Jet 04: Reckoning

by Russell Blake

  Alan had spent a rough night in a park in Montevideo, avoiding hotels because he didn’t have any papers. That, and he was trying to conserve his money – he only had a few hundred slightly soggy dollars to his name now, his credit cards and ID having gone up in flames on the ferry, along with everything he owned besides the clothes on his back. It was a precarious situation, no doubt, but he’d been in worse, and after a cold night almost freezing on a park bench he’d hitch-hiked his way north.

  Hopefully Jet had made it to Magdalena’s – he didn’t remember her cell number, having programmed it into his phone, also at the bottom of the bay now. Everything would become clear once they were reunited. She had plenty of money, and that would buy a new identity. The explosion was a loose end, though, and had troubled him since he’d dragged himself onto the beach in Montevideo. While it probably didn’t have anything to do with him, he couldn’t shake the sensation that the men at the terminal had been watching him.

  The question that nagged at Alan was why anyone would blow up a ferry, killing everyone on board. Could it really have been to get him? But why? Who would want him dead? And an even more niggling doubt had crept in – how could anyone have known that he was planning to board it? Nobody knew where he was – except…the director of the Mossad. Not because Alan had told him, but because if he’d really wanted to, he could have searched all the travel records to see what itinerary Alan’s operational ID had used to depart Los Angeles.

  That brought Alan up short. There it was again – a scenario where the director might have been involved in something nefarious. He considered Jet’s distrust of all things Mossad-related, but shrugged it off. It was inconceivable that the director might have been involved in trying to have him killed – especially murdering almost a thousand innocents in the attempt. Alan was under no illusions about the world he lived in, but even in the shadowy clandestine no man’s land he inhabited, you didn’t slaughter a boatload in order to get one man.

  He turned the corner. The street he was on looked like the right one. The condo would be around the bend, up three or four blocks. He was sure of it.

  His thoughts returned to the ferry attack, and then went in an ugly direction. He remembered the Lockerbie bombing, where an entire planeload of people had been killed – the bombing ultimately pinned on a Libyan, who throughout his trial and imprisonment had maintained his innocence. The word in the intelligence community was that there had been four CIA agents on the flight who were flying back to Langley to spill the beans on a heroin smuggling operation involving a faction of the agency that was trafficking the drug, and that the flight had been taken down to silence them forever. The official reports glossed over smoking guns like embassy staff and family members of high-ranking politicians deciding at the last moment not to get on the plane, preferring to focus on the evil Libyan terrorist – but nobody ever contrived a believable explanation for why a Libyan would have wanted to blow up the flight. At the time, it was accepted by the mainstream that the terrorist mind was unknowable, and just wanted to cause maximum civilian damage.

  Alan was no virgin, no innocent, and he had participated in myriad covert operations that were not what they seemed. But it was still hard for him to conceive of a conscience that would give the go-ahead to butchering a boatload of bystanders to get him.

  A breeze blew off the ocean, chilling him in spite of the balmy day. As he headed toward the condo he mulled over his next step. He had no idea whether he was in danger or not, but if the ferry bombing had targeted him, then he was dead as far as the world was concerned. Perhaps that wasn’t such a terrible position to be in – not that it had helped Jet much.

  Jet.

  The one bright spot in his life. Another broken soul, trying to find her way to something better and put the past behind her. Could they make it work? The two of them? Did he even dare hope? She definitely had a boxcar of her own baggage, but didn’t they all? It was impossible to live in the world they had and not carry scars from wounds that would never fully heal. Maybe it was foolishness to imagine a future with her, or with anyone. But he knew that when he thought about her dancing green eyes and her impish grin, he felt something…real. At this point, he would take real. After a lifetime living in the shadows, real seemed good.

  He could make out the condo now, little more than a block up on his right. His pace increased, and then some sixth sense sounded a warning as he neared it. Something was off, but he didn’t know what. Then he saw it: a black van, parked ten feet ahead, but with the engine running. It could have been nothing, but he didn’t think so. As he passed it he glanced inside, and as he suspected, the driver was watching the condo, talking to someone in the back. And he had a wireless headset on.

  Alan continued on, keeping his rhythm, giving nothing away, and moved beyond the condo without looking at it, then turned the corner at the end of the block and made a right.

  Whatever this was, it wasn’t good. His operational instincts, bred of a decade of surveillance and clandestine work, told him everything he needed to know. Someone was watching the building. Which meant that Jet had a big problem – one that she probably didn’t know about.

  Alan continued strolling down the street, then made a left at the next block and continued on his way, doing a low-key grid search of the neighborhood. He needed to understand what he was up against, and the first step was to see who else was watching. Once he knew that, he could formulate a plan. For now, all he could do was wait for them to make a move. That they would went without saying. The question was when. Assuming that Jet was in the building, if it was him, he’d wait until it got dark – there was too much traffic on the street at this hour, but once the sun had set, it would be deserted as the inhabitants settled in for the evening.

  Circling back to the street where the van was parked, he studied the other vehicles but saw nothing suspicious. So for now, it was just the van.

