Jet 03: Vengeance

by Russell Blake

  Miriam and Daphne exchanged knowing glances.

  “Shopping has that effect sometimes. Try it with two of them, each wanting to buy everything in the store,” Miriam said, and Daphne nodded.

  “We’ve all been there. Isn’t it nice how they always choose the most public place to go crazy? It’s like they save it just for the occasion,” Daphne agreed.

  “Speak for yourself. When you have a boy, trust me, they don’t save it. They have endless reserves,” Miriam countered, and they all laughed.

  The children had abandoned the toys they had been playing with in favor of the new arrivals in Hannah’s bag, causing a minor riot as everyone grabbed for the same toy at once.

  As the hour wore on, Jet couldn’t help but feel a tingle of anxiety again – the same sensation of being watched as earlier, only more intense. Behind her darkened sunglasses her eyes scanned the park, trying to be subtle, but she didn’t see anything unusual. Couples strolling together or lying on the grass, involved in their own dramas. The occasional pensioner walking by himself, or pairs of older women taking their constitutional. Nothing stuck out, and yet she couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling.

  This was the first day she’d felt this way since moving to Montevideo. Which didn’t necessarily mean there was a threat. The hyper-awareness wasn’t like some sort of crystal ball that accurately predicted the future...but something had set it off, and she’d spent far too much time in the field to dismiss it out of hand.

  The women chatted about the rising cost of everything, about the worsening conditions in nearby Argentina, about the alarming increase in drug use among the youth of both countries.

  They stopped talking as a young man, no older than eighteen, walked by, his gait unsteady and his movements jittery.

  “You see that? It’s everywhere. That’s paco. It’s a huge problem in the poor areas,” Daphne explained.

  “Paco?” Jet had never heard of it.

  “Yes. That’s what they call it. It’s a combination of cocaine residue and kerosene, or sometimes rat poison. Sometimes it’s even mixed with glue and crushed glass. You smoke it. It’s incredibly addictive and only costs a few pesos per hit. I saw a TV special on it last week,” Daphne said.

  Jet listened politely, but her gut was now blaring a warning. And it wasn’t because of some junked-up punk roaming the park looking for an unattended purse to steal. She checked the time and decided that she’d had enough – they had been playing just short of an hour, and she wanted to get out of there.

  “Honey? Come on. Playtime’s over,” Jet called to Hannah, who was chasing Paolo around in circles as he waved a plastic toy plane over his head. Hannah pretended not to hear, and Jet called to her again, pointing to her watch and rising to her feet.

  The other mothers joined her in corralling their offspring, and after some grousing and squabbling, the toys were returned to their rightful owners and everyone was ready to leave, their attitudes glum at the day’s high point coming to a close.

  Jet kissed both women again and they parted, Jet moving down the southern path leading back to the boulevard, the other two going north to the opposite end of the massive park, for lunch in a nearby district with a host of pricey restaurants.

  She took Hannah’s hand and picked up the pace, still uneasy, but Hannah was dragging again.

  “Sweetheart, I need you to walk faster. Now. This isn’t a game.”

  Hannah looked at her uncomprehendingly, but increased her speed – only not enough to satisfy Jet.

  “Honey, I’m going to pick you up and carry you a little, okay?”

  Hannah bristled. She hated being carried. Like a baby. She dug her heels in and stopped, forcing Jet to stop too. Jet’s eyes swept their surroundings as she spoke.

  “This is not the time. I need to carry you. No arguments.”

  Jet’s tone was serious enough to warn Hannah off another display of temper, and she meekly nodded agreement. Jet lifted her and began moving hastily towards the park entrance.

  Something on the periphery of her vision caught her attention, and she turned her head just as a pair of schoolboys in their early teens almost bowled her over as they ran to catch up with their friends. Her free hand had automatically dropped into her purse, where she had the butterfly knife she’d acquired on her second day in country. She was still waiting for her residency application to be finalized, at which time she could buy a gun, but in the meantime she’d had to content herself with only the knife for self-defense. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing – and in her hands it was as deadly as a revolver.

