Jet 03: Vengeance

by Russell Blake

“What do we do? They’re dead,” he whispered, his eyes fearful – not of who might have killed Grigenko and his mother, but from the dawning realization that they had allowed one of the most high-profile oligarchs in Moscow to be slain on their watch.

  “No shit. We go find whoever did this and return the favor. That’s what we do. Now, you,” he gestured to his second-in-command, “take Sasha, and on my signal, open the door and we’ll rush it. One of you on either side, and then we’ll go up the stairs,” he motioned to the other four men.

  They did as instructed, and on the count of three, flung the door wide, anticipating a rain of bullets or a grenade. They waited a few seconds, and when nothing materialized, Dmitri ran for the door, his men following him, their specialized Spetsnaz training kicking in as they prepared for a gun battle.

  When they reached the roof exit, the leader listened intently, trying to get a sense of what awaited on the other side of the heavy steel door. Hearing nothing, he took a breath and then pushed it open and threw himself out onto the flat roof, rolling as he did to make a more difficult target in the gloom.

  Two of his men followed him out and performed a methodical sector sweep, searching for the intruders.

  After sixty seconds yielded nothing, Dmitri squinted in the dark, hunting for anything that would give them a clue. On the far edge he saw a glint on one of the steel girder lip edges. He ran towards it and peered over the side, looking down thirty stories at the empty street.

  A black rappelling cord vibrated against the lip, and he could make out a figure far below, dropping at nearly the speed of gravity. With a wicked grin, he reached into his back pocket and withdrew a switchblade, then with a deft movement, snapped open the blade and sliced through the line.

  ~ ~ ~

  Jet saw the guard’s head far above her, and against her best instincts, looked down. She was still six stories from the street – a deadly distance to fall. Knowing what would come next, she swung herself sideways just as the cord she’d been suspended from went slack.

  She dropped a few feet when her hands and feet gripped a girder, and then the severed end of the rope fell past her to the street below. Jet relaxed her grip and began sliding down, controlling her drop speed with the soles of her feet so she wouldn’t tear all the flesh from her hands. Ten seconds later she tumbled to the ground with a roll, simultaneously unclasping the rope from the web belt around her waist as she sprang to her feet.

  Gunshots sounded from the corner of the building and ricochets whistled off the sidewalk as she sprinted down the block, reaching behind to her open backpack as she zigzagged away from the shooters. Slugs pounded against the cement as the men on the roof joined the lobby guards in shooting at her. She threw herself flat against the side of the building as she brought the MP7A1 up and sprayed three bursts at the pursuing gunmen, cutting them down before bolting again, running as fast as her legs would carry her.

  She tore into the street at the end of the block and a Lexus struck her a glancing blow, knocking her off her feet, still clutching the submachine gun. The driver reflexively slammed on his brakes and pulled to a screeching stop, the car behind him almost flattening Jet as it swerved to avoid the Lexus, and then the driver opened his door to look back at her.

  Jet raised her weapon and screamed at him in Russian. “Get out of the car. Now. Or I’ll shoot.”

  The shocked driver raised his hands shakily over his head and stepped out and away from the vehicle, and then turned and ran when she came at him toting the gun. She slid behind the wheel, jammed the transmission into gear, and floored the gas, the wail of sirens now rapidly approaching. It sounded like they were coming straight at her down the street, so she spun the wheel hard left and did a sliding U-turn, the wheels fishtailing and burning rubber in protest as they fought for grip. An oncoming car stood on its horn as it narrowly missed colliding with her, and she stomped on the accelerator, urging the powerful motor to full throttle as she veered away from the near miss.

  Two police cars with lights flashing appeared in the distance behind her, and she watched in her side mirror as they pulled to a stop at Grigenko’s building. With any luck at all she’d be well clear of the area by the time the Lexus theft was reported, and she’d have ditched the car and would be in the Metro, anonymous among the millions of evening passengers.

