Jet 04: Reckoning

by Russell Blake

  “I’ve been through worse,” she said, standing and looking in the motel mirror mounted on the wall over the dresser.

  “You’ll be good as new within a few days. We just need to make sure there’s no infection.”

  “The antiseptic should take care of that. If it starts bugging me I can always get some pills in Mexico.”

  Matt stood and picked up the bloody cup. “Mexico, huh? Planning a little getaway to the beaches, are we?”

  “Something like that. The border is as porous as Swiss cheese, and the natives don’t ask too many questions. Two qualities I like about the place.”

  “That’s the plan, then? We get out of town and head to Mexico?”

  “Not exactly. I still have one last item that needs to get done,” Jet said quietly.

  “Item?” Matt’s eyes narrowed.

  “An errand.”

  “That’s more important than escaping with our lives from a manhunt?”

  “We’ll switch motels to something closer to D.C. I’m not worried about being caught. Nobody saw anything, so there’s nothing to use to track us other than footprints. Big deal. All the shells were wiped before I loaded them, and I wore gloves. And we’re in an extremely densely populated area that has a high crime rate. The fact is, the cops have nothing to go on. We’re clean.”

  “What about the Alan connection?”

  “They’ll eventually place him as with the Mossad. Or maybe they won’t. As far as I know, his prints aren’t in any databases. Neither are mine. So they’ll be holding a big bag of question marks.”

  Matt walked to the bathroom and dumped the cotton into the toilet, then fished the pellets from the bottom of the cup and wrapped them in multiple folds of tissue before tossing them in and flushing twice.

  “Fine. I’ll bite. What’s the errand?” he asked.

  She told him the detail of the ferry story and Ryker.

  “Christ. You offed a Homeland agent?”

  “A bent one who participated in covering up a false-flag attack on a stadium full of women and children. And no, I didn’t do it. Alan did. But I would have, in a second, without hesitation. That’s basically a war crime. I don’t believe in due process.”

  “Right. I seem to recall a lack of tolerance for bad guys in our dealings before.”

  “I’m thinking about therapy to help with it. I hear voices. Mainly at night.”

  They looked at each other and laughed simultaneously.

  “I’m sure. So what do you intend to do?”

  “This Peter turd? I’m going to take him out. For Alan.”

  “Alan’s dead.”

  “Yes. But this sociopath killed almost a thousand people on that ferry. All to get Alan. Kids. Grandmas. People who never did anything wrong, who are now dead, because this fecal speck decided they were expendable. I’m not going to let that stand.”

  “You can’t right every wrong in the world,” he said with a resigned sigh.

  “No, but I can get even for this one. And I intend to. Will you help me?”

  “I want to go on record saying this idea sucks.”

  “Noted. Will you do it?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Alan got some background on him from the Mossad servers, but I could use some more. Could you contact your CIA friend and see what comes up? The more info we have, the better. I’d be particularly interested in plans for his home. The usual stuff,” Jet said.

  “Let’s say I agree. When are you thinking about erasing him?”

  “What time is it?”

  Matt did a double take. “Really? This soon after Arthur? The town is on high alert. The police think we’re being invaded, and they don’t know by who. There are more bodies in the morgue than after a ten-car pileup because of you, and you want to jump right back into this and add another to the heap? Are you serious?”

  “That’s basically it.”

  “Have I told you that you’re out of your mind yet today?”

  “I think it came up earlier.”

  He sat down on the bed and punched the remote control. The early morning news programs were all doing coverage of the gunfight and the fires.

  “Fine. Let’s say I play along. What then?”

  “I go ninja on his ass, kill him, and then we hit the road. Easy, depending upon what kind of security he has in place.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  “In Foggy Bottom.”

  “Oh, good. This keeps getting better and better. That’s only a few blocks from the White House.”

  “I’m not going for the President,” she said easily, her eyes on the television as the camera scanned the crime scene tape across the gates of Arthur’s compound.

  “Probably a good thing for him. You really think you can pull this off?”

  “I don’t see why not. He’s not expecting anything. He’s a behind-the-scenes guy, like his father. Thinks he’s invulnerable. As you know, those are my favorites.”

  “His father?” Matt asked.

  “I thought I told you about him.”

  “Tell me again.”

  When she had finished, he rubbed his eyes, fatigue setting in as the first rays of dawn filtered through the edges of the motel window, the cheap curtains shielding them from most of it.

  “So you want to execute the son of one of the most powerful fixers in the country. Less than a mile from the White House, in one of the most exclusive areas of D.C.”

  She fixed him with a cold stare. “I told you it was simple.”

  He stood and moved to the room door. “I’m beat. I need to get at least a few hours of sleep.”

  “Me too. Will you make the call?”

  “You’re relentless. Fine. Yes. I’ll help you. Otherwise I have a feeling you’ll just do it by yourself, in which case I’ll probably never see my diamonds again.”

  “Money-grubber.”

  “Damned right. To quote Oscar Wilde, ‘When I was young, I thought that money was the most important thing in life. Now that I’m old – I know it is.’ Smart man…”

  “Look at you with the literary references. What’s next? Iambic pentameter? A sonnet?”

