JET - Sanctuary
Page 1
JET VII – Sanctuary
Russell Blake
Copyright © 2013 by Russell Blake. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact:
Books@RussellBlake.com.
Cover Photo by: Regina Wamba of MaeIDesign.com
Published by
Contents
About the Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
JET Ops Files excerpt
Thrillers by Russell Blake
FATAL EXCHANGE
THE GERONIMO BREACH
ZERO SUM
THE DELPHI CHRONICLE TRILOGY
THE VOYNICH CYPHER
SILVER JUSTICE
UPON A PALE HORSE
The Assassin Series by Russell Blake
KING OF SWORDS
NIGHT OF THE ASSASSIN
RETURN OF THE ASSASSIN
REVENGE OF THE ASSASSIN
BLOOD OF THE ASSASSIN
The JET Series by Russell Blake
JET
JET II – BETRAYAL
JET III – VENGEANCE
JET IV – RECKONING
JET V – LEGACY
JET VI – JUSTICE
JET VII – SANCTUARY
JET – OPS FILES (prequel)
The BLACK Series by Russell Blake
BLACK
BLACK IS BACK
BLACK IS THE NEW BLACK
BLACK TO REALITY
Co-authored with Clive Cussler
THE EYE OF HEAVEN
Non Fiction by Russell Blake
AN ANGEL WITH FUR
HOW TO SELL A GAZILLION EBOOKS
(while drunk, high or incarcerated)
About the Author
A Wall Street Journal and The Times featured author, Russell Blake lives full time on the Pacific coast of Mexico. He is the acclaimed author of many thrillers, including the Assassin series, the JET series, and the BLACK series. He has also co-authored The Eye of Heaven with Clive Cussler for Penguin Books.
“Capt.” Russell enjoys writing, fishing, playing with his dogs, collecting and sampling tequila, and waging an ongoing battle against world domination by clowns.
Visit Russell’s salient website for updates
Follow Russell on Twitter
To be alerted to new releases, sign up here
Chapter 1
Medellín, Colombia
Amber veins of light trickled down the surrounding slopes, giving the metropolis a festive aura even at eleven on a moonless night. The cool mountain air huffed benignly, a welcome deliverance after a passing cloudburst had rinsed the city clean, leaving behind an essence of ozone, jungle, and wet earth mingled with the smell of wood-fired barbecues and exhaust. The downtown nightclub area had just found its stride, and young lovers ambled along in time as they toured the car-clogged boulevards, the atmosphere crackling with excitement and possibility.
In a working-class neighborhood near the clubs, a blue neon toucan clutching a whiskey bottle and waving an AK-47 blinked over the doorway of a colonial façade nestled at the bottom of a deserted side street. The faded lettering on the frontage promised cold beer and air-conditioning. Strains of plaintive music drifted from the entry, a salsa ballad equal parts heart-wrenching lament and diatribe against love gone wrong. A collection of rusting sedans and battered trucks lined the curb for the entire block. Roving stray dogs loped along in the shadows in search of scraps or better booty, their occasional warning growls competing with the mélange of ambient music.
Inside the gloomy watering hole, a pall of smoke hung over the customers like a cloud of mosquitoes. A wiry bartender with heavy acne scars and a thick black mustache stood behind a dark wood bar polishing a glass, one eye on a television silently blaring out Shakira’s greatest hits as the feisty singer’s hips ground with rhythmic veracity. The clientele was awash with middle-aged men, alone and serious about drinking, doing so in muted tones and with the steady efficiency of automatons. Blind by now to the image of the gun-toting warrior toucan – an unfortunate theme on the dingy walls – they had long since stopped feeding the half-century-old red jukebox that glowed in the far corner, and conversation was muted. The smattering of ladies among them were professional companions for hire who’d been plying their trade there for so many summers they now played the jukebox out of habit.
Five men sat near the back of the room at a circular wooden table, a small pile of American money in the center – tens and twenties. Bottles of half-drunk beer sat sweating as wooly tendrils of gray smoke streamed upward from two oversized ashtrays.
Four of the players were obviously local, faces hard, skin the color of burnished brass – men who spent their lives outdoors, the sun’s toll a badge of honor. The fifth man had light-brown hair, a goatee and a fair complexion. His face was unremarkable except for the eyes, which were grayer than sharkskin beneath their hooded lids. He reached for his nearly empty rum and Coke and drained it, then set the glass back on the table and laid his cards face down in front of him.
The other men suppressed their disapproval as he leaned back and fished a cigarette from the pack beside his cocktail, every movement slow, as if the alcohol had caught up with him and the simple act was exhausting. He flipped open a steel Zippo lighter and thumbed it alight. Once his Marlboro was glowing, he blew a long stream of smoke at the ceiling.