  She raised a hand and felt her jaw where Grigenko had clocked her – a couple of her teeth were loose, but the blood from the gash inside her mouth where her teeth had sliced her cheek had slowed, so all in all, she was in decent shape. Her ribs hurt, but she knew from experience that the only thing she could do was wrap them and wait for time to work its magic.

  Another police car approached from the opposite direction, siren blaring, and then after it passed her it slowed and swung around – the Lexus driver must have grabbed one of the cops at the scene and they’d gotten on the radio. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she estimated that she had eight seconds of lead on it, so she dropped the shifter to low and gunned it, then took a hard right into an alley that ran parallel to a larger boulevard, the engine revving as she floored it.

  A hobo jumped out of the way as she hit a garbage can trying to dodge him, and she almost lost control when the wheels hit a large puddle of water that had pooled in a low spot on the cobblestoned surface. Flashing blue lights told her the cop was still behind her, and she knew that trying to outrun him was a fool’s errand. The Lexus bucked and she almost took the oil pan out as she flew over an uneven patch and then across a busy street, cars honking as she narrowly missed being T-boned by a delivery truck doing double the speed limit.

  She doubted the cops would follow her through the intersection with such recklessness, but she underestimated their tenacity, and after a few moments the squad car re-appeared in her rearview mirror.

  Making a split-second decision, she twisted the wheel at the end of the next block and took the car onto the sidewalk, then spun it and counted a few seconds in her head before stabbing the gas again, buckling her seatbelt as the car surged forward. She timed it correctly, and she slammed into the side of the police cruiser just as it emerged from the alley, a shower of glass and metal greeting her efforts as her air bag deployed, cushioning her from the worst of the collision.

  Jet threw her door open, pulled herself out of the car, and was halfway down the block, moving at a run, when gunshots from the police vehicle echoed off the buildings and a chunk of brick tore out of the wall next to her.

  She dropped to one knee and twisted, letting loose a one-second burst from the submachine gun, peppering the two cars with rounds, and then the weapon fell silent, its clip empty. She automatically popped the spent one free and slapped a new thirty-round clip home, and waited for another salvo from the police car.

  A few seconds went by with no further shooting, so either one of her bullets had found home or the officers had decided that taking on a fully automatic weapon with pistols was a poor idea. She didn’t stick around to find out which, and instead raced for the corner, glancing behind her to confirm that nobody was following her before she disappeared, heading for the Metro station two blocks away.

  Chapter 40

  Alan looked like he’d been dragged behind a tractor when he made it to the international terminal at Los Angeles International Airport, his flight for Buenos Aires via Mexico City ready for take-off in two hours. The harried ticket agent dutifully checked his passport and then issued him a boarding pass, tendering a thank you with a plastic smile that looked painted on. He strode through the departure ticketing area and took an escalator to the second level restaurants, where he opted for one of the nicer of the establishments and ordered a seven-dollar beer from a waitress who seemed annoyed that there were customers.

  Once she brought his drink, he dialed Jet’s cell phone. She picked up on the third ring.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “Little sore. Took a few punches, but I’ve been through worse. Where are you? It sounds like a riot
in the background.”

  “Close. I’m at the airport. How did it go?”

  “No surprises. It’s over. Now I just need to get out of here and back to Hannah as soon as possible.”

  He digested the news. “Any revelations?” he asked.

  “He’s the one that fingered al-Diin. Tipped off the Mossad because he knew they wouldn’t screw around with trying to take the Arab alive,” she reported.

  “They got that right. But there may be another reason. He might have heard from al-Diin that there was U.S. involvement in the scheme, so he didn’t want to chance giving them a nod. Who knows how much of the detail al-Diin passed on to his supporters?”

  “Grigenko said he got paid a half billion.”

  Alan whistled. “That’s a lot of shekels.”

  “I gather that price wasn’t an issue. Have you thought about the director any?”

