JET V – Legacy
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:
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Blood of the Assassin
Author’s Notes
Excerpt from Blood of the Assassin
About the Author
Blood of the Assassin
A German hit man has targeted a world leader for execution. In a high octane race against the clock, an unlikely alliance must track and stop the assassin before he can carry out his unthinkable scheme. The fifth of the bestselling Assassin novels, Blood of the Assassin can be read as a stand-alone novel or as the continuation of the series.
More details on Russell’s website
Go to excerpt
Author’s Notes
JET V – Legacy was a tremendously fun book to write, coming as it does after the favorable reception of the first four volumes in the series. The goal was to continue in the vein I mined when writing JET IV – Reckoning, and have the story unfold over a relatively short period of time – a week or so. I wanted to keep up the pace and the sense of momentum as, just when it seems Jet is finally going to catch a break and have a shot at a normal life, her world is upended and the poop hits the fan, yet again.
I hope you enjoy the latest installment in Jet’s saga. I’ve had a ball recounting her story and seeing where it ultimately leads. It’s always a wonderful feeling when the character takes over, and I can honestly say that for the last few books I’ve had literally no idea where the plots would wind up or what she would get into next.
That’s a fascinating feeling, and a little scary; but it seems to be working, so now probably isn’t the time to change anything.
And so, without any further delay, I proudly present this fifth installment in Jet’s ongoing drama. Strap in – it promises to be another hell of a ride.
Chapter 1
Four weeks ago, Genoa, Italy
A cold rain fell from the gunmetal sky, driven by a relentless wind that carried with it the distinctive smell of the sea. The Mediterranean was unrecognizable as the placid, azure depiction on the tourist-shop postcards, instead an angry snarl that battered the breakwater of the Genoa harbor with startling intensity. The overcast brooding over the city flashed with bursts of lightning as dusk released its hold and night settled in, the celestial pyrotechnics illuminating the hulls of massive cargo ships secured to the concrete piers that lined the waterfront. Rivers of murky water streamed down the ancient gutters, spilling over onto the cobblestones that jutted through the asphalt where it had worn away, a casualty of the near-constant procession of overloaded semi-rig wheels that carried cargo to and from the busy port.
Two security guards in black slickers patrolled near the access gate for the B section, reluctantly making their slow rounds, inured to the deluge and reconciled to slogging through whatever nature threw at them, fortified by strong black tobacco cigarettes and the knowledge that payday was right around the corner. The yard was empty, the shifts of rowdy longshoremen having departed for the day, and other than the token security presence and an occasional scurrying wharf rat desperate to find shelter, the area was deserted.
Across the boulevard from the ships, a long line of bars and inexpensive restaurants stretched endlessly, their shabby, weather-beaten façades offering a promise of rough seaport hospitality. Working girls shook water off their raincoats as they entered the saloons, sizing up with scant enthusiasm the pickings on a weeknight: the typical assortment of thieves, fishermen, and seamen huddled around the bars, drinking in earnest as they eyed each other morosely, hunkered down for a long night.
Above a particularly glum watering hole boasting a faded sign with a stylized caricature of a cutlass-brandishing mallard sporting a pirate’s hat, dim amber light glimmered through a set of threadbare curtains that were closed to preserve the privacy of the walk-up apartment on the second floor. Sixty yards down the street, parked where it had been most of the afternoon, was a robin’s egg blue Volkswagen van with windows tinted so dark they were opaque. To a casual observer the van would appear empty, but in the rear two men were hunched around a set of flat-panel monitors, the black-and-white screens flickering with a ghostly glow.
The object of the men’s attention was the stairway that led to the apartment over the bar, and they had been peering at the screens, checking to verify that the feeds from the concealed cameras and the laser mics were picking up as much as possible given the short notice of the operation and the rain. Word of the meet had only come in that morning, and considerable resources had been mobilized to get the two of them into position and a few microphones in place. The storm had been a bit of bad luck, but after countless operations they had learned to play the hand they were dealt – there was no point in bemoaning the absence of ideal conditions. They were professionals, seasoned and hard, and if there was a way to make it work, they would find it.
Bringing the local intelligence personnel into it had never been considered – the Italians were leakier than the wooden skiffs that dotted the wharf, and wouldn’t be used even as a last resort. Despite a supposed environment of cooperation and peace, the civilized veneer of the current climate masked a perennial adversarial nature inherent to the game. The men trusted no one but their own; and even then, with trepidation born of habit. They were used to operating alone, undercover, for weeks or months at a time, and had been stationed in Italy for over a year, eavesdropping on an ostensibly friendly regime.
Both wore navy blue wool pea coats over their coarsely woven sailor’s sweaters. Outwardly they were indistinguishable from the rest of the denizens of the seedy waterfront underbelly: Corsicans, Italian Mafia, Russians, and now freelancers from North Africa and the former Soviet satellites vied for dominance in a constantly shifting criminal stew, where allegiances and rivalries were decided in blood – and the fish regularly dined on the losers of the myriad power struggles.
