The client in this case was a group he’d done work for before, and they were reliable payers and completely discreet. With the cash, he’d lie low for a few months, go to Rio and hang out on the beach, sample the jungle rhythms, do the Copacabana right. Money was an incredible lubricant, and he could live in high style with the kind of loot he was toting. He’d been paid half in advance, and the other half would be his tomorrow, at which point he would be on the first plane to Brazil to enjoy that city’s warm sun and hot-skinned young boys – a pleasure he’d indulged in before when he’d been there two years ago, and which never got old, even if he did.
Jorge-Antonio was fumbling with his keys on the front steps of his five-story building when a single round slammed into his skull, the mushroomed slug tumbling through his brain, instantly scrambling it and ending his life before he had a chance to register his blood sprayed on the green-tinted glass of the entry door.
Across the street, the shooter watched through the scope as the target tumbled to the sidewalk, inanimate before he hit the ground. Satisfied that there was nothing more to see, he carefully packed the custom-made rifle into a guitar case and made for the exit of the vacant apartment he’d broken into. By the time anyone discovered the target’s body, he would be asleep at his hotel, and tomorrow he’d be on the first flight back to his native Peru, his latest assignment completed without complication.
~ ~ ~
“Ha! Come on, sweetheart. You know how daddy likes it!”
Tomás threw another hundred peso bill onto the table and motioned for the nubile young stripper to come closer. Eager to close the deal, Sylvie complied, a professional smile frozen in place on her face, the dim lighting of the club unnecessarily kind to her – even in broad daylight she was flawless, a beauty of German/Argentine heritage, her father a young carpenter who had emigrated in the late Eighties with her grandparents, her mother a barrio blossom who’d caught his eye soon after arrival. Sylvie was the only fruit of that brief and turbulent union, and she’d learned young to leverage her assets while she could; her mother had driven into her countless times that she had a very narrow window of opportunity in which to make her money, and that men would come and go, but if she were able to amass a nest egg she would be in control of her destiny when time moved on and others were favored for their transitory charms.
“What do you want, eh? You seem like a bad, dirty dog. Are you a dirty dog?” she purred, having sized up the loud blond man who was waving money around like he’d just printed it in his back room.
“You know it. They don’t come any dirtier or badder. What do you want to drink? What’s the most expensive stuff in this dump? Cognac? Brandy? Scotch?” He roared at a cocktail waitress. “Hey, honey, get over here and bring us a drink, would you? There’s a tip in it if you’re quick about it. What’s it going to be…” he motioned with his hand for Sylvie to tell him her name.
“Summer.”
“Summer! Perfect. What would you like?”
“Honestly? A bottle of champagne!” Sylvie rapidly did the math. Her slice of the proceeds from the bottle would easily be the equivalent of fifty dollars.
“You heard the lady. A bottle of your best bubbly. Two glasses. Make it fast.”
Tomás threw a fistful of pesos at the hostess when she returned with a bottle of expensive French champagne, paying three hundred dollars for it without blinking. Within twenty minutes they had finished the bottle, Sylvie hanging off him, coaxing him to leave the club with her and pay the bar fine for her to take the rest of the night off – a charge to compensate the establishment for the money it would have presumably have made had she stayed drinking with customers till her stint was over at five A.M.
Tomás didn’t take much convincing, and in a few minutes the transaction was done and they were swaying down the sidewalk towards his car. She had agreed to spend the night with him for the equivalent of two hundred and fifty dollars, almost double what she normally could expect to get on a weeknight in the tough fiscal environment. She didn’t speak English, so she was relegated to the second-tier establishments that catered to locals, where the pay was half the going rate of the tourist spots; but she could still earn twenty times what she could as a shop clerk, so she wasn’t complaining.
And Tomás wasn’t too bad-looking, for a slightly out-of-shape high roller in his early forties, she guessed, although she’d told him she figured him for thirty-five when he’d asked. The trick was to guess low, but not so low it was obvious she was lying, and she’d become an expert at calculating age during her three years out of high school working the clubs.
They fell into his Peugeot, laughing at some remark he’d made about her anatomy and his dishonorable intentions, and she snuggled against him as he slid the key into the ignition and cranked the engine.
A fireball tore into the sky as the small car disintegrated in a blinding flash. The passenger door blew against the brick façade of the nearest building, distorted beyond all recognition by the force of the blast. A car alarm clamored from down the block, the shock of the explosion having jarred it to life, and lights switched on in the darkened windows around the tiny vehicle as it burned to its frame, its two occupants vaporized instantly by the powerful detonation.
Chapter 12
Jet was up early the next morning, and let Hannah sleep as she turned on the TV at a low volume and watched the news. The killings were the second topic of the day, with the ferry dominating the broadcast due to the sheer numbers involved. An earnest anchorman with a bad hairpiece eventually shifted from the boat to the carnage at the condo, describing the slaying in graphic detail, with the aviso that the authorities were questioning everyone they could locate in the building. No suspects had been named, and speculation was leaning towards some sort of an organized crime or drug-related execution gone awry. No mention was made of the team member Alan had left alive; either the police had him in deep interrogation, or he had managed to convince the authorities he was an innocent bystander – highly unlikely, but this was Uruguay, after all.
