Jet 04: Reckoning

by Russell Blake

  “Whoa. These are nice. I mean, seriously nice cutlery going on, you know? The man knows his knives, I’ll say that.” Alan smiled, and Sloan’s blood froze. “Did you know one of my specialties is skinning a man and making him eat his own flesh? Guess how you get really good at that? Three guesses.”

  Sloan didn’t say anything.

  “Do you want to test me? I killed the best you had in a matter of seconds. You want to see whether I’m serious about turning you into a circus freak before midnight?”

  “I…I don’t want to die,” Sloan begged. “Please. I’ll tell you what you want to know, but don’t kill me.”

  “Well, that’s progress. I’ll leave your fate to the lady, but I’m afraid she’s a little testy after you tried to erase her from the planet a few days ago. She can take those kinds of things personally. Moody, she is.”

  Jet returned with a smile on her face, holding a propane torch and a bag of pool chlorine.

  “I’ll check the kitchen next, but these should start the party on the right foot. Imagine what chlorine will feel like in his eyes. Or once you’ve skinned his face. Ew. I don’t even want to think about that, much less the smell of his skin burning. You never get the stink out of your clothes from the burning.” Jet set the items on the dining room table and moved to the kitchen, where she ferreted around noisily under the sink. When she stood, she held a can of bug killer and some ammonia. “I think we hit the jackpot. Get some of this in his eyes and he’ll be begging for death, blubbering like a schoolgirl.”

  Alan regarded Sloan impassively.

  “If you’re getting the idea that she’s going to enjoy this, you’re on the right track. She’s a psycho. Which you know if you’ve seen her file,” Alan whispered.

  “I can hear you, you know. And I don’t appreciate the judgmental tone,” Jet protested, her face struggling to contain a smirk.

  “Oops. Sorry. Our boy here says he’ll tell us everything, but he doesn’t want to die.”

  Jet turned her attention to Sloan. “Really! That makes it all easy, then. Let’s start with something simple. What’s the combination to his safe, and where does he keep his guns? A macho fellah like this always has a bunch of guns. So where are they, and what’s the combo?”

  Alan and Jet watched as Sloan struggled with his internal compulsions, and then capitulated.

  “It’s thirty-seven left, nineteen right, sixty-four left. You have to turn it two full turns to the left before you begin the sequence. Safe’s behind the built-in dresser in the closet. There’s a button hidden next to it in the molding. And the guns are in their own safe in the study. Key’s in the bedroom safe. Please. I’m telling you the truth. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Just don’t kill me.”

  “We’ll see. I’ll be right back,” Jet said, and then ascended the stairs to the second floor.

  The safe was where he said it was, but then Jet felt a flash of concern. It was too easy. He’d given it up too quickly.

  She returned to the living room and was vindicated by the panic in his eyes.

  “Be a shame if the safe was wired in to trigger a silent alarm somewhere if it was opened without turning the alarm off, wouldn’t it?” she said.

  Sloan’s face froze as he did his best to affect a neutral expression.

  She looked at Alan. “Looks like we should get started. This lying prick tried to set us up. Start with the eyes.”

  “No. Wait. No, I mean…okay, yes, I tried to set you up. You would do the same thing. Please. I’ll tell you where the switch is. There’s a lot of money in there. Gold. Over a half million worth of maple leaves. Cash. Whatever you want,” he pleaded.

  “See, that makes me not trust you, Jim,” Alan said. “I can call you Jim, can’t I? And if we don’t have trust between us, what do we really have? Nothing.” He looked over at Jet, who nodded, and he picked up the roach spray.

  “That will blind you. Probably permanently. Maybe not. For your purposes, permanently isn’t going to be that long, anyway,” Jet said in an even tone. “Take a last look around at the world, because this is it for you.”

  “No. I…I swear, I won’t try to trick you any more. The alarm switch is in the bathroom cabinet, under the left sink, in the back. Flip it to green. It’s got a little light.”

