Jet 04: Reckoning

by Russell Blake

  “That’s good to know. I still can’t get over the hit and run…the poor wife. And the children,” Jet said, moving the subject to something less charged.

  “One never knows when one’s number is up, eh? It is a tragedy.”

  They made small talk, and then a few minutes later, the phone buzzed. He picked it up, listened, then replaced the handset and rose, gesturing with an open hand.

  “The money is awaiting us in the vault. Would you be so kind?”

  “Of course. Lead the way.”

  The officious little man waddled to the door and opened it. They made their way together into the back of the bank, where a security guard stood by the stainless steel outer vault door. After Garmindo held his hand to the scanner, the door released and they walked through. The main vault door stood closed. A woman was seated in an adjacent room with an automatic bill counter on a table next to a canvas bag with inch-thick stacks of hundred dollar bills lying on top of it. Garmindo motioned for Jet to take the other seat across from the woman, and stood in the corner and watched as she fed each stack through the machine – a hundred bills per bundle.

  The counting was completed in a few minutes. Garmindo offered to ‘lend’ Jet the canvas bag, but she declined, extracting an empty black nylon satchel she’d bought while clothes shopping with Alan. The bills fit inside without difficulty, and she slid the strap over her shoulder like a laptop bag, with her purse on the same arm.

  Garmindo eyed Jet, and doing his best to not appear judgmental, nodded at her. “May I offer you the services of one of our armed guards to escort you to your car?”

  “Thank you so much. No, I have someone waiting for me. But I appreciate it. You’ve been more than gracious. May I have your card?”

  He beamed and fished in his jacket, then pulled an embossed rectangle out of his pocket and handed it to her with a small bow. “I’m at your service.”

  Jet couldn’t get out of the bank fast enough. Her eyes scanned the street from behind her sunglasses once she was on the sidewalk, and seeing nothing threatening, she walked quickly to where Alan was waiting and pulled the passenger door wide, then tossed him the bag. He caught it and looked at her with a neutral expression, and raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Not really. Apparently, the bank manager was mowed down by a hit-and-run since I last visited with him,” she said, standing with the door open.

  “Dangerous town.”

  “I can’t help but wonder whether being my banker made it more so.”

  “No way of knowing for sure, is there?”

  “Not really.” She swung the door shut, and he lowered the window.

  “What now?”

  “Time to chat with my attorney.”

  Chapter 15

  Papua, Indonesia

  Rain pelted the muddy road leading to the small town of Keppi Mappi Papua, and a brown stream flowed down the shoulder as the cloudburst dropped two inches of water in as many minutes. An Indonesian military jeep, its tires straining for purchase on the slippery surface, crawled its way to one of the checkpoints that had been set up throughout the region since the rebel insurgency had destroyed the mine. The motor groaned as the vehicle lurched past a car broken down at the side of the road. Several islanders were gathered around the motor, the hood open, their heads clustered like they were performing open heart surgery on the sad vehicle’s innards.

  The days following the attack on the mine had been tense, with the military rounding up hundreds of suspected rebel sympathizers in a brutal crackdown widely ignored by the international press, which preferred to focus on the devastation caused by the sabotage. Operations had ground to a halt following the blasts, and the damage and repair estimates were ugly at best. The pipelines had been ruined in several places, and worse, the crushing systems had been completely destroyed. Replacement would take months.

  A few isolated additional incidences of sabotage had followed, but they had been largely ineffective, mounted against targets of little consequence using materials that inflicted only minor damage. But the ongoing attempts to destabilize the Indonesian regime had increased friction between the military and the locals, who were now largely prisoners in their homeland, with soldiers prowling the larger towns, stationed at virtually every street corner, machine guns brandished menacingly. Peaceful protests had degraded into conflicts with riot police and armed troops, and the largest had ended with six dead, shot at point-blank range by troops with hair triggers and little accountability.