  He shook his head. “I like to keep you on your toes. Now get some sleep. Sounds like you’re going to need it. Let’s hook back up at eleven, and we can figure out our escape route and how to dispose of the guns. I don’t think they’ll track the grenades back to Bubba, but you never know. He doesn’t know my real name, but the last thing I need is that kind of heat. I’d really like to talk you out of this and convince you to get the hell out of Dodge now, if not sooner. That’s my money-grubbing self-preservation instinct kicking in.”

  “All right. Eleven it is. I’m buying. Maybe we can find some pancakes. I love pancakes.”

  “Drink that orange juice. It’ll help you replace the blood you lost.” He gestured at a carton of juice he’d gotten at the all night drug store.

  “Yes, Dad.”

  He smiled as he twisted the doorknob and swung the wooden slab open. “Who’s your daddy?”

  “You are, you big, strong, money-grubbing Matt-daddy.”

  He chuckled in spite of himself and took a last look at Jet, sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing board shorts and a black tank top, the most amazing woman he’d ever laid eyes on even after a night of no sleep – and also without a doubt the most deadly. An intoxicating and dangerous cocktail.

  He pulled the door closed behind him and walked slowly to his room, exhausted, the vision of Jet ingrained in his imagination, the reality of her lying on a bed only a few feet away.

  An intoxicating cocktail indeed.

  And one he was powerless to resist.

  Chapter 43

  Two days later, Washington, D.C.

  Foggy Bottom was dark at three a.m., the sidewalks empty, the grounds of St. Stephen’s Church dark, the residential complexes cloaked in the gloom, with only a few lights on in the windows of the classical façades. An occasional car crui
sed slowly down Pennsylvania Avenue, the rumble of engines long faded until the next day’s rush hour got underway.

  Jet, dressed in black, eyed the side of the five-story building near the Spanish Embassy, the turn of the century French design well suited to what she was about to do. She’d been by three times during the day to look the grounds over, each time wearing a different disguise, and she was as ready as she’d ever be.

  Her arm was already healing, the shotgun pellets more of an annoyance than anything, and she was confident that the injury wouldn’t be an impediment to what she was about to do. Glancing around to ensure she was alone on the street, she rolled down the black knit cap she was wearing, transforming it into a ski mask – an unusual choice for a mild night with lows in the fifties.

  With a final look down the street, she sprinted towards the front of the building and ran up the wall, her momentum carrying her eleven feet from the sidewalk, her fingers grasping for a hold on the stone molding that ran along the base of the second floor. She latched onto the two-inch deep impression with a vice-like grip and scrambled with her feet until they, too, found support, and then pulled herself up, hands searching for the next crevice or bump that would carry her higher. At the second story, she swung her legs to the side and pushed herself onto the slim window ledge, then grabbed the top of the elaborate framing and continued her ascent until she hauled herself over the edge of the roof.

  Her arm hurt, but it was bearable. And going down would be easier. It always was. She moved to the far side of the building and looked down at the three-story townhouse next door, and then shrugged off her backpack and unzipped it.

  Twenty seconds later she had the rappelling cord secured and had tossed the free end over the side. She gave it a pull with her black-gloved hands and edged to the roof lip. After peering over, she gripped the line and then threw herself out into space, her black running shoes pounding against the sheer side as she eased herself down to the smaller building below.

  Once on the roof, she moved to the center-mounted access hatch and examined its hinges, then rooted in her sack again and extracted a glass vial half-filled with clear liquid. She twisted the stopper and poured a thin stream onto each hinge, and watched the chemical smoke spiral into the air as the acid went to work.

  Four minutes later she was inside the home, her feet gliding soundlessly down the hall to the master bedroom. The door was partially open, and she inched silently into the darkened room where a sleeping figure occupied the far side of the bed.

  A floorboard creaked beneath her and she stopped, fearful that she’d roused the target, but after a few seconds she continued to approach the bed, once reassured that he hadn’t awakened. She was almost at the foot when the sleeping man lunged for the night table next to him. He fumbled with the drawer but then she was on top of him, and two lightning strikes to the throat sent streaks of pain shooting through his skull as he fought for breath. She rolled him away from the nightstand and retrieved the little Walther PPK he’d been trying to get to. Gazing down at him like an angel of death, she watched as panicked realization registered in his stunned eyes, then she pressed a pillow over his face, pushed the gun barrel into it, and fired twice.

  The target’s body shuddered and lay still. She pulled the pillow off to study her handiwork, and then tossed the gun next to him and pushed herself away, her feet landing on the hardwood floor with a muffled plop.

  Ransacking the bedroom took two minutes, and the downstairs three more, and then she was back on the roof, scaling the side of the building again. Once at the top, she jogged to the far side and jumped off, feeding out line until her feet settled on the sidewalk. She glanced around again, adjusted the backpack, and set out for Virginia Avenue, rolling the ski mask back over her face as she walked, the black wool transformed into a seaman’s cap again, shielding her head from the cold.

