JET - Forsaken

by Russell Blake

  She slid it closed behind her and was plunged into darkness. Hearing no indication of guards, she felt for her purse, located her phone, and switched on the flash to use as a light. Jet pulled herself along, gaining speed when she spotted the first vertical junction, and thumbed the screen to life so she could eye the schematic. After confirming that the duct was the one that terminated in the basement, she activated the flash again and moved to the lip of the junction to look down.

  A series of ribbed intervals she could use for support stretched downward into darkness, each no more than a couple of inches deep, but adequate if she was careful. If she lost her grip, she would drop five stories to where the heat pumps connected to the ducts in the basement, but the thought didn’t faze her. Jet slid the phone into her breast pocket so some of the light still shone over the top of the fabric and lowered herself into the duct, pushing her feet against one wall, her back against the other.

  Five minutes later, she was at the bottom of the duct and listening at another maintenance hatch. After a cautious pause, she opened it and lowered herself to the floor of the equipment room filled with heating pumps the size of cars.

  She made her way across the room and put her ear to the steel door, eyeing her phone screen as she strained to hear. The blueprint showed an exit to the street at the end of the basement corridor to her right, and if she could make it the twenty-five meters and get out of the building, she’d be in the clear.

  “What’s the situation?” Jet whispered.

  Nothing.

  “Leah. Status?” she demanded.

  No response.

  “Damn,” Jet muttered. The thick reinforced concrete in the basement had to have blocked reception. So she might be walking into just about anything when she emerged into the hall. Without the benefit of intel on what was happening outside, she was flying completely blind, and for all she knew, there could be squads of soldiers covering the exits.

  Her options were limited to either making a break for it from the maintenance area or working her way back to the hall and subjecting herself to the hours of interrogation that were sure to come. Neither was particularly appealing, but her instinct was telling her to get as far from the exhibition center as possible while she had the chance.

  Jet twisted the lever and opened the door to find a dimly lit empty hallway. Her luck having held so far, she trotted to the security door and pressed her ear against it. A groan from the far end, where a stairwell led to the ground floor, startled her, making her decision easy. Jaw clenched, she slid the heavy bolt securing the door open and pushed the slab with all her might. A man yelled from the stairs behind her and then she was through, just in time to hear more screaming before the door slammed shut, leaving her standing beneath the dark sky, night having fallen while she was making her escape.

  She looked around and, seeing nobody, took off at a flat-out run. The lights of the building receded behind her, any snipers no doubt on the other side of the complex where the explosions had detonated.

  “Leah, I’m out. Where are you?” she gasped as she poured on the speed.

  Silence answered her, and she frowned as she reached the edge of a large parking lot, where a symphony of horns from the wide boulevard beyond signaled that something was happening beyond the events in the hall. Footsteps ran by from the other end of the lot, and she saw a group of young men wearing hoodies, scarves covering their faces, racing along the street. A crash of glass triggered a car alarm, and then another crash from farther away preceded an orange fireball that exploded into the sky.

  Jet shook her head. The civil unrest that Itai and Leah had warned would be the immediate response to news of the president’s assassination was already starting, and she couldn’t help but wonder at how quickly word had leaked. She was too seasoned to believe that any of what was to come was organic – there was only one reason to assassinate a head of state, and even if she hadn’t been told, she understood that regime change was the goal. The Mossad had probably had a team to communicate the assassination instantly, and if Baku followed the pattern of any of the other regime changes she’d been involved in, there would be rioting and civil disobedience that would give the military an excuse to clamp down, eliminating dissident voices and silencing any opposition.

  None of which was her problem. She needed to get to the Mercedes, where the clothes that were more in keeping with what the Azerbaijani women wore had been stashed by Leah, and then make it to the safe house. The first wave of rioters passed the lot, leaving a trail of broken windows and burning vehicles, and Jet waited until she couldn’t see any more approaching before moving toward where the car sat in the center of the lot.

  “Leah, come in. What’s happening?” she tried a final time, but received no answer.

  Something had gone wrong, obviously. Possibly connected to the explosions. Maybe her handler had somehow been hurt or captured while creating the diversion?

  Jet didn’t dwell on it and instead peeled the earbud from her ear and shrugged out of her suit jacket, wary of the transmitter now acting as a potential tracking device if Leah had been taken into custody. She emptied her pockets of her passport, cash, and phone, and removed the battery just in case, jettisoning the jacket beneath a truck and sliding her belongings into her pants pockets.

  Whatever was happening, her imperative was now to survive and reach the safe house. She paused by a SEAT sedan, and after peeking over the hood to confirm that there were no more miscreants headed her way, she took off at a run toward the Mercedes, which thankfully had been spared the first wave of destruction by the angry mob.

  Chapter 31

  Jet reached the car and tried the rear passenger-side door handle, only to find it locked. She frowned – it was supposed to be open. She quickly rounded the vehicle, trying the other handles, and found them all the same. Jet shook her head. Nothing was going according to plan. Maybe the car had an automatic locking function after a certain period of time? She couldn’t believe that Leah would have forgotten that critical piece of the escape plan, but didn’t allow it to throw her and instead slammed her elbow into the driver’s side window again and again until it shattered in a shower of safety glass.