There was also no mention of the nationality or identities of the dead men, which figured, Jet reasoned. They probably weren’t in any Interpol or South American databases, so they might remain an enigma.
Even in the clarity of the morning light, Jet couldn’t make the puzzle pieces fit together. Why would an American company that specialized in private security and military support – a euphemism for mercenaries – want her dead? Someone had clearly hired them, but who? Whatever the reason, she would need to get to the bottom of it. As with the Russian, the only way she knew to guarantee that she would be safe was to eradicate the threat, wherever it sprang from.
Today’s first challenge would be explaining to Magdalena the ramifications of her being located through the bank records. She conjured up a simplified explanation and made a mental note to give her a big slug of cash – enough to last her at least another month or two. That way she wouldn’t need the trust fund money, which was probably tainted.
Hannah rolled over and cracked open an eye at Jet as she sat on the edge of the bed listening to the barely audible drone of the television. Once Jet saw her daughter was awake, she turned off the TV and stood.
“Rise and shine. Time for a bath, and then breakfast. Did you sleep well?”
Hannah had a dazed look on her face as she became fully awake.
“Yes, Mama.”
“Come on, then. Let’s get you cleaned up. Nobody wants a stinky kid.”
Hannah reluctantly pulled the covers off and plopped down to the tile floor, then padded around the bed to the bathroom. Jet watched her toddler’s waddle and felt a pang of regret that she would have to leave her, yet again, if only for a little while.
Hopefully.
The truth was Jet had no idea what she was getting into, which added to her frustration. It seemed impossible to her that the ferry bombing and the attack on the condo were related, but could she really dismiss the idea out of hand? It seemed unlikel
y; but uncertainty was the enemy of intelligent planning, and right now all she had were doubts and questions.
Hannah showered with Jet, following her lead on using soap and shampoo with a little help from Mom, and soon they were standing in front of the mirror, Jet brushing Hannah’s long hair, a child version of Jet staring back innocently at her reflection, the same intelligent eyes studying herself in the morning light. Jet was again struck at what a miracle her daughter was: She could see David’s contribution in her features, but mostly it was her genes that had shaped Hannah, right down to the piercing green eyes.
“So have you learned not to touch cell phones? That they don’t float?” Jet asked.
Hannah looked sheepishly at the floor. “Yes, Mama.” When she mumbled she pronounced it ‘yeth.’
“This is going to be really important, sweetie. Because I have to finish up my trip before I come back for good, which means you’ll be with Magdalena alone, and my only way of talking to her will be with the new phone I get her. So that means hands off.”
Hannah looked up at her. “You go again?”
Jet sighed and finished brushing the tangles out of Hannah’s mop. “Yes, sweetie, but only for a little while. I don’t want to, but I have to. It’s for…for work.”
Hannah nodded gravely, as though she too was familiar with the burdens of earning a living.
“But I’ll bring you back a bunch of new toys…”
Hannah brightened.
“As long as you’re good.”
“I be good,” Hannah assured her.
“Then you’ll be a lucky girl when I return.”
Hannah’s face beamed at the idea, and then she trotted out into the main room and waited for Jet to select her new clothes for the day.
Jet watched her pull on her top, struggling with the sleeves, and then moved to help her, showing her the tag at the back of the shirt and explaining that was how she would know which side was the front. Once they were both dressed, Jet checked the time, and then they exited the room and walked two doors down to Magdalena’s. Hannah knocked at the door at Jet’s urging, and when Magdalena answered her face lit up with a smile at the little child standing in the doorway like she was trick-or-treating.
“Good morning, Señora.”
“Good morning, Magdalena. Are you hungry?”
“Si, Señora. Breakfast would be wonderful.”
“Excellent. Let me go get Alan and we’ll find someplace close. We have a lot to do today, so better to get an early start. Can you watch Hannah for a minute?”
“Of course. Come on, Hannah. Inside.”
Jet knocked on Alan’s door and he answered, freshly showered, his face smoothly shaven, looking much better for a decent night’s rest. Jet studied him.
“We need to get you some clothes.”
“Yes. Apparently sleeping in them for two days after being immersed in salt water for an hour or three isn’t part of the recommended care instructions.”
“Who knew. You ready to eat?”
“Lead the way.”
At a small family-style restaurant two blocks from the motel, they feasted on farm fresh eggs and potatoes and discussed their plan with Magdalena, who had seen the news on television and was shaken by the killings, eyeing Alan warily, as though he would slit her throat over coffee. Eventually she calmed down, but Jet could tell the situation was tentative, and she did everything she could to reassure her.
After a lengthy discussion, they agreed that Magdalena would stay at the motel for a week with Hannah while they attended to the phantom boyfriend, and Jet insisted she take another ten thousand dollars in cash, even though she still had six thousand from the prior slug. Jet explained that she could not under any circumstances access the trust fund money until they had dealt with their problem – somehow, it had been tainted, so it was dangerous. Magdalena took the cash in the car, and nodded her understanding – she could easily convert it to Uruguayan pesos in small increments as needed, and that would be enough to last four to six months, no problem. She seemed to relax once the money had changed hands.
