Jet 04: Reckoning

by Russell Blake

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  “I don’t want to. But I will.” Alan prodded him again as they walked. “No gun. So you’re really just the driver.”

  “That’s right. I’m not an...operative. Only a tech.”

  “Like your dead wannabe hero buddy.”

  “He wasn’t my buddy.”

  They reached the corner of the building and Alan slowed. “Turn down this alley,” he instructed. “When we get to the parking area, stop and put your hands on your head. I’m going to ask a series of simple questions, and you will answer them. If you lie, I’ll cut off a piece of you, starting with your fingers. I’m not joking. If you tell me what I want to know, you’ll live. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you willing to die to be a hard-ass?”

  “No. I’m not a hard-ass. No job is worth dying for.” The driver looked like he meant it.

  “Exactly. You know what? I have a feeling we’re going to get along just fine.”

  Chapter 9

  Jet gave Magdalena a brief rundown on what had happened: A group of killers, no doubt sent by her ex, had found them, and they were in extreme danger. Alan had dealt with them, but they needed to get away from the condo, with only a few minutes to gather their things.

  Jet had been shocked to see Alan alive, but he’d explained what had happened and alerted her to the threat, and she’d instantly slipped into operational mode. In-depth explanations would come later. For now, a pro hit team was targeting them, and they had to take effective action or wind up dead.

  Jet was rinsing the bloody traces from the bread knife in the sink, out of sight of the older woman. “Magdalena, I know this is scary, but don’t worry. Alan is taking care of everything. He was in the army, so he knows how to handle something like this. In the meantime, he wanted us to pack our stuff and be ready to move when he comes for us. Can you do that? My bag is still packed. I can get Hannah ready if you can deal with yours.” Jet had left out the part where she’d neutralized two gunmen with the bread knife. Better to not complicate things in Magdalena’s eyes.

  The older woman looked frightened, and for a moment Jet didn’t know whether she would rally or not, but then she squared her shoulders and nodded.

  “I’ll be ready in three minutes.”

  “Grab your papers and any money you have. Don’t spend a lot of time on clothes. Leave anything that will slow you down,” Jet cautioned, and then softened her tone. “Thank you for not panicking, Magdalena. We’ll get through this.”

  Magdalena gave her a skeptical look, and then spun and ducked into the master bedroom. Jet realized that she would need to be very, very careful with Magdalena until they were somewhere safe – not everyone was used to being attacked by armed killers and having to run at a moment’s notice.

  Soon afterwards, Alan’s soft knock came from the front entry. Jet slipped the bread knife back into the drawer and then opened the door. Alan stepped inside and closed it gently behind him.

  “It’s dealt with. But we should make tracks. There could be another team here any second. If we’re lucky we can get away before all hell breaks loose,” he warned.

  “What do you call what just happened?”

  “Preamble.”

  Magdalena returned to the living room carrying her suitcase and her purse. Jet shouldered Hannah’s backpack and her bag.

  “Let’s get this show on the road,” Alan said, holding out a hand to help with Magdalena’s things.

  They slipped out of the condo and made their way down the main stairs. Alan stopped by the security desk and peered over it.

  “Where’s your car?” he asked.

  “To the left, almost at the end of the block. A red Ford Mondeo.”

  “Warm it up. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Jet nodded and led Magdalena and Hannah out the entry doors and down the sidewalk. Alan rounded the counter and stooped, studying the computer, and then unplugged all the cables and stuck the box under his arm. He would deal with the hard disk later. With a final glance around the lobby, he nudged the security man with his foot and confirmed that he was breathing, took a last look at the driver, who was still lying unconscious where Alan had clocked him next to the desk, and then strode through the front door and over to the waiting car.

  Jet pulled forward when she saw him, and the trunk popped open. He wedged the computer in next to the bags and slammed it shut, got into the passenger seat, and pulled the door closed after him.

  “Where to?” Jet asked him in Hebrew.

  “I have no idea. You know this country better than I do. Any suggestions?”

  “Magdalena. Do you know anyone in San José de Mayo?” Jet asked, looking in the rearview mirror.

  “No, Señora. I’m afraid not.”

  Jet exchanged a glance with Alan.

  “Then that’s perfect,” she said to him, switching back to Hebrew so they could discuss their next moves in privacy. “Now tell me what’s going on. Let’s start with the ferry.”

  He gave her the two-minute rundown on his adventure, his face betraying nothing. Jet’s expression also remained impassive as she processed the information.

  “Who were the condo hitters?” Jet asked.

  “American, as you gathered.”

  “CIA? Mercenaries?”

  “Private. Nordhaver Industries. You ever hear of them?” Alan asked.

  “Doesn’t ring any bells.”

  “Me either.”

  “So why would employees of an American company appear in the middle of nowhere to take me out?” Jet asked.

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

  “And who blew up the ferry?”

  “Another excellent question. I have no idea. Wish I did,” Alan admitted.

  “You think they were trying to get you?”

  He told her about the two men he’d seen at the terminal as he was leaving.

  She sighed. “You’ve been doing this long enough that your instincts are probably right.”

