Sahara Read online

  JET XV

  Sahara

  Russell Blake

  Copyright © 2019 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].

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  Contents

  Books by Russell Blake

  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

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Excerpt from A Girl Apart

  Books by Russell Blake

  Co-authored with Clive Cussler

  THE EYE OF HEAVEN

  THE SOLOMON CURSE

  Thrillers

  FATAL EXCHANGE

  FATAL DECEPTION

  THE GERONIMO BREACH

  ZERO SUM

  THE DELPHI CHRONICLE TRILOGY

  THE VOYNICH CYPHER

  SILVER JUSTICE

  UPON A PALE HORSE

  DEADLY CALM

  RAMSEY’S GOLD

  EMERALD BUDDHA

  THE GODDESS LEGACY

  A GIRL APART

  A GIRL BETRAYED

  QUANTUM SYNAPSE

  The Assassin Series

  KING OF SWORDS

  NIGHT OF THE ASSASSIN

  RETURN OF THE ASSASSIN

  REVENGE OF THE ASSASSIN

  BLOOD OF THE ASSASSIN

  REQUIEM FOR THE ASSASSIN

  RAGE OF THE ASSASSIN

  The Day After Never Series

  THE DAY AFTER NEVER – BLOOD HONOR

  THE DAY AFTER NEVER – PURGATORY ROAD

  THE DAY AFTER NEVER – COVENANT

  THE DAY AFTER NEVER – RETRIBUTION

  THE DAY AFTER NEVER – INSURRECTION

  THE DAY AFTER NEVER – PERDITION

  THE DAY AFTER NEVER – HAVOC

  THE DAY AFTER NEVER – LEGION

  The JET Series

  JET

  JET II – BETRAYAL

  JET III – VENGEANCE

  JET IV – RECKONING

  JET V – LEGACY

  JET VI – JUSTICE

  JET VII – SANCTUARY

  JET VIII – SURVIVAL

  JET IX – ESCAPE

  JET X – INCARCERATION

  JET XI – FORSAKEN

  JET XII – ROGUE STATE

  JET XIII – RENEGADE

  JET XIV – DARK WEB

  JET XV – SAHARA

  JET – OPS FILES (prequel)

  JET – OPS FILES; TERROR ALERT

  The BLACK Series

  BLACK

  BLACK IS BACK

  BLACK IS THE NEW BLACK

  BLACK TO REALITY

  BLACK IN THE BOX

  Non Fiction

  AN ANGEL WITH FUR

  HOW TO SELL A GAZILLION EBOOKS

  (while drunk, high or incarcerated)

  About the Author

  Featured in The Wall Street Journal, The Times, and The Chicago Tribune, Russell Blake is The NY Times and USA Today bestselling author of over fifty novels, including Fatal Exchange, Fatal Deception, The Geronimo Breach, Zero Sum, The Assassin series, The Delphi Chronicle trilogy, The Voynich Cypher, Silver Justice, the JET series, Upon a Pale Horse, the BLACK series, Deadly Calm, Ramsey’s Gold, Emerald Buddha, The Day After Never series, The Goddess Legacy, A Girl Apart, A Girl Betrayed, and Quantum Synapse.

  Non-fiction includes the international bestseller An Angel With Fur (animal biography) and How To Sell A Gazillion eBooks In No Time (even if drunk, high or incarcerated), a parody of all things writing-related.

  Blake is co-author of The Eye of Heaven and The Solomon Curse, with legendary author Clive Cussler. Blake’s novel King of Swords has been translated into German, The Voynich Cypher into Bulgarian, and his JET novels into Spanish, German, and Czech.

  Blake writes under the moniker R.E. Blake in the NA/YA/Contemporary Romance genres. Novels include Less Than Nothing, More Than Anything, and Best Of Everything.

  Having resided in Mexico for a dozen years, Blake enjoys his dogs, fishing, boating, tequila and writing, while battling world domination by clowns. His thoughts, such as they are, can be found at his blog:

  RussellBlake.com

  To get your free copy,

  just join my readers’ group here:

  http://bit.ly/rb-kos

  Chapter 1

  Werl, Germany

  The convicts in Werl Prison milled in the common areas as the faint sound of chanting from outside the walls drifted like smoke on the autumn breeze. A protest had been underway most of the afternoon, hitting its peak in the hours before sunset. Now that dinnertime had come and gone, some of the stridency had faded from the voices, but the protest leaders seemed tireless in playing to the assembled television cameras, and more activists had arrived with the coming of night to replace any laggards who’d headed home for sleep.

  The media circus had begun as a staged event to highlight the number of immigrants that were part of the prison population – the theme being that unrestricted immigration policies had resulted in a dramatic increase in crime, not to mention the cost to jail the lawbreakers in conditions comparable to those of a four-star hotel in their home countries. Other marches that had been simultaneously planned for two other prisons were also underway, part of a nationalist wave sweeping across Germany. The new surge of populism alarmed the current government, which had been largely responsible for the influx of northern African immigrants stoking the public’s ire, and the establishment was well represented by a phalanx of riot police carrying Plexiglas shields and batons.

