Justice

by Blake, Russell

  Tara tried to kick Jet in the stomach even as her head went under again, then she felt Jet’s hands around her neck, holding her underwater. She struggled and tried to free herself, but it was no good. Arching her back, she squeezed a pressure point on Jet’s wrist and felt her grip relax, and used that opportunity to push herself away and come up for air.

  Jet leapt at Tara, keeping the pressure up as Tara tried to find her balance. Tara managed to get to her feet but Jet delivered a kick to her chest that knocked her onto her back in the water. Jet advanced, blocking the blow Tara leveled at her abdomen, and dodged the strike intended to break her jaw, using the other woman’s momentum to pull her past her and pound her into the brick wall. Tara grunted at the impact but kept delivering counterstrikes, sewage spraying everywhere in a cage fight to the death.

  A knee to the solar plexus knocked the wind out of Jet and the follow-up karate chop to her shoulder numbed her entire left arm. Jet used the top of her head to slam into Tara’s jaw and heard the crack of breaking bone as she drove home her good hand in an eye dig that blinded Tara and stopped her attack. Jet stood panting as the water continued to rise, then threw herself at Tara, using her full weight to drive her against the brick again.

  Even with her jaw fractured and partially blind, Tara was a formidable adversary and landed a roundhouse that stunned Jet as they both fell against the hard tunnel wall. Tara got her hands around Jet’s throat just as Jet did the same with her. Using her right elbow, Jet smacked Tara’s forearm into the brick, and that hand fell away, limp. Jet squeezed with all her might, the vision of Hannah terrified on the rooftop of Luis’ building, Tara with a gun to her head, vivid in her mind.

  Jet kneed the side of Tara’s knee joint as hard as she could, causing it to buckle. She held the American’s head beneath the surface of the vile flood, her arms like steel as Tara’s struggling gradually diminished and, finally, stopped. She kept Tara’s head underwater for an extra minute, just to be sure, the water now reaching her chest, then released her, the contest over, Tara no longer a threat to anyone.

  She moved back to the valve and turned the big wheel until the water flow eased, then turned to where Tara’s lifeless form was floating in the sewage. After taking a moment to get her bearings, she moved to Tara and checked her carotid artery for a pulse.

  Tara’s fist struck Jet on the cheek and the skin split, and her strike using the palm of her other hand narrowly missed crushing Jet’s windpipe. Jet backed up as Tara tried a kick and caught her leg, then brought her elbow down on Tara’s kneecap with blinding force. Tara screamed as the patella dislocated and tore away to the side of her leg, an injury Jet knew was incapacitating. Tara slumped, incapable of supporting herself. Jet delivered a power kick that drove Tara’s head back against the wall with a sickening thud as her spine snapped.

  Jet watched as she went slack, her eyes frozen open, still aware but unable to move, and slowly sank beneath the sewer water, the noxious soup her final resting place, this time for eternity. Jet had seen this injury before and it was always paralyzing. In this case, drowning while unable to save herself seemed like a fitting end for Tara. Jet didn’t look back as she made her way to the shaft and the distillery above.

  ~ ~ ~

  Dante watched his helicopter, an Agusta A109E, drop onto the asphalt lot next to his office. The pilot waved, and one of Dante’s personal bodyguards opened the passenger compartment door and waited for him to approach. Dante took a seat and surveyed the flames licking from the front of the distillery as the man pulled the door closed and signaled to the pilot to take off.

  The aircraft slowly lifted into the sky and hovered for several seconds at treetop level. Dante regarded the dead bodies of his men littering the yard near the entry and shook his head.

  “What a nightmare,” he muttered. His bodyguard said nothing, his reaction unwelcome. “Let’s get out of here. The police will be here any minute. Call Alain and have him run interference until I’m ready to make a statement,” Dante ordered. Alain was his attorney, who acted as a buffer between Dante and the authorities.

