated for you, sir. There are a lot of explanations that will need to be made as it is, but if we’re lucky, the fire will destroy most of the evidence of the gunfight.”

  “Give me a knife, then. I’ll cut her head off and dance on the flying bridge with it,” Grigenko snarled.

  “I’ll finish her. You need to leave now. Can you fly the helicopter yourself? The pilot is on shore for the evening.”

  “If I go slowly, I can manage it. I had a few lessons. It will be tough at night, but I can handle it.”

  “Stay low, and you’ll evade the radar. Put down near the airport in Nice, and you can be airborne, on the way back to Moscow, before anyone is the wiser. By the time they get around to questioning all the guests, you’ll be in Russia, having narrowly escaped an assassination attempt. We can figure out the rest from a safe distance – the authorities will lose interest quickly once they realize that the only casualties were members of your security detachment.” He gestured at Jet and David. “These two don’t exist, and their bodies will never be found. We’re only eight miles away from the airport, so you should have no problem making it. Just keep your running lights off and stay close to the water,” Vaslav cautioned.

  Grigenko grunted assent. Vaslav was right. They walked to where Jet was lying on the floor next to David, and the Russian abruptly stepped closer and kicked her in the ribs, the toe of his loafer connecting with bone with an audible snap.

  “That’s for my brother, you bitch. Rot in hell,” he spat, a stream of sour spittle landing on her still face.

  “She’s out cold. Come on. Don’t waste your time. She’ll be dead within two minutes, I promise. I’ll strangle her myself,” Vaslav assured him.

  “Fine. Oleg. Come on. You’re going with me. Let’s go,” Grigenko ordered, and the second security man joined them from the com room.

  “But the computer and the–”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s over. Move,” Vaslav said.

  Grigenko took one final look at Jet and then fixed Vaslav with a glare.

  “Rape her. I want you to violate her in every ugly way you can think of. Tear her apart. Film it for me. Use your phone. Do not disappoint me in this, Vaslav.”

  Vaslav nodded. There might just be time, and the idea had already occurred to him when he’d caught a good look at her.

  Trailed by Oleg, Grigenko mounted the stairs to the next level, where the small helicopter he kept for shore excursions was located. When they reached the modest flight deck, Oleg unfastened the straps that held the conveyance in place, coughing from the toxic cloud that rose from the entertainment deck. Grigenko climbed into the cockpit and flipped several switches, and then a starter whirred. The engine caught, and the rotor began turning lazily overhead.

  Oleg gave him a thumbs-up signal, swung the co-pilot door open, and slid into the seat next to Grigenko.

  After a few false starts, the rotor picked up speed and the small craft hesitatingly lifted clear, ascending shakily into the night as Grigenko struggled to keep the little chopper under control.

  ~ ~ ~

  Jet felt herself being dragged away from David, then a powerful hand yanked the zipper on the front of her jumpsuit down with violent force. Vaslav strained at her clothes, his breath catching in his throat when he saw the bronze of her nakedness under the leather. He pulled her arms out of the sleeves and then began stripping the pant legs off, tearing the outfit down to expose her.

  He stood, fumbling with his belt, and then dropped his trousers as he looked to the railing, where smoke was pouring from the deck below. He would have to rappel down using one of the cables from the helicopter deck once he was done with her. There was no way to make it down the stairs now.

  And no way for anyone to get up.

  David gurgled helplessly beside them, unable to help her, his life ebbing from him even as the nightmare he was witnessing grew worse with each passing second.

  Vaslav knelt between Jet’s legs, and then his hands flew to his throat. Blood sprayed from a gash running from below his left ear to his esophagus. He tried to staunch the stream with shaking hands, and then his eyes rolled into his head, and he slumped onto the deck next to her, twitching as life departed him in a rusty puddle. Jet pulled herself to a sitting position, the plastic card from the casino still clenched in her right hand. She’d retrieved it from her jumpsuit’s only pocket, the stiff edge as effective as a razor in her skilled hands. She wiped the blood from it using Vaslav’s hair and then pulled her jumpsuit back up, zipping the front before moving to where David was laboring to breathe.

  “David…” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks. He was dying. The chest wound was bubbling pink froth from his lung. She gazed at the ashen skin of his face and knew.

  “I…I’m sorry, Maya.” His voice was barely a whisper.