“Come on. What’s it going to be?” a player snarled in Spanish, his patience at an end.
“Why, Jaime – that’s right, isn’t it – Jaime? It’s rude to intrude on another man’s thoughts when he’s considering how to play his winning hand to maximum effect.” The American could have been chiding a child – in acceptable Spanish.
“We don’t have all night,” Jaime’s companion complained from beside him. “Enough of the big talk. All night with the big talk. Put up or shut up.”
“See? That’s the thing. I took the time to remember your friend’s name. Yours too, César. And yet I’d win a side bet you didn’t do the same for mine, which is just plain rude.” The American supplemented his declaration with a cold stare.
As César leaned forward, the lines of hardship on his face deepened under the glare of the lamp suspended over the table. “I don’t care. I’m not here for a date. What are you going to do?” he demanded, nodding at the American’s cards and the pile of dollars.
“Are you alway
s in such a hurry to lose your money?”
Jaime slammed his hand down on the table. “Enough with the talk. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The American shook his head. “That’s not how poker is played, gentlemen. A man has to have time to make a decision.”
The snub nose of a Smith & Wesson revolver glinted in the light as César placed it on the table. He glowered at the American, and when he spoke, it came out as a rasp. “This is how we play it here.”
“Well, if we’re going to do it that way, we might as well play for it all, your gun included. Looks like it might be worth a couple hundred.” The American pushed in everything in front of him. “Raise. All in.”
César nodded. “Call. The pistol too.” He pushed his remaining few bills into the pot. “Showdown, puta.”
The thickset man eyed the gun without blinking. “I’ll show when you do,” he said, stretching poker etiquette to the breaking point.
“Don’t be an old woman,” César scolded and fanned his cards out with a triumphant smile. “Three aces.” He gave the American a dark look. “Time to go home broke, puta.”
The thickset man rolled his cards onto the table and snorted. “Mierda. Beats my two pair.”
Jaime tossed his cards into the muck. “I’m out.”
The American hesitated, the tension building as he lifted the edge of his cards and looked at them. He drew a long pull from his cigarette and flipped over the pasteboards, revealing queens full of sevens.
César’s left eye twitched once. His gaze locked on the American’s, and then he was groping for his gun as the thickset man pushed away from the table.
The American reacted in a blur. Cigarettes flew everywhere as the heavy glass ashtray caught César across the bridge of his nose. Blood erupted onto his shirt, and he howled in rage as Jaime clumsily drew a Ruger 9mm pistol. The American rounded the table with a lunge, and his beer bottle caught Jaime in the temple. The bottle shattered, leaving the American holding the jagged neck, which he twisted across César’s throat before grabbing the revolver from the tabletop and slamming the butt into Jaime’s jaw. Bone cracked with an audible snap. Jaime’s cry of anguish was cut short by another blow to his skull. His eyes rolled into his head, and he slumped to the floor with a groan. César clutched his traumatized neck, trying to stop the spurting river of blood with his splay of wooden fingers.
The American stooped down, retrieved the Ruger from the floor, and pocketed it. The thickset man stood, transfixed by the sudden violence, his eyes wide with fear, his breathing heavy. The rest of the bar had gone quiet, nobody daring to say a word. The American held up the revolver so everyone could see it.
“I won this pot fair and square. Right?” he said, his voice soft.
Thickset man nodded. “Absolutely.”
“And everyone saw César there go for his gun, and his buddy Jaime pull his – on an unarmed man, sí? This was self-defense.”
“Of course.”
The American scooped up the cash, stuffed it into his jacket pocket and then moved to the door. At the threshold he turned to face the room, holding the revolver aloft. “It would be smart if nobody was still here in five minutes. I might come back to check. You” – he waved at the bartender with the gun – “give the police an accurate description of me. A short laborer from the coast – dark skin, black hair. If anyone says different, I’ll hear about it, and you don’t want to invite that into your life.” He stared at the assembled drinkers and then reached into his pocket, tossing a hundred-dollar bill onto the floor. “That’s for the drinks. I mean it about coming back to check,” he said as he tucked the revolver into his waistband. “Five minutes.”
Once on the deserted sidewalk he broke into a jog. When he reached the main drag, he turned the corner and blended into the flow of late-night revelers, confident the bar would be empty by the time the police arrived. Nobody wanted trouble, and the cops in Medellín were as notorious as anywhere in Latin America for extortion and corruption. Being caught up in an investigation would lead nowhere good, especially for the working girls, who’d probably vanished within sixty seconds of his exit, followed closely by anyone with a brain.
