Justice

by Blake, Russell

  Jet’s voice sounded from the speaker. Hannah’s ears perked up when she heard her mother, which Tara caught.

  “Matt. It’s me. Call me back as soon as you get this. I’ve got Catalina.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The highway was nearly deserted as Jet barreled down the four-lane, the Mercedes eating up the miles, its big tires thrumming on the uneven pavement. Once they were out of the city, the surrounding countryside was pitch black, with only occasional faint lights from distant farmhouses. Jet had tried to engage Catalina in conversation, but she’d shown no interest, which she couldn’t blame her for. God knew when she’d last been able to sleep, or eat and drink – and Catalina hadn’t volunteered any information, silent as a sphinx, her skin white with shock.

  Jet supposed the trauma of the kidnapping, not to mention having her captors killed before her eyes, would scar her, but there was nothing Jet could do about that. With enough love and care from her mother, she’d probably get over it – children tended to be resilient at that age. Jet hoped she’d soon forget the entire experience as she occupied her mind with other, more pleasant, memories. Hannah was happy and well adjusted and showed no ill effects from having been snatched at birth, raised by a surrogate family, and held by Arthur while Jet had been in Thailand. She’d adapted to her new life and Jet was sure the same would happen with Catalina.

  Jet watched the signs blur past. When she saw one announcing the road she wanted, she pulled into the right lane and took the off-ramp, unaware of the motorcycle that had been tailing her from a safe distance, its headlight turned off since turning onto the empty highway. She slowed and made a left, taking the overpass over the freeway, and soon found herself on a rural strip of asphalt leading nowhere, with not even a dividing line to keep traffic straight.

  Exactly two miles from the main road she spotted the placard announcing Sofia’s parents’ winery and turned down a dirt track with vines on either side. Two more minutes and she saw lights and a compound appeared out of the darkness. The home was huge, with a low wall running around the perimeter of the property. She could make out several people inside, behind the curtains in the downstairs section of the house.

  Jet pulled to a stop at the gate and buzzed the intercom mounted on the wall. A gravelly male voice answered and she announced that she was there to see Sofia. The gate whined and slid aside. She rolled through, down the long drive, and parked in front of the big home’s entry door.

  Sofia threw it open, framed by backlighting from the interior, and squinted against the glare of the headlights. Jet killed the engine and turned to Catalina.

  “All right, sweetie. You’re safe now. There’s your mommy waiting for you. Are you ready to get out of the car?”

  Catalina nodded, her face animated for the first time since they’d gotten underway. Jet slid from behind the wheel and pulled the rear door wide so Catalina could climb out. The little girl practically vaulted onto the large paver tiles and ran to her waiting mother as fast as her legs could carry her, long hair blowing in the breeze.

  Mother and daughter embraced on the porch seemingly forever before Sofia stood, carrying Catalina, and regarded the approaching Jet.

  “How can I ever thank you…” she began, her voice tight from emotion.

  “All’s well that ends well, right? Let’s go into the house and I’ll tell you all about it.” Jet studied Sofia’s relieved face. “You know, I’ll bet Catalina needs to use the bathroom and would love something to eat.”

  “Is that it for guests, señora?” the same male voice from the intercom called from a casita at the side of the drive. Jet peered into the gloom at an older man wearing an oversized peasant sweater and corduroy pants, his shoulders stooped, standing by the cottage’s door.

  “Yes, Valentine. I’m not expecting anyone else.”

  “Very good, señora,” he said and shuffled back inside.

  Sofia turned to Jet. “That’s Valentine. He’s the groundskeeper and what passes for a guard when my parents aren’t here.”

  “Ah. And when they are?”

  “They have three full-time bodyguards that go everywhere with them. Since things have gotten more difficult in Argentina, it’s the prudent thing to do. Believe me, after this episode, I’ll have at least one as well.”

  “That makes sense if you’re a target.”

