JET - Ops Files (26 page)

“Of course not,” Lev agreed. “Although she wasn’t involved in bringing down the helicopter?”

“She was badly wounded. It’s all in my report. I’m sure she would have been there if she’d been able to.”

“Yes. I saw that. And the weapons cache…?”

“A grenade. Five seconds. She was in bad shape by then.”

“The terrorists’ fishing boat?”

“A little gasoline and a flare. Anyone could have done that bit.”

He nodded agreeably. “Right. Anyone.”

She shrugged. “I got good training.”

Lev sat back, studying her. “And after all that, the swim…”

“A lot of pool time in my youth.”

“Mmm. I see.”

Maya glanced at the cars driving by outside and returned her attention to her superior. “Anyway, it’s all there. I heard the navy finally made it an hour later. Best I didn’t wait around, don’t you think?”

Lev cleared his throat. “Probably best,” he agreed.

“What happened to Natasha’s body?”

“It was taken care of,” Lev said.

“She saved my life.”

“So you say.”

“And she never told them anything. After torture you couldn’t imagine.”

Lev nodded. “Natasha will be deeply missed. Her family will attend a hero’s funeral – with suitably altered details, of course. She will not be forgotten.”

They sat together in silence, Lev studying Maya like an alien life form. Eventually he finished his coffee and sighed.

“Much as I hate to lose you, I’m afraid it’s out of my hands,” he began.

Her jade eyes flashed. “What? After all that?”

His face crinkled, and he chuckled. “No, no, it’s nothing like that. Rather, it’s an honor.”

“An honor,” she echoed, not understanding.

“Your performance has caught the right kind of attention. There’s a new program being set up. A special team. The very best operatives – nothing like it exists. You’ve been singled out for training. But I should warn you, it’s going to be brutal. It’ll last for six months, and if you make it, you’ll be part of a group that’s so secret it doesn’t have a name.”

“A secret group within the secret group?”

“Correct. Only a select few will be accepted. The rest will go back into the field.” He paused. “Something tells me you won’t be going back into the field.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course.”

“Why do I think you’re just saying that because you know I’d never turn it down?”

“That’s a choice, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “I suppose so. When do I start?”

“Within the next week. I’ll get you all the details.”

“That’s it?”

“There’s only one other thing. But it’s important. Because of the nature of this team…well, once you’re a part of it, there’s no going back. You’re in it for life.”

“For life,” she repeated.

“Right. It will be your family, your lover, your religion. That’s the price of admission.” He held her unwavering gaze. “You may want to take a day or two to think about it.”

“What will the team do?”

Lev frowned. “Even I don’t know that.”

“But you can imagine.”

“I’ve learned not to.”

Maya raised her cup to her lips to hide her expression. Outside, a dove curiously eyed the café as a sliver of sunlight warmed the shop’s window, the clouds having momentarily parted and the world continuing to turn even as Maya contemplated a future not one soul in every billion walking the planet might see. She set the cup down carefully, blotted her lips, and pushed back from the table.

“Everything in the report’s true, you know,” she insisted.

“I believe you.”

She nodded. “I don’t need to think about it. I’m in.”

He grunted. “You’re sure?”

Maya allowed herself a small smile.

“I’ve never been as sure of anything in my life.”

<<<<>>>> 

Thanks for reading
JET – Ops Files
. I hope you enjoyed it.

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You’ve just read the prequel of the JET series. The other books in the series are
JET
;
JET II ~ Betrayal
;
JET III ~ Vengeance
;
JET IV ~ Reckoning
;
JET V ~ Legacy
; and
JET VI ~
Justice
. I hope you enjoy them all.

If you’d like to read an excerpt from
JET
, the first book in this series, please turn the page.

JET
Excerpt

From the Author

JET
is a work of fiction, and any resemblance between the characters in it and real people or organizations is purely coincidental or for literary effect. That’s my way of saying I have no idea whether the Mossad or CIA run assassination squads in the real world. I guess for my sake, I better hope they don’t. Likewise, the Mossad, CIA and KGB are probably stand-up organizations where everyone is honest and hardworking. I have no reason to believe otherwise, but the story plays better if everyone, everywhere, is suspect, crooked, and basically up to no good. So that is the literary leap I make. There are probably numerous things that are not one hundred percent accurate and real-world in these pages. That’s okay. It’s not intended to be an in-depth, hundred percent accurate tome. Hopefully you’ll excuse any literary license.