  Once the night arrived, Jet wasn’t the only one who was vulnerable. The watchers probably assumed that she was alone – and they would have been right, except for the fluke that had put him in her proximity. That critical piece of information could prove to be all the advantage he would need. They had no idea he was in the mix.

  Which would likely be the last mistake of their lives.

  ~ ~ ~

  Just after dusk, as the street emptied of the few residents returning home, an SUV pulled past the front entrance of the building, and four hard-looking men in black windbreakers climbed out, their gazes sweeping the street in a practiced manner as they moved towards the condo doors.

  The lobby security man looked up from his magazine with a puzzled smile when he saw the four men enter, and then the expression turned to a gasp when the lead man slammed the side of his head with the butt of a pistol. He fumbled for the telephone and then slumped over unconscious, falling to the floor with a crash, his swivel chair giving way. His skull smacked the tile floor with an audible crack, and the men exchanged glances – he wouldn’t be coming to anytime soon. Two small flat-screened monitors displayed security feeds of the entrance, and the lead man walked over to the computer and switched it off, then turned to the other gunmen.

  “Remember to grab that piece of crap on the way out. We don’t need our smiling faces all over the news tonight,” he instructed in a low voice.

  The men nodded in response.

  He tapped his ear bud and spoke softly. “Terry. This is Tango. Over. What have you got?”

  “Nothing. The street’s empty. I’d say you’re game on,” a voice murmured from the stakeout van. “Let’s get this over with. You’re clear to engage.”

  “All right. You two, take the back stairs. We’ll go up the front. The target is the third door from the main stairs, on the street side. Be quiet as you approach. Remember who we’re dealing with. I’ll give you three minutes to get into position, and then we’ll come up the main stairs. If anyone spots you, take them out,” the leader cautioned, then pulled a silenced pistol from his
shoulder holster and gestured at the long hall that led to the rear of the building. Two of the men moved stealthily down the passageway, also pulling weapons from beneath their jackets, and disappeared behind the heavy steel door that led to the service stairs.

  Pausing at the ground floor landing, they were surprised at how dark it was – the bulb had burned out, leaving the area pitch black, with no windows to admit any glimmer of exterior light.

  “Shit. It’s dark in he–”

  The lead man never got to finish. A figure dropped from the landing above as he brought his pistol to bear on the shadow, and then a paralyzing kick slammed into his chest, knocking the breath out of him and sending his weapon tumbling to the ground. He fell back into his partner, whose reactions were only a split-second too late to save them both, and then a warm gush of blood sprayed the second gunman’s face as he raised his pistol to fire. The lead man crumpled to the hard concrete floor, his throat slit ear to ear, and his partner dropped his weapon, a streak of pain spearing through him, the blinding shock of his abdomen being sliced open ending any impulse to fight. His mouth contorted in agony as his intestines spilled onto his shoes, and he pitched forward, his dimming awareness grappling to process what had just killed them both.

  Jet stood over the two bodies, her eyes fully adjusted to the gloom, and then leaned down and wiped the blood off the long serrated bread knife, using the first man’s jacket to clean the blade and then her hands. She slipped the knife into her belt, then reached over and picked up the nearest gun before moving to the second man and scooping his up as well. Both were Ruger 9mm pistols with custom silencers, she noted, and both had one in the chamber.

  She did a cursory search of the dead men and found nothing. Neither had any identification or money. They were obviously professional, judging from their weapons and com gear. And American. The few words the first man had uttered in English were enough to place them.

  Listening intently, she pulled his ear bud out, cleaned off the blood, and inserted it into her own ear, then tucked one of the pistols into her pants at the small of her back before ascending the stairs to the second level.

  The entire engagement had taken less than thirty seconds.

  She cracked the second floor door open and verified that the hall was empty, and then calculating quickly, eased it shut and took the stairs to the third floor two at a time.

  Chapter 8

  “All right. Show time,” the team leader said, checking his watch as he eyed the steps from his position at the base of the main stairs. It had been exactly three minutes. The lobby was empty, and he had taken a moment to lock the deadbolt on the entry doors so they wouldn’t be disturbed.

  Both men crept up the wide stairway, their crepe-soled shoes silent on the marble steps. When they reached the second floor, they nodded to each other before turning the corner and stepping into the hall.

  The team leader’s face registered a moment of annoyance. He tapped his ear bud.

  “Where the hell are you? We’re in position,” he whispered angrily.

  The first subsonic silenced slug tore through his clavicle, and the next two blew his skull apart, splattering the wall. A fourth round slammed into the second gunman’s shoulder, causing him to drop his weapon. He grabbed for the wound and spun, and found himself facing Alan, who was calmly studying him from the landing.

  Alan held a finger to his lips and then pointed to the wounded gunman’s ear bud. The man’s eyes went wide as he considered activating it and saying something that would warn the men in the van, but the unwavering silencer pointed at his forehead gave him pause – whoever this was knew what he was doing. He looked down at the dead team leader and held up a bloody hand, fingers open, before reaching to his ear and pulling out the ear bud, carefully avoiding tapping it to life. Alan gestured with the gun, and he leaned down and placed the ear bud on the team leader’s chest.