  They were almost to the park exit and nothing had happened. Perhaps she had gotten her signals crossed. There was no sign of any threats, and the boulevard was only fifty yards ahead.

  A tall man in an overcoat turned off an adjoining path ahead and made his way towards her, and her hand felt for the knife again, a bad feeling surging through her veins upon seeing him. He was staring at her, but that was hardly unusual. Even with Hannah in tow she was a remarkably attractive woman, and men noticed. But his demeanor, the way he carried himself, hinted at something more ominous than a walk on a nice day.

  Her fingers tightened around the knife handle as she held his gaze, and then he looked away, reaching into his pocket as he did so. She had to make an instantaneous decision – flip out the blade and stab him preemptively, or wait to see if he was going to attack. Hannah’s presence won the round, and she hesitated for a split second, the knife ready in her grip.

  He raised a cell phone to his ear and answered it, speaking softly in Spanish as he brushed by her, offering another admiring glance as he passed. She exhaled with relief, then a chill ran up her spine as she looked over her shoulder: two men on the path behind her, walking with focused deliberation, both of them focusing their attention on her.

  She reached the entry and darted to the right. Another glance at the men convinced her to risk crossing the street in the midst of automobiles hurtling past her like possessed juggernauts. Dodging between honking cars, she chose her openings carefully and made it to the other side. As she mounted the curb she peered back to where the two men were emerging from the park, joined by four others as one of the followers pointed at her.

  She didn’t wait to see what happened next. Searching the vicinity, she spotted a cluster of office buildings that were closed for construction – a common sight in many of the better areas of Montevideo, where speculators snapped up prime properties to remodel them into high-rent candidates. If she could get to the buildings she could find somewhere to hide Hannah, and then deal with whoever this was.

  That they were following her wasn’t in question – she had seen more than enough. But how she handled the situation over the next thirty seconds would be determined by her daughter more than anything. She had no idea who this was, but she was now operating on pure instinct, her brain calculating escape vectors even as it searched out the best environment in which to take on her pursuers.

  Jet broke into a run and raced for the buildings. Horns clamored noisily from behind her, where the men were discovering first-hand how difficult it was to cross a Uruguayan street against traffic. She estimated she had gained another fifteen to twenty seconds – which could be just enough.

  “Sweetheart, listen to me. You remember us playing hide-and-seek? We’re going to play that right now, and I need you to promise me that no matter what happens, you won’t make a sound until I come back for you. Do you understand?”

  Hannah didn’t respond, but Jet couldn’t blame her. Her mother had just torn across a busy thoroughfare and was running as fast as her legs would carry her.

  “I need to you promise me, Hannah. Now.”

  “Okay, Mama. Okay,” she whispered timidly, her eyes wide as they came to the half-demolished structures. No workers were in evidence, and the site hadn’t been fenced in. Jet bolted through the nearest opening and across to an attached low-rise building before glancing around and taking the concrete
stairs at the far end two at a time to the second level.

  A series of doorways greeted her, and she moved into the third one, finding herself facing a series of vacant offices, the plaster hanging from the walls, everything of value stripped out of them. At the far end she spotted a hole in a wall where someone had begun demolition. It looked like it would be just large enough.

  She ran over and took a quick look inside, then lowered Hannah to the floor and stared deep into her eyes.

  “You’re going to hide in here. Don’t make a sound. No matter what happens, stay here, and I’ll come get you.”

  Hannah’s eyes were wide as saucers, but she nodded silent assent, and then Jet prodded her into the opening. “Push yourself all the way to the back. I’ll be back in no time. Oh, and plug your ears. Even if you get scared, don’t scream, don’t make a sound, and don’t come out. Do you understand?”

  “Y…yes, Mama.”