  “Not good enough, big boy. You’re losing your eyes. Then we’ll see how you feel about telling me what I really want to know.”

  “No. I’ll tell you everything. Really. The man who wants you dead. His name’s Arthur. He’s ex-CIA. You injected him with something. He wants revenge.”

  Jet’s face changed. “Arthur? That’s a lie. He’s dead. I watched him die on the sidewalk.”

  “No. He didn’t. He lived. Barely. He’s bedridden.”

  Jet paced in front of the picture window, and then spun and glared at Sloan. “Why is he using you to do his dirty work? He’s got a whole network of operatives he could send.”

  “His reach isn’t what it used to be. He’s not with the CIA anymore. Now he’s…freelancing. So he needed someone operational to handle this. Please. It isn’t personal with me. It’s just a contract. Really. I have no beef with you.”

  “Not personal? You sent men to kill me, in front of my daughter. That’s not personal? How much more personal could you get?”

  Sloan didn’t say anything. His eyes took on a cagey look. “If you kill me, I’ll never tell you where he is. I can give you Arthur on a platter. But you have to agree to let me live.”

  Jet looked at Alan, and nodded. “I’m going to have a look at the safe. Get the information out of him.”

  Sloan’s wily look changed to one of terror. “No. I’ll tell you. Everything.”

  Alan stepped in front of him with the dish towel in one hand and the spray in the other. “Yes, you will. I’m absolutely, a hundred percent sure of it. And my job is to ensure that it’s the full, complete truth.”

  The last thing Jet heard as she climbed the stairs was a muffled scream, as Sloan shrieked his agony into the towel, the bug spray hard at work.

  Chapter 27

  Jet got the safe open and rummaged through it, confirming that there was indeed a big pile of gold coins, as well as more than a hundred grand in hundred dollar bills. Four insurance policies sat on the bottom of the safe, along with two keys, what looked like a few grams of cocaine in a glass vial, and a USB flash drive.

  She pulled the metal tray the gold was sitting in from the safe and lifted it. The coins weighed about twenty-five pounds but were surprisingly compact, the plastic storage tubes holding twenty ounces apiece. Jet evaluated her options and quickly decided to take the gold and the cash – what a robber would do. The drugs could remain. Give the police something more to think about, with Sloan’s prints all over the vial.

  She rooted around in the closet and found a gym bag and upended it, dumping the water bottle and towel it contained on the floor. She transferred the gold and cash and then moved down the hall to the study. The gun safe was a two-door model, easily five feet wide. She tried the two keys, and one slipped easily into the lock.

  When she opened it, her eyes widened. Sloan had a serious gun love thing going. She studied the contents of the safe and selected several pieces from among them, including two gold-colored titanium Desert Eagle XIX .44 Magnum pistols and a box of shells, an M4 assault rifle with a spare magazine, and a Heckler and Koch MP7A1 with three thirty-round box magazines. At the bottom of the safe was a piece of paper – a permit to own fully automatic weapons. She supposed if you were a bigwig contractor who supplied mercenaries to the government, it was a piece of cake to get one. She put the pistols, MP7, and magazines into the bag, pulled the M4 out and set it next to the desk, and then left the safe open – more evidence of theft for the detectives to mull over.

  She moved to the computer, shook the mouse, and the screen blinked and lit as the system came to life. She fished out the USB drive and plugged it into one of the open slots, then selected the icon that appeare
d on the desktop.

  Ten minutes later she was done. She slipped the drive into her pocket, shouldered the M4, and returned to the living room where Alan was standing, staring at a motionless Sloan.

  Alan looked at her, taking in the rifle without comment, and then raised an eyebrow. “I got everything out of him, but he didn’t make it.”

  She stepped around Sloan and handed Alan the assault rifle, then turned to face the security tycoon, whose eyes were swollen shut, his face marred from where Alan had used the torch.

  “What happened?”

  “I think he had a stroke. The fat bastard probably ate his body weight in foie gras, so it’s not surprising. His face sort of melted and sagged on one side, and then he started choking and convulsing.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “He stopped breathing about three minutes ago.”