  “I didn’t think I was, but this has convinced me otherwise.” Sofia gestured to the door with her free hand. “Come in and tell me what happened. I want to hear everything.”

  Jet accompanied her into the house, which was opulently furnished with antiques of every description and spoke to the considerable hereditary wealth the family had accumulated. Sofia led Catalina into the depths while Jet took a seat on one of three couches. A woman in her fifties materialized in the dining room and introduced herself as Bella. She asked what Jet would like – wine, cocktails, soda or water, food. Jet’s stomach growled as she realized that she hadn’t eaten anything since lunch, the empanadas having been left forgotten after the call from the kidnappers. She agreed to a sandwich and water, and the woman left as silently as she’d appeared to prepare her meal.

  Sofia and Catalina returned several minutes later. Sofia sat on a different sofa, Catalina beside her.

  “Those sick animals beat her,” Sofia spat angrily.

  “Yes, it looks like they did. Fortunately, it doesn’t seem like it’s anything that won’t heal in a few days.”

  “I’m going to take her to the doctor first thing in the morning to make sure that’s all they did to her.”

  Jet nodded. “That’s probably wise.”

  Sofia fumed for a few more moments and then snapped back to the present. “So tell me everything.”

  “It looks like they were planning to ambush me. I managed to get the upper hand and deal with two of them, and got Catalina free before the rest could show up.”

  “How do you know they intended to ambush you?”

  “Both men were carrying guns and knives. As far as they knew, I was an unarmed housewife. What does that sound like to you?”

  Sofia shook her head. “I can’t believe you were able to escape that.”

  “Yes, well, it was close, but I surprised them.”

  “And you were able to subdue them?”

  “That used to be my job, so yes, I was able to without too much fuss.”

  “And the money?”

  “Still in the car. They didn’t get a penny, so this was all for nothing.”

  “Good. I hope they rot in hell. I’ll be going to the police tomorrow as well as the doctor. There’s no reason to keep this secret anymore.”

  “Well, actually, there might be. I left two bodies in the park.”

  Sofia’s eyes widened and she did a double take, as though she’d misheard. “You…what?”

  “They were going to kill me. And Catalina. So I neutralized the threat.”

  “Neutralized…?”

  “They’re dead. It was either us or them. I chose them.”

  “Then it was self-defense,” Sofia pointed out.

  “Of course. But I have my reasons for not wanting to be in the system, Sofia, so it would be best if that part was left out of this. I’d just tell the police that Catalina was kidnapped, you paid a ransom and got her back, and that you suspect that was what the shootout in the casino must have been about. Let them figure it out from there. No need to mention the attack in the park and complicate matters.”

  Sofia gazed at her with new respect. “No, I don’t see how that would help anything, now that you mention it. And I wasn’t even there, so I’d have no knowledge of it if you hadn’t told me.”

  “Which I didn’t.”

  “I understand. Are you…are you okay? No injuries?”

  “I got lucky. They didn’t. Today the good guys won a round.”

  Sofia smoothed Catalina’s hair. “They did indeed.”

  Bella returned with a sandwich and a crystal decanter of water on a tray. She set i
t down on the coffee table in front of Jet and moved to an armoire in the dining room to get glasses. She placed one in front of each of them and poured the glasses three-quarters full. Sofia softly questioned Catalina and then told Bella to make her some food and get her some juice. Jet rose during the exchange and moved to the window to look out over the grounds. The blood drained from her face as she saw headlights turning off the distant road and rolling down the track toward the house.

  “Sofia. Do you have any neighbors? Is there any reason three vehicles would be approaching from the road?”

  “Three vehicles? No. My parents only have two…”

  “Damn. We have a problem. Are there any guns in the house?”

  “Guns? I…I think so. In my father’s study. I believe he has some hunting rifles.”

  “Where’s the study? Quick.”

  “This way.” Sofia led Jet to the small room.

