Jet 04: Reckoning

by Russell Blake

  “Drop it or I’ll blow your head off.” Standish said from the corner, holding Alan’s Desert Eagle, the ugly snout pointed at her chest. “I’ll do it. Last chance, and then you’re road kill.”

  She tossed the MP7 onto the oak floor and raised her hands to shoulder height.

  “You’re brighter than your associate here. That’s good. Now, I want you to move over to him and un-tape his legs. It wouldn’t do for the police to get the wrong impression when they arrive.”

  Jet did as instructed, and tore at the tape, pulling it off with effort.

  “Now, the handcuffs. I can make out the night vision headgear, so I know you can see. When I toss you the key, catch it, and then unlock them.”

  “Fine.”

  She saw the surprise on his face as he tossed her the key.

  “A woman? How modern. Unlock the cuffs.”

  “Then what? You shoot us?”

  “You are smart. Just unlock them.”

  She moved around to the back and fiddled noisily with the key, Alan between her and Standish.

  “It won’t open.”

  “Don’t test my patience, you bi–”

  Standish’s exclamation was cut off by the blade of the Blackhawk knife piercing his heart, hurled by Jet as she threw herself to the side in order to present a more difficult target. His eyes widened with surprise and then he swung the gun at her and pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. He tried again, and then the life went out of his hand and he fell to the floor, the gun still clenched in his grip.

  Jet stepped to where Standish lay motionless and pulled the knife free, wiping it clean on his shirt before folding it closed and slipping it back into her pocket.

  “Didn’t know how to work the safety, did you, you stupid bastard?” she asked and then leaned down and scooped up the gun, flipping the safety off and then back on before slipping it into her belt and turning to Alan.

  “Can you walk?”

  “I…I…think… so.”

  She bent and retrieved the MP7 before she moved to the window and looked out. The guards were still in the guardhouse, keeping their heads down. Smart men. They’d live to fight another day.

  “Okay, put your arm around me. You’re going to stand up, and I’ll support you, and then we’re going to go down the stairs and out the back. Can you do that?”

  “Yes.” His voice sounded stronger.

  He struggled to rise, his bare feet brutalized, and then he almost collapsed as she caught him, bearing his weight for a moment before he recovered.

  “One foot in front of the other, all right? Easy. I’ve got you,” Jet assured him as they made their way slowly to the stairway. Flames licked at the curtains downstairs and part of the living room was smoldering, threatening to consume the whole house within a matter of minutes. They would need to get out of there immediately, or the old wooden structure could quickly roar into an inferno and trap them inside.

  Alan stumbled on the top step, almost taking Jet with him. She stopped him just before he went face first.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled through mangled lips, his one good eye squinting in the dark.

  At the foyer, Jet peered out the side windows but saw nothing threatening. The guards had finally managed to shut off the lights illuminating the front portion of the grounds, plunging the lot into darkness. That would make it easier for her to get Alan to the rear wall and up and over. Her night-vision advantage just got more pronounced, as long as they successfully avoided the sensors.

  Her eyes teared freely and she coughed from the smoke blanketing the downstairs, and she held her breath as she led Alan to the rear. At the back door, Jet stopped and whispered to him.

  “We’re going to stick close to the house till we’re by the root cellar, and then walk the pattern again, in reverse. Just follow my lead and we’ll do fine.”

  Alan nodded, and they shuffled together down the back stairs and sidled along the rear hedges until they were opposite the root cellar door.

  “All right. Here we go,” she encouraged, and they began moving away from the burning building, Jet carefully estimating their progress, keeping them to half a yard per step in the interests of accuracy.

  They made it to the point where they needed to turn, and Alan hesitantly followed her, almost falling several times, but making it through until they were at the next segment. The lights hadn’t come on, so they’d avoided the motion sensor fields so far and were halfway to the wall.

  “Come on. We’re almost out of here,” she said as they continued their unusual procession, Alan relying heavily on her as what was left of his strength waned. Sirens wailed on the freeway and from town as the emergency response team raced to get there, and her sense of urgency increased. How was she going to get him over the wall in this condition? It would take a miracle...