  “Shit.”

  “Don’t worry. I have what we need.”

  “I wanted to ask him about some of the items I found,” Jet said.

  “Unless you can go into the afterlife, that’s off the table.”

  “I got that. What do you want to do with him?”

  “I think we carry him out to the water and toss him in. If we do it right, it’ll be a day or two before anyone finds him.”

  “What about the housekeeper?”

  “Sloan had a computer, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Printer?”

  “Yup.”

  “Write a nice one sentence letter telling the housekeeper that he had to leave for an emergency and he’ll be back in a few days. That will buy us enough time for him to start seriously decomposing. If there are any fish in the lake, by the time anyone pulls him out the better part of Sloan will be in their bellies.”

  “You need to weigh him down with something.”

  “I know. You take care of the stuff upstairs and I’ll deal with Sloan.”

  Jet ran back up the stairs and composed the note, and then waited as it printed, closing the gun safe as the paper slid into the completed bin. She did a final scan of the bedroom, shut that safe as well, and returned to get the letter. By the time she made it back downstairs, Alan was standing in the kitchen, waiting for her.

  “All done?” she asked.

  “Affirmative.”

  “What did you use to weight him down?”

  “He had a little gas-powered portable generator. That and about twenty meters of chain in the garage solved the problem. At least the nylon-backed rug I used to drag his fat ass to the lake saved my back. He didn’t float, so we’re good.”

  “Then let’s get out of here.”

  “Ladies first.” Alan gestured at the front door.

  Jet carried the bag with the guns in it and Alan eased the door open. They inched into the gloom, their dark police uniforms making them almost invisible in the dark of the night.

  When they reached the car, Jet tossed the weapons into the trunk, along with her hat. Alan did the same, and in sixty seconds they were pulling out of the community, making their way to the freeway.

  “What did he say about Arthur? I still can’t believe he survived, but it all makes sense now that I know he’s alive. He’s got to be in agony every moment. I’d be testy too, if it was me.”

  “He’s got a compound someplace called Wolf Trap. Well over an acre of land, heavy security. That’s all Sloan really knew. Gave me the address before he croaked, but beyond that, we’re on our own.”

  “Feel like going for a drive?”

  “Sure.” She looked up the address on her phone, and gave Alan directions.

  “What’s in the bag?” he asked as they rolled onto the highway.

  “Oh, this and that. An arsenal. Half a million bucks in gold. Hundred grand in C-notes. Maybe we should consider going into the home invasion business. Turns out it’s pretty lucrative.”

  “I may have to. You don’t, remember? You’re rich.”

  “Hey, half of the take is yours. So you’ve got some game now, too.”

  “Only half?” Alan asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Okay, you talked me out of it. You can have it all.”

  “Now that’s more like it. I’ve got expensive tastes.”

  She considered him, driving the Dodge, a seventy-dollar watch on his wrist, and then they both laughed together.

  “Maybe not that expensive. But still. I could learn,” he suggested.

  “That’s good to know. That you’re open to personal growth.”

  “Am I ever.”

  They arrived in Wolf Trap in fifteen minutes, and were surprised and relieved that it seemed like the country, abundant trees and vegetation creating a sense of secluded privacy as they wove through the empty streets. Densely populated areas could be problematic to mount operations in – there was always a kid chasing a ball or a nosy neighbor turning up at the worst possible moment. In a heavily wooded area like this, they’d have more options.

  When they got to Arthur’s street, they prowled down it at twenty miles per hour. On the right sat a huge white southern plantation-style mansion that would have been more at home in Georgia, with a white-suited fat man sipping a mint julep on the front porch, than just a few miles outside the nation’s capital. Jet noted the guardhouse and the illuminated grounds, and thought she saw a guard patrolling the perimeter as they coasted past – this wouldn’t be as easy as Sloan’s place, that much was obvious. When they were several hundred yards past the house, they dead-ended in a cul-de-sac, requiring them to loop back around and go past the hulking edifice again. This time she was sure that she saw at least two men walking along the iron fencing on both sides of the grounds, as well as two lounging in the gatehouse.

