JET - Escape: (Volume 9)

by Russell Blake

  Puzzlement flashed across Ramón’s face and his eyes dropped to his chest, where a tiny hole had burned through his shirt, crimson spreading around it like spilled ink. He looked up at Carl, who was holding a small derringer. Carl fired again, the.22-caliber round punching beneath the first, and anger flushed Ramón’s face as he shifted the gun toward Carl.

  “You…you shot me,” Ramón growled, and pulled the trigger, blowing a hole in Carl’s forehead, the shot as loud as a cannon in the high-ceilinged salon. Carl fell back in the chair and crashed against the ground.

  Jet sprang toward Ramón, a sterling silver steak knife in her hand.

  Ramón swung the gun back toward her, but he was a split second too late. His eyes widened in shock as Jet, a blur with the knife, drove the point up through his jaw and into his brain with all her strength. He convulsed and the gun fired again, the slug drilling into the ancient polished wood floor, and then he collapsed in a heap, his appendages trembling as life drained from his body.

  “Everybody freeze!” a male voice screamed from the entry. Jet and Matt slowly raised their hands over their heads and turned to where three suited guards approached, guns trained unwaveringly on them, their stares hard.

  Jet’s gaze flitted to Matt and a silent message passed between them. They couldn’t take all three of the guards, especially not with them armed and maintaining a safe distance. The men moved like professionals, probably ex-military, and to make a try would be suicide.

  She cleared her throat and spoke in an even tone. “This man attacked us. He has a gun. It’s on the floor beside him. He shot our friend in the head.”

  The lead guard held up a hand and stopped his companions from getting any closer. “That’s for the police to figure out. Just everybody stay calm and keep your hands up.”

  “But we didn’t do anything except defend ourselves,” Matt protested.

  “Then you have nothing to worry about. The police should be here any minute. For now, just keep quiet and no sudden moves, or I’ll be forced to shoot.”

  Jet nodded, the crash of surf on the rocks outside a rhythmic accompaniment to the singsong of distant sirens that were growing louder with each passing second.

  Chapter 59

  Jet sat in the holding cell with three prostitutes suspected of mugging their johns in collusion with their pimps, a woman accused of trying to kill her husband, and two middle-aged women who had been caught breaking into a house. The mood was largely civil, everyone’s problems large enough that creating more drama in jail wasn’t on their agendas.

  At one point during the night one of the prostitutes, whose dilated pupils and fixed expression told Jet she was high on something powerful, tried to pick a fight with her, but a few carefully chosen words of warning from Jet threatening to break her arms settled the matter, and peace reigned for the rest of the evening.

  When the police had arrived at the restaurant, they’d studied the scene, begun taking statements from witnesses, and held Matt and Jet while the forensics crew and the coroner went about their business. Eventually Matt was released, having been guilty of nothing but sitting at the table, but Jet wasn’t so fortunate. An apologetic detective had placed her under arrest pending further investigation, assuring her that it was purely a formality.

  Jet’s biggest concern was with immigration, because she didn’t appear on any entry documents, which could trigger alarms. Her explanation would be that she had no idea why the clerk at the airport hadn’t stamped her passport – she couldn’t be held responsible for the lack of competence of Cuban personnel, after all. It wasn’t a bad stance to take, but it was decidedly adversarial, and she wasn’t looking forward to having the discussion.

  The detective was treating it as a robbery gone wrong, but she’d heard him muttering to an associate about Carl having attracted the wrong kind of attention, of making himself a target, perhaps by business competitors, or jealous lovers, or envious miscreants who wished him dead. Jet was sure that his reputation as dabbling in less than aboveboard activities was also known, or if it wasn’t, soon would be, providing more motives.

  The still of the morning was broken as a door creaked open somewhere out of Jet’s field of vision. Two guards approached along the concrete corridor and called her alias and, when she stepped forward, warned the other prisoners to back off. They unlocked the door and led her to an interview room, the same one where she’d spent several hours of her night answering questions over and over.

  She sat in a steel chair that was bolted to the floor and waited for whatever was to come, but was surprised when Major Fuentes appeared moments later with the fatigued-looking chief detective who’d escorted her to the jail. The detective took a seat opposite her while Fuentes stood in a corner, watching silently. The cop scratched at the stubble on his face and leaned forward.

  “We’ve cleared you of all wrongdoing,” he announced.

  “That’s good to know, considering all I did was defend myself,” Jet countered.

  “Yes, well, it’s unusual to see such a…spirited defense. But the footage on the phone and the statements from the diners established that you reacted to the gunman’s shooting of your friend, nothing more.”

  “Am I free to go?”

  “Yes. However, I do have a question. The gunman appeared to be targeting you, and insulted and threatened you. Any idea why?”

  “No.”

  “Specifically, he accused you of killing the wrong man. Several of the diners confirmed that.”

  “They heard wrong. The man was mad.”

  “And you didn’t know him?”

  “I’ve never seen him before in my life.” She paused. “Who was he?”

  The detective looked to Fuentes. “He was Colombian. That’s all we know at this point.”

  “Probably on drugs.”