  The Jeep pulled to a stop twenty yards from the broken-down car and the three soldiers dismounted, their boots squishing in the mud as they trudged towards the islanders, the Jeep’s driver remaining under the protective cover of the fabric top while the others rousted the natives.

  “Hey. Get that piece of shit out of here. You can’t stay here. It’s not allowed,” one of the soldiers, a corporal, shouted at the four men.

  “If we could move it, do you think we’d be standing in the rain?” one of the natives yelled back, not bothering to turn to address the soldiers. “Dumb bastard,” he muttered, but a little too audibly.

  Two of the soldiers snickered as the corporal’s features contorted with rage.

  “All of you. Turn around. Now. You call me a dumb bastard? I’ll show you who the dumb bastard is. You’re all under arrest,” the corporal sputtered, his voice climbing a half octave from anger.

  “Arrested? For what? Fixing our car? Get out of here. Go make trouble somewhere else,” the tallest of the islanders jeered over his shoulder.

  “You heard me. You’re under arrest. Now turn around!”

  The islanders looked at each other and then the tallest shrugged and put down the wrench he was holding.

  The soldiers never saw the attack coming. The islanders turned, holding pistols and a submachine gun, and emptied their weapons into the uniformed bodies. The driver panicked at the sound of the shooting and ground the transmission as he tried to put the Jeep in gear – and almost stalled the motor when he popped the clutch and bounced back onto the road, water and mud flying from the wheels.

  The tallest man jogged easily to the fallen soldiers and scooped up one of their rifles, shaking the brown rain from it before chambering a round and training the weapon at the departing Jeep.

  “How much you want to bet I can nail him in one shot?” he asked the men, but no one was willing to take the bet. “Going once.…going twice…”

  The rifle bucked and the Jeep windshield went red, and then the vehicle slowed before rolling off the road and colliding with a tree. One of the men ran to it and sprayed the initials TPN across the back with black spray paint before returning to their own car. The tallest man loped to the driver’s side door as another islander dropped the hood, and then all four climbed into the decrepit conveyance as the driver started the motor.

  Half a mile away, at the checkpoint, six more soldiers lounged around under a tarp held up by four poles, playing cards as the rain pelted the covering with drops the size of walnuts. Thunder sounded in the distance, a low rumble that seemed to shake the nearby mountains, and the seventh man, a lieutenant, shook his head and muttered a curse.

  “Filthy shithole, isn’t it? All it does is rain and smell like a dung heap,” he said to nobody in particular.

  The men were used to his regular condemnations of the place, the weather, and the people, and they continued their game without glancing up. He mechanically flicked an old stainless steel Zippo lighter open, closed, open, closed, a nervous habit that secretly annoyed the men under his command, and then finally withdrew a cigarette from his breast pocket and lit it, closing the lighter with an especially loud snap before inhaling the rich, strong smoke. He smiled to himself in satisfaction and inspected the bottom of the Zippo, engraved with his name and a few congratulatory words, a gift from his parents when he’d earned his commission.

  Shots rang out from the surrounding jungle – the rapid-fire chatter of
Kalashnikovs. A hail of white-hot death cut the soldiers down, dropping them before they could return fire. The lieutenant tumbled to the ground and groped for his service pistol, fumbling it free from his hip holster and firing indiscriminately at the bushes; a weak defense, but the only one available to him. When his ammo was exhausted a single burst from the nearby foliage slammed into him, and then the area fell silent, the report of the assault rifles quieted. The only sound was the rain as a group of six figures in camouflage emerged from the dense underbrush and moved to the checkpoint, weapons ready for any unexpected resistance.

  At the tarp, the leader barked a terse command and his subordinates hurriedly gathered up the dead men’s guns and ammunition, securing everything in a rucksack sitting near the radio, which had been ruined by a few stray rounds. One of the men pulled the pistol loose from the dead lieutenant’s hand, and then his eye caught something shiny in the red water that ran from the bodies down the gentle slope to the road. He knelt and retrieved the Zippo and held it aloft, allowing the rain to rinse the mud from it before slipping it into his pocket with a grin, his few yellowed teeth gleaming in the rainstorm’s half light. Another peal of thunder shook the ground, as if signaling that time was running short, and the attackers did a final policing of the area to ensure they hadn’t missed anything that could be of future use.