  They both stopped talking as she navigated through the light night traffic until they were on the outskirts of town.

  “We need to dump that computer. It ties us to the condo. Right now, you were never there. Just Hannah and Mag, who won’t answer the door when the police come knocking, and me. A group of women. Nobody will suspect us – we’re the weaker sex, right? But if they set up roadblocks like last time…that computer is a go-directly-to-jail card,” she said.

  Alan gestured at a small market. “Stop here. I’ll only need a few minutes.”

  She pulled to the side and shut off the lights, and while Magdalena went inside with Hannah to get some snacks Alan quickly got the PC out and undid the finger screws. A few minutes later he placed the box under the front tire.

  “Drive forward.”

  The PC flattened from the weight of the tires rolling over it. Alan inspected the crushed computer and then got back into the car holding the hard drive.

  “Stop when we’re at the lake. I’ll chuck this as far into the water as I can. End of story.” He hefted the drive, and she nodded as Magdalena and her daughter returned to the car. Once they were buckled in, she edged back onto the empty road.

  “How much money do you have?” Alan asked. “Cash?”

  “I have about thirty-five grand in dollars left over from what I pulled out for Russia.”

  “I remember you were going to figure out a way to bounce your ten million all over the planet so it was sanitized…”

  “Been kind of busy taking out Grigenko and keeping the world safe from terrorism.”

  “What were you planning to do? How were you going to get it off the radar, and how long will it take? Reason I ask is that thirty-five grand isn’t going to get me a new passport and identity. Mine went down with the ship. Literally.”

  “I’ll probably need a few hours. I have some other old operational accounts I can transfer the money to – account A in Luxembourg, account B in th
e Caymans. I’ll close both after the wires have cleared, ending the trail, and then the money will wind up in account C. It should work,” she said.

  “I’d say the sooner you can get that done, the better,” Alan said. “Whatever this is, we’ll need a war chest to stay safe and have any chance at all.”

  “Agreed. In the meantime, we need to deal with Mag. I’m thinking she rents someplace in San José and lies low for a week or two. I’m sure if we nose around we can find a place where they aren’t going to care about ID. I don’t want her anywhere she can be found. The only thing I can think of is that they somehow linked her to me…and there’s only one way that could have happened.”

  “The bank account?”

  “Exactly. I used the account Matt provided to transfer the money to the trust. If somehow that one was flagged…”

  “Then to find you, they would have needed to find where the trust was paying, and bingo.”

  “Which raises some disturbing wrinkles, but I can deal with those later. First things first. If necessary, we’ll just put Mag up at a motel while we figure this out. Someplace that’s happy with cash and won’t ask any questions.”

  “Do you have anyplace specific in mind?” Alan asked.

  “I actually do. I stayed in a motel that didn’t even ask for my name. I liked it well enough. A lot more, now.”

  “How far away is San José de whatever?”

  “We can be there by ten or so. I just need to concoct a plausible story for Mag so she doesn’t freak out.”

  “She seemed pretty cool, even when she saw the blood in the hallway.”

  “I know. She’s good people. But there’s a limit to what ordinary folks will do, even for money,” Jet said.

  “How about I roughed the boyfriend up, but he didn’t get the message, so he sent some goons to follow you, and I got to them before they could do any harm?”

  “That’s good, but she’ll read about the killings in the paper.”

  “I had to kill them. Self-defense. These are mobbed-up murderers. It was me or them.”

  “Let me figure a way to soften that. I don’t want her bolting.”

  “Agreed.” Alan reached over and took her free hand. “You know you’re probably going to have to leave Hannah for a little while longer while we figure this out.”

  “I know. I…it just seems like this never ends, Alan. We just finished neutralizing the Russian, and now I’ve got Americans gunning for me.” Her shoulders sagged in resigned frustration. “I can’t win. David was right when he said I would never be safe, no matter what I did.” Her eyes moistened. “All I want is to be left alone and have my time with Hannah, and it seems like that’s never going to happen.”

  “Nonsense. We’ll find out who this is, deal with the threat, and that’ll be it. Simple.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Big words for a guy who almost got blown up on the ferry.” She hesitated. “Nothing in life is simple. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

  Their headlights cut through the night as they worked their way down the rural road that would eventually lead them to San José de Mayo, Jet thinking through how to best position her request to Magdalena, Alan lost in his own thoughts, and Hannah dozing next to Magdalena, who was staring out the window, worry lines creasing her face as they raced from chaos towards uncertainty.

  Chapter 10

  Standish opened the front door and welcomed the stately gray-haired gentleman in a navy-blue blazer and gray slacks standing on the porch, and offered to take his worn, dark brown physician’s bag. The man declined, and looked around at the art in the foyer before clearing his throat.

  “How’s he managing?”

  “Not well. As you know, the last treatment did nothing. He’s hopeful that this one might have at least some effect,” Standish said.

  “And the morphine?”

  “He’s going through it by the gallon, but is convinced it’s impairing his cognitive functioning.”

  “Hmm. It’s an uphill battle trying to manage his discomfort. How’s he sleeping?”