  “What did they do to you?” she whispered.

  “Shock. Burns. Beating. Didn’t…say…anything,” he murmured. “I’m…sorry – stu…pid.”

  “Stop it. You did what you had to do. Now let’s get out of here.”

  A shotgun blast from the side of the house boomed and Alan pitched forward, the heavy buckshot tearing through his back. Jet dropped with him and twisted, squeezing bursts from the MP7 as she fell. The gunman jerked like a puppet as the slugs slammed into him and then he collapsed onto the grass, his shotgun no longer a danger. Her arm hurt from where she landed on it, and as she scanned the area for the other guard, she felt blood running down her bicep from where a stray pellet or two had nicked her.

  She waited a few seconds, but it seemed that the last guard was the most prudent of the bunch and had stayed at the gate. She was seized with the impulse to run to the gatehouse and kill him, but discarded the compulsion as Alan groaned. Jet pulled free of him and looked at his back, a mat of bloody hamburger from the double-ought pellets that had shredded through him, and then turned him over and touched his face, which was contorted with pain.

  “Alan!”

  “Go…I…I…lo–” He couldn’t finish the sentiment as blood gushed from his mouth and his nose.

  Jet knew death well enough to know that Alan was finished. Rage coursed through her and she touched his face, which was cold, and then he gurgled and his chest stopped heaving, his struggle over. Tears streamed down her face; she blinked them away, and then the woop of a siren pulling onto the street jarred her into action. She swept the perimeter with her gun and, seeing nothing, rose and counted off the yards as she sprinted towards the perimeter wall.

  When she reached the base she backed away a few feet and slipped the MP7 into her backpack, then bolted for the wall, springing up and over it in one move, her momentum carrying her onto the grass on the far side, where she landed in a crouch. The sirens sounded like they were almost at the front gate, and she tore off into the brush in a beeline for the lot on her the left.

  A spotlight punched through the night and the distinctive thumping of helicopter rotors assailed her along with the roar of the chopper’s huge motor. The light swept along the rear of the compound and then stopped when it arrived at Alan’s body, hovering over his corpse momentarily before scanning the area more slowly, pausing again at the guard’s body, crumpled in a heap by the wall.

  Jet ran in a zigzag pattern along the elaborately manicured properties until the helicopter’s hovering grew fainter, and she thought she’d evaded it when it roared back overhead, the searchlight probing through the thick treetops. A dog barked to her left. The lights in all the surrounding residences were illuminated, the grenades and shooting more than enough to rouse even the deepest sleeper. Her boots smacked the ground and she poured on the steam, and she estimated she’d run almost a quarter mile before the helicopter returned to Arthur’s grounds, its searchlight glaring against the surrounding lots in an effort to spot anyone hiding.

  She fought back tears as she moved through the woods, pausing before she raced across the road to the park, and gulped air as racking sobs threatened to overcom
e her. Alan was dead – a good man who’d cared about her and pledged his life to keeping her safe. The only connection to Hannah’s father had died with him, and she and her daughter were now alone again. The emptiness inside her felt like a black gulf, a pulsing, hurt thing as vivid as an ulcer.

  When she reached her car she jerked off the night vision goggles and tossed them into the passenger seat along with her backpack, then started the engine and rolled away after a final glance at the dozens of police and fire vehicles now on the other side of the park, contending with the chaos she’d left in her wake.

  Chapter 41

  Jet held her cell phone to her ear with her shoulder as she sped along the frontage road in the Focus and waited for Matt to answer. He picked up after four rings, and sounded harried.

  “I’m headed south on Chain Bridge Road. We’re about five miles away from the house now, moving fairly slow. What happened? Were you able to get Alan out?”

  She gave him a brief summary in wooden tones, her speech mechanical, and then made a right on Chain Bridge.

  “Stay on the line and tell me if you deviate. I’m going to try to play catch up,” she said, after he’d expressed shocked condolences.