  Two minutes later, the islanders melted back into the jungle like silent ghosts, unfazed by the deluge. When the massacre at the checkpoint was reported by an outraged Indonesian press, the TPN painted on the front shirt of the dead officer would receive front-page treatment, further solidifying Indonesian anger at the Liberation Army of Free Papua, whose initials from the local language, TPN, had become a symbol of hope for the natives and a pretense for butchery for the military.

  Over the next few days, another attack would take place at a remote military outpost sixteen miles away, and another atrocity would be recorded for posterity. The only unusual aspect of the entire sad episode was that both massacres received extensive coverage by the international press, further embarrassing the Indonesian regime and escalating tensions. More natives were rounded up and bodies were found floating in the rivers, the swollen corpses marred by evidence of torture and brutality, duly publicized by media outlets thousands of miles from the carnage – brief sound bites to fill the spaces between fast food ads and fitness commercials – unspeakable viciousness taking place in unpronounceable locales, covered by bouncy blond anchorpersons with serious demeanors and preternatural, cosmetically enhanced smiles.

  Chapter 16

  Jet paused in the lobby of the attorney’s building and looked up at the clock. Lunchtime – which explained why the place seemed empty. Uruguayans, like their Argentine brethren, liked to take long lunches, often two to three hours, and businesses routinely closed during those hours so the proprietors could enjoy a relaxed meal and a siesta. The lawyer was near the top of the stairs, she remembered, with the law offices occupying most of the fourth floor of the small building. She ascended the stairs quickly, hopeful that the attorney hadn’t left for lunch yet.

  When she arrived, the receptionist was just getting ready to leave, and she looked annoyed when Jet entered and approached her. The young woman set her purse down with a sigh and fixed Jet with a frigid gaze.

  “May I help you?”

  “Yes. I’m here to see Alfredo. I’m a client,” Jet explained.

  “Ah, well, he’s with another client right now, I’m afraid,” the receptionist said, clearly not sorry at all, and hoping that would end the interaction.

  “Will he be long?”

  “Mmm, no way of knowing. Perhaps you could make an appointment? After lunch?” she suggested.

  “That doesn’t work for me. I’ll just sit here and wait for him,” Jet announced, and moved to the brown leather and chrome couch, a matching coffee table sitting in front of it with a pile of travel and leisure magazines strewn haphazardly across its top.

  “Oh, well, I’m afraid you might have a long wait, then. And I’m getting ready to leave…”

  “I really need to see him as soon as possible,” Jet stressed.

  “I…let me ring him and tell him you’re waiting.”

  “Please.”

  Jet sat staring at the far wall, an impressionist oil rendering of sorry flowers lending a burst of color to the otherwise conservative surroundings, and listened as the woman murmured into the phone. When she hung up, Jet regarded her expectantly.

  “Now he knows you’re out here. He said it would be ten minutes, no more. Can I get you something before I leave? A drink?”

  “No, I’m fine. Go ahead and take your lunch. I’ll just wait for him. That doesn’t seem like very long, does it?” Jet asked, smiling sweetly.

  “If you’re sure.”

  She motioned to the magazines. “No problem. With this library, I have plenty to occupy my time.”

  The woman looked unsure, and then hunger won out and she gathered her things and left with a final glance at Jet.

  Once she was gone, the suite was still. The two other attorneys were not in – Jet could just make out their offices at the far end of the long hall and they were empty, as was the conference room. Apparently, practicing law in Uruguay was a relaxed affair, as far as hours went. Like everything else, she supposed.

  Five minutes crawled by, and then another ten. Jet was getting fidgety, tired of reading about the lifestyles of the rich and aimless and their preferred resort destinations. She tossed her magazine back onto the table and stood, promising herself she wouldn’t pace, and then did so anyway.

