Free Jet by Russell Blake Page B

targeted another man. Two more vehicles tore out of the compound towards them, motors revving over the screams and shouted commands from the villa walls. She fired again, and another man went down. Someone had seen her muzzle flash – within a few moments, bullets began peppering the side of the construction site. The likelihood of being hit was slim, but a stray round was just as lethal.
    It was time to pack up.
    “Alpha, hostiles are on their way in.”
    “How many?”
    “Three vehicles.”
    “Can you disable any?”
    “I’m trying, but you can expect company shortly. I’m taking fire.”
    She sighted on the first van, aiming for the driver. Just as she squeezed the trigger, the van jolted against a pothole, and the shot went wide. A hole appeared in the windshield six inches to the left of the driver’s head, and he began taking evasive action. She fired again, but he was swerving and jerking the van around too much.
    Ricochets from the lip of the building intensified as more fire was directed at her.
    Sirens sounded in the distance. Her earbud crackled again.
    “Delta, hostile helicopter inbound. The army must have had a bird in the air. Pull out. Repeat. Pull out now.”
    “Roger that, Alpha. Good shooting, by the way. Expect to engage within sixty seconds. I spotted grenade launchers on their guns. Be careful.”
    “You too, Delta. Clear out. This is over.”
    “I’m on the move. Out.”
    She scooped up the rifle and ran to the stairwell, taking the raw concrete steps two at a time. It was dark, but her eyes had adjusted to the gloom so she was easily able to avoid the collected construction debris and trash. She hit the second floor running and risked a glance back at the complex. Lights from the approaching vehicles bounced towards her. Maybe thirty seconds now.
    At the ground floor, she sprinted towards her car, the headlights of the trucks bouncing their beams on the street. She swung the driver’s door open, tossed the rifle onto the passenger seat, then cranked the engine.
    The pursuit vehicles separated, two headed to Fire and Lightning’s building, and one came directly at her.
    Fifteen seconds later, the van pulled to a stop fifty yards from Jet’s car, and four men with Kalashnikov assault rifles emptied out.
    Jet’s Ford Festiva exploded in a fireball. Part of a door sailed through the air in a lazy arc and slammed down six yards from the nearest gunman. An oily black cloud of smoke belched from the carcass of the burning car, the flames licking hungrily at the frame as they fought for supremacy.
    The CIA observer would later confirm one friendly casualty, and even though the Mossad remained silent, everyone involved knew that the team with no name had lost one of its key members. Fire and Lightning had also seen the blast, and the consensus was that there was no possibility anyone could have survived.
    One week later, Jet’s code name was retired, never to be used again.
    There was no memorial service.
     
     

Chapter 7
     
     
     
    Present Day, Paria Peninsula, Venezuela
     
    Jet walked along the beach, enjoying the feel of the morning sun on her skin as she approached the little fishing hamlet of Macuro, which had just begun its waking routine. She knew she looked like she’d been dragged behind a bus, and attempted to improve her appearance by tying her untamed mane into a ponytail. Hopefully, she would appear to be a slightly crazy backpacker – a visitor South America was more than familiar with, even in the most remote reaches. She’d check into a motel and clean up as soon as she was near civilization, but this clearly wasn’t the time or place.
    A rooster crowed its eminence to the hens in its harem as Jet moved slowly past the scattering poultry and across the sand to where a shabby fleet of fishing skiffs was beached. She caught the eye of an old man with skin the color of chocolate, who was chatting with another fisherman, cackling at some observation his friend had made as