  “Shhh. No need to be sorry about anything, David.”

  He grabbed at her arm, his grip weak, trembling.

  “I need to tell you something.”

  “I love you, David.”

  He shook his head.

  “I’m so, so sorry. I love you too… I didn’t mean to ruin your life…”

  “You didn’t ruin anything. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  He coughed, blood trickling from his lips and oozing down his chin.

  “Listen. I want you to know…I’m sorry about the baby. Our baby.”

  She recoiled, shock written across her face.

  “How did you know–”

  “There’s no time. I…I found out. That’s the…important thing.”

  “Oh, David. She…I lost her. She died while I was giving birth…” The tears fell from her face, collecting in a small pool, mingling with the dark stain spreading on his chest.

  “No.”

  “Yes, David. I…I’m sorry.”

  He shook his head and increased his grip, surprising her.

  “No. She…didn’t die.”

  The words slammed into her. She looked around wildly, her expression uncomprehending.

  “How do you…what do you mean, she didn’t die? I saw her. I buried her. Hannah.”

  He shook her arm with his remaining strength, forcing her eyes back to his.

  “She’s alive. I’m…sorry. I had to…protect…her. It wasn’t…safe.”

  “You…how…”

  “I…found out, and…I had the doctor…switch Hannah for…a newborn that died the day before. The underage mother…was going…to put it up for adoption…”

  Another racking cough finished with a grimace. He didn’t have much time.

  “I wanted to tell…to tell you a hundred times…since you came back. But I…I couldn’t. I was afraid…I was afraid I’d…lose you again…and it still wasn’t safe…Grigenko…”

  Her expression froze.

  “You stole my baby…? You let me live for two years believing she was dead?” The dawning horror in her eyes was worse than anything she could have said, any condemnation or expression of hate.

  “I had to. You’d…never be safe, no matter…no matter…what you believed. You can’t outrun your past. And…she’s my daughter, too. I did…what was best. For her. Not for you…or for me. For her, to keep…her…safe,” he said, his voice trailing off at the end. His eyes began fluttering.

  She was losing him.

  “No. No, you can’t die. Where is she? What did you do with my baby?” she screamed, grabbing his wetsuit and shaking him. His head lolled, and then he croaked at her.

  “What? What did you say? David. Don’t die. Where is she?”

  With the last of his life, his lips quivered, trying to shape a word. She leaned close to him, putting her ear beside his mouth.

  “Where, David? Where?”

  His
breath wheezed and gurgled. He drew one final lungful of air and clamped his eyes shut from the effort of staying alive, trying to make amends for having done the unforgivable.

  “Ohhh…mah…haaah…”

  The last of the breath departed him as a groan, and then he shuddered and lay still, his eyes, having opened on the last syllable, stared lifelessly at the ceiling above him.

  “No. No no no no no. Damn you, David. Damn you…”

  She pounded on his chest with her fists, over and over again, drumming home each exclamation, then fell against him, sobbing, anguish shuddering through her body, a combination of love and hate battling for dominance.

  Flames licked at the rear of the command deck and the enclosed area filled with black smoke, the fire now raging out of control below. Fire engines screeched to a halt on the wharf, and she vaguely heard screams in French as the firemen directed their hoses at the ship.

  She looked up at the smoke. Her daughter was alive. David’s final gift had been to give her back her life. But in doing so, condemning his memory to eternal damnation.

  Jet reached over and closed his eyelids, then rose and staggered to the bridge. A radio crackled near the throttles, and she heard Grigenko’s distinctive voice.

  “Change of plans. Tell the jet to file a flight plan for Omaha, in the United States. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Have the pilots ready to depart when I arrive. And get our man in the United States to send someone to this Nebraska place to meet me when I get there. Do you understand?”

  Omaha?

  But how?

  How had Grigenko learned that her daughter was there?

  Jet looked around, eyes stinging from the haze, and saw a glow from the com room. She moved to the door and peered in. A laptop computer screen flickered in the dark, running on its battery. She approached it and saw cables going from the hard disk to a much larger box. A decryption engine.

  Moving closer, she peered at the screen and saw lines of code. She scrolled down and read, taking in the data. It had to be David’s laptop, stolen from his apartment. The data on it had been instrumental in Grigenko finding her.