  Inside the high brick prison walls, the scene was more orderly. Guards surveyed the hundreds of inmates from strategically located stations around the central courtyard or from watchtowers, those at the latter locations armed with sniper rifles. Due to overcrowding, the prison population was allowed to congregate in the open areas until ten p.m. before retiring to the cells, which were strained to the bursting point from the recent increase in convicts.

  Near one of the cell block entrances loitered a group of seven men, all swarthy and obviously of Arab blood, their beards announcing them as some of the strict Muslims imprisoned along with rank-and-file German criminals. Tariq, a tall, gaunt man with olive skin and a lush black beard, leaned into his companion and muttered in Arabic, “It is almost time.
I only need ten minutes. You know what to do.”

  His companion surreptitiously glanced at a cheap plastic watch before flicking his eyes to the guards. “Good luck, my brother. We shall make it so.”

  Tariq detached himself from the group. After sidling through the open doorway, he stopped at the nearest cell and ducked inside. He crossed to the stainless steel sink, felt beneath it, and retrieved a makeshift blade honed to a razor edge in the machine shop from a piece of scrap metal. A splash of water, and he drew the blade down across his cheek, removing an inch of scruff before rinsing the hair down the drain and continuing the process of shaving away his manly pride.

  When he was done, Tariq walked to one of the bunks and kneaded the unusually bulky pillow. He grunted and looked around and then removed a pair of dark green slacks and a matching shirt and jacket. He stripped off his prison togs and quickly donned the uniform, breathing heavily as he struggled into the jacket. A pair of worn boots several sizes too large completed his outfit, and within seconds he was at the open cell door, the blade in hand, head cocked while he listened.

  A shout greeted him from the courtyard, and then another, and then whistles joined the melee as more voices yelled in anger and alarm. Tariq waited until the half dozen cries had become scores, and then sliced his forehead with the blade. When the warm trickle ran to his eyebrows, he returned the blade to its hiding place beneath the sink as blood streamed down his newly shaven face. He allowed a suitable amount of crimson to darken the collar of his shirt before clamping the cut closed with his fingers and moving from the cell. As more voices hollered from the courtyard, he gave the nearby yard entrance a wide berth and continued down the corridor to the next doorway. A glance outside revealed a riot in process, with the guards attempting to restore order with their batons and whistles as inmates swung at each other with bare fists.

  Tariq edged into the courtyard and along the cell block wall until he was near one of the guard posts, where a short German guard with the physique of an anvil called to him. “How bad are you hurt?”

  “Bad enough.”

  “Get to the infirmary. We’ll have this lot under control in no time.”

  “Will do.”

  Tariq brushed past him and strode to where two guards were watching from behind bulletproof glass by the administrative entryway. When he reached the heavy steel door, one of the men tripped the lock release, and the metal slab swung open. Tariq stepped through, and the hydraulics reclosed the door with the heavy thunk of a bank vault, and then he was marching along the pristine hallway, brushing past other uniformed guards, who gave him room, his bloodstained shirt and face telegraphing his destination.

  He knew from studying blueprints that the infirmary was halfway to the main prison entrance, down a flight of stairs on the basement level. He’d correctly determined that an injured guard during a prison riot wouldn’t be subjected to the usual rigid scrutiny that anyone roaming the halls would under normal circumstances, and his confidence grew as he reached the stairwell and another guard moved aside to allow him to pass.

  “Need any help?” the man asked.

  “Nein. It’s a scratch,” Tariq answered in fluent German.

  “Good luck. Doesn’t look like a scratch to me. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

  “Thanks.”

  At the basement level, Tariq stopped at the second doorway and tried the handle, which twisted in his grasp. He stepped into a dark room and felt for the light switch. The overhead fluorescent bulbs flickered to life, bathing the area in cold white. He locked the door behind him and strode to where a tall metal cabinet stood by one of the massive fan housings that lined the wall.

  During the summer months, the huge blades would have been spinning at high RPM, forcing air up into the building; but now, in late autumn, the weather was cool and the ventilators were shut down. Tariq knew that there were six similar vaults scattered around the compound, but had chosen this one due to its proximity to the infirmary, as well as its accessibility by the maintenance crew that two of his men were part of.

  Inside the cabinet he found a power screwdriver, a hammer, a penlight, and a chisel right where expected. He pocketed the chisel and slid the hammer into the waistband of his pants, and then went to work with the screwdriver on the nearest housing, the tool’s whine loud in the confined space, but a necessary evil that was part of his calculated risk. When he had a section of the housing free, he lifted it clear and peered inside the shaft, which was black as the grave. He replaced the screwdriver in the cabinet and extinguished the lights and, after switching on the flashlight, climbed into the shaft and began a crawl that would take him a hundred and forty-six meters to an exhaust vent on an outside wall.

