Jet

by Russell Blake

  Chapter 32

  Jet smelled smoke, and when she cracked her eyes open, she saw that she had been dragged near David, whose breath was burbling in his throat, blood seeping through one of the chest wounds with each labored breath.

  “Sir, you need to get out of here now. The police are at the dock and are demanding to be allowed onboard, and the firefighters are right behind them. The boat cannot be saved – this level will be engulfed in a matter of minutes. You have to leave.” Vaslav, the head of the security detachment, was holding Grigenko back, keeping him from approaching.

  “I want to be the one to shoot her,” Grigenko insisted, and then a sharp crack and a muffled explosion shook the ship from directly beneath them.

  “Any more shooting now that the police are right by the ship is going to have them stopping everyone from leaving, and that will be extremely complicated for you, sir. There are a lot of explanations that will need to be made as it is, but if we’re lucky, the fire will destroy most of the evidence of the gunfight.”

  “Give me a knife, then. I’ll cut her head off and dance on the flying bridge with it,” Grigenko snarled.

  “I’ll finish her. You need to leave now. Can you fly the helicopter yourself? The pilot is on shore for the evening.”

  “If I go slowly, I can manage it. I had a few lessons. It will be tough at night, but I can handle it.”

  “Stay low, and you’ll evade the radar. Put down near the airport in Nice, and you can be airborne, on the way back to Moscow, before anyone is the wiser. By the time they get around to questioning all the guests, you’ll be in Russia, having narrowly escaped an assassination attempt. We can figure out the rest from a safe distance – the authorities will lose interest quickly once they realize that the only casualties were members of your security detachment.” He gestured at Jet and David. “These two don’t exist, and their bodies will never be found. We’re only eight miles away from the airport, so you should have no problem making it. Just keep your running lights off and stay close to the water,” Vaslav cautioned.

  Grigenko grunted assent. Vaslav was right. They walked to where Jet was lying on the floor next to David, and the Russian abruptly stepped closer and kicked her in the ribs, the toe of his loafer connecting with bone with an audible snap.

  “That’s for my brother, you bitch. Rot in hell,” he spat, a stream of sour spittle landing on her still face.

  “She’s out cold. Come on. Don’t waste your time. She’ll be dead within two minutes, I promise. I’ll strangle her myself,” Vaslav assured him.

  “Fine. Oleg. Come on. You’re going with me. Let’s go,” Grigenko ordered, and the second security man joined them from the com room.

  “But the computer and the–”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s over. Move,” Vaslav said.

  Grigenko took one final look at Jet and then fixed Vaslav with a glare.

  “Rape her. I want you to violate her in every ugly way you can think of. Tear her apart. Film it for me. Use your phone. Do not disappoint me in this, Vaslav.”

  Vaslav nodded. There might just be time, and the idea had already occurred to him when he’d caught a good look at her.

  Trailed by Oleg, Grigenko mounted the stairs to the next level, where the small helicopter he kept for shore excursions was located. When they reached the modest flight deck, Oleg unfastened the straps that held the conveyance in place, coughing from the toxic cloud that rose from the entertainment deck. Grigenko climbed into the cockpit and flipped several switches, and then a starter whirred. The engine caught, and the rotor began turning lazily overhead.

  Oleg gave him a thumbs-up signal, swung the co-pilot door open, and slid into the seat next to Grigenko.

  After a few false starts, the rotor picked up speed and the small craft hesitatingly lifted clear, ascending shakily into the night as Grigenko struggled to keep the little chopper under control.