  “What do you think?” Alan asked as his eyes roved over the house, an easy seventy yards off the street at the end of an elaborately maintained drive.

  “It’s a palace. But it’s also got a fairly alert security detail. What time is it?” she asked.

  Alan glanced at his watch. “Eleven-forty.”

  “And there are at least four men on duty, and judging by the lights on downstairs, more inside. What are the chances we can get something on the house – plans? A layout?”

  “Probably not great. If it isn’t in the public domain, I can’t get it. Unless I can somehow get into the Mossad servers…but even then, it’s doubtful we’d have anything on it. I’d have to pull in some favors from the Embassy here.”

  “You’re not going to get in touch with the director again, are you? After the ferry incident? Alan. You don’t know who’s after you. Right now you’re dead. Don’t you think it’s better to stay that way?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. I have to let the director know I’m resigning. I don’t have to tell him where I am, but after so many years devoted to the cause it just doesn’t feel right to disappear with no explanation. I owe him that much. And there’s no way that he blew up a ferry to try to get me – think about it. For what? He could have just called me back to Israel and put a bullet in my skull.”

  Jet shook her head. “I don’t like it. At all. I think you’re better off dead.”

  “I know, but it’s not your decision to make. I would rather let him know that I’m okay but leaving the Mossad than have him wondering what happened to me, or whether I went over to the other side or something. It can’t hurt, and it feels like the right thing to do. And again, I won’t tell him where I am. So there’s no possible harm that can come of it.”

  “Famous last words. You ever hear of the law of unintended consequences?”

  “Not really.”

  He made the turn and they drove away from Arthur’s house. There was nothing more to see.

  “We should come back tomorrow and stake the place out.”

  “That’ll be hard to do. It’s deserted, and the few other homes around it are also mansions set well away from the street. There’s no place to park and hang out.”

  “I know. So we’ll have to hike in and find a spot. No
t like we haven’t done it before.”

  Their tail lights disappeared and the area was quiet again.

  Across the road from the compound, several hundred yards inside the grounds of Lahey Lost Valley Park, a black-clad man lowered his binoculars and made a note of the Dodge’s license plate in a small book he carried in his breast pocket, and then returned to watching the house from his perch in the branches of one of the trees.

  Chapter 28

  The morning meeting at the club was unusual, but these were unusual times. The older man stepped to the curb, his black-suited driver holding the door open for him, and he walked shakily to the front entrance, which opened as if by magic as he approached.

  The group was convened in the usual room, and the heady smell of rich coffee and mouth-watering omelets pervaded the atmosphere. The older man took his place at the table, and after taking a sip of coffee from the steaming, waiting cup, he looked around the room at the gathered men.

  “We’re not getting traction. We need something more. There are too many questioning the data on Iran, even though all the sympathetic stations are playing our tune,” he said perfunctorily.

  “I’ve got every string pulled that can be pulled. The problem is that there’s a credibility gap due to our past claims that they’re trying to develop nukes. And Iraq screwed us on the idea that everyone would give us the benefit of the doubt.” The speaker was one of the younger men in the ensemble, chartered with handling the media onslaught.

  “Yes, I’m aware we’re coming from behind. That’s why the damned attack was supposed to kill everyone. Now we’re standing around with limp dicks and bogus data, and our adversaries smell blood. I’m not here to bemoan how hard it is to make this happen. I want ideas on how to turn it around.”

  “There’s already intel being fed to the Brits and the Canadians that would strongly suggest that there’s a threat in Iran.”

  “Again, that card was played, and burned, with Iraq. The usual suspects all corroborated our position that Saddam had WMDs he could launch within forty-five minutes, and it was proved false after we invaded. You don’t get two bites at that apple. Nobody’s buying our spin,” the older man seethed.