  “Be careful. Last thing you need is to get pulled over.”

  “Every cop within ten miles is at the house. I think I’m safe.” She floored the gas and weaved around a slower car, the road nearly empty after midnight. The speedometer crawled past eighty miles per hour and held as she gripped the wheel with iron determination, only a few tail lights as far as she could see.

  The road widened and she punched the throttle, accelerating to ninety as she flew through the night, Matt silent as they both concentrated on their driving. After a few more minutes his voice intruded.

  “We’re making a right onto Hampton Road. I’m going to drop further back. There’s nothing out here now, and I don’t want them to make me.”

  “How fast are you going?”

  “Thirty.”

  “I should be at the junction in no time at my speed, then.”

  “You must be flying.”

  “This Focus will actually do a hundred.” The motor sounded like she was about to achieve lift-off.

  “I’m slowing. How do you want to play this?”

  “You still have your grenades and the rifle?” she asked.

  “You bet.”

  “Let’s take them while they’re still on the road. It will only get harder whenever they get to their destination. Probably some sort of a safe house, which will have its own countermeasures. I say we knock them out someplace secluded and end this now.”

  “I’m game. I agree that it will get nothing but harder. Especially with all the shooting tonight. Wolf Trap is now a war zone, and if it was me, I’d have called for backup.”

  “I won’t even tell you about the helicopter.”

  “Then I won’t ask.”

  Another minute went by.

  “Shit. Hang on. There’s the turnoff.” Tires screeched on Jet’s end of the line as she took the corner on two wheels, and then her voice returned. “That was hairy. Okay, I’m on Hampton.”

  “You should see me any time.”

  “Oh. I do. You’re a ways up.”

  “I see your headlights,” he confirmed, checking his rearview mirror.

  “I’m going to shut them off.”

  “Fine. They’re slowing. Their brake lights just came on.”

  “They must have a house out here.”

  Both sides of the road were deeply wooded, dense collections of trees in every direction. Jet revved past Matt and accelerated, making straight for the two SUVs. “When they stop, start shooting. Concentrate on the rear vehicle. I’ll take Arthur’s. Once you can, use your grenades.”

  “I got it. Good luck. I’m signing off,” Matt said, and hung up.

  Jet flew past the startled vehicles and then jerked up the emergency brake so her taillights wouldn’t illuminate. When she had slowed sufficiently she twisted the wheel and slammed on the brakes, putting the car into a sideways skid. When it screeched to a stop it was blocking both lanes, and she jumped out, pulling the MP7 from her backpack as she hurled herself away from the vehicle, and began firing burst after burst at the approaching SUVs, focusing on the tires, and then the windshields.

  The lead truck with Arthur in it swerved as its front tires blew out, and then the glass went white from her rounds and it skidded to a stop. The rear vehicle slammed into Arthur’s, unable to stop in time, and she continued peppering the big Ford with fire, pausing only to slap home a fresh magazine as she maintained the assault.

  From behind them, Matt’s M4 chattered, and then larger caliber shots rang out, the guards returning fire. A boom sounded – shotgun – and then more of Matt’s distinctive sputtering, the silencer quieting the rounds to a muffled pop.

  A head popped out of the rear passenger side door of Arthur’s vehicle and bullets slapped the trees behind her as a gunman fired his handgun. She dropped and rolled in the grass as she emptied the magazine at him, and felt a flash of grim satisfaction when he dropped his pistol and fell back into the truck, the door riddled with bullet holes.

  A massive explosion from the rear vehicle blinded her momentarily as one of Matt’s grenades detonated, and then the shooting stopped, other than a few final bursts from Matt’s rifle.

  She felt for another magazine and then realized that she’d expended them all. Tossing the MP7 aside, she reached into her backpack, where she’d stowed Alan’s Desert Eagle. Her hand pushed one of the gasoline-filled bottles aside and retrieved the handgun, then she moved back onto the road and cautiously approached the truck.