  “You know, I have, but the only conclusion I can come to is that if he was somehow trading information to the Russians, that ended once he learned that Grigenko was a suspect in this terror scheme. Whether he’s guilty or not we’ll never know, and there’s not a lot I can do about it either way. But I’ve rethought my future career plans, and I’m not going to be leading up his secret team anymore. He can find someone else. I’ve done my share, more than anyone...”

  “I’d say you have, and I completely understand your decision. By the way, how’s the head?”

  “No concussion, thank God. Looks like my thick skull saved me again.”

  “That’s good to hear. So where are you off to?”

  “I heard somewhere around Buenos Aires might be nice this time of year.”

  She hesitated. “Really? What about going back home?”

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I’ve been dead for a while, and it feels kind of good. Relaxing. I’m hoping that if I can find a nice girl who’s also dead, it might not be such a bad deal...”

  “You have been doing a lot of thinking. Probably not all of it G-rated, either.”

  “Guilty. But she also has to be rich, and extremely good-looking. And be able to kick my ass.”

  “I might know somebody. When will you be there?”

  “I’ll be on the ground in about eighteen hours. What time is it where you are? About ten o’clock at night? It’s eleven a.m. here. When are you going to leave Moscow?”

  “Tomorrow. I have a flight through Madrid. Leaves at eight tomorrow night. I’ll be taking off about four hours after you touch down.”

  “You have any interest in hooking up for a glass of wine with a broken-down ex-agent with a bad attitude and sleep deprivation?” he asked playfully.

  She paused. “You know what, Alan? There’s nothing I would rather do. I’ll call you tomorrow once you’re on the ground, or you call me. Either way. I’ll fill you in on my schedule.”

  “Sounds like a date. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Safe travels.”

  “Thanks. I’ll have plenty of time to get some sleep. Maybe even dream a little.”

  “Dreaming is good.”

  He disconnected and smiled to himself. He had no idea what the future held, but the idea of meeting up with Jet in Buenos Aires felt like the right move. The Mossad could get along without him. The way he felt, it would have to.

  The back of his neck prickled like someone was watching him. He turned and scanned the crowd of passengers, and then motion near the down escalator caught his eye. A woman with three unruly children was trying to get one to pick up her bag, and the toddler wasn’t in the mood to listen. She was jerking her mother’s arm, and then started bawling, crying so loud that it sounded like an air-raid siren. Just behind her, he caught a glimpse of a familiar profile that was hastily turning away from him.

  The Russian.

  He stood and grabbed his bag, but then a hand clutched his arm – the waitress, demanding payment for the beer. He felt in his pocket for a wad of dollars and threw a ten at her, then hoisted his duffle and looked for the Russian again. A sea of passengers moving up and down the escalators rippled like the surface of a lake in a high wind, and he looked vainly for the man, who had disappeared. Alan stood there, feeling sheepish, his beer half drunk, chasing phantoms in one of the busiest airports in North America, and then a tingle of anxiety hit.

  Maybe he’d been seeing things. The doctor who’d examined him had expressed concern over the blow to his head and recommended a week’s bed rest – which Alan had cheerfully ignored. Maybe the doctor knew a thing or two. Maybe Alan was hallucinating. Imagining things.

  Or maybe the Russian had been there.

  He spent the next five minutes scanning the crowd with no success, and then gave up and walked slowly towards the security check point. The line was long and the passengers oddly sheep-like as they were forced to take off their shoes. A seventy-year-old woman in front of him was having trouble with her sandals, and he held her elbow for her, supporting her as she slipped them off before putting them into a plastic crate and sending them through the scanner, manned by a bored three-hundred-pound man who looked ready to fall asleep.

  Alan was singled out for an additional screening, no doubt because of his good looks, and submitted to a wand scan by a hirsute woman with an air of perpetual annoyance. Released from the inspection, he took another look behind him at the waiting travelers, but didn’t see any Russian hit men.