The smaller of the two, his three-day growth of beard dark on his swarthy face, tapped one of the monitors with a stubby finger, its screen intermittent from an electrical short somewhere in the wiring.
“How are we supposed to get anything when they give us crap to work with and no notice? This is bullshit,” he groused, sticking to Italian, as agreed.
“Adam, I swear, do you have to complain every time we do one of these? Come on. It could be worse, eh? We could be doing this outside, getting soaked. I’ll take this any day,” his companion Samuel muttered softly, scratching his chin stubble before raising his arms over his head and stretching.
“I thought the party was supposed to have already started,” Adam said. His eyes never left the image of the doorway being broadcast into the van from the concealed array on the roof, the cameras and microphones disguised as a luggage rack and an old television aerial from the seventies.
“Sorry if the intel wasn’t precise enough. Do you have a hot date tonight I don’t know about?”
“I just don’t like these kinds of loose operations. The whole thing’s been rushed. That means there’s a bigger chance of mistakes.”
“Thanks for the capsule summary on the dangers of inadequate preparation. I’ll remember to include it in the Surveillance 101 textbook I’ve been working on,” Samuel said dryly. The banter was expected and familiar, a way of reducing the tension that went hand in
hand with the duty.
“This has been a waste so far. That’s all I’m saying. And it’s forty-five minutes past the witching hour and nobody’s appeared. It’s bullshit.”
“Yes…it’s bullshit – as you keep stating – but the lights are on, so they’re expecting someone. Patience, my friend, patience. We’re here for the duration. Let’s see what shows up as the night progresses, shall we?”
“Probably only more toothless hookers and drunks. Seems like they’re the only ones stupid enough to be out in weather like this.”
“Since when did you have anything against either?”
“I didn’t say I did. I’m just jealous. Everyone’s inside enjoying their drinks while we’re sitting out here freezing our asses off. It stinks, is my point.”
“Noted. I’ll make sure that the report conveys your lack of enthusiasm when alcohol and prostitutes aren’t included with the job.”
“Make sure of it. Maybe we can get some welcome changes made. About frigging time.”
Both men stopped their chatter as a tall man in an obviously expensive overcoat made his way up the sidewalk from a black Lexus that had pulled to the curb, his umbrella shielding him from the worst of the weather. Adam and Samuel exchanged glances as the man walked past them. They flicked several switches on the console next to them, and then Samuel began recording the feeds for posterity.
“I can’t make out much. The damned rain and the umbrella aren’t doing us any favors,” Adam griped, turning a knob in an effort to increase the sensitivity of the primary camera.
“See if you can get his face. That was one of the top priorities, besides recording whatever we can pick up on tape.”
“I’m trying. But I’m not a miracle worker. We don’t have a lot going for us here. The lighting is getting all but wiped out from the rain…”
“Just do the best you can,” Samuel snapped, eyes boring into the monitors.
“He’s going in,” Adam said in a hushed voice, as their quarry punched the button on the intercom and stood, waiting.
“Are you getting anything decent?”
“The umbrella is in the way. I can deal with the lighting, but I can’t see through fabric.”
“What about the microphones?”
“Until they start talking inside we’re not going to know. But it looks positive. Check out the signal strength on the audio,” Adam said, pointing to a graph on a scope and adjusting the gain. “Picked up the door buzzer pretty well.”
The directional microphones were designed to detect vibration from the window panes and convert them into sound. The gear was highly accurate under normal circumstances, but in a squall like tonight’s the efficiency was going to be severely tested. Both men knew it, but they didn’t have a lot of options. They’d considered posing as maintenance workers or custodians in order to position some bugs, but had nixed the idea when they’d seen the layout of the building – it was too risky, and they couldn’t chance being detected. Their orders had made that painfully clear. They were to avoid engaging the target under any circumstances.
The occupants of the flat hadn’t left the building since the van had taken its position – thankfully close enough to use at least some of the equipment. Samuel had circled around the long waterfront block a dozen times before a spot had freed up as workers left for home. Once wedged in, he’d made the best of the situation. They had recorded a few murmured phone calls over the last hour, but other than that, however many people were upstairs, they weren’t speaking to each other.
Adam made another minute adjustment to one of the microphones, and when the street door lock buzzed to admit the new arrival, it sounded like a siren in both men’s headphones.
“Did you get anything?” Samuel asked, and Adam ignored him as he concentrated on the camera’s signal.
“Not great, but I think we got a good enough shot of him to send in and get a head start,” he finally said, still listening intently.
“Okay. Let her rip,” said Samuel, eyeing the indicator for the wireless signal strength.
“Give me a second,” Adam replied, sliding a keyboard toward him and tapping in a series of instructions.
Both men stopped what they were doing when the crack of the upstairs door slamming boomed in their headphones.
“Sounds pretty clear,” Adam whispered.
“Shhh.”