That left the bartender who would, if he was smart, claim he didn’t remember anything specific…and César and Jaime. César would be dead within minutes from blood loss, and Jaime wouldn’t be talking to anyone for a long time – eating through a straw tended to dampen the enthusiasm of even the most garrulous – and the American was confident that the police would have better things to do than try to run down a hazy and conflicting description weeks or months after the fact.
Two blocks up he cut over onto another small street, and then he was gone, the echo of his footsteps fading into the night.
Chapter 2
Los Andes, Chile
Jet’s vision was beginning to blur after driving for hours. The change of altitude from the summit and the constant vigilance demanded by the treacherous road were finally taking their toll. The infinite twists and turns had required all her attention, and now, as two a.m. neared, she was fading and knew it. Hannah snoozed cozily in her car seat in the back while Matt did his best to provide quiet moral support from the passenger side, watching the mountain terrain blur by as he fought to keep his eyes open. They needed to get off the road for a while.
They continued toward the town of Los Andes, at the base of the jutting mountains, and then took the exit and entered the city limits. Theirs was the only car on the empty main street, but Jet watched her speed, wary of attracting the attention of any bored or enterprising police eager to shake down tourists.
“How you holding up?” Matt asked.
“Good, although I’m ready for some sleep. How’s the arm?” she asked, eyeing his cast.
“A twinge every now and then. Remind me not to dive off balconies anymore, would you?”
“I didn’t tell you to show off.”
“True. You want to find a motel here?”
She glanced at him. “Too close to the pass. I think I’d rather keep going to San Felipe.”
“How far?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“You’re the boss.”
They rolled through Los Andes and entered an alluvial valley framed by farmland on either side of the two-lane highway, the snowcapped outline of the mountains glowing behind them. The damp breeze was thick with the scent of vineyards, the vista of grapevines a parade of rigid lines stretching to the horizon under a wash of ghostly moonlight. After more or less forever, San Felipe appeared from the darkness like a blatant mirage. One moment they were surrounded by endless farmland, bugs splattering against the windshield, and the next, multistory buildings were rising out of the gloom.
Jet drove slowly along the main road until she saw a small sign with “Hotel” painted on it in red. An unsteady arrow below pointed down a side street. She swung the SUV right and found herself facing a long building constructed of variegated brick, only a few cars in the lot, all with Chilean plates. She pulled to a stop near the office, which was dark except for the soft glow of a low-wattage bulb somewhere in its depths.
“Wait here. I’ll get us a room.”
Matt looked at her. “You sure? I can handle it.”
“You’re a little more memorable with the broken wing and the barbecued head than I am.”
“Not really, but I know better than to argue.”
Inside, she rang a bell on the chipped counter and waited as rustling emanated from the back room. Moments later an ancient man with a prune face shuffled through a doorway and, after a brief discussion, gladly took her American dollars and handed her a key, uninterested in details pertaining to her identity or nationality.
She returned to the car and pulled it around to a spot near the room door before hoisting the still-dozing Hannah and ferrying her as Matt secured their entry.
The room was no worse than countless others she’d laid her head in. She placed Hannah on one of the two twin beds and spen
t a long moment gazing at her before catching Matt’s eye.
“I’ll be back in a second with the bags,” she said.
“I can help.”
“I don’t need it. Just get ready for bed.”
Jet drove the Explorer off the motel grounds and parked in front of a modest house on a side street. She glanced around, looking for evidence of potential problems. Confident she was alone, Jet popped the glove compartment and removed the Explorer’s owner’s manual. After reading a few pages, she felt around under the dash and quickly located the fuse box, removed the fuel pump relay, and then slipped it into her pocket, ensuring the car wouldn’t be driven off without her during the night. Satisfied that any thieves would be frustrated by her precaution, she retrieved her bags and the various parts of the Glock and headed back to the motel.
Matt was coming out of the bathroom when Jet returned to the room. Jet sat wordlessly at the table near the window and quickly reassembled the pistol to functional order. She chambered a round, set it on the nightstand, unzipped her bag and removed a T-shirt and her hygiene kit.
Matt was already asleep when she emerged from the bathroom, and she only hesitated a second before climbing onto the bed with Hannah, who snuggled next to her with a low mewl and then resumed sleeping, breath soft and moist and sweet against her mother’s neck.
Jet’s last thought as her eyes fluttered shut was that they’d made it, leaving their pursuers with nothing. She smiled at the thought and drifted off to sleep, one of the longest days of her life now drawn to a close.
Chapter 3
Langley, Virginia
The early morning rush hour was just getting underway as Carson Santell entered the cavernous warehouse three miles from CIA headquarters. He’d parked his black Lexus on the far side of the lot well away from the security cameras that monitored the front and rear entrances, and made his way to the side door, where he knew from long experience the feed would have been turned off several minutes earlier.