Back at the motel, Jet said her goodbyes to Magdalena and Hannah as Alan went and paid for a week’s stay.
Jet got down on one knee and smoothed Hannah’s hair with her hand as she gazed directly into her eyes.
“My love, I’ll be back very soon. Mommy loves you, but I have to go finish some business. You need to be as good as you possibly can be, and listen to Aunt Magdalena like it was me. Do you understand?”
Hannah’s attention was already wandering, the prospect of exploring the small park across the street pulling her out of the moment, and she returned her gaze to Jet with an effort.
“Yes, Mama. I be good,” she recited earnestly.
“That’s all I can ask for. I’m very proud of you. You’ve been great so far.”
“Can I play?” she asked, pointing at the park hopefully.
“That’s a great idea.” Jet looked up at Magdalena. “I’m going to find a store and get you a phone. Can you take her to the park? She’s so bored she looks like her head is ready to explode.”
“Of course, Señora. I’ll wait for you there.”
“Take Magdalena’s hand, Hannah, and watch out while you’re crossing the street. And don’t put anything into your mouth,” Jet cautioned, but Hannah was already looking at the pigeons across the way, transfixed by their strutting to and fro, on the hunt for stray morsels under the spreading tree branches.
Alan approached as Magdalena and Hannah were walking across the road, and took Jet’s hand – an easy intimacy that spoke volumes. Jet looked at him with a sad expression, troubled and conflicted. He squeezed her fingers and smiled reassuringly.
“Don’t worry. They’ll be fine.”
“I know. It’s the safest option. But it still sucks.”
“Yes, it does.”
She shook her head, then gestured at the car. “Come on. Let’s get you some clothes, and Mag a phone.”
“Fair enough. And then what?”
“After that, we’re going to Montevideo.”
Alan nodded. “Mind if I ask why?”
“The only way they could have traced Magdalena to the condo was to follow the money from the trust fund, which would mean getting an address from the local bank’s records in Maldonado. Those would be simple, but getting the info needed to make the leap from Matt’s account to the trust fund wouldn’t be. That means either someone at the bank talked, or the attorney did. I need to know which before I can do anything about the trust fund.”
“So we’re going to the bank?”
“We’ll start there.”
“And what will you do once you know something?”
She gave him a dark look. “Depends on what I discover.”
“Not a lot of ways to end the trail, are there?”
“Not really. I’m not worried about the trust. Once we figure out why the Americans are after me, it will take care of itself. Either I’ll handle the problem on that end, or if I fail…”
“…then Magdalena withdrawing money in three months won’t matter,” Alan finished for her.
“Obviously, I hope it’s the former. But I need to understand how much damage has been done. And if it’s the attorney, I might have to worry about moving around all my assets.”
“Sounds like a car ride, then.”
“We can figure out our next move on the way.”
“Nice day for it.”
She led him to the car and pushed the button that unlocked the doors. “I’ll drive. Let’s get you some clothes.”
“Something pretty,” Alan said with a straight face.
“I’ll get you whatever you want, big boy.”
He studied her as he swung his door open. “Anything?”
Her eyes softened and a hint of a smile played at the edges of her mouth. “Be careful what you wish for.”
Chapter 13
The sun peeked through the scattered clouds as the morning wore
on, the turgid water of the Potomac rushing past the Fletcher’s Cove marina, only a few short minutes from the hubbub of Washington D.C.’s urban sprawl. Red rowboats rocked gently from the surge, pulling at their lines, their hulls protesting the occasional soft bumping with muted squeaks and groans.
A solitary figure stood at the point, fishing rod in hand, casting a bass lure under the trees at promising eddies rippling the river’s surface alongside the shore. A floppy hat and sunglasses protected the old man’s skin from the worst of the glare off the water as he reeled in the plug, pulling the rod tip periodically to simulate a live bait fish for any watching bass.
Another man carrying a fishing pole made his way along the trail that led from the parking area to the unspoiled river banks, and when he reached the fisherman he watched him cast with a practiced eye before leaning his rod against a nearby tree. He crouched down and reached into the small cooler he’d brought and pulled out a cold soda, brushing the light film of ice from the sides of the can before popping the top and taking a satisfied sip.
“You want one?” he asked.
“No, thanks. They give me heartburn,” the fisherman responded with a slight frown. “And they leach calcium from your bones.”
“I like to live dangerously.”
The fisherman glanced at his watch. “You’re late.”
“I got hung up in traffic.”
The two men listened to the sound of the river, and the rumble of cars in the distant background, and then the fisherman exhaled noisily.
“What the fuck, Peter. A whole ferry? There wasn’t a less…dramatic way to take care of our problem?”
“You read the dossier on him, right?” Peter replied. “Mossad execution squad, undercover operative, responsible for at least two dozen confirmed kills in nearly impossible situations. A target with that skill set would have made mincemeat of anyone trying to get close enough to take him out.”
Jet 04: Reckoning Page 9