Jet tossed the pistol onto the passenger seat and concentrated on her driving, speed-shifting through the gears as she veered past slower-moving cars. The VW was several hundred yards up, but the BMW’s superior horsepower quickly cut the distance by two thirds.
The gunman seemed to sense her pursuit, and at the next street he abruptly twisted the wheel, sending his car careening down a one-way three-lane boulevard into oncoming traffic. A symphony of horns greeted his maneuver, and he narrowly missed running headlong into a delivery truck double-parked in front of a restaurant.
Jet followed the Volkswagen, the heel of her hand jabbing the BMW horn, and redlined the RPMs as she gained on the killer. She shifted into third and felt on the seat for the gun, eyes locked on the shooter, and when her fingers felt the familiar grip of the pistol her features settled into a determined frown. It would be almost impossible to hit him from a moving car going the wrong direction down a one-way street, but she was going to try. She took the weapon in her left hand and held it out the window, slowing momentarily as she loosed three shots. Jet had years of practice shooting with both hands so she was deadly accurate with either – a requisite for all team members, should they be wounded and forced to use their less-favored limb.
Two of the three slugs slammed into the rear of the car, one shattering the rear window, but neither hit the driver, and the breaking glass seemed to urge him on rather than slow him. He stood on his brakes and simultaneously spun the steering wheel, putting the car into a skid that finished with him facing Jet. She did the same, but by the time her heavier car was under control and pursuing the VW, the latter had pulled sixty yards away and was headed for a busy intersection.
She watched as the little car bolted through a red light, missing being flattened by a bus by only a matter of inches, and then the gunman was speeding away, leaving pandemonium and near-collisions in his wake.
Jet cursed and stomped on the accelerator, committed to staying with the Polo at all costs. As she flew through the intersection a motorcycle swerved to avoid her, but too late, and its front tire clipped the BMW’s rear fender. The bike flew into the air, flipping end over end, as the rider tumbled to the asphalt and rolled, his helmet saving his skull. Jet’s last vision before she was through the light was the motorcycle slamming into another car coming the opposite direction, causing it to ram a truck, the car’s airbags deploying as it bounced off the larger vehicle and ground to a halt.
Up ahead, she watched as the Polo glanced off a taxi, sending a shower of sparks into the air, and then missed a jaywalker by inches, who leapt back, throwing himself against a parked car. Downshifting to increase the engine revs she screamed past the cab, gaining steadily on the VW. She was preparing to shoot at it again when it began weaving back and forth to create a more difficult target. Obviously professional, she thought, as she followed the gunman onto a larger thoroughfare leading to a highway onramp.
The Polo stomped on its brakes and skidded to a near halt when it was confronted with two stopped cars waiting as a large truck backed into a driveway, and then it darted into oncoming traffic again, swerving around the blockage. Jet followed suit, but had to pull back into her lane to avoid an Opal, crushing her passenger side door against one of the two waiting cars before straightening out and accelerating after the escaping killer.
She hung her gun out the window again, and the pistol bucked as she fired four more shots. One of them hit the rear tire, which exploded instantly, sending shredded rubber skyward in a smoking cloud, and the little car lost control and slowed before the driver manhandled the wheel and it corrected. Another red light blocked its path, a line of cars idling as they waited for it to change, but it bumped up onto the sidewalk and edged past them, turning the corner before dropping back into the street and rabbiting for the onramp despite one of the rear wheels running on the rim. Jet followed suit, the BMW groaning in protest as its low-profile tires struck the curb, and then she was roaring down the sidewalk, one hand gripping the wheel as the other cradled the gun, her knuckles white from the strain of keeping the car steady.
She launched off the steep curb and landed with a bounce on the street behind the Polo, and was preparing to fire at it again when a garbage truck pulled into traffic just ahead of it, crashing into the passenger side and flipping the VW. It tumbled once, twice, and then slammed into a light pole as Jet locked up the brakes to avoid both vehicles.
After skidding to a stop, Jet threw her door open and grabbed her purse, sliding the gun into it as she ran to the ruined car. The telltale smell of short-circuiting wiring accompanied a wisp of smoke that curled into the air from where the ruptured gas tank was leaking fuel onto the ground.
A blinding flash seared her face for a split second as the tank ignited, and she shielded her eyes with her arm. When she opened them the car was burning, and she inched closer to see if she could save the driver – she needed him alive so she could find out who he was working for.
By the time she reached the driver’s door, it was too late. She watched as his charred arm pulled weakly at the seatbelt and then dropped, the skin of his face bubbling from the flames and then peeling away as he succumbed to the blaze, what remained of his head lolling to the side as he burned.
Footsteps ran towards her from the garbage truck as well as several cars that had stopped, and she took a final look at the burning man before she backed away and took off at a full run, hoping to vanish before the distant sirens brought the police.
Two blocks away she slowed and flagged down a taxi on a cross street. She dropped gratefully into the back seat and gave the driver the bank address, and then rolled down the window and gulped air.
Ten minutes later she rapped on the Ford’s windshield. Alan was in the driver’s seat. He looked up, startled, and unlocked the passenger door for her.