  Jet heard scraping from below. They were in the first building. She was out of time. She held a finger to her lips and handed Hannah her backpack, then turned and eyed her surroundings. With a final look at her daughter’s frightened face staring out of the shadows, she pulled her purse strap over her head, securing it so that she wouldn’t lose it, and focused on her predicament.

  Six men. Four buildings. One Jet.

  She liked her odds.

  Chapter 5

  Debris crunched beneath the men’s feet as they spread out, silenced pistols drawn, any pretense of stealth discarded. The woman had seen them, so this was endgame. They had their instructions. She was to be terminated with extreme prejudice.

  The leader of the group made a curt gesture, a hand signal with two fingers indicating where the men should look first. One trotted to the stairwell and ascended silently, while the rest spread out. They moved with practiced fluidity, a unit, each member with his role.

  A crash came from a building two over from the one they were in, and the leader motioned with his head, taking the lead. The group crept through the courtyard that connected the three-story edifices, and then they heard another clank in the largest. The leader exchanged a look with his second-in-command – a short, stocky goon in his mid-thirties with hard features and simian eyes. The smaller man nodded and tapped two of the men on the arm, then moved to the side of the doorway. On his nod, the first of the gunmen ran through the opening in a crouch, weapon sweeping the room, and then the others followed. They slowed, their ears straining for any further sounds, but there was nothing but the moan of the breeze through the glassless window frames.

  An empty soda can stirred on the far side of the space, nudged by the draft, and the leader made another series of hand gestures. The men fanned out, two moving towards the stairwell as the rest searched the ground floor.

  The leader wasn’t happy with this new twist. They’d had her dead to rights, but he’d made the decision not to execute her in the park, preferring something less public. But the situation had quickly turned, and now they were in an urban labyrinth, their advantage gone.

  He’d read the dossier on her. It was impressive.

  Then again, so was his.

  This wrinkle presented additional difficulty, but it wouldn’t change the outcome. It was just a matter of time until either she, or the child, made a sound, and then they would have her.

  He swung through the first opening on the right, leading with his silenced Beretta barrel, quickly sizing up the room in the shadowy gloom before moving to the next one. The men were all seasoned professionals, good at what they did, and even if this woman had similar field experience she would be no match against all of them.

  He heard footsteps from above, coming from both sides of the building, and he grinned to himself. Six against one in broad daylight – and she was likely unarmed. This would be over in no time.

  ~ ~ ~

  A sound jarred one of the upstairs gunmen as he wound his way along the maze of offices and he froze, swiveling his upper body to face whatever was making the noise. It was coming from the end of the hall, in a particularly dark area. The noise came again, spurring him forward. He cautiously placed one booted foot in front of the other, clutching his silenced pistol in a military two-handed grip as he edged towards the sound.

  At the end of the hall, he turned a corner and saw the source of the clamor – a tarp, hanging from one of the walls by the window, flapping in the breeze. His shoulders relaxed and he lowered the weapon, chuckling to himself at being spooked by construction debris.

  He barely registered the movement as a figure swung at him from above, hanging upside down. He was raising his weapon when a five-foot long piece of rusting rebar stabbed through his chest, impaling him as it drove clean through his back. His face froze in shock from the blinding spike of pain as the woman dropped from the ceiling’s exposed pipes with a somersault and drove the palm of her hand into his nose, ramming the cartilage and bone into his brain, instantly ending his life.

  Jet stood in front of the gunman as he slumped to the floor, watching him without pity, then stooped and retrieved his pistol. She did a cursory search of his jacket and pants, but all he had was his weapon – no ID, no money, nothing.

  The second gunman turned the corner, having heard the commotion, and she squeezed off two shots, obliterating his face and driving him backwards. He dropped hard against a pile of rubble, his weapon clattering against the debris.