  The detective nodded. “Probably.” He sighed. “My condolences on the death of your friend. He was highly regarded by many. That’s become clear as we’ve continued our investigation.”

  “Thank you.”

  There was nothing left to say. The detective rose and moved to the door, and Fuentes nodded to her, his eyes flashing a warning. She understood – don’t talk, because without a doubt the walls had ears.

  Jet followed Fuentes out and remained silent as she was released, signing the paperwork quickly, anxious to be rid of the prison, which, although terrible, was nevertheless a five-star resort compared to Haiti.

  Once they were outside and walking to Fuentes’ vehicle, she turned to him. “Thanks. I presume you had something to do with that?”

  “I accelerated the process and smoothed over a few open issues. Nothing big.”

  “Can you give me a lift to the inn? I’m afraid I don’t have any money for a cab. All I have is what I’m wearing and my watch.”

  “Of course. I planned to. And I have your passports. Everything’s in the system, so you can travel whenever you like.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “It’s probably not a bad idea to do so sooner than later. We both know that was no madman.”

  “We weren’t planning to dawdle in Havana.”

  “Let me know if you need any help getting off the island. Many of Carl’s contacts are also mine.”

  “He mentioned you were involved in some of his businesses.”

  “Yes, there will be much to sort out in the coming months. It’s unfortunate, but life moves on. And he went out like he would have wanted – in a high-profile blaze of glory that will be discussed for months. If there was one thing he hated, it was to be ignored.”

  “Sad that this is how he’ll be remembered.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  They were quiet on the way to the inn, both lost in their thoughts. When they pulled up outside, Fuentes handed her a manila envelope with the passports in it. “He already paid me for everything, so our business is concluded.”

  “Wait here,” Jet said, and hurried into the mansion. She returned in a few minu
tes. She leaned into the car and placed a three-carat stone in Fuentes’ hand with a smile. “Honesty is too rare. This is for you. I owed it to Carl for the last payment.”

  Fuentes watched as she returned to the big house’s entryway, where her daughter was standing with her husband, and slipped the diamond into the breast pocket of his uniform.

  “Vaya con Dios, Victoria, or whatever your name is. Go with God, because I have a feeling you’re going to need all the help you can get,” he whispered. He put the car in gear and drove away, his bonus bittersweet but appreciated, the stone another step toward leaving the service and picking up where Carl had left off.

  Epilogue

  Pristina, Kosovo

  A crisp wind blew off the mountains as Jet and Hannah hurried down the sidewalk to the small house they’d called home for three weeks. The rental had been laughably cheap, in a good neighborhood. Their neighbors were mostly of Albanian descent: physicians, shop owners, lawyers, and other professionals.

  Matt and Jet had decided to try Kosovo because it was far off the beaten path, and after their experiences in South America, that continent was decidedly unappealing. Neither Jet nor Matt had ever been to the beleaguered city before, which meant they wouldn’t be recognized accidentally – a huge consideration.

  Jet’s only real complaint was the weather, which was colder than she was used to, but which she could grow accustomed to if it meant living in safety. They’d researched everything from health care to schools and were confident that it would work for them, at least for a year or two. The bargain they’d made with each other was to give it a reasonable try, and if they didn’t like it, they’d move on, perhaps to Sicily – someplace warmer, where a secluded lifestyle could be had without intrusive inquiries from nosy officials.

  But for now Pristina was home, and for the first time Jet felt like it could last. There had been no sign of anyone attempting to follow them from Cuba, and she’d stayed in touch with Fuentes in case he was approached. So far, nothing, which was cause for relief.

  Jet unlocked the heavy oak door’s deadbolt and twisted it open. “We’re home,” she called, and dropped her keys into a clay bowl on a side table in the entry hall. She hefted the shopping bag in her hand and looked down at her daughter, her little cheeks pink from the chill.

  “Go wash your hands like I showed you. Lunch will be ready in a few minutes, so don’t take all day, sweetie.”

  “Okay, Mama.”

  Jet’s heart tugged at the words, and she flooded with the simple joy of seeing herself reflected in her daughter, who was filled with wonder at her new home. The troubling events of the prior months had been largely forgotten, although she still woke up in the middle of the night sometimes, crying and calling out for her mother. Jet and Matt had chosen the house largely due to the layout, and Hannah’s bedroom was right next to theirs on the second floor, so Jet could rush to comfort the little girl at a moment’s notice.

  Jet didn’t kid herself that everything would be storybook perfect in Hannah’s life, but she also knew from experience that she wouldn’t remember much of what had taken place. Jet’s first memory was of her fifth birthday, and Matt’s was around the same age, so perhaps nature would compensate for a brutal upbringing by blocking the worst of it. That was the hope, and perhaps it was overly optimistic, but they’d have to play it by ear and adjust accordingly.

  The remainder of the diamonds were safely stored in Uruguay, and it would be years before they ran low on money from the two and a half million worth she carried in her pouch. She’d found a dealer in Montenegro who could convert the smaller stones for her at a fair price, and she would make trips to Antwerp when required – one of the benefits of living in Europe was that little was farther than an hour or two plane trip.