  Dante was already contriving an explanation – competitors who’d hired some thugs to try to shut down his liquor production company – but he would need some time to feed the right spin to the papers and speak with his contacts in the police department, who would arrange for his explanation to be accepted without question. One of the perks of being powerful and wealthy was not having to suffer at the hands of the law when things went wrong. Dante was untouchable, but there would still need to be a story, and between Alain and himself they would come up with something plausible.

  The engine’s revs increased in pitch and the helicopter rose into the sky. It was just veering toward the city when Dante saw a flash from below and the unmistakable smoke trail of a missile headed straight at them. He screamed a warning a split second before the warhead detonated, vaporizing the turbine in a fiery blaze. The chopper seemed to hang in the air for a small eternity before dropping like a rock, tumbling end over end sixteen stories to the ground. The fireball when it hit the street was blinding. Paco winced even as he collapsed back inside the window, onto the office floor, a look of serenity on his face, his last living act to use Dante’s own missile to terminate his miserable existence.

  Chapter 32

  Jet made it back to the office just as Paco fell onto his back amidst shards of glass. The Igla-S launch tube lay by his side, the window shattered from where he’d fired the Mac-10 through it to get a shot at the helicopter. She rushed to him and knelt next to him, his torso covered with blood. His gaze wandered to her, delirious, agony radiating from his eyes as his life seeped from his body.

  “What did you do?” she whispered.

  “He…dead…”

  Paco’s death rattle was like so many others she’d heard, his spirit departing his form, shedding his battered frame for the unknown. His eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling, a look of satisfaction on his face. Jet closed his lids before standing and nodding.

  “You fought the good fight. May you find peace in whatever form you can,” she whispered, murky water dripping from her clothes onto the marble tiles.

  A secondary explosion shook the building as the helicopter’s auxiliary fuel tank exploded, jarring her back to reality. She moved to the blood-soaked couch, scooped up Paco’s pistol, and made her way outside and along the side of the warehouse. The workers had dispersed, not wanting to have anything to do with the coming inquiries, and she was the only living thing in the huge yard as she jogged to the ruined gate, flames licking at the building behind her as still more vats of alcohol ignited and burned within the plant.

  Jet walked hurriedly down the sidewalk, ignoring the few spectators that had gathered, and pretended to be engrossed along with them in the flaming helicopter wreckage outside the gate. When she reached the Renault, she realized she didn’t have the keys – Matt did. She was just about to break the window with the gun so she could hotwire the car when she heard the distinctive sound of someone clearing their throat from the thick hedge behind her. She spun, whipping the pistol out as she did so, and then lowered it when she saw Matt, his hair singed almost completely off, his face black from soot and smoke.

  “Easier if you use these,” he said, holding up the keys.

  “You’re alive!” she said, rushing to him and hugging him.

  “Woah. Careful with the arm.” He hugged her back and then wrinkled his nose. “Oh…my…God. What’s that stink?”

  “Don’t ask. Trust me; it tastes worse than it smells.”

  “I don’t want to ask how you know that.”

  “I was in the sewer with your ex.”

  “You found her!” He saw the swelling on her face. “Nothing broken?”

  “Her neck.”

  “And Paco?”

  She shook her head. “Didn’t make it.”

  The howl of the emergency vehicles split the air as the first wave of police and firefighters approached. Matt
handed her the keys.

  “You drive. But Kee-rist almighty. We need to get you into a shower and burn your clothes as soon as possible. That’s just…rank.”

  “I guess you haven’t seen yourself in the mirror lately.”

  “What?”

  “You just saved about two months of haircut money.”

  He touched his head gingerly. “That’s probably best now that I’m broke. Living off my girlfriend’s largesse.” He winced. “It’s still a little delicate. Burned.”

  Jet started the car and pulled away, moving in the opposite direction from the distillery. “I’m thinking we find the nearest public restrooms and get your face washed so we don’t look like escapees from a house fire and then rent a cheap hotel room – and I bathe for a couple of days,” she said.