  “Terribly. He only gets an hour here and there, then the pain wakes him.” Standish motioned for the doctor to follow him up the stairs – a trip the physician was more than familiar with. “What are the chances that this new batch does anything?”

  “Frankly, not great. All of this is speculative. Stabs in the dark. I’ve never seen anything like this before, and neither have the chemists. It’s like every nerve ending in his body is a pain receptor. Remarkable.”

  “Yes. Remarkable indeed,” Standish said with a nod as he slowly ascended the steps.

  “What about the rest of him? Any complaints?”

  “He’s completely healed, as you know. He has problems breathing, in bouts, and the sensitivity to light seems to be getting worse. It’s not moving in a good direction.”

  “There’s only so much we can do.”

  “I know. Tell him that.”

  They proceeded down the hallway to the bedroom door, and when they entered, the bed shifted as the occupant raised the upper section using the remote. The machines were pumping away, the humidity and warmth uncomfortable for both arrivals.

  “There’s the quack. What have you got for me today, you Philistine?” a shaky voice rasped out.

  “Nice to see you too,” the physician remarked, moving towards the bed.

  “Have you decided to perform more science experiments on me? What’s wrong – did all the guinea pigs die?”

  “Yes, I’m here to try something else. But mostly, just to receive the warm welcome you always greet me with.”

  “It would be a hell of a lot warmer if you actually could do something for me.”

  The doctor ignored the barb and stood by the side of the bed. “How’s the vision?”

  “Awful. It’s like someone’s driving hot pokers into my eyes whenever there’s more than this much light. Even so, it’s agony. I wear these sunglasses all day just to manage.”

  “I need to do a physical examination. Ready?”

  “You could at least give me a kiss or buy flowers first.”

  Two minutes later the inspection was concluded.

  “How much morphine are you using?”

  “I press the button and give myself a dose every hour. No more than that. But it makes me foggy. Which I can’t afford.”

  “Yes, well, it’s a known side effect. There are always trade-offs.”

  “Can’t you use something else?”

  “No. Morphine is, unfortunately, the best we have. As to the fogginess, I wouldn’t worry about that too much – the pain management is more critical. And the truth is that your cognition shouldn’t be impaired much, if at all. If you’re experiencing lapses, believe it or not, it’s unlikely that it’s the morphine.”

  “So I can dose myself more often?”

  “Yes. I’d say at this stage to do whatever is required to limit the pain.”

  “At least that’s something.”

  “And what about constipation?” the doctor asked.

  “About the same.”

  “A side-effect of the drug. Unavoidable. It reduces gut motility, so I’m afraid that the constipation is a necessary evil.”

  “For which I can take more morphine to kill the pain.”

  The doctor smiled wistfully. “There are tradeoffs to everything.”

  “I won’t be eating a New York steak anytime soon. I think that’s fair to say.”

  “No. And I’m a little concerned about the respiratory issues you’re experiencing,” the doctor said.

  “That makes two of us.”

  “It could be a result of the injuries. We really need to monitor that carefully.”

  “Do whatever you have to do. Now what have you got for me?”

  The doctor opened his bag and removed a syringe. “Something new to try. No guarantees, but the chemists felt it was an improvement over the last batch.”

  “Which did nothing but annoy me.”

 
“Yes, well, I could see how it would be disappointing to have to endure this experimentation.”

  “Spare me the sympathy. Shoot me up. Let’s get this over with. How long before I feel something?”

  “Any positive effect will be nearly instantaneous.” The doctor glanced at the patient’s arm, where the veins near the catheter were reddish and slightly swollen. “You’re still having a histamine reaction to the morphine. I would have hoped that would have settled down by now. I’ll increase the effective dosage and add an antihistamine.”

  “Whatever. Get this over with.”

  The doctor decoupled the tube from the automated system and then deftly inserted the syringe, sans needle, into the catheter and emptied the contents into the line. For a few moments nothing happened.

  “Shit. Hook up the morphine again,” the patient gurgled as his fingers clenched.

  “What’s wrong?” the doctor asked, clearly alarmed as he hurriedly reconnected the machine.

  “It’s…it’s not good. Argghhhh…”

  The patient began writhing, so the doctor increased the dosage level of the painkiller and depressed the button. “It’s not working.”

  “Give it a minute.”

  Slowly, the writhing decreased, and the patient’s breathing normalized, the rasping gasps replaced by shallow breaths.

  “I think it’s safe to say that isn’t a step in the right direction. I’m sorry,” the physician said, shaking his head as he replaced the spent syringe into his bag. “That’s a completely different reaction than what we saw in the test animals and the volunteers. Most unusual.”

  The patient didn’t say anything, the morphine finally hitting his system with full force. The doctor turned to face Standish, who had been standing by impassively.

  “Let’s move out into the hall and let him rest,” the doctor instructed.

  Both men exited, leaving the patient to his private hell.

  “Why didn’t it work?” Standish asked once the door had closed behind them.

  “The agent he was originally injected with obviously altered his neuro-physiology. This is largely trial and error. In the lab, the volunteers reported a euphoric sense of wellness coupled with an almost complete deadening to pain. We induced severe discomfort and they couldn’t feel it. Why he’s not responding is anyone’s guess.”