Jet 03: Vengeance Read online

  JET III

  Vengeance

  Russell Blake

  Copyright 2012 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 [email protected].

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  Maps of Featured Locations

  Prologue

  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

  Afterword

  Excerpts from JET IV – Reckoning and Silver Justice

  JET IV – Reckoning

  Prologue

  Silver Justice

  Chapter 1

  About the Author

  Russell Blake lives full time on the Pacific coast of Mexico. He is the acclaimed author of the thrillers Fatal Exchange, The Geronimo Breach, Zero Sum, The Delphi Chronicle trilogy (The Manuscript, The Tortoise and the Hare, and Phoenix Rising), King of Swords, Night of the Assassin,The Voynich Cypher, Revenge of the Assassin, Return of the Assassin, Silver Justice, JET, JET II – Betrayal, JET III – Vengeance, and JET IV – Reckoning.

  Non-fiction novels include the international bestseller An Angel With Fur (animal biography) and How To Sell A Gazillion eBooks (while drunk, high or incarcerated) – a joyfully vicious parody of all things writing and self-publishing related.

  “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

  Author’s Note

  JET III – Vengeance is a work of fiction, and any resemblance of characters in it to real people or organizations is strictly coincidental. As far as I know, the Mossad and CIA are honest, hardworking organizations above reproach – however, that doesn’t make for a very compelling action/adventure thriller, so I’ve taken some literary liberties and imagined organizations that are riddled with corruption.

  The entire JET series is an over-the-top romp with an unstoppable female protagonist. If you’re looking for reality, or Sophie’s Choice, this ain’t it. If you’re looking for a pure adrenaline-filled thrill ride that’s unapologetically larger than life, you’ve come to the right place.

  Yemen is the poorest country in the region, plagued by ongoing civil wars and tribal strife, and many of the areas outside of the capital of Sana’a are dangerous to the point of being a death sentence for those foolhardy enough to venture there. That said, it is also a country of remarkable beauty, a study in contradictions. I have chosen to focus more on the ugly than the sublime, however, as again, a portrayal of the postcard spots doesn’t make for much of a thriller.

  The situation in the Middle East is, and has always been, complex, as has America’s relationship with many of the players. Iran was a bastion of U.S. support until the Shah’s government fell from favor with the population it governed, and then a fundamentalist regime took over and it became the enemy. Iraq was for decades an ally, throughout Saddam Hussein’s rule; then one day it wasn’t, and he was the devil. Saudi Arabia is counted as an ally, and yet is also the largest terrorist financier in the world. And so on. It’s complicated. I have tried to simplify some things that are essentially complex. Hopefully you’ll allow that literary conceit.

  Maps of Featured Locations

  Sana’a, Yemen

  Montevideo, Uruguay

  Moscow, Russia

  Prologue

  Two weeks before, Alatfain Valley, Yemen

  The battered gold-tone Toyota Land Cruiser ripped down the dirt road, throwing up a cloud of yellow dust as it approached the desolate hamlet, which was deserted except for a Mercedes sedan – the lavish vehicle incongruous amid the wind-torn walls and half-collapsed structures of what had once been a hopeful little village, long abandoned to the encroaching desert.

  The SUV rolled to a stop near the car and the rear doors flew open. Two men stepped out holding assault rifles. The front passenger door swung wide and a figure in a navy-blue pinstripe suit, carrying a briefcase, climbed from the cab and moved towards the nearest building, his black eel-skin valise gleaming in the harsh sunlight.

  The gunmen surveyed their surroundings with suspicious eyes, though there was nothing to see but the dizzy haze of the ravaged land, distorted by the heat waves rising from the sand. A few miles in the distance, a ridge of hills shimmered with the same washed-out palette as the rest of the landscape.

  The sand and dust permeated everything eventually. Even in the rarified atmosphere of the SUV, with filters for the filters, the fulvous essence of the desert seeped in, coating everything with a desiccated film.

  The suited man seemed unfazed by the brutal heat, appearing for all the world to be a successful banker or businessman on his way to the office rather than an interloper in the inhospitable landscape. He stepped gingerly over the bloated corpse of a dead dog, ignoring the swarming congregation of black flies. Glancing around, he strode into the building past his bodyguards, whose postures conveyed agitation at this solitary rendezvous, their weapons sweeping the horizon.

  “That’s far enough. Tell your men to stay back. Only you approach.” The sandpaper voice was abrupt, the accent harsh and foreign. Russian was obviously not the man’s forte.