  “Don’t forget burning your clothes.”

  Two hours later they were in the small town of San Luis de Giles, Jet in the shower while Matt lay on the bed, after cleaning his face off. After a seeming eternity she emerged from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her, her gleaming black hair still wet.

  “You gave me quite a scare with the blowing-up-in-a-fireball act, you know,” she said as she climbed on the bed next to him.

  “It wasn’t my intention. Just sort of happened. One second I was shooting people, the next I was in the middle of an inferno. I’m lucky I got the truck door shut in time. But some flame still got in through the other side. As you can see.”

  “It could have been worse. Something important could have been hurt.”

  “True. At least the hair will grow back. Besides, I was thinking about a change. This might be a good look for me.”

  She cuddled next to him. “We need to wash our clothes in the sink and get out of here once they dry. It’ll probably take an hour. I’m hoping we can find some way to entertain ourselves while we wait.” She sniffed. “You smell like a barbequed leather jacket.”

  “I was just going to get out of my clothes and take a shower.”

  “I’ll rinse both of our stuff off. You’ll take forever with the broken arm.”

  “Finally I get some sympathy. That and I lost all my money. Not to mention my hair.”

  “But you still have your health.”

  “Not to mention the love of my life is rich as Croesus.”

  She blinked. “Did you just say that I was the love of your life?”

  Matt smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “I figured I better suck up and be nice to you now that I’m broke.”

  She opened the towel. “It’s about time.”

  They stopped on the way out of town at a family-operated car wash and had the young brothers that ran it scrub out the interior of the car. Jet studied a map as they waited for the cleansing to be finished while Matt watched the boys work.

  “How far is it?” he asked.

  “About six hundred miles of road.”

  “So ten hours of driving?”

  “Maybe more. Although I don’t think it’s a great idea to drive at night. There are really long stretches with pretty much nothing across the pampas, and robberies aren’t uncommon after dark.”

  “So where do you want to spend the night?”

  “We can probably make it to Junín, a few hours west, without too much trouble. Assuming that wreck doesn’t blow up.” She stared at the car dubiously.

  “It’s an ugly duckling, I’ll grant you that. But beauty is more than skin deep.”

  “If it makes it to Mendoza, it’ll be a miracle. It was ancient when I was born.”

  “Hey. I resent that. I was ancient when you were born.”

  She smiled. “And you’re still serviceable. If a little shopworn.”

  “That’s a great adjective. Shopworn. I like that,” Matt said.

  “We should probably find a pay phone and call Sofia. Let her know we won’t be there until tomorrow evening.”

  “There’ll be one at the gas station on the highway out of town. They all have one.”

  The car still smelled like the bowels of hell, albeit with a pine tinge from the aroma one of the kids had sprayed through the car, but it was such an improvement over how it had been that neither of them complained. Thankfully, the weather was nice enough to keep the windows down as they motored into the sunset. The filling station indeed had a pay phone and Sofia answered on the fourth ring, sounding typically out of breath.

  “Sofia, it’s Rebecca.”

  “Oh my God, Rebecca. You’re alive! I can’t believe it!”

  Jet silently cursed. Of course. The jet. It would have been on the news and her father would have been notified.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “How? I heard about the crash…”

  “It was a kind of miracle. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”

  “My father will be so happy. He was sure that…well…we’re all surprised to hear from you, naturally.”

  “Give him my regards. Is Hannah there?”

  “She’s napping. You want me to wake her?”

  “No, not if she’s asleep. She needs her rest. Listen, I’ll be back tomorrow evening. But I’ll need to talk to your father. Will he be around?”

  “Let me ask.” She set the phone down. A minute later her father’s deep voice came on the line.

  “You haven’t stopped amazing me yet,” he began.

  “I’m so sorry about the plane. And Paco and his men.”