Likewise, I use dollars most of the time instead of the local currencies, for two reasons. First, to save everyone the trouble of looking up conversion tables, and second, because like it or not, the dollar is the world’s reserve currency, so it’s likely that any large sums or nefarious transactions are being conducted in greenbacks.

JET
uses flashbacks in the early chapters in order to convey information that is relevant later. Don’t be alarmed when it jumps around a bit – it will all make sense as you get further into the book. I promise.

JET
is the first in a series. It’s deliberately and joyously over-the-top, featuring a female protagonist who takes names and brings the hurt. It’s unapologetically overblown and strives to be a non-stop adrenaline rush, an action thriller that breaks the mold and tramples convention.  I hope you enjoy this first installment as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Prologue

The rainy gray of the morning had grudgingly relented to a patchwork of blue peeking between the clouds. Moisture dripped from the dense vegetation onto the encroachment of asphalt, evaporating within seconds of contact. Humidity was a constant this far inland – the nation’s seat had been relocated to this position of relative safety following the hurricane that destroyed the seafront capital forty-something years before.

The bus station at the main junction was a sad affair, as were most of the nearby structures, surrendering to entropy even before the paint had dried on their shabby walls. The terminal was surrounded by a group of ramshackle booths fashioned from tarps and cast-off wood, a squalid tent city that housed vendors hawking tacky artifacts and articles of second-hand clothing.

A retired Greyhound coach creaked as it entered the muddy lot, carrying a handful of intrepid tourists and commuters from the coastal suburbs. The tired air brakes hissed their protest as it pulled to a stop and disgorged its cargo, the rusting, graffiti-covered sides shuddering in time with the idle of the engine.

In the near distance, hulking concrete bunkers, ugly and indifferent, held back the jungle’s creep. Lethargic bureaucrats in shirtsleeves seeped steadily across the expansive open plaza, mopping their brows with hand towels as they shuffled to their offices for another long day of doing nothing.

Three men emerged from the largest building and stood on the steps by the heavy glass entry doors, shielding their faces from the shafts of sun piercing the overcast. After a few parting words, they shook hands, and two of them headed to the parking lot. The third man watched their departure, his coal-black skin glistening with sweat that already threatened to ruin his lightweight navy-blue suit. He glanced at his watch then walked toward a multi-story edifice across the common. The fountain in the middle of the square, thick calcium deposits crusting the pitted centerpiece, hosted a squabble of sparrows intent on bathing in the rainwater accumulated in its base. Drawn by their raucous chirping, he slowed to watch them enjoy their brief reprieve from the oppressive heat.

A sharp crack startled the birds, causing them to take noisy flight as the lone man’s skull exploded in a bloody splatter. His body crumpled to the concrete, dead before what was left of his head hit the ground with a melon-like thud. The few witnesses nearby froze in their tracks, eyes darting around in alarm.

On the top floor of an abandoned motel three hundred yards away, the shooter edged from his vantage point, cradling his rifle as he padded down the deserted stairs that led to the waiting Ford Expedition.

The driver put the vehicle into gear as the rear door opened, scrutinizing the chaos at the government buildings in his rearview mirror. The shooter slid the rifle into a compartment under the cargo mat and gave the vacant parking area a quick scan before climbing into the passenger seat. After fastening his seatbelt, he fumbled a cigarette from a pack in the glove compartment and lit it, adjusting the air vents to direct cold air on his sweating face as the driver pulled onto the road leading out of town. He exhaled in satisfaction, then lowered the window a few inches, and made a hurried call on his cell phone, speaking in a harsh, heavily-accented whisper before hanging up.

With a practiced motion, he flipped the phone’s case back off and tossed the single-use sim chip and the battery through the open window, into a tangle of brushwood. The driver eyed him without comment and then returned his attention to the wheel.

The shooter took another drag and cracked a feral grin.

“One down.”

Chapter 1

Turquoise water lapped at the powdery sand on the leeward side of Trinidad, caressing the shore with a tranquil surge. Decrepit fishing skiffs with single outboard engines floated a dozen yards from the beach, tugging gently at their moorings as their captains lazed in the shade, passing rum bottles and familiar stories back and forth.

Music and the heady aroma of