  “Of course. They are merely here to ensure we aren’t interrupted. I have no doubts about you, or I wouldn’t be here,” the suited man assured – his insincere half-grin tugging at his wormy lips. His Russian was fluid, languorous, musical, with the cadence of a native speaker. He made a gesture, and the gunmen took positions in the shade just inside the clay brick entrance, one of them eyeing the aperture overhead where the roof had collapsed, the victim of an errant mortar round.

  “You have brought what was agreed?” the robed man demanded, his thawb gathered around him as he sat cross-legged on the dirt floor. Armed with machine guns, three guards clad in the distinctive dress of the local tribesmen stood in the shadows at the far end of the room.

  “Yes. A token of our intent. Enough so that you can verify our claims. And to save you some trouble, I also brought you some footage of the effects on a volunteer.” The corners of the suited man’s mouth twitched with the beginnings of a smile.

  “Very well. Show me.” The seated man gestured for the suited man to approach.

  As he reached into his suit pocket, the guards bristled, watching him
as he slowly extracted a cell phone and held it out. The seated man rose and stood facing him, eyes fixed hawk-like on the screen.

  A date and time indicator ticked away in the bottom right corner, indicating that the footage had been captured three days prior. Static gave way to the drab gray of a room with raw concrete walls, where a young man sat on a bunk behind bars, sipping a bowl of soup, obviously unaware that he was being filmed. The lighting changed subtly as the images jumped ahead an hour. The prisoner was pacing his cell, wiping perspiration from his face, his ragged shirt drenched with sweat stains, screaming in a panicked voice for his captors to help him. The time indicator jumped ahead another two hours: the man was now lying on his bunk, shaking and moaning, his body racked by tremors. Two more hours and he was convulsing, his face distorted by agony. Two hours further and his nose, mouth, and ears were seeping blood; his pants were soaked with it, a trail of crimson vomit on his shirtfront as he lay gurgling on the floor in a pool of his own making.

  The robed man’s eyes flickered from the screen to the suited man’s steady gaze, then back to the image. One hour later: The corpse’s skin was discolored, bluish-black, already bloating from the pressure of internal gasses.

  The final frame was of something barely recognizable as human: the epidermis split open, rotting as the flesh liquefied, horrifying to witness even on the tiny screen. The digital counter froze. Total elapsed time: a little over eight hours.

  “And this can be introduced how?” the robed man finally inquired, his face betraying nothing.

  “It was engineered for airborne delivery. Anyone breathing it will suffer the same fate as the man on the video.”

  “Is it contagious?”

  “No.”

  The robed man grunted, and then returned to his spot on the floor. “Can you make it contagious? So infection can occur without direct inhalation required?”

  The suited man appeared to consider the question, as if it hadn’t been a topic of hot debate with his superiors. Eventually, he nodded. “Anything can be done for a price. But it would be very time-consuming, and it isn’t simple.”

  “It never is.”

  “One of the concerns is that taken beyond its weaponized form and made contagious, we couldn’t allow it into anyone’s hands until there was a one-hundred-percent effective antidote or vaccine. Otherwise this would be more than simply a bio-weapon. It would mean the end of human life.”

  “Hmmm. Well, we don’t want that, do we? Just the end of some human life.” He motioned for the suited man to sit across from him on a blanket and cushions that had been placed on the ground for the purpose, and shifted on his own cushion. The suited man sat, as though this sort of meeting was a common one for him.

  “I have a sample with me, which should be enough to try on a handful of subjects, so you’re assured of its effectiveness. But I warn you, the bodies must be disposed of. Cremated, so there are no trails to follow. And you absolutely cannot release it in any way. Even a hint that this has made its way into the world will shut down all discussion with my group and bring about the harshest of consequences. That is not negotiable.” The Russian’s tone had softened.

  The robed man’s eyes narrowed to slits in the gloom; an ugly look had taken residence on his face. “You dare to come into my world and threaten me?” he growled.

  “Of course not. I am merely passing on the message, as instructed.”

  After a tense moment, the robed man nodded his understanding, and the other slid the briefcase towards him, scraping a trail in the yellow dust.

  “There is no way to reverse-engineer this agent, and it will only remain active for seventy-two more hours. The production version will be effective for one week. Handle it with supreme care – the slightest deviation from the accompanying instructions will result in disaster,” the Russian said.

  “I will make the transfer to your account. Twenty million euros, correct?”

  “Yes. As agreed. Once we have that, I will need to understand how large a batch you will be ordering, and will get some estimates on the cost of making it contagious. How large a population do you need the agent to…neutralize?”

  The robed man’s eyes rolled towards the ceiling as he considered the question. He frowned. “As many as possible. Thousands. Millions, if it can be done.”

  The suited man’s expression didn’t change. “I see. That will be expensive. Especially if we are able to make it contagious.”