  He paused, instantly somber. “It wasn’t your fault. To be honest, I thought we had just adopted a little girl…”

  “Fortunately, the rumors of my demise are somewhat exaggerated.”

  He laughed. “I’d have to say so. But you must tell me the story. I’m quite sure I’ve never heard anything like it.”

  “It’s a good one.”

  She heard Sofia’s voice in the background.

  “You’re returning tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Yes. Possibly late.” She paused. “I want to know if I can impose on you again for one night.”

  “Of course. You’re welcome to stay at my home for as long as you wish. Think nothing of it. I’ll make sure I have a good supply of my best Malbec ready for your arrival.”

  “Your hospitality is appreciated.”

  “It’s nothing. Really. Now Sofia wants to talk to you. She’s practically pulling the phone out of my hand.”

  Sofia returned and Jet tried to field her questions without alarming her. Toward the end, the topic turned to Tomás.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Sofia.”

  “Thank you. It’s hard. I know he wasn’t the best man…”

  “But he was yours. I know.” Both women were silent. Jet cleared her throat. “I’m really looking forward to seeing you, Sofia.”

  “And I you. It’s been a rough few days, hasn’t it?”

  Jet shook her head and debated a thousand possible responses before saying simply, “That it has.”

  When she returned to the car, Matt was listening to the radio – the news was filled with accounts of missile attacks, a daring shootout and robbery attempt outside a bank, and the destruction of a major liquor manufacturing facility, number of casualties unknown. She started the engine and pulled onto Route 7, the Renault sounding as questionable as ever as they shook and shimmied down the road.

  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say we leave a trail of destruction everywhere we go,” she said, listening to the announcer recount the day’s disasters.

  “It’s not like we invite this on ourselves. We’ve been trying everything we can to get away from this. I mean, we were on the other side of the planet from our enemies.”

  “Apparently that wasn’t far enough.”

  “Colonizing the moon would be too obvious.”

  “Might be worth a try.”

  “As long as you and Hannah are with me, I’m game,” he said.

  “We’ll have to get you a hairpiece, though.”

  “You don’t like my new do?”

  �
�Way too Bruce Willis.”

  “Hey. What’s wrong with Bruce?”

  “We’ll at least pick you up a hat. Maybe that will help.”

  “I can always wear it in bed.”

  She smiled. “That’s what the paper bag’s for.”

  Chapter 33

  The morning started well enough at dawn, salmon ribbons streaking a deep purple sky as they continued west toward Mendoza. They’d both slept soundly for ten hours after a hurried dinner – a grill of mixed steak cuts washed down with a carafe of rustic red wine. To Jet’s surprise, the Renault chugged along, never in a hurry, but reliably transporting them from the humid east coast to the arid reaches near the western mountains.

  The highway that stretched from one side of the country to the other was little more than a two-lane strip of asphalt, in questionable repair in many places, the drivers as reckless as in the cities but with far more space to build to insane velocities. Several times that morning they were nearly run off the road by large overloaded trucks barreling along at double the speed limit, only to encounter a fifty-year-old pickup truck with a cow in the back, limping along at barely above walking speed.

  “What are we going to do once we get home? We can’t stay in Mendoza. That’s pretty clear,” Matt said as he watched the green expanse roll by his window, the tall grass shimmering in serpentine waves as the wind washed across the fields.

  “I know. I haven’t thought too much about a final destination. Out of Argentina, though.”

  “Where, then?”

  “My diamonds are in Montevideo. But we don’t need to pull any out for a while. I’ve got a good supply of cash in the safe at the apartment – more than enough to last us at least six months.”

  “How about Ecuador? I’ve heard good things about that area. Quito. Supposed to be quiet.”

  “So was Mendoza, remember? Nothing ever happens there? Wine country?”

  “Or Chile?”

  “Maybe temporarily, but too many big earthquakes for my liking,” Jet said.

  “Good point. We don’t need to add being buried alive to the mix.” He studied her profile. “How’s the face?”