“Took you long enough. Must have been a hell of a meeting,” he said.
Jet’s face was a blank, betraying nothing. “I thought I’d take my time,” she replied as he started the engine.
He turned to her and studied her profile. “No big deal. I caught up on the news while you were gone. The killings are all over the radio.”
“Not surprising.”
“True. Hey, you want to drive, since you know where we’re going?” he asked.
She considered a dozen replies, then shook her head. “No, you can, at least until we’re out of town. I’m tired of driving.”
He nodded, then dropped the transmission into gear. “Put your seatbelt on,” he reminded her, then slid into an opening between two cars and pulled away. She gave him a neutral stare and then snapped the end into the buckle.
“Can’t be too careful, right?” she agreed.
“So, how did it go? Did you learn anything from the attorney?”
She was silent for a few seconds, and then sighed.
“No. It was a dead end.”
Chapter 17
Alan stopped for gas on the outskirts of Montevideo and switched places with Jet, concerned that if they got pulled over for any reason he didn’t have identification; and not only was he driving without a license, but worse, he was in the country illegally. Typically in possession of at least two identities, to now be without any was clearly troubling him, and Jet could understand why. Passports meant the flexibility to easily move from country to country, and at this point he had nothing.
“Tell me how you’re planning to get me into Argentina. It’s still a bit fuzzy, other than the idea that the border isn’t well manned,” Alan said.
“The border is the Uruguay river. The good news is that a motivated boater could easily slip across at night in multiple areas.”
“How do you know this?”
“I researched escape routes into Brazil and Argentina, just in case, when I was looking at moving here. There aren’t a lot of people trying to slip from Uruguay into Argentina. Any smuggling usually goes the other direction.”
“Fine. Assuming I make it across with no is
sues, then what?”
She slipped behind the wheel and started the car.
“We head to Buenos Aires, where there are many, many millions of people, and lie low until you get your travel documents. At which point we get out of Argentina and head to the United States. The answer to who is trying to kill me is there. The security firm is located there, and the men who came for me are from there. So we go there, and do whatever needs to be done to end this,” Jet said.
“Not a bad idea. But getting into the U.S. won’t be easy with the terrorist threat so fresh.”
“Nonsense. There are any number of ways in that are either under-patrolled or not patrolled at all. By boat from Mexico. Or from the Bahamas. By land, from Canada or Mexico. I’m not so worried about that. There’s a whole business devoted to smuggling people into the U.S., and if you have serious money, like everything else, you can go first class. I checked around and have a contact who can make it happen.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“The last time I had to go to the States, I wasn’t sure whether I’d be able to use one of my passports or not, so I leveraged some of Matt’s contacts, which I still have. I can get into the country for twenty grand, no questions asked, and so can you, so relax. That will be the least of our worries. It’s what we’ll do once we’re inside that will be harder. Although one bright spot is that the last time I was there, I discovered it’s a gun enthusiast’s dream. You can get literally anything, and all the parts and tools to modify civilian weapons to full-auto military spec can be bought off the internet. Same for everything else – you name it, it’s available. One of the benefits of being the largest consumer society in the world,” she explained.
“Hmm. Then the real hurdle is getting across the river. You have any ideas?”
“There’s a stretch south of a town called Paysandú, where the river is only three quarters of a mile wide, and the current is predictable because of the dam upstream. My vote is for either stealing a boat or buying a plastic kayak, and you row across. I drop you off south of Paysandú, I’ll do the legit crossing upriver at the bridge, and then I’ll swing down and pick you up on the Argentine side. It’s simple and effective. I’d rather get a kayak somewhere because it’s even lower radar-detectable than a rowboat, but that will depend on what we come across on the way up. If we find a store, great. Otherwise we’ll be looking for opportunistic targets.”
Alan nodded. “How far is it?”
“About three hundred kilometers, but the roads are probably lousy, so it’s going to take the rest of the day. But in the meantime, if you can remember the number, you can call your friend in Israel and get your papers shipped out.” She looked at her watch. “Depending on how late he works, he’s four hours ahead of us. Or five. I can’t remember.”
“Next internet café you come to, pull over. I can use their web phone, so we don’t compromise your cell in any way.”
“They have them about every four blocks in these neighborhoods, so it won’t be long.”
Sure enough, ten minutes later they were strolling through the doors of a small store with a dozen computers lined up on one wall and a makeshift phone booth in a corner for privacy.
Alan turned to Jet. “Where should I have it sent?”
“The Four Seasons. In Buenos Aires. The address shouldn’t be too hard to get.” She gave him the name on her current passport. “Have it delivered to the front desk.”
Alan disappeared into the booth and returned five minutes later. “It’ll go out tomorrow. The bad news is that it will take three days to make it. So we’ll be in BA for that long, at least.”
“That’s actually not so bad. It’ll give us more flexibility in getting you across the river and arranging to get into the U.S. We can take our time getting to Paysandú, scout out the place tomorrow, and do the crossing tomorrow night.”
“Sounds like a plan. Sorry you have to drive all the way.”