  Jet hurried to the cabinet. Inside were several shotguns and a bolt-action Remington 700 rifle. She quickly pocketed two handfuls of shells and then loaded the box magazine, as well as the only spare she could find, and handed Sofia a box of ammo and held up a shotgun.

  “This is a double-barreled gun. This lever opens the breech, see? Like this.” Jet demonstrated. “Put a shell into each chamber, like this…” Jet opened the box in Sofia’s hands and slipped two into the gun. “Then close it like this.” She shut the breech and handed Sofia the heavy gun. “There’s no safety on it. You have to cock the hammer on each barrel and then pull the triggers. The good news is it will blow a hole in anyone you fire it at if you’re close enough. Now take Catalina and go into the basement and wait there. Lock the door. If anyone but me tries to get in, shoot them, and keep reloading and shooting until there are none left. Do you understand?”

  Sofia nodded, numb.

  “What about you?”

  “I’m going to make them wish they’d never been born. Now go. We’re out of time.”

  Sofia did as instructed and raced to take Catalina and Bella into the cellar. Jet ran to the front door and shut off the lights in the house, plunging the interior in darkness as her cell vibrated. She thumbed it on as she watched the approaching headlights and whispered into the phone.

  “Matt, thank God…”

  “No, it’s not Matt.”

  Jet started at the female voice. “Who is this?”

  “My name doesn’t matter. What does is that I have your daughter. Hannah. If you ever want to see her again, you’ll tell me where Matt is.”

  “What are you talking about? Matt’s with Hannah,” she blurted, instantly regretting it.

  “Not anymore. He took a fall from your balcony and landed in the pool.”

  Jet paused. “What do you want?” she snarled, her tone now completely cold and dispassionate.

  “I told you. I want Matt.”

  “I have no idea where he is. But if you so much as harm a hair on Hannah’s–”

  “Yeah, yeah. Stop wasting my time. I want Matt, and I’ll do whatever I have to in order to get him. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. The only problem is I have no idea where he is. Or even if he’s alive, if he fell off the balcony.”

  “If he’s dead, I’ll know soon enough. But if he’s not, he’ll get in touch with you, and I need you to tell me when he does. Either that or your daughter won’t live to see morning.”

  “I can’t work miracles–”

  “I suggest you start. I obviously have his phone. Call me when you hear from him, or she’s dead. You have four hours.”

  Tara hung up.

  Jet slipped the phone into her pocket. The vehicles were thirty yards from the gate, and she needed to deal with that immediate threat before focusing energy on the call. She retrieved the two Glocks from her purse and slipped them into her waistband as the first truck rammed the gate, blowing it inward. She used the rifle barrel to shatter one of the living room windows and knelt, thankful that the house was built out of concrete block and not sheetrock – bullets wouldn’t penetrate the walls.

  Valentine emerged from the casita with a shotgun of his own and fired at the last vehicle pulling through the gate, a sedan with four gunmen in it. His shot blew the rear window out and vaporized one of the men’s heads. He got off two more shots before automatic weapon fire spat from the bed of the lead truck and cut him down.

  Jet squinted, sighted on the driver of the truck through the rifle scope, and fired. A neat hole appeared in the windshield, and she saw the cab explode with a spray of the driver’s blood as the head shot found its mark. She slid back the bolt, ejecting the spent cartridge, and chambered another, then fired again, this time hitting the passenger. The truck slammed into the low wall that ran in front of the house and stopped. Jet picked off another shooter in the truck bed as he tried to jump out, then she ran for a different window as slugs pounded into the walls around her, the attackers concentrating their fire on the location of her muzzle flashes.

  She kept low and slid one of the dining room windows open a crack, then shot the driver of the second car as it rolled to a stop. The doors opened and four men poured out. She was able to hit one of them before they directed their shooting at her new position. She retreated into the kitchen and, after a split-second appraisal of her plight, cracked the rear door open and slipped into the night, foregoing the illusory safety of the house in favor of maneuverability and stealth as rounds tore into the wood-paneled walls and priceless antiques.