  “I expect that it will be – very expensive. Do not worry about costs. Leave that to me. Just go back and convey my requirements.”

  The suited man rose. “We have concluded for now. Remember, no traces of your verification tests, or this contract will be terminated before it begins.” He tossed the phone containing the footage to the seated man and turned without another word, his hand-crafted Scarpe di Bianco shoes rustling on the dirt as he made his way back to his waiting gunmen at the building’s entry.

  A whippet-thin bodyguard with an ivory-colored headdress approached the briefcase, waiting until the robed man nodded before shouldering his weapon and stooping down to pick it up.

  “Providence has smiled upon us,” he said in a reverential tone, cradling the valise carefully in his gnarled hands.

  “Indeed it has – we are close to achieving our goal now. Closer than ever before. The infidels will soon pay an unimaginably high price for their arrogant imperialistic ways. But come – we are done here. Prepare to leave,” the robed man ordered, steepling his fingers as he regarded the case.

  Outside, the Land Cruiser started with a roar and returned down the track, dust billowing from behind as it disappeared into the blurred beige horizon.

  From a strategic position on the far hills, a figure shifted binoculars back to the hamlet, waiting for the Mercedes to depart. Steel-gray eyes peered through the lenses, and a rivulet of sweat trickled through the powdery crust on the man’s face, leaving a dark streak as it worked its way towards the arid ground. He was invisible, he knew, as long as he didn’t make any sudden movements, the rocks he was nestled behind cloaking his position.

  He lifted his satellite phone to his ear, pressed the transmit button, and murmured into it, all the while watching the rendezvous site.

  A flash from below caught his attention. He swung his glasses towards the glint and, for a brief second, saw a gunman looking in his direction through binoculars of his own; then watched in horror as the man dropped his glasses to his chest and called out to the guards in the building, pointing up at his position.

  Shit.

  He was blown.

  There was no point in waiting for the inevitable. The screaming man pulled a phone from his robe and made a call, then barked instructions as four guards clamored out of the structure to join him.

  He had seen enough. Moving stealthily, he ducked back behind the cover of the boulders and then crawled down to a ravine. Once out of sight of the buildings, he bolted for a small cave on the other side of the hill where he’d made camp the day before.

  He lost his footing on an area of loose gravel and went down hard, wrenching his ankle and slamming against the ground. His binoculars hit the rocks with a clatter and one of the lenses shattered. The impact stopped him, but he shook it off. Every second counted now; there was no time for hesitation.

  From across the expanse, he heard motors start. One would be the Mercedes, but he wasn’t worried about the sleek sedan. It was the others that had been concealed around the back of the village that were trouble – but an even larger concern for him was the phone call the gunman had made.

  He hurriedly limped to his ATV, pulled off the camouflage netting, and climbed onto the parched seat and cranked the starter. The engine sputtered to life with a puff of blue smoke, and within seconds he was flying down the back side of the hill towards a gap, where the trail he had taken led to a dry river bed that would deliver him back to relative civilization.

  A hazy cloud followed him as he roared up the ravine, his ATV’s
tires gripping the sandy terrain tenaciously as he goosed the throttle, mind racing over his escape options even as he climbed in altitude. The dry air stung his eyes, grit borne on the wind an ever-present hazard; he squinted, ignoring the discomfort as he raced from his pursuers.

  He slowed once he came to the riverbed and cocked his head, listening.

  It sounded like at least two ATVs coming after him.

  The options weren’t good. He could try to outrun them but had no advantage other than a slim head start, so it would likely come down to whose gas tank contained the most juice. He knew he had a half tank, but if one of the pursuers had more, he was toast.

  That left him with the option of finding an area of high ground and ambushing them.

  The strap of his Kalashnikov bit into his shoulder, as if urging him to allow it to solve the problem. That choice held a lot more appeal than running through the desert mountains in the hopes his pursuers would run dry first.

  The rumbling sound of approaching motors decided it for him. If he didn’t ambush them, he was a dead man.

  Twisting the handlebars, he gunned the gas and shot for a rise several hundred yards away. With any luck he could reach it before they came into view, and then it would be child’s play to pick them off, even with the questionably accurate AK-47.

  He rolled to a stop next to an outcropping of brown rock, killed the engine, and dropped to a crouch before moving away from his vehicle. No point in telegraphing his position if they caught a glimpse of it. The tan paint job made that unlikely, but his luck wasn’t running strong and he didn’t want to chance it.

  The strident protests of the ATVs’ motors grew louder. He gripped his rifle, wedging it between two smaller stones for stability. The pursuit was a minor disaster, but one he could recover from.