“No problem. Oh, speaking of driving, a funny thing happened earlier today in town…”
~ ~ ~
The drive to Paysandú was excruciatingly slow, and saw them winding their way on rural two-lane roads that they had to share with horses, snail-paced tractors, massive semi-rigs on their last legs, and every variety of dilapidated automobile imaginable. By the time they arrived it was dark. After finding a decent hotel near the central park, they took the clerk’s recommendation for dinner and walked to a restaurant a few blocks away. The air was humid and surprisingly warm, and the restaurant had tables outside in a courtyard.
Dinner was pleasant enough, but Jet was preoccupied, the weight of having to leave Hannah again wearing on her, and Alan gave her space to mull over events in silence. He knew it had to be difficult for her to try to adjust to being a mother, then a field operative, then back and forth again, and he didn’t envy her the battle going on in her head. They kept what conversation they had light, skirting the larger issues they both had to contend with, and after a slow walk back to the hotel, they fell into bed exhausted and were asleep within minutes.
The following morning Jet awoke early and decided to go for a run. She sprinted flat out for ten blocks, taking in the ancient homes, which reminded her of Italy, and then turned and circled along the banks of the river before making her way back into town. At a park along the way she found some promising-looking walls and statues, and did twenty minutes of parkour jumps, somersaults, flips, and vaults before returning to the town center, running steadily in the cool morning breeze until she was spent. Checking her watch, she saw that she’d been at it for an hour and a half, so she set a course for the hotel.
Alan was up and showered by the time she burst through the door, watching the television coverage of the ferry explosion and the condo killings.
“Anything new?” she panted, then grabbed a bottle of water and drained it.
“No. Usual stuff. Terrorists hit the boat, and drug gangs killed the shooters.”
“And nobody’s questioning that?”
“Not that I can tell. And on the international front, the bio-agent attack in L.A. is getting some coverage, as is U.S. agitation to stop Iran from developing nukes. But the spin here is much more cynical about America’s claims that it has credible evidence. Interesting how it differs from what I saw in Los Angeles.”
“Not really. I saw an article the other day where a former reporter for one of the major news channels admitted that the network gets paid by the American government to kill certain stories and report inventions on others. And not just by the Americans – they apparently also take cash from places like Bahrain to do the same thing – to spin their nasty little domestic disturbances as anything but what they are. So all the best news money can buy…”
“I wonder how long it’s been like this?” Alan mused.
“Longer than we’ve been alive. Some things never change.” She watched the TV for a few more seconds, then walked to the bathroom. “I’m going to rinse off. You hungry?”
“Absolutely. You see anything promising on your run?”
“Yup. I’ll tell you all about it over breakfast.”
“It’s a deal.”
Half an hour later they were seated downstairs in the hotel restaurant, the only ones in the place, sipping strong, steaming cups of coffee, waiting for their eggs. Jet told him about the marina filled with boats, as well as the rowing club near it. She’d also seen any number of kayaks in the back yards of the local houses, so things looked promising for a night crossing in a bought – or stolen – craft.
“I also saw a couple of Uruguayan naval patrol boats docked by the port, but they don’t look very modern. Besides, it won’t be the Uruguay patrols you’ll need to worry about. Argentina will be the problem.”
“How fast did the current seem?”
“It’s moving, but it was hard to be sure. I figure we can go down later to the public beach and check it out. You should be able to get into the water there, and that will tell you everything you’ll need to know
. It didn’t look too bad.”
“That’s positive.”
After breakfast they packed the car and checked out, then walked the mile to the river and strolled along the waterfront street, watching the occasional small craft plying its way downstream. They saw a group of kayakers paddling in the gentle water from the nearby beach, and Alan chuckled after tracking their progress for a few minutes.
“This won’t be a problem,” he said, estimating the current speed.
“And it’s all downstream from here. That’s the bridge I’ll be taking to go across.” She pointed at the structure in the distance, shielding her eyes from the glare. “Come on. Let’s go check out the beach and the marina.”
Their first stop was the clubhouse by the marina, which had a sign out trumpeting its kayak rental business. Jet and Alan approached the owner, who was busy watching a small portable television set up on the counter, and asked him whether he sold kayaks. He shook his head – he bought them in Montevideo and had them trucked here. Alan asked whether anyone in Paysandú sold them, and the man’s eyes flickered with annoyance.
“No, look around you. Not a big business, selling kayaks in a population-nothing place.”
“How about we pay you double whatever you paid for one of yours?” Alan countered.
The man’s expression changed to one of suspicion, and he refused. Jet pulled Alan’s arm, wanting to get out of there. This wasn’t going anywhere good. They’d have to steal one.
They spent the day walking the town. At a little internet café, they checked out satellite images of the area for an hour, looking for a good place to rendezvous on the Argentine side.
Jet pointed at the screen. “Look. That’s perfect. A campground four miles south. It’s out of the way and likely to be deserted this time of year. And there are plenty of roads. Let’s get you a throwaway cell phone so we can communicate, and then find some good prospects for kayak theft.”
Jet 04: Reckoning Page 12