  For now, she was enjoying being just a mother and homebody, learning the layout of the city, the best shops for produce and food, and spending quality time with her daughter and Matt. It seemed almost surreal to have no greater concerns than the price of carrots or wine, but she was adjusting, reveling in her morning runs and renewed workout regimen, and nights in Matt’s arms.

  She tried not to think about the two guns they’d hidden around the house, purchased on the black market and readily available due to the tens of thousands of weapons that had entered the region during the troubled times. But was now considered ancient history, and peace had been restored, if a precarious one. There was little danger of more violence breaking out, and as with all things, humanity went on with its business, trying to normalize after a period of atrocities that were the bane of the region’s existence.

  “Did you get some bread?” Matt called from the kitchen.

  “Yeah. And some more jam. We’re almost out.” She shrugged off her jacket and hung it on a hook. “Getting colder every day.”

  “Wait till it starts snowing. Hannah will love that. I’ll show her how to throw snowballs. She’ll be a menace in no time.”

  Jet smiled at his enthusiasm and felt her face flush with warmth. He was a fine man and, in spite of everything, was more focused on the future and a possibility of a life together than his troubled past.

  She turned as Hannah came clomping down the hall from the bathroom. Jet’s breath caught in her throat at the thought that flooded her when she saw her little girl’s smile, free of fear or guile or anything but sweet goodness.

  They were safe.

  Finally.

  This was real.

  And nothing had ever felt so good.

  <<<<>>>>

  Thanks for reading JET IX ~ Escape.

  I hope you enjoyed it.

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  · You’ve just read the ninth book in the main JET series. The other books in the series are JET ~ Ops Files (prequel), JET Ops Files ~ Terror Alert; JET; JET II ~ Betrayal; JET III ~ Vengeance; JET IV ~ Reckoning; JET V ~ Legacy; JET VI ~ Justice; JET VII ~ Sanctuary; and JET VIII ~ Survival. I hope you enjoy them all.

  If you’d like to read an excerpt from Ramsey’s Gold, please turn the page.

  Excerpt from

  Ramsey’s Gold

  †

  Russell Blake

  Copyright © 2015 by Russell Blake. All rights reserved.

  Chapter One

  Southwest of Cajamarca, Peru, A.D. 1532

  Lightning flashed through the anthracite clouds that roiled over the jungle canopy as an explosion of thunder shook the earth. A long line of llamas, their matted fur drenched from the constant downpour, shambled along a trail deep in the rainforest. The animals staggered under heavy loads strapped to their backs, hooves slipping in the mud and pulling free with a sucking sound.

  Thousands of the unfortunate beasts had been conscripted into duty on the far side of the Andes Mountains, their drovers trudging beside them to see to it that none wandered off with precious cargo. Inkarri, the head of the expedition, had made it clear that this was a sacred mission, with the destiny and survival of the Inca Empire at stake.

  Only two months earlier the Spanish conquistadors had betrayed Atahualpa, the Inca emperor, whom they’d captured through trickery. After hundreds of loads of ransom had been delivered to the Spanish leader in the Inca city of Cajamarca, the conquistadores had broken their promise and executed Atahualpa. Word had spread through the Inca world of the treachery, and an edict had gone out: the prosperous Inca nation’s treasure was to be safeguarded, far away from the invaders.

  Inkarri had traveled for many weeks, first crossing the Andes and then tackling the western jungle’s swollen rivers. He’d braved impossible terrain to put as many natural barriers between his people and the inva
ders as possible. Now, hundreds of miles from home, the procession was running short of resources. Many of the animals had perished along the way, and every surviving beast now bore an insupportable burden.

  Inkarri knew his trek couldn’t continue. The latest attack on his group by the hostile Amazon natives had taken its toll – hundreds of his men had died repelling the assaults. He slowed at the head of the column and cocked his head, his bronze features haggard from the trip’s demands, and listened intently.

  From the thick underbrush ahead came Lomu, his second in command, who’d been scouting with an advance party for possible new routes. Inkarri held his hand over his head to signal a stop.

  Lomu wiped rain from his face before leaning in close. “I found a promising site an hour away. It has streams – tributaries to the big river that winds through the area, so there will be plentiful fish,” he said in a quiet voice. “And I saw an auspicious omen. A jaguar, standing in the center of a small clearing. It’s what we’ve been waiting for. As clear as the gods could make it.”

  Inkarri looked to the sky. “An hour, you say? Very well. We have another few left before it gets dark. How difficult does it look to defend?”

  “If attacked we would have the high ground. And there’s a narrow river that runs along the northernmost section, which will serve as a natural barrier.”

  Inkarri nodded. “Pass the word down the line. We’re headed to our new home.”

  Lomu rushed to share the news with the men. They were close to their journey’s end, and the beginning of a new, secret life in an inhospitable wilderness. Their mission was clear – to establish a new city away from the Spanish where the wealth of the nation would be safe, a cradle for the fresh start of the civilization. When they had done so, Inkarri would return to the empire with news, leaving a trail of false clues and deceptive directions to confound any would-be pursuers. He’d seen the avarice of the conquistadores, and witnessed their duplicity, and knew their lust for gold and emeralds would never die – that he and his kind would never be safe.