Jet

by Russell Blake

  Chapter 15

  The little house was unremarkable, one of countless bungalows in the neighborhood, close enough to the beach to smell the salt air. She found a parking place on a side street and performed her customary stealthy perusal of the area to ensure there were no obvious threats – no suspicious vehicles, no questionable loiterers. This kind of area was a nightmare for counter-surveillance, with few places to hide and a lot of single and multi-story buildings with plenty of windows, any of which could hold a watcher or a sniper. She adjusted her new sun hat and oversized dark sunglasses, and ambled slowly down the sidewalk, past the cottage and to the corner, where she ducked into a market and bought a half-liter bottle of mineral water. When she emerged, she took her time drinking it, eyes methodically scoping out the block from behind her colored lenses.

  Satisfied that the area was clean, she approached the front door, taking note of the tiny all-weather camera mounted under the eave. Two soft knocks. A pause. One louder.

  She listened for any sound, but heard nothing. Then a voice from inside, barely audible, but distinctive.

  “It’s open.”

  Reaching down to twist the knob, she took a deep breath. After three years and traveling halfway around the world, the moment of truth had finally arrived.

  Jet stepped into the dimly-lit entry foyer and closed the door behind her. David’s voice called to her from the living room.

  “Lock it.”

  She did as instructed, then turned, moving to where he was waiting for her.

  Sunlight filtered through the translucent curtain, framing David’s silhouette as he sat in an easy chair, facing her, holding a Glock. Next to him was a computer screen with two application windows open, grainy images of the front and rear of the building flickering – Rani’s amateur security system, she presumed. She squinted and raised her hand to remove her hat and sunglasses – he motioned with the gun.

  “Slowly.”

  She took the glasses off, dropping them on the coffee table that sat between them.

  “Nice to see you, too,” she said. “Now what?”

  “That depends. What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

  “I was attacked. I want answers.”

  “Well, we have that in common.” He regarded the couch to her right. “Sit down.” Not so much an invitation as an order.

  She did as instructed and took in his appearance. His face was pale and drawn, but other than that, he was the same David she’d last seen – a few days before she’d disappeared in a bright flash on the streets of Algiers.

  “How did you think to find me through Rani?”

  “I went by the safe house. Cops and army everywhere. Figured you’d need a friend.” She shrugged. “Which you do, from where I’m sitting.”

  “Ah.”

  “How long are you going to point that thing at me like I’m here to kill you?”

  “Until I know you aren’t here to kill me.”

  “David. Please. If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. All due respect, you’re no match for me in the field.” She smiled tentatively. “So why don’t we cut the bullshit and you tell me what’s going on?”

  The pistol wavered, and he put it on the arm of his chair and sighed, closing his eyes. He’d obviously used up considerable resources just holding it on her.

  “You look like shit. How badly wounded are you?” she asked.

  “Bad enough. Hit in the stomach. I didn’t need those three feet of intestines anyway, I guess. Rani stitched me back up and says I’ll be good as new, soon.”

  “Who did this to you, David?”

  He shook his head. “A good question. I have my suspicions.”

  “I was in Yemen. Rain’s flat exploded while I was standing outside of it.”

  “You were in Yemen? Ah, then that’s how you knew about the safe house,” David said, calculating rapidly.

  “Yes.”

  “I saw on the news about your adventure on the island. Looks like you took enough scalps to make them think twice about the wisdom of coming after you, though.”

  “That’s why I’m here, David. I want to know who’s after me, and why, and how they found out I’m still alive. The only one who knew was you.” She spoke evenly, no inflection, but the accusation hung in the air all the same.

  He opened his eyes. “That’s true. And I have an apology to make. I was stupid and sentimental. Careless. I’m sorry. I should have known better…” His voice lost volume as he visibly deflated right in front of her. His last words trailed off, and his head sank onto his chest.

  She rose and moved to his side, surreptitiously slipping her palmed knife into the back pocket of her jeans, then put a cool hand on his face.

  “You need to rest. I’ll help you to the bedroom. We can talk later.”

  He nodded, out of it, and she eased him up, supporting him as they shuffled to the end of the hall and entered the bedroom. She lowered him onto the unmade bed, pushing the IV stand out of the way, and gently unbuttoned his shirt, avoiding dislodging the cannula taped in place in his left arm as she pulled the sleeves off. She hung it across the back of a nearby chair, noticing the bullet hole in the lower section of the fabric, the bloodstain obvious even after someone had tried to wash it out. His eyes opened with a flicker of pain, and she held up the end of the IV tube with raised eyebrows.

  He nodded again.

  She slipped the line into place and flipped the bag open. David’s eyes closed one last time, and his breathing became deeper. The stitches on the left side of his stomach were ugly, as was the discoloration around them, but his abdomen was only slightly swollen. She caught sight of a syringe and two vials and picked one up, raising it into the dim light so she could read the label. Morphine, half full. No doubt through the IV. That figured.

  She returned to the front room and checked the Glock – a 23, she noted by the .40 caliber rounds in the magazine – then slipped the chain lock into place on the front door. Glancing around, she spotted a chair in the tiny dining room, which she quickly wedged under the doorknob.

  The windows were the only other point of entry, but after a cursory inspection to ensure that they were all locked, she realized there wasn’t anything more she could do to secure them. She pulled the shades down, darkening the rooms, and after a survey of the refrigerator’s contents to confirm that there was enough nourishment in the flat to last a few days, she returned to the bedroom with the gun and settled into a padded chair in the corner, listening to the sound of David’s steady breathing: only slightly labored, any discomfort eased by the narcotic drip that was helping his body recover from the battering it had endured.