  A muffled noise echoed from the back of the building where the attorney’s office was located, like a door shutting or something falling on the hardwood floor; and then she heard a muted cry. A man.

  Her operational conditioning kicked in, and she inched past the reception desk and down the hall, listening for anything further. Another thud, and then silence.

  She debated pulling the pistol out of her purse, and then hesitated. Probably wasn’t a great idea to be waving a silenced weapon around law offices. Jet moved the final steps to the closed door and paused outside. She didn’t hear anything. Waiting a few more moments, she finally knocked.

  “Hola. Alfredo?”

  No response.

  “Alfredo. Is everything all right?”

  Still nothing.

  “I’m coming in,” Jet warned, and then cracked the door open and peered inside.

  Alfredo was sitting, his chair back facing her, apparently gazing through the window at the buildings on the plaza across the boulevard. She stepped cautiously inside the office, and then smelled the distinctive metallic odor of fresh blood – a smell she was more than familiar with. She reached into her purse and jerked the pistol out as she approached the chair and, with a glance, confirmed her assessment. The bullet wound was centered between his eyes, shot at close range. Her eyes flitted to his hands, and she saw the fingers of his left cocked at unnatural angles, confirming that he’d been tortured. A dirty rag on the floor told her the rest – it had been stuffed in his mouth to keep him from screaming, and the killer had pulled it out so his victim could respond to questions.

  She pressed herself against the wall, peered outside, and saw a dark-clothed figure at the edge of the far roof of the building next door. She pushed the window open and climbed out onto the ledge, then leapt to the roof a story below as the man momentarily dropped out of sight at the far end.

  A bullet ricocheted off the wall behind her and she barely had time to register that the shooter was using a silenced weapon before she was rolling and bringing the pistol to bear at the silhouette of his head.

  Which disappeared just as she squeezed the trigger.

  Her shot went wide, the distance too great for any real accuracy, and it tore a divot out of the tar surface. Wasting no time, she dashed for the gunman’s last position. She peered over the edge and saw him dropping to the ground in the dank alley three stories belo
w, the fire escape clattering as he released it.

  She fired a pattern around him, hoping to wound him with a lucky shot, but he was already running in a zigzagging line for the alley mouth a hundred yards away. One of the shots struck him in the upper torso, but he kept going; wherever he was wounded, it wasn’t a mortal blow. He turned as he ran and fired a few rounds at her, but they didn’t come close. She waited until he was at the end of the alley and, after stuffing the pistol in the waist of her jeans, threw herself over the edge, descending the fire escape ladder in a blur. Her hands burned from the friction but she ignored the pain. When she was twelve feet off the pavement she dropped, bouncing in a crouch, and then bolted after her quarry, dropping the gun into her purse so it wouldn’t panic any passers-by.

  When she reached the street she paused, scanning the throng, and then spotted a crimson drop of blood on the sidewalk ten yards away, to her right. She pushed past an annoyed businessman and picked up her pace to a trot, then saw another ruby drop. An exclamation of fright from a woman near the next corner drove Jet forward, but by the time she reached the intersection, she’d lost the trail. Her eyes roved over the rushing pedestrians, but she didn’t spot any anomalies…and then she saw it. More blood leading down the block.

  A car honked from the street thirty yards up as a VW Polo darted from the curb and cut it off, the little car burning rubber as it tore away. Without hesitating, Jet ran into the lunchtime traffic. A white BMW 325is locked up its brakes and screeched to a stop, narrowly avoiding flattening her, and she whipped her gun out and pointed it at the startled driver.

  “Out of the car!” she screamed.

  The driver raised his hands and fumbled with his seatbelt as the cars behind him honked in outrage at his vehicle blocking the street. He practically fell out of the seat, and Jet pushed him away and swung behind the wheel.

  “Sorry. I’ll try not to hurt it,” she called to him, then roared off, leaving the driver standing in shock in the middle of the street, arms still held above his head as his car disappeared into traffic.