Jet 03: Vengeance Read online

  As the first rider rounded the trail’s dogleg bend, he sighted, waiting for the second to come into range before opening fire. The ATV slowed, as if sensing a trap, and then the other flew into view, skidding on the fine gravel as the pilot struggled to maintain control.

  The Kalashnikov kicked, pounding against his shoulder as he squeezed off three rounds at the emerging ATV. The shots sounded like grenades detonating in the hills. He watched the rider drop to the ground, his chest pummeled by two of the three bullets, his vehicle skidding askance before crashing into a ledge.

  The second rider twisted the throttle and tore for a nearby boulder. Slugs slammed into the sand around the dodging ATV but none found home, and the rider made it to a position of safety behind the huge rock. He cursed to himself as the gunman disappeared from view – he could expect return fire any moment.

  As expected, a sharp crack erupted from the boulder almost immediately and a chip of stone sundered from the rock beside him.

  Great. Just what he needed. Out of all the possible adversaries he could have drawn, he had to get one that could actually shoot reasonably well. As if confirming his thought, another boom echoed in the canyon and a round slapped into the hill immediately behind him. Too close for comfort.

  He fired back, peppering the sides of the boulder with lead, then rolled behind a larger outcropping that would provide better cover.

  Barring a miracle, they were at a standoff. Neither man would be able to move without exposing himself to the other.

  The sun beat down with relentless fury as they exchanged shots, neither doing any damage. He glanced at his watch after another ineffective volley, wondering how much more time he had. If the man on the sat phone had called in reinforcements, it was all over. And there was little doubt in his mind that he’d done so.

  The hot breeze became stagnant as he ran options in his head, and then in the distance he heard a faint roar – a rumbling that seemed to shake the ground. He dared a peek to the north and his heart sank as the sky darkened with an ominous brown, the cloud impenetrable as it moved directly at his position. This was the dreaded ghobar– a sandstorm that could be deadly if you were caught in the open.

  Experience of the region’s storms had taught him that he would only have a few minutes to prepare. He fired off another three shots to keep his pursuer occupied, then unwound his headdress and wrapped it across his nose and mouth. He was completely exposed except for the scant cover of the rocks, which would do little to cushion the force of nature’s ugly wrath headed his way. His only real hope was to keep his face pressed as close to the rocks as possible while he waited for it to pass. The struggle against his adversary would have to take a back seat until the ghobar passed.

  The air pressure plummeted, and then with a whoosh the sky overhead darkened as the raging cloud of sand pummeled him at full force. He clenched his eyes tight and focused on keeping the worst of it out of his ears and nose with his head cloth, but could barely draw breath. The barrage of airborne confusion tore at his flesh like fishhooks, and the few areas of exposed skin felt like they were being sandblasted away – which wasn’t far from the truth.

  It was all he could do to hold onto his rifle and ride out the relentless battering. The wind noise escalated to a deafening howl as the storm blew by him with locomotive force. It seemed impossible that anything could live through this.

  Eventually, the sting of the sand lightened in intensity, and he could breathe a little easier – the worst had passed, leaving him shaking and worn, but alive.

  When the roaring in his ears diminished to a tolerable level and the thrashing had subsided, he opened his eyes, squinting against the return of the sun’s blistering rays.

  A shadow crossed his line of vision, and the blurred form of a robed native loomed over him as he fumbled to bring his rifle up; but he was too late. The curved blade of a dagger slashed across his throat, spraying a rubicund shower of blood into the wind as the tail of the sandstorm dragged his life with it, his existence terminated in a sweltering no man’s land at the ass end of the planet by a grinning killer with soulless black eyes and leathery skin the color of jerky.

  Chapter 1

  Present day, Montevideo, Uruguay

  Jet’s running shoes pounded against the ragged pavement as she bolted towards the narrow alley mouth. Puddles of stagnant water glimmered as the morning haze burned off, a breeze from the nearby ocean carrying with it the salty promise of a balmy summer day. She accelerated in a burst of speed and ran two steps up the vertical expanse of wall, using the momentum to push herself off and pivot in mid-air before grabbing the roof edge of the building across from it, her fingers gripping the lip with iron determination as she pulled herself up onto the flat rooftop.