  ~ ~ ~

  The following evening Matt pulled into a motel parking lot on the outskirts of Dallas, and shut off the engine while Jet went and got rooms. They’d been driving nonstop since leaving Washington, and even taking turns behind the wheel, Matt was ready for a decent night’s sleep. Tomorrow would take them as far as Tucson, Arizona, where they would spend another night and then drive across the border into Mexico, leaving the Explorer in Hermosillo when they caught a flight to Mexico City, and from there, points unknown.

  Jet returned from the motel reception, opened the passenger door, and tossed him a room key.

  “You’re in 123, I’m in 124. Want to meet back up in half an hour and grab dinner?” she asked, her voice tired.

  “Love to. Any complications on the check-in?”

  “No. He just glanced at my passport and stared at my boobs most of the time.”

  “Very effective secret weapon.”

  “Not so secret. If I didn’t need to take a shower before that, I do now.”

  “Hopefully there are no hidden peepholes in the room,” he said.

  “Why do you have to go there, Matt? Why put that in my head?”

  “You seem too worry-free. It’s not like you. I wanted to give you something to occupy your time.”

  “Thanks. You’re all heart.”

  “Not all. But mostly.”

  She gave him a tentative smile, then pulled her suitcase off the back seat and rolled it along the sidewalk, Matt watching her as she marched along the row of rooms until she came to her door.

  The shooting at Arthur’s had created a media firestorm, with every politician in the capital decrying the rising tide of drug violence that was afflicting the nation – the most likely cause of the horrific slaughter at the house, as well as the related killings on the desolate road south of it. The security company whose men had been butchered hadn’t been able to shed any light on what they had been guarding against, other than to say that they’d been hired to provide routine security for a reclusive investor who’d been convalescing after a long illness. A few stations had connected the murder of the firm’s owner and the shootout, and speculation was rampant that he had somehow offended one of the Mexican cartels invading America’s cities – the media’s favorite new boogiemen.

  The further they got from Washington, the less airtime the shootings received, and once they had crossed into Texas there was no mention of it, the story replaced by the hotly contested semi-final upset of an audience favorite on one of the countless talent shows clogging the nation’s airwaves.

  Neither Matt nor Jet wanted to chance traveling through an American airport, so they had chosen to drive to the border, where nobody was paying attention to the vehicles leaving the U.S., where the Mexicans welcomed travelers without question, happy that anyone wanted to come into the beleaguered country and spend money.

  Matt knocked on Jet’s door at the appointed time, and she opened it, her hair still wet, the puckered wounds on her arm less red than they had been the day before. She pulled a long sleeve shirt on over her tank top and then held her arms out, presenting herself.

  “Ta-da.”

  “Very nice. You have to be the best looking assassin in all these here parts,” Matt drawled in his best John Wayne.

  “Ex-assassin. And I prefer the term ‘clandestine operative.’ Less pejorative.”

  “Indeed. Wouldn’t want to give folks the wrong idea,” Matt agreed.

  “Exactly.”

  “What are you in the mood for? I understand Texas is big on steak, steak, and steak. You up for some steak?”

  “Mmm, no, I really had my heart set on macrobiotic vegan fare.”

  “As long as you don’t mind it being made out of beef,” Matt said.

  “Not at all. My favorite kind.”

  “We’re going to get along just fine, then.”

  “That was my hope.”

  They found a restaurant four blocks away that had a packed parking lot and a neon sign featuring a steer’s head, and pushed their way in through the cantina-style doors to the dining room, where a leggy blonde with a down-home twang
greeted them and led them to a booth with a table made from an old wooden door. They slid in opposite each other and studied the menu, which featured numerous specials containing the word ‘Cowboy,’ all of which involved some part of a cow.

  “You want a beer?” Matt asked as he closed the menu.

  “I wonder if they have red wine?”

  “Here? They probably add coloring to their white, if you want it.”

  “Let’s ask. I could use a drink after the last week.”

  Matt flagged down their server, a perky blonde in short shorts and a cowboy hat who assured them that the wine was excellent, and asked Jet if she wanted merlot or cabernet by the glass. She opted for merlot, and Matt ordered a Lone Star beer.

  “You can’t eat in Texas and not have a Lone Star. I think they stone you or shoot you with a six gun or something if you even try.”

  “That’s probably who makes the wine, too.”

  “If it’s really bubbly and tastes like beer, don’t complain.”

  “Just act natural.”

  “No sudden moves.”

  They laughed easily together, both tired but relieved their ordeal was finally over, and when the waitress returned with their drinks they ordered steaks. Jet took a sip of the wine and grimaced.

  “Ahh. My favorite. Old socks.”

  “It’s aged,” Matt agreed, and then took a pull on his beer. Served in the bottle, of course.

  “I think I might have gotten your merlot,” he deadpanned.

  She shook a fist at him half-heartedly. “Damn you. You always get the better deal.”

  “It’s because I’m pure of body and mind.”

  “That’ll be the day.”

  When dinner arrived, the slabs of meat more than upheld Texas’ reputation for beef, and neither of them could finish the enormous portions. Jet ordered another glass of wine, this time the cabernet, and Matt got another beer, and they lingered over their drinks as they digested.

  “What are you going to do about the diamonds?” she asked. “Once I give them to you?”