Jet

by Russell Blake

  ~ ~ ~

  The drive into Jerusalem the next morning was difficult, the highway clogged with commuters heading into the capital for another day at work. It took longer than they had hoped, but once they were within the city limits, the stream of cars thinned out.

  The bank had been open since eight-thirty, and David disappeared inside. Jet watched the pedestrians hurrying down the streets, engrossed in their ordinary lives, and felt a stab of envy. She wondered for the thousandth time what it felt like to be normal, to have never killed anyone or seen the horrors that had been a routine part of her existence.

  And yet many of the people traversing the street looked worried or anxious, immersed in whatever made up their day – maybe a cheating spouse, or money problems, or a mean boss, or news of a sick relative. Had they spent just one hour by her side during one of her workdays their entire universes would have changed forever, but they were completely absorbed with their own perception of reality and believed themselves safe as they went about their prosaic business.

  It must be nice to not be afraid of bullets tearing you apart with every step you take, she thought absently – then mentally shook herself. There was no point dwelling on things she couldn’t change. She was walking her own path, which is all anyone could do. Everyone had their own problems no matter what their circumstances.

  David walked out of the bank after seven minutes and glanced in her direction. She watched him make his way down the busy sidewalk to the car, a messenger bag over one shoulder, and decided he looked pretty good, all things considered. No limping or other obvious signs of an injury, his color back to normal. If she hadn’t seen him at death’s door only a few days ago, she never would have believed it.

  He swung the door open and slid into the passenger seat.

  “Mission accomplished.”

  “You clean it out?” she asked.

  “Seemed prudent. I have no idea when I can get back here again, so…”

  “All right. How do we get to this Moshe’s shop?”

  They weaved their way through traffic and negotiated the teeming streets, horns sounding and jaywalkers darting between cars like daredevils with a death wish. Eventually they pulled to the curb a block from the arms dealer’s store, and David got out.

  “How well do you know this guy?” she asked.

  “Well enough. Wait here and try not to kill anyone.” He glanced at the Glock sitting next to her on the seat.

  She dropped her backpack over it.

  “I’ll do my best, but no promises. Remember the knives.”

  “I’ve got the list.”

  David took his time, ambling to the storefront, pretending interest in the displays in the other shop windows. His senses were on full alert, wary of a trap, but he didn’t detect any surveillance.

  He eased the shop door open and heard a buzz at the back. The showroom was empty except for a stunning young woman, no more than twenty, wearing skintight red pants and a top that accentuated her ample charms, chewing gum and looking bored out of her mind beside a glass case filled with military medals and insignia.

  “Can I help you with something?” she asked in a voice that clearly conveyed that she had no interest in doing so.

  He looked around at the walls and the displays. Every imaginable type of sword was represented – sabers, Roman short swords, katanas, ceremonial daggers, epees.

  “I was hoping to find a ‘Give Peace a Chance’ bumper sticker.”

  She gave him a blank stare. Her gum popped.

  He tried again. “Is Moshe here? I’m a friend.”

  She followed up with a look that said ‘figures’ and leaned over the counter, calling into the back area.

  “Moshe? Someone’s here to see you.” She returned her attention to David. “What’s your name?”

  “Ari.”

  “Moshe? Ari is here.”

  A gruff voice rang out from the rear of the shop.

  “Tell him to come into the back, Trina.”

  She cocked an eyebrow and gestured with her hand at the doorway. He followed her lead and moved through it into an office. A bearded man sat staring at him through Coke-bottle glasses.

  “Ari! Welcome. How have you been? Long time – forever, really.” Moshe shifted in his wheelchair, his considerable girth straining the seat.

  “Moshe. I’m good. You?”

  “Never better. They wanted me for the track team, but I had to decline. Makes the kids look bad.”

  “Yeah.” David cleared his throat. “New helper up front?”

  “Oh. Trina. Yes, a sad story. I met her dancing in a sordid place. Sort of rescued her. Gave her a glimpse of a better life on the straight and narrow.”

  David didn’t know whether to believe him or not. His face remained unreadable.

  “So. Come on back into the storeroom. You got a list?” Moshe asked, wheeling from behind his desk and moving to a door at the far end of the office.

  David handed him the short note Jet had drafted that morning.

  “Hmmm. Okay. I have one of the MTAR-21s in 9mm with a suppressor. No problem on a Glock 23 – popular, those are. As to all the rest, in stock. You want it now?” Moshe asked as he rolled into the storeroom.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s not going to be cheap, my friend.”

  “Is it ever?”

  Moshe named a price.

  David whistled.

  “I presume you’ll want that in dollars, no shekels. Do you have anything that would be comparable to the MTAR?”

  “Not really. It’s extremely compact and packs a wallop. But I can get another one within a couple of days with no problem. And dollars would be just fine, as always.”

  David considered it, and then shook his head. “I’ll get back to you on that. Let’s see the goods…”

  Moshe rolled to a wooden case and lifted the lid, then pulled out an evil-looking weapon that would have been at home in a science fiction film.

  “MTAR-21 – the good old X95-S. With integrated suppresor, laser sight and two extra magazines. Only fired by a little old lady. Comes with a hundred rounds of ammo. For you, I will make it two hundred, no extra charge. Perfect for home defense if a platoon of Hamas is bearing down on you. Light, accurate, deadly,” Moshe recited.

  “I know the weapon.”

  “Nothing like it.”

  Humming to himself, Moshe rolled to another box and extracted a new Glock. Within a few minutes, he had everything sitting on top of one of the crates.

  “Got a bag?” David asked.

  “Fifty dollars.” Moshe grinned. “Kidding.”

  David counted out the crisp hundred dollar bills while Moshe ferreted around in another box. He handed the bundle of notes to Moshe, who nodded and held out a rolled up duffle.

  “Call me if you need another MTAR. I gotta get one as a replacement anyway, but I can put a rush on it.”

  “Will do. Pleasure doing business with you, as always, Moshe,” David said, taking the sack from him.

  “Likewise. You need anything else?”

  “Don’t think so. Stay away from Trina. She looks like trouble.”

  “I have enough excitement in my life. Then again, she’s got a sparkling personality…”

  “I got that.”

  The men exchanged muted smiles.

  As David packed the gear into the black nylon sack, Moshe noted that he loaded the magazines and chambered rounds in the weapons, and said nothing. David shouldered the bag and made for the storeroom door.

  “I can find my own way out.”

  “Don’t be a stranger.”

  Trina was staring blankly at the street through the floor-to-ceiling windows when he stepped back into the showroom. She looked high. Not his problem.

  “Have a nice day,” she offered in a desultory tone.

  “You, too.”

  He swung the glass door open and stepped out onto the sidewalk, pausing to get his bearings before returning to the car.

  Jet
was watching her side mirrors when he got in. He leaned over and placed the duffle on the rear seat, then sat back and fastened his seatbelt.

  “Did you get everything?” she asked, starting the motor.

  “Only had one MTAR. He can get another one within a couple of days.”

  “We don’t have a couple of days.”

  “I know.”