  After sizing up the area with a glance, she tore across the tar-papered surface towards the far side of the building and threw herself into space, seeming to hang in the air before landing on the next roof and rolling to dampen the shock of her impact.

  She leapt to her feet and raced to the long-abandoned multi-story office buildings that rose above her, feeling with her hands for a window ledge. She climbed, pushing herself higher with her toes as her fingers found holds, her shoulder and arm muscles straining as she scaled the sheer building side. At the top, she swung her legs onto the third-floor roof and then risked a look back. Two figures were tearing across the roof towards her. They would be on her within five seconds, maybe ten, depending on whether they could climb the wall as quickly as she had.

  Jet sprinted for the far roof edge and peered down, where the nearest building was a story lower, across at least a fifteen-foot gap over another alley. She brushed perspiration out of her eyes, backed up, and then ran full speed at the expanse, hurtling out and down through the heavy air, again tucking and rolling as she hit the roof.

  Five long strides and she threw her body over the building side, clutching a drainpipe and using it to scissor her legs sideways to one of the window apertures, the glass long gone from vandalism and the effects of the elements. With a final push, she drove her legs through and landed on the debris-strewn concrete floor, pausing in the rubble to get her bearings.

  Two thumps sounded from above. They were getting closer – gaining on her.

  She spotted a stairwell and bolted to it, latching onto the iron railing with steel hands and throwing her torso into space, spinning in mid-air and catching the rail of the floor below. She pushed herself off and repeated the maneuver until she was on the ground level.

  Her gambit had gained her a few critical seconds.

  She heard the distinctive sound of soles slamming against the floor above at a dead run, and took a few deep, calming breaths before she darted through the doorway and out onto the street.

  A once-bustling common was deserted, eerily silent except for the sigh of the wind and her measured inhalations as she approached an outdoor stairway leading up to the second and third levels of an empty parking complex, all gray concrete and exposed steel beams marred by graffiti and neglect.

  She raced for the stairs and jumped, grasping the rim of the molded concrete handrail and pulling her body up; then took four running steps and dived for the third-floor stairs, catching the edge with sure fingers before swinging her lower body onto the landing.

  Jet didn’t wait to see how far behind her they were.

  Her legs burned from effort as she tore across the cavernous interior, barely pausing at the concrete half-wall before she vaulted over it, right leg extended in front of her like a ballerina. Her feet landed on the rough-textured rim that served as the exterior of the structure; then, with a sidelong look, she clamped a hand on the top and swung in the air, suspended by one arm before allowing momentum to carry her down one story onto the second-floor wall.

  She alighted with catlike grace, then slipped to the unforgiving cement of the second level and made for a gap twenty feet away.

  With a labored grunt, a body struck the ground behind her, deciding her
next move, which was headfirst out into empty space before landing on the dirt and tumbling, scarcely pausing as she rose, and then running down the long block towards a closed construction site – an older building that was being renovated at a snail’s pace by workers who arrived late and left early. There was nobody there at this hour, so she clambered over the chain link fence and darted through the open entry without looking back.

  Gazing up at the narrow atrium, she spotted open air four stories above. The fence outside clattered, signaling that she was out of time, and she padded to the far end of the space on silent feet, where an elevator shaft loomed dark.

  Jet dropped down into the cavity at the bottom of the shaft. She stretched her arms, wedging them against the sides, then did the same with her legs, alternating as she chimneyed up the confined area, supporting herself with opposing appendages as she rose, ascending the four stories in fifteen seconds. Her sweating arm reached for the top of the shaft and she gripped a steel girder, then hoisted herself higher into a cavity that led to the roof.

  With a push, she was out in the open again, running across the gravel-covered slab to the building’s edge. Another section stretched two stories beneath her; she made a snap decision and threw her body over the lip.