A brutal gust of wind pummeled the building with sheets of rain, interrupting their vigil as the van rocked from the force. Inside the little vehicle it sounded like someone was pounding on the roof with a jackhammer.
Murmured voices faded in and out as Adam toyed with the equipment knobs, bringing up a screen on the computer at his side and adjusting some faders on a digital filtering system. He was recording everything real time, but he also had the ability to equalize the signal and remove some of the background noise the storm introduced.
Samuel cursed when one of the two cameras went dark and then displayed static.
“Damn. The wind must have knocked it out,” he complained, eyes searching over the equipment for evidence of a malfunction inside the van.
“Great. How does this get any worse?”
“Don’t ask those kinds of questions.”
“You know what you have to do.”
Samuel nodded, resigned. He’d have to get a visual on the camera array and see if he could make out anything obvious that had gone wrong. The night had just gotten more unpleasant – it was blowing at least forty knots, and the heavy rain was peppering the van like a hailstorm.
Samuel reluctantly pushed aside the heavy curtain that separated the rear of the van from the cab and grimaced as he took in the torrent of rain cascading down the windshield. He was just turning to utter a curse to Adam when the smaller man saw a red dot play across Samuel’s face, then settle on his temple.
“Look out–” Adam screamed, but it was too late. Samuel’s head exploded as if he’d swallowed a grenade, spraying the back of the van with blood and bone, and the windshield collapsed inward as the wind caught the bullet-weakened glass and tore part of it away like a kite in a hurricane. Adam was groping for the assault rifle by his feet when another volley of rounds tore into the van, narrowly missing him. He was raising the rifle to return fire when he registered a burst of flame on the periphery of his vision, and then time stood still as an RPG-7 rocket-propelled grenade with a thermobaric warhead streaked through the windshield and detonated in a fireball, killing him instantly and vaporizing the interior in a molten blaze.
Pieces of the van, which was now distorted beyond recognition, had blown twenty yards into the street. When the first police arrived seven minutes later the chassis was smoldering, the gas tank having exploded when the grenade detonated, further contributing to the destruction.
Nobody who’d remained in the vicinity to answer questions had seen anything, and after an all-night investigation, the preliminary assessment was that an organized crime hit had taken place – not uncommon when territorial disputes flared up.
No one remembered the occupants of the apartment silently melting into the night, nor was the pick-up truck with the shooter noted by anyone. The carnage made the papers for two days, but after all was said and done, no perpetrators were arrested, and the event joined the hundreds of others that would remain unsolved in the ongoing war on organized crime upon which the latest administration had embarked with negligible results.
Chapter 2
Three months ago, 250 miles east of Hobyo, Somalia
Salome’s massive bow plowed through the churning swells, the waves rolling four to six feet high in slow sets, the breeze confused and directionless. Conditions were unpredictable at best in this stretch of the western Indian Ocean, and the pre-dawn sky was inky black, with only an occasional star glimmering through the fog and no moon to speak of. The freighter’s diesel motors rumbled with a throaty roar as she surged against the prevailing wind toward her ultimate destination of Jeddah, Saudi Arabia.
S
alome was a veteran cargo ship who’d plied the coasts of Africa, India, and Pakistan for almost two decades – grim duty, to be sure, but profitable. Her crew was a mixed bag of merchant marines from all over the world, and she was flagged in Liberia, as were many of the vessels that roamed the infamous stretch of sea, the tiny nation’s almost non-existent regulations a powerful draw that attracted a maritime register of over thirty-five hundred under its flag – eleven percent of the world’s ships.
Up on the bridge, the watchman nudged the mate with his elbow. “What do you think?” he asked, sipping at his steaming mug of coffee, eyeing the radar screen with a fatigued gaze as he stabbed at a glowing blip with a grimy finger.
“Looks like a fishing boat to me. What, maybe a sixty or seventy footer? Making all of nine knots, if that,” the mate replied.
“How far off?”
“Six miles.”
“We should wake the captain,” the watchman said, taking another draw of the strong brew he drank by the bucket, thick and black, the hotter the better.
“He’ll be up soon enough. We’ll keep an eye on it and if it gets much closer, then we can sound the alarm. At the speed it’s moving, it doesn’t pose much of a threat. Let the captain get his beauty rest, I say.”
The watchman scanned the horizon in the direction of the offending craft with a pair of binoculars, and then dropped them back onto his chest. “No lights.”
“A lot of these old scows don’t run them. Damned Chinese and Thai boats that are so old they barely float. Not a lot of money being spent on replacement bulbs. Doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
“True, but still, makes you wonder. I’m thinking we rouse those two security men. Let ’em earn their keep.”
The armed guards, mercenaries from an Israeli company that specialized in maritime anti-piracy precautions, ran ten hour shifts, leaving four hours every day where the watchmen were told to wake them if anything suspicious occurred. Sighting a slow-moving fishing boat didn’t really qualify as particularly alarming, but neither man was much liked by the crew – they kept to themselves and made a big show of toting around their rifles, the only guns on the ship.
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