  She reached in and popped the trunk, and there were her black cargo pants and a dark blue windbreaker with the logo of a local sports team emblazoned on the breast. Jet slipped out of her suit pants and pulled on the others, and then loaded the pockets with her belongings before donning the windbreaker. She balled up the suit bottoms and tossed them into the trunk, and then the whump of a Molotov cocktail at the end of the lot shook the ground, signaling that things in the vicinity were spinning out of control.

  Sirens keened in the distance, and a few shots rang out from the convention center. Jet knew better than to remain a second longer and wended through the parked cars to the main thoroughfare. Military vehicles were approaching the complex down the wide boulevard, their lights bright in the deepening night. Jet darted across the lanes and made for the university grounds a few blocks away where there was a taxi stand and, if nobody was willing to take a fare, buses running in the direction she needed to go.

  Crowds of students gathered on the sidewalks as she neared, their expressions excited and fearful. Jet overheard loud discussions about what had transpired – it was a coup by the military, the president had been shot, the prime minister was nowhere to be found. One of the clumps of youths was listening to a broadcast blaring from his phone: a newscaster advised that the authorities were clamping down on any opportunistic looting or rioting and to stay indoors until the civil unrest had been quelled.

  Jet approached a quartet of young women who seemed scared but harmless. “Have you seen any taxis or buses?” she asked.

  One of the women shook her head. “We just got here from the housing building. I haven’t seen anything, but I doubt the buses will be running if there’s rioting.”

  “Thanks,” Jet said. The scenario was worsening by the minute. If the student was right
, Jet would have to try to make it across town on foot – the six kilometers to the safe house wasn’t the problem so much as the unknown of police patrols and rioters between the university and her destination. It could have been worse, she supposed – she was just one woman among millions in Baku, and as far as she knew, there was no surveillance footage of her. Her plight had more to do with being a lone female in an unstable environment than being hunted – presuming she was correct that she hadn’t been filmed in her headlong dash from the building or by a camera she’d missed in the lot.

  She skirted the university grounds, which were filled with more students arguing about the upheaval and the president’s assassination. They were surprisingly orderly, given what she’d seen just a few blocks away, leading her to suspect that the seemingly spontaneous rioters had in fact been part of an orchestrated campaign. Jet hoped that would be confined to the convention center area and not spread – at least not until she’d made it back to the house.

  Jet got the first inkling that it might not be that easy when she spotted several trucks rolling down the street that bordered the university, their beds filled with armed men with scarves wrapped around their faces and balaclavas concealing their identities. Her impression was reinforced when one of the men held a bottle aloft and let out a whoop. Streets filled with roving gangs of drunk, armed hoodlums would make matters much more difficult for her, even if they would also provide confused cover.

  She waited until the street was empty and then sprinted across, eyes scanning the far sidewalk. Being female and on the street in an environment that was in flux, even temporarily, meant being a target for any predators looking for a chance to misbehave.

  At the far side of the street, she paused in the doorway of a tall building, seated the battery in her phone, and powered it on. After it booted up, she activated the map function, located her position, and traced the most direct route to the safe house, which she saw would take her past a sports arena and a couple of large hotels. She set off in the direction of the coliseum, which was dark, and fifteen minutes later arrived at the larger of the hotels.

  A pair of security guards with shotguns by the hotel main entrance didn’t bode well, nor did the empty taxi stand in front. She approached the lobby, and the guards looked her over. One of them, with a puckered white scar running down one side of his face, stepped into her path, weapon at present arms. “Are you a guest?” he demanded.

  “No. I need a taxi, and I’m hoping the concierge can call one.”

  The man chuckled dryly. “Fat chance. Haven’t you heard what happened? The president’s been shot. City’s under martial law. They’re saying they’re going to shoot looters.”

  “Which is why I need a cab. I can’t walk, obviously.”

  “Lady, there are no cabs. City’s locked down.”

  “Then how am I supposed to get where I’m staying?”

  The man shrugged. “Not my problem. Move along.”

  Jet frowned. “What if I want to check in?”

  “Reception’s closed. Everyone’s gone home to their families except for security and a skeleton housekeeping crew.”

  Her tone softened. “Come on. Don’t turn me away. There’s got to be some way to get where I need to go. I have money. Maybe one of you knows someone who could give me a ride?”

  “How much money are you thinking, and where are you going?” the other guard asked.

  “A hundred manat?” She named the neighborhood.

  The guards exchanged a small smile. “Two might get it done.”

  “That’s all my money.”

  “Then have a nice night.”

  Jet sighed. “Let’s say it was two hundred. You know anyone who could drive me now? I’m in a hurry.”

  “I can make a couple of calls.”

  “Please.”

  “Go on into the lobby and wait there. You don’t want to be outside.”