  Her feet dropped onto a window sill a story below. She pushed off and performed a backward somersault before landing in a crouch, her arms helping to absorb the jarring impact.

  She forced herself to keep moving, clambering spider-like across the narrow rooftop to the side, where she flung her legs out and sailed towards the perimeter wall a story below. She landed precisely on the flat wall top, sprang off with another flip, and hit the sidewalk running.

  Jet looked over her shoulder at her pursuers, then bolted for the far side of the deserted street to an embankment separating the desolate industrial area from a busy thoroughfare, filled with commuters beginning their long slog into the office. Traffic noise of the early rush hour rose to greet her as she approached. She leapt off the tip of the embankment, arms extended, caught the edge of the off-ramp twenty feet across from her, and hung, suspended a story above a dirt patch below the structure. Then she dropped effortlessly and rolled before running at the wall and propelling herself with two massive steps up its side, pushing off, and executing a back flip.

  Whistles and applause from eight hoodie-clad young men and women greeted her performance. A second later, another body flew through space, catching the lip as she had, and dropped to the ground, followed closely by a second.

  Jet watched their final flips with a grin, then extended her hand and high-fived the first pursuer, a twenty-something-year-old youth with a lopsided smirk and close-cropped hair.

  “I guess we can agree that the old lady still has a few chops, no?” Jet asked with a smile.

  “That was some crazy shit. Really. Props to you,” the second runner panted, nodding his approval.

  “Nice to know that I’m not completely over the hill. Now what about our bet?” Jet asked.

  The taller runner stepped forward, fishing around in his baggy pants before pulling out a thin wad of currency. He peeled off a two-hundred-peso note, roughly equivalent to ten dollars, and grudgingly handed it to her. “I’d say you earned that fair and square. I ain’t never seen anything like it,” he admitted. “How long you been at this?”

  Her eyes sparkled as she took the money from him and waved it under his nose. “How old are you? I’ve probably been free running and training parkour since before you could walk – or fall over, even.”

  The group laughed again, then two of the younger boys ran at the wall in tandem and executed back flips, landing side by side in unison. A young girl, sixteen, took a run at a low wall and vaulted it, somersaulting and landing on her feet as the admiring youths looked on.

  A crawling rap song with a gangsta beat blared from a boom box by the gathering’s backpacks, and money changed hands among the clique as the morning’s wagering on the outcome of the race came to a conclusion. The girl snatched a hundred pesos from the shorter of the racing pair and blew him a kiss. He pretended to swoon, then did another flip off the wall as he held his hands over his heart. One of the other young men broke into an impromptu break dancing display, ending with a virtuoso gymnastic performance that culminated with a single-armed handstand, his tautly muscled legs jutting straight above him as he held the seemingly impossible pose.

  “All right. I have to get going. Catch you all later,” Jet said with a wave, and then turned and made her way past the hulking buildings towards Montevideo’s business district. She had been in Uruguay for three months after fleeing Thailand and had settled into a comfortable routine, free running three mornings a week, doing her calmer five-mile conventional run the remaining four. She increased her pace to a fast jog and burned the three miles to her rented townhouse, uneasy as she ran, a vague sense of being watched tingling the nape of her neck.

  She stopped abruptly a quarter mile from her house and, under the pretense of tightening her shoelaces, scanned her surroundings for threats. A sparse scatter of pedestrians ambled on their way to coffee or work, the city having yet to completely awaken. Her senses on alert, she methodically scrutinized each area but saw nothing sinister; only the unremarkable coming and going of the residents.

  Shaking off the lingering feeling, she stood and strolled the rest of the way home, stopping at a bakery to get several fresh croissants and a cup of coffee, which she carried down the tree-lined streets. As she rounded a corner and stepped off the curb to cross the street, a car screeched as it slammed on its brakes, having cheerfully ignored the stop sign mounted at the intersection. The woman driver shot Jet a dirty look as she prattled away on her cell phone, oblivious to the world outside the windshield. Jet bristled, then decided to let it go. She didn’t need trouble, and had gone out of her way to blend in with the locals. It wouldn’t do to get into an altercation over right-of-way and driving etiquette.