  The gunmen were still shooting at any and all of the windows, vindicating her decision to exit, the din that of a pitched battle, the weapons chattering and booming as the shooters brought their full fury to bear on the house. Jet ran to the perimeter wall and climbed over it, the rifle slung over her shoulder, then dropped onto the other side and ran along it until she reached the mangled gate. The men were crouched behind the cars, but now fully exposed to her as they concentrated on the building. Jet knew that all the gunfire would provide a brief window of opportunity where she’d be able to take out the three firing from near the last car in the line without alerting those in front of her.

  She swung the rifle off her shoulder and trained the weapon on the nearest of the men, who was firing a submachine gun from beside his motorcycle. The rifle barked, and his head tore apart. She loaded another round, which caught his companion in the throat, then punched a round through the third man’s back.

  Jet reloaded and ran flat out to the car, praying that the remaining shooters continued to blast at the house. She made it and pulled a gun from one of the dead men’s hands – a Steyr TMP that was good for about 850 rounds per minute. She ejected the box magazine, pulled the spare from the gunman’s back pocket, and slammed it home before cocking the evil little weapon and peering at where six shooters were still firing, their backs exposed to her, unaware of the threat behind them.

  She opened up and stitched the nearest three with a series of controlled bursts, killing them all within seconds. One of the remaining three must have intuited that something was wrong, because he yelled and turned toward her just in time to get four rounds through the chest. The last two dove for the ground, as slugs pounded the side of the truck, and switched their fire to her position.

  Her advantage now evaporated, she threw herself down and emptied the weapon at where she was sure they would have landed, and heard a scream as her reward. But the final shooter was smarter and had rolled beneath the truck by the time Jet tossed the machine pistol aside and whipped out the two Glocks, one in each hand. The night was suddenly still, the shooting stopped. She listened for any sign of the last man, her ears ringing from the unsuppressed fire.

  Motion stirred near the front fender, and she blasted at it. The ground around her erupted as the gunman fired back. She aimed at the flashes and carefully squeezed off two rounds, more selective this time, and rolled as more rounds shredded the dirt where she’d just been lying. Her foot struck one of the dropped weapons, and she crawled to it, using the dead man’s c
ollapsed form for cover. She was about to return the Glocks to her belt when she heard a rustle nearby. She twisted, but she was too late and found herself facing a swarthy-complexioned man in his twenties aiming a gun at her. Their eyes locked, and he pulled the trigger. His gun fired its final round, which struck the dirt so close to Jet’s head it parted her hair. She fired a split second later and her slug fared better, hitting him squarely in the abdomen. Her eyes never left his as his pupils contracted to pinpoints from the sudden pain. He dropped his gun, his mouth open as if he was trying to say something but couldn’t catch his breath.

  Jet sat up, the barrels of both pistols trained on him as his knees buckled. He toppled over in slow motion, both hands clutching his stomach. Even in the dark she could see blood streaming between his fingers, so she held off on firing again. She rose and moved to where he was now crumpled in a fetal position, gasping in agony, and stood impassively over him.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, her voice low.

  The man struggled to speak. “Luis…sent us…”

  “Luis? Who’s Luis?”

  “Runs…Mendoza…”

  “And he kidnapped the girl?”

  “Yes…but…gnnn…” He convulsed, unable to finish.

  “Where can I find him?” Jet asked, kneeling next to him. “Just so you know, you can survive a stomach wound, although it hurts like hell. It’s always a question of time. Tell me where this Luis is located and I’ll call an ambulance. Otherwise, you’ll be lying here bleeding out as your bowels contaminate your bloodstream, and whenever I get around to calling one, you’ll probably die of sepsis over the next day or two – but in pain like you’ve never imagined.”

  “He’s…got…a building…” He spat blood and then murmured an address.

  “Why did you kidnap my daughter?”

  The man’s fluttering eyes were genuinely puzzled.