  “Very good. Now here’s what we’re going to do. You walk fifteen feet down the hall, and I’m going to retrieve your weapons. Then I want you to drag his corpse to the rear stairs, where we’ll leave him, and then you and I are going to have a chat. If you don’t lie to me and answer all my questions, you’ll live. Otherwise you’ll die, just like the other three. There’s no third choice, so don’t waste your breath.” Alan considered the man’s wound. “That won’t kill you, but I will. Do you understand what we’re going to do?”

  The man nodded.

  “Okay. Walk down the hall, and stop when I tell you to.”

  The man did as instructed.

  Jet appeared behind Alan but remained silent, allowing Alan to deal with his captive. He moved to the dead man, retrieved the ear bud, and wedged it in his ear.

  “That’s far enough,” Alan called out to the gunman. He leaned down and gathered the guns, then tossed one to Jet before stepping back and nodding.

  “Drag him. Now,” he ordered.

  The wounded man did so with effort, grunting from exertion, droplets of his blood mingling with the smear the dead man’s corpse left as it slid on the marble.

  Once they reached the rear stairwell door, Alan gestured again, and the wounded man twisted the steel knob and pushed it open, then pulled the corpse onto the blackened landing.

  “Very good indeed. Now let’s return to the main stairs. I don’t want you getting any cute ideas in the dark.” He turned and looked at Jet. “Let’s get ready to leave. I’ll deal with this and be back in a few minutes.” Jet nodded and returned to the condo, moving silently.

  When they reached the main stairs, both men stopped. The wounded man turned to Alan, panting, blood seeping down his jacket and soaking his shirt.

  “Up. We’re going to the roof. I want privacy. It would be a shame for us to be interrupted by your friends in the van,” Alan said. The wounded man’s eyes narrowed – his assailant knew about the surveillance team, which further reduced his odds of surviving the interrogation.

  They climbed the stairs, the bleeding gunman clutching the railing for support, until they arrived at the roof door, which was unlocked, Alan having jimmied the lock earlier and left a small piece of wood wedged at the base to keep it open.

  “Go on. Push it, but don’t bother trying anything. There’s nowhere to go.”

  Once outside, Alan motioned with the gun. “Sit. You’ll need to get attention for that soon, so let’s make this quick. Who are you?”

  The man shook his head. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “I know that if you don’t, you’ll die the most painful death you can imagine. You’re a young guy. Do you really want to go out like this, on the roof of some shithole in South America? Come on. Think. I know you’re American from your accent. So, last time. Who are you with?”

  The man shook his head.

  Four minutes later, Alan descended the stairs, calculating the amount of time he would have before the men in the van got really worried.

  The ear bud crackled as he arrived at the lobby.

  “What’s going on?” a worried voice demanded in a whisper.

  “A complication. Five more minutes,” Alan hissed in unaccented English, and then tapped the ear bud off and made for the condo rear exit.

  With any luck, this would be over before it had started.

  And he felt lucky.

  ~ ~ ~

  The man in the rear of the van cleared his throat.

  “I don’t like it. This is taking too long.”

  “He said they ran into a complication. Probably a neighbor. Relax. They’re as good as it gets,” the driver said.

  “Look, we’re at twelve minutes since they went in. This should have been over by now. You know it and I…oh, shit…”

  The driver swung his attention back to the windshield, having turned to his partner, and found himself facing a disheveled man holding a silenced pistol. The com channel crackled.

  “Both of you put your hands where I can see them, or I’ll empty this into the van, and nobody will get out alive,”
Alan said in a quiet, calm tone, his voice slightly distorted coming out of the speakers mounted in the rear.

  The surveillance man in the back dived for a shotgun, and Alan fired six shots through the windshield, spraying the cargo area with slugs. The man jerked as three found home in his torso. He slumped to the floor, blood pooling around him. The driver sat frozen, staring at Alan.

  “Your friend didn’t listen very well. That’s a shame. You seem a little smarter. Do as I say – take your gun out of the holster using two fingers, and then toss it in the back,” Alan ordered.

  “I…I don’t have a gun.”

  Alan’s eyebrows raised slightly. “Really? If you’re lying, I’ll leave pieces of you all over the street.”

  “I don’t have one. Just the shotgun in the back.”

  “Fine. Step out from behind the wheel. Slowly.”

  The driver’s door opened and the driver did as he was told, fragments of safety-glass dropping onto the road from his shaking form. Alan could see he was in his mid-twenties but with a baby face.

  Alan patted him down with his free hand, then jabbed him with the silencer.

  “Come on. We’re going for a walk. By the end of it, you’ll have either told me what I want to know, or you’ll be dead like the rest of your crew.”

  The driver didn’t say anything.

  “Move.”

  “Whe…where are we going?” he stammered.

  “To the building you’ve been staking out.”