  When she reached the window, the interior was carnage, the driver’s head slumped against the wheel, blood drenching what was left of his face and the steering column, the passenger seat occupant’s eyes frozen open, four bullet wounds in his head and chest. The guard in the rear seat hadn’t fared any better, and the back was soaked with his blood and bits of his skull.

  Arthur sat next to him, his labored breathing rasping, hit by at least one stray slug. He pulled weakly against his seatbelt, trying to get it undone, and then his eyes froze on her and radiated malevolence when he recognized her.

  “Not looking too good there, Arthur,” Jet spat at him, the gun trained on his head.

  He didn’t say anything, but his stare said it all.

  “Couldn’t let bygones be bygones, could you? Just had to play God and make my life miserable.” She looked around the cab at the slaughter. “How’s the pain management going, Arthur? The agent I injected you with still working? I was told it was a lifetime’s worth of agony. In your case, that won’t be much longer. I almost hate to end it. Almost.”

  “Rot in hell, you stinking bitch,” Arthur croaked through wormy lips.

  “Still a gentleman, huh? Well, that just makes me feel even better about ridding the world of you, you shitgrub.” She reached into her backpack and retrieved one of the bottles of gasoline, and using her teeth, unscrewed the top, then splashed the contents into the truck, tossing the half empty bottle into the front seat.

  “Rot in hell, did you say? You meant burn in hell, I’m sure. Let me give you a little preview of what that’ll be like, Arthur. Matt, do you have a light?” she called to her left, where Matt was standing by the other SUV, watching it smolder.

  Arthur’s scarred brow crinkled at the mention of Matt’s name.

  “That’s right, Arthur, Matt’s alive, too. Matt, me, my daughter. So you failed in every respect,” Jet said as Matt joined her.

  Matt peered into the truck. “Why, hello, Arthur. Looks like you got yourself into a spot of trouble, huh? Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.” Matt held up a flare he’d brought to start the house fire, and tore the end cap off.

  “Will you do the honors, Matt?” Jet suggested, and he nodded.

  “With pleasure. I traveled around the world for this.” He struck the cap with the flare tip and it ign
ited with a whoosh, and then he tossed it into the truck and the gasoline blazed to life with a bright orange-blue flash. They both stepped back and watched Arthur writhe in the flames, his screams otherworldly. After a good thirty seconds it was over, and then she turned to Matt.

  “That closes an ugly chapter.”

  “He was long overdue.” He studied her. “Are you okay? Your arm’s bleeding pretty good.”

  “You can dig the buckshot out back at the hotel.” She winced as she wiped blood away and gestured with her head. “This is over. Let’s get out of here.”

  Matt spun and hastened back to his Explorer and Jet walked to the Focus, the flames from the SUV illuminating the road with a hellish glow. She slid behind the wheel and took one last look at the Expedition and then put the car in gear and pulled away. The fireball from the gas tank igniting rent the night sky a few seconds later, sending a burst of fire into the air that would be visible for miles. Jet watched the SUV burning behind her in her mirror, then turned on her headlights and checked the map on her phone before increasing her speed, heading to whatever fate awaited her, wherever the winding road led.

  Chapter 42

  “Ow. Take it easy,” Jet complained as Matt retrieved the second pellet using a pair of freshly purchased tweezers.

  He dropped it into a plastic cup, the bloody ball joining its twin in the bottom, and then held up a bottle of iodine.

  “This is going to hurt,” he warned.

  “Get it over with.”

  Matt poured a few drops on the two small wounds and Jet’s breath hissed as she inhaled through her teeth, but other than that, she showed no reaction. He doused the holes with another liberal application, and then swabbed the bloody tears with cotton balls and tossed the red clumps into the cup with the pellets. Reaching to the table, he unscrewed the top from a bottle of Dermabond and squeezed a drop into the first wound, then pinched it closed for twenty seconds before repeating the procedure with the other.

  “There. All done,” Matt said, and then loosened the belt he had wrapped tight around Jet’s upper bicep, allowing the blood to flow freely again.