Free Jet by Russell Blake

and choked back anxiety when he spotted the attic window.
    The signal.
    The house had been compromised. It wasn’t safe to enter. For all he knew, he could have crosshairs following his helmet down the street.
    He resisted the urge to twist the throttle and duck, and instead continued putting along, in no apparent hurry, an unremarkable figure on a relic of a scooter going about his business. When he reached the corner, he turned left, eyes roaming over the street for any sign of watchers.
    Nothing.
    But the signal was unambiguous. There was only one reason for either of them to leave it for the other to find.
    He had to assume the worst.
    Matt piloted the motorbike to a larger artery and made a right, scanning his mirrors in vain for any hint of pursuit. Outwardly he was relaxed, but his mind was racing through the contingency plan he and Jet had agreed upon.
    If one of them left the signal, the other was to spirit Hannah to safety without delay, after securing their important papers and the diamonds they kept in a downtown safe deposit box. They were to abandon the go bags they’d secreted in a hidden compartment they’d created in the basement slab, leaving them to posterity, the thin skin of cement they’d slathered over the makeshift hatch sufficient to conceal it indefinitely.
    He stopped for a red light and checked the time. The priority was Hannah. The bank would be open until mid-afternoon, so barring a disaster, he would have no problem getting to the box; but Hannah would be more difficult. He had to assume that whoever was after him, or them, might be watching the school.
    Because that was what he would have done.
    And if they had Jet, it might be only a matter of time until they forced the information out of her. Matt had conducted too many interrogations to kid himself that between the latest drugs and good old-fashioned torture, anyone could hold out indefinitely. That was a myth made popular in sensational films that bore no relation to the truth.
    Reality was far uglier. Strategically placed electrodes, a blowtorch, a syringe full of truth serum – all would have even the most courageous captive singing like a canary before long.
    Which meant he was racing the clock in more ways than one.
    He retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and hit speed dial. A woman’s voice answered.
    “Montessori School, may I help you?”
    “Yes, hello. This is Adrian Locke,” Matt said in English, using the alias he’d affected in Kosovo. The staff was trilingual, even the receptionist. It had been one of the things that had appealed to them both – the children learned to speak multiple languages at an early age. “Hannah Locke’s father,” Matt continued. “She’s in your preschool play group.”
    “Yes, of course. What can I do for you, Mr. Locke?”
    “We’ve had an emergency at home, and I wanted to check on coming by early to pick her up.”
    “Oh, dear, I trust everyone is all right?”
    “Yes, yes, it’s nothing like that. She’s there, right?”
    “Of course she is,” the receptionist said, sounding confused.
    “Ah, I’m sorry. I’m trying to do three things at once. Listen, I’ll come by in about an hour for her. Can you notify her teacher?”
    “This is most irregular, Mr. Locke.”
    “Yes, I realize that. If we had any choice in the matter, we’d leave her in for the rest of the day. But I need to pick her up.”
    “Very well. I’ll alert Mrs. Krauss. Just check in with me when you arrive.”
    “I will. Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome,” the receptionist said, the tension in her voice demonstrating her concern. Matt could sympathize with the woman. The school was chartered with the children’s well-being, and anything that disrupted its orderly operation posed a potential problem for the staff. Her tone made it clear that the school didn’t appreciate having its students pulled out of class on a whim, even if he had the written authority to do so as Hannah’s father – at