  Jet felt for the reassuring shape of her front door key suspended from a chain around her neck as she approached the entry of her two-story brick townhouse. She opened the wrought iron gate that protected her postage-stamp lawn and was stepping onto the short entry path when a hand gripped her arm. She twisted free, adrenaline spiking as she prepared to engage, her right arm coming up to her chest level in a defensive posture that could quickly transform into an offensive strike. She whirled to confront her assailant and found herself facing an ancient woman with white hair and wild bloodshot eyes, her pupils the faded color of afternoon sky, unfocused and yet strangely intent. One claw-like hand gestured, begging for change. Jet studied the leathery lines that life had etched on her face, memorializing an unknowably harsh existence of love lost and promises broken and opportunity long departed for distant shores. Dropping her defensive posture, she extracted a few loose coins from her pocket and dropped them into the crone’s withered palm.

  “Gracias. Muchas gracias,” the woman rasped gratefully, pocketing the money as she reached for Jet’s arm once again.

  Jet nodded, and with gentle pressure on the panhandler’s grubby shoulders, steered her away, then carefully pulled the creaky gate shut behind her as she moved to the door.

  She glanced at her watch, confirming that she wasn’t running late, and then eased her way through the entry while calling out to let everyone know she was home.

  Across the cobblestoned street, under a sagging tree near the corner, a tall man with a goatee and shaggy hair the color of wet sand scrutinized her from the cover of his newspaper, then rose from the black lacquered bench where he’d been reclining and made for the café down the block, anxious for another cup of coffee and some bread to feed the bustling pigeons as he watched and waited, patiently biding his time.

  Chapter 2

  “Mama,” Hannah cried out with glee, launching herself down the hall towards Jet as fast as her cherubic little two-and-a-half-year-old legs would carry her.

  “Hello, sweetheart. Mommy loves you,” J
et said, dropping to one knee and holding both arms out in welcome. Hannah barreled into her and gave her a hug – a morning ritual since they had moved into the townhouse.

  “Buenos dias, Señora Elyse,” Magdalena, her housekeeper, said from the end of the living room, where she was dusting a coffee table.

  Jet had used her newly minted Thai identity to take up residence in Uruguay, and everyone knew her as Elyse Nguyen. Nobody tried to use her last name, preferring the easier to pronounce and remember Elyse, which was fine by Jet. She’d had so many identities in her life that it didn’t really matter to her what people called her.

  “Good morning, Magdalena. Is she behaving herself today?” Jet asked in fluent Spanish.

  “Yes, of course. She’s an angel. As always,” Magdalena assured her, a warm smile lighting her face.

  “I don’t know about that, but I’m glad to hear she’s having one of her good days.” Jet stood and took Hannah’s hand and led her to the kitchen, where she set the bag of croissants down on the counter and washed her hands, examining the calluses, an inevitable by-product of her parkour ritual, for tears. After confirming that all was well, Jet moved to the dining room table and helped Hannah into her child seat. She carefully broke off a portion of the croissant, tore it into small bites, and set it on her plate. Hannah waited patiently for her mother to finish, her eyebrow cocked, tiny fingers fiddling restlessly. Once Jet had sat and nodded to her, she picked up a morsel and dug in.

  “There’s a croissant for you, Magdalena. Fresh.”

  “Very good. Thank you. I’ll get to it when I’m done in here,” Magdalena responded from the living room.

  Jet had met Magdalena on her third day in town while looking for long-term rentals in Montevideo. She’d chosen Montevideo, the capital of Uruguay, a hundred and twenty miles north of Buenos Aires, across the huge bay at the mouth of the Rio Plata, because it was civilized and obscure. It also had the most advanced banking system in South America; the country had long been known as “the Switzerland of South America” and deserved its reputation. The infrastructure was relatively modern; it was safe and clean; and best of all, it was one of the farthest points on the planet from her old stomping grounds in the Middle East.