  Jet ran to him and scooped up his gun, dropping it into her purse as she spun and sprinted back the way she’d come. Other than the sound of the men from downstairs ascending the stairs, the building returned to uneasy silence.

  The leader spotted the second man’s corpse and threw himself flat against the wall, waiting for any sign of their quarry. He listened intently, but heard nothing. Pointing to the area the fallen gunman had been approaching when he’d been killed, he directed the two men with him to separate and take alternate routes, sealing off any chance for the woman to escape.

  The tarp’s flapping caught his attention and he stopped, evaluating likely sources of the sound. When it flapped again he resumed inching forward towards the bend in the hall, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

  A pigeon flapped in panic from a room on his right and he swiveled, firing at the sound. He watched as the gray bird soared out the window and scowled. This was rookie behavior. The unexpected death of one of his team had spooked him. That wasn’t good.

  Returning his focus to the hall, he edged to the bend and peered around the corner. He saw his second man slumped in a pool of his own blood, skewered, the rebar still protruding from his chest, his face a bloody smudge. The tarp shifted again, making the noise that had first caught his attention.

  One of his men appeared from the office at the end of the hall, and then another’s gun came around the corner, followed by his crouching form. Their eyes locked and the entrant lowered his weapon, and then caught sight of his fallen comrade.

  The leader held up one finger and made a circular motion. The two gunmen shook their heads. There was nobody on the floor – it was empty.

  He took soft steps to the window and whipped his weapon out as he leaned to see if anyone was outside, but all he saw was sheer wall and a two-story drop. Above, another window loomed empty, but there was no obvious way to reach it.

  Two of his five men were down, killed by the woman, who was now in possession of both their guns – and who had disappeared where no escape was possible. He turned to his men and pointed up, and then his head exploded as a slug tore through it, Jet firing as she swung through the window, a rope around her waist, one arm holding the loose end while the other pumped the pistol trigger.

  The two remaining shooters dived for cover, one rolling towards a doorway as he let loose a volley of muffled shots. Ricochets ripped chunks of plaster from the wall as Jet hit the ground, letting go of the rope and reaching into her purse as she continued firing with her right hand. She heard a grunt from the doorway where the second gunman had thrown
himself, blood trailing from where a round had hit his leg as he’d hurtled through the opening. Another shot rang out as a bullet missed her head by a few millimeters, and she returned her attention to the shooter behind the rubble. Raising the second gun in her left hand, she fired both weapons as she ran headfirst towards him, then dodged into an office fifteen feet away from him.

  Rounds slammed into the wall near the doorjamb as she searched frantically for an escape option, and then she saw it – the floor of the room had partially collapsed, leaving a gaping hole.

  The gunman stopped shooting from his position behind the rubble, conserving ammunition. He waited a moment, then two, but detected no movement. Rising cautiously, he trained his pistol on the doorway as he crept to the office where his partner had taken cover and was now moaning softly.

  He entered to find the man’s leg soaked with blood, a puddle spreading beneath him. He understood in an instant that the round must have severed the femoral artery, and rushed to the man’s side. His face was pale and drawn, and he had his hand over the wound in a futile effort to stop the bleeding. Seeing his companion, the wounded man shifted his fingers and blood spurted in a rhythmic surge.

  The gunman put his Beretta on the floor, unfastened his belt, and cinched it around the wounded shooter’s upper thigh, pulling it tight. The crimson tide slowed to a trickle, but it didn’t look like he was going to make it. Too much of his essence had leaked out on the anonymous concrete slab already.

  The gunman retrieved his pistol and rose, then slid to the door, weapon at the ready, anticipating a hail of bullets, but to his surprise he was alone. The tarp flapped again down the hall, but he ignored it – he knew where the woman had gone, and there was no way out he could think of.

  A mound of refuse lay on the floor near the doorway to the room she’d disappeared into, the odor of rotting food lingering in the still atmosphere. He edged to the side of the opening and stood completely still, trying to detect which side of the room she was on.