  Tariq wasn’t worried about the housing being discovered. By the time anyone sounded the alarm about a prisoner escape, he would be long gone, and it would take hours of studying security cam footage to understand how he’d evaded all the safeguards designed to keep inmates imprisoned, much less from what area he’d escaped. The courtyard scuffle he’d arranged would occupy at least a half hour of the guards’ time, and when a head count ultimately turned up a missing man, it would take yet more precious time to identify and search for him.

  It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was adequate, and his escape was now a foregone conclusion as long as he didn’t make any stupid mistakes. Tariq crawled with dogged determination, ignoring the pain in his knees and elbows caused by rivets embedded in the hard surface. When he reached the exhaust vent, he eyed the iron braces that formed a protective grid in the dim glow of the penlight, which he then flicked off and pocketed.

  The chisel made short work of the braces where they connected to the concrete, softened over decades to the point where it took only a few blows with the hammer to slice through the walls and tear the screws free. The designers of the prison had never contemplated the ventilation grids as barriers to keep inmates in or intruders out, so they weren’t the heavy, military-grade hardware with which most of the rest of the prison had been built.

  Three minutes after starting on the grid, he kicked it free and could stare out into the night air, the sound of the protest from the far side of the compound faint but audible.

  Tariq lowered himself feet first until he was hanging from the cavity, and then released his hold and fell into the darkness. He dropped four meters and landed hard, wincing from a lance of pain in his right leg as he rolled and then forced himself to his feet. He tested his weight to confirm nothing was broken, and then took off at a measured clip for the perimeter fence, which was more an afterthought to keep graffiti artists away from the walls than a serious impediment to escape. At the fence he used the claw end of the hammer to scrape away enough of the soil at the base to squeeze beneath it, and then he was on the far side, jogging toward the road, where a car would be waiting to spirit him away.

  He reached the strip of pavement and cursed under his breath when he didn’t see any likely cars – all appeared empty, their windows lightly misted with condensation. He glared at his surroundings, his mind racing, and ducked into the shadows of a doorway as headlights bounced along the road toward him. A vehicle approached, and his breath caught as it slowed and coasted to a stop ten meters away. Tariq peered from the doorway and saw that it was his ride, and exhaled in relief before looking around to confirm nobody was watching, and sprinted for the car.

  A woman sat behind the wheel with a grim expression, which surprised him only momentarily – nobody had consulted him on who would pick him up, and it made sense to use someone who would be unlikely to arouse suspicion if stopped. He opened the passenger door and dropped heavily into the seat as the woman put the transmission into gear. He’d barely pulled the door closed when she took off, the motor buzzing like a leaf blower from beneath the tiny hood.

  “We have another car waiting two kilometers away. This one is for the traffic cameras,” she said in Arabic, her accent musical in spite of the circumstances. “Stolen four hours ago.” Her
eyes flitted to the dried blood on his face. “Do you need medical attention?”

  “No. It’s already clotted. Just get me to the other car and I’ll be fine.”

  “There’s a bottle of water and some orange juice in the glove compartment.”

  Tariq nodded at the thoughtfulness of his followers at foreseeing that he might need fortification after his sprint to freedom. “Good. Any problems? You’re late.”

  “They closed down some of the approaches because of the protest. Couldn’t be helped.”

  A handheld radio crackled, and a baritone German voice emanated from the speaker. The woman’s expression didn’t change when the transmission ended, and she barely slowed as they reached an intersection. “We’ll hear on the police band as soon as they put out the word on you. So far, nothing. Just a lot of traffic about the protest and crowd control.”

  Tariq allowed himself a rare smile and rubbed his smooth chin. “Everything is working perfectly.”

  “So far,” the woman agreed.

  “Let’s hope it continues. We only need a few hours of fortune favoring us and we’ll be home free.”

  Chapter 2

  Al Ghurayfah, Libya

  Salmon and crimson had painted the western sky as the sun sank like a burning ember into the pall of haze hanging over the high ridge that stretched to infinity along the southern reaches of the desert. Only a few of the homes in the small town had lights burning in their windows; the majority plunged into darkness with the passing of day, electricity an impossible luxury in an outpost at the edge of a sandy hell, the heat stifling even as night fell.

  A battered Toyota truck bounced along a rutted dirt street and pulled to a stop in front of a single-story mud-brick home. Two men carrying Kalashnikov assault rifles climbed from the ancient vehicle and approached the front door. It opened after a few moments, and after scanning the empty road, they entered.

  “My friends!” said the man who’d let them in. “Come. Sit with me and celebrate the escape of our friend and spiritual leader. It is a joyous occasion we’ve been awaiting for too long.”