  The waiting area was only half full, the trip to Mexico City apparently not a wildly popular route for this airline, but his nerves were still on edge as he watched his fellow passengers trickle in. An hour later the first boarding call went out and everyone lined up, anxious to get preferential placement for their carry-on luggage in the overhead bins.

  He settled into a seat towards the back of the plane and got a notebook-sized pillow from the weary stewardess, then tried to ease his racing thoughts as the plane taxied to the assigned runway and sat in a queue with six other jets.

  Eventually it was their turn to take off, and as the g-force of rapid acceleration pushed him into his seat his thoughts were of a different kind of Jet – one that he was looking forward to seeing more than he would have thought possible.

  Los Angeles disappeared below him and was replaced by the blue of the Pacific Ocean as they climbed and then gently banked south, and he was struck by the idea that today could be the beginning of a completely new life for him, if that was what he wanted. A life where his future was unknown, but that looked like it might involve another damaged spirit, both of them trying to make their way through a world that had used them and left their bodies washed up on the shore. Maybe that was all there was when you stripped away the veneer – just a brief time on the planet, a few experiences, and the company of those you loved. Maybe he could create something more meaningful than crisis after crisis, assignment after assignment, mission after mission. Maybe with Jet.

  Maybe soon.

  Chapter 41

  Jet stood at the airport waiting to board her plane – a flight that would take her away from the madness that was Moscow and back to Uruguay, and to Hannah...and Alan. She had been trying to reach Magdalena on her cell phone for the last two hours, but there was no answer. The woman had probably let the phone run out of charge, or had left it somewhere in the house while she went out with Hannah. Jet tried not to conjure up nightmare scenarios in her head, and instead repeated calming thoughts. There was no more danger. There were no more threats. The world was safe for them again. Life would return to being simple and good.

  But a part of her felt a buzz of apprehension. Something seemed wrong. She had no reason to think so, but she felt it in her gut.

  She checked the number and called Alan, but there was no answer on his phone, either. Strange. He would have landed three hours ago. At least.

  Jet tried Magdalena one more time, but the call simply timed out after six rings. There was no doubt a benign explanation – she needed to stop spinning doomsday visions and take her mind off of her fixation. She would be in Argentina i
n twenty more hours, and then would be in Uruguay shortly thereafter, reunited with her daughter, ready to slip off to a new beginning somewhere else.

  With the Russian dead, the final threat to her existence had been neutralized, and she knew that in order to stay sane she would need to drop out of operational mode and allow her civilian side to take over again. Seeing danger behind every rock and assuming the absolute worst was a viable survival strategy when in the field on a mission, but it was unsuitable for every-day life. What was a boon in an operational environment could quickly become paranoia once back at home, and she made a mental commitment to herself to find that tranquility, that peace, that she’d had before this whole new nightmare had started. For a little while, at least, she’d managed to be calm and happy, her universe limited to caring for her daughter and being normal. Whatever that meant, she knew the difference between the way she reacted under pressure and the easy, relatively carefree outlook she’d had only a few short weeks before.

  She fingered the leather pouch around her neck absently as she pulled up the web browser on her phone and scanned the news, trying to distract herself, and read all about the terrorist strike that had resulted in a near miss. It was the lead topic on all the online sites, and she couldn’t escape it, along with the strangely similar message that the terrorist had been somehow connected with Iran. Alan’s words came back to haunt her, and she remembered his account of what al-Diin had told him.

  But that was finished. It wasn’t Alan’s problem anymore, and it certainly wasn’t hers. Her duty was to care for Hannah and keep her safe, see to it that she grew up strong, adjusted, and healthy, not to rid the world of injustice or fight impossible battles with unbeatable foes. She’d leave that to others from here on out. She’d done her duty, and it was questionable that the world was any better for it, but no matter. Jet was going into permanent retirement, once and for all. That was all there was to it.