  Jet thought the guards were overstating the risk, but agreed and pushed through the revolving door. Four more armed men stood inside, stationed in each corner of the lobby, and regarded her curiously, weapons in hand.

  She contented herself with watching a big-screen TV broadcasting a live news feed from outside the convention center, cutting occasionally to helicopter footage of the city, where bonfires had been started in several districts by rioters who had begun looting some of the shopping areas. A serious newscaster echoed the earlier radio warning that the authorities were under orders to shoot first and ask questions later, and that everyone should stay off the streets due to gangs wreaking havoc. The footage changed again to what was clearly a firefight between government troops and armed looters taken from above, the muzzle flashes of the civilian weapons orange blossoms in the gloom, quickly answered by overwhelming automatic rifle fire from the government forces.

  Her attention was pulled from the screen by the scar-faced guard outside waving to her. She stood and returned to the entrance, where the man had a somber expression.

  “Sorry. Nobody will do it. Too weird out there right now. Maybe in a few hours…”

  “That’s it? Just…no?” she asked.

  “Like I said. All I promised to do was try.” He eyed her. “No tip for the effort?”

  Something about the guard gave Jet pause. “Sorry.”

  “Then beat it,” the man growled, turning mean.

  “Yeah. Thanks for nothing.”

  Jet resumed her slog along the main street, troubled by the interaction at the hotel. When headlights bounced along the street from behind her, she quickened her pace and turned onto a side street just as a dark sedan rolled to the curb behind her. She considered whether to run, but elected to capitalize on the situation by standing her ground and playing the weak victim.

  Two men emptied from the car and ran after her. They pulled up short at the sight of the young woman in black, standing with her hands at her side, purse strap slung over her shoulder. A stiletto snapped open in one of the men’s hands. The other wielded a small semiautomatic pistol with an ugly snout and snarled at her.

  “Give us your money. Now.”

  Jet smiled. “You don’t want to do this.”

  “Give us the cash or we’ll cut that pretty face of yours.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “We know you do. Last chance.”

  Jet’s suspicions were confirmed. The guard had made calls, all right, but to alert some hoodlums that there was prey on the street.

  “If I give you my money, you’ll leave me alone?” she asked, noting that they were inching toward her.

  “That’s right. Unless you want some company,” the other man said with a leer.

  “I actually need a ride.”

  The men looked at each other and laughed, the sound ugly. “Hear that?” the first said. “She wants a ride. I think we could help her, don’t you?”

  “Oh, definitely. Been a while since–”

  Jet covered the ground between them in three steps and leveled a kick at the man with the gun, catching him in the side of his ribs. His breath blew from his mouth in an O and she followed through with a forearm strike that caught him in the nose, breaking it and sending a spray of blood down his chin as he struggled for breath. He burbled and slumped to the ground, the pistol dropping harmlessly beside him. The other slashed at her, but she was too quick, and she followed a hard knee to his groin with both palms smacking his ears, rupturing his eardrums. He reeled away, and the knife skittered into the gutter.

  Jet didn’t wait for the men to recover, and instead scooped up the pistol and made straight for the waiting car around the corner. The driver looked up in surprise when she threw the passenger door open and slid beside him.

  “Your friends said you’d give me a ride,” she announced. The man, his wide face and pig eyes those of a bully, fought for comprehension at the words, and then she punched him in the throat, the blow so fast he never saw it coming. He gurgled and pawed at his neck, and she delivered another brutal str
ike and leaned over, jerked his door handle, and pushed him onto the street.

  She crawled behind the wheel, pulled the door closed, and roared off, her transportation problem temporarily solved – at least until the muggers reported it stolen. She eyed the gas gauge and shook her head; it was nearly empty. Jet frowned in the darkness. She’d be lucky if it made it to the house. It figured that a pack of lowlifes so desperate that they’d mug a woman for a few hundred manat would be too broke to put gas in their car, and she cursed as the car sped through an intersection and past a filling station that was dark as a tomb.

  Sirens howled from a larger boulevard ahead, and she shut her lights off and braked, waiting to see what was coming. A procession of police vehicles turned onto the street. She stood on the throttle and turned hard right between a pair of buildings and yanked up on the emergency brake so her brake lights wouldn’t illuminate. Moments later the column of squad cars and armored personnel carriers sped by, going on forever, roof lights pulsing red and blue.

  When the last of the vehicles had passed, she stepped out of the car and chanced a look around the corner of the building. The street was once again empty; but if there were mass troop movements coinciding with the rioting, she was risking arrest, or worse, by driving. She paced behind the car as she thought through her options and, after checking her phone and calculating the remaining distance, resolved to continue on foot. Tempting as it was to drive as much as possible, it would be easier to dodge patrols or criminals if she stuck to back streets and the shadows under her own steam, whereas any car on the road given the circumstance would be automatically suspect.

  Jet removed the battery from her phone again, pocketed it and the cell, and set off down the strip of pavement, grateful that the streetlights were largely nonfunctional, the only sound the steady pounding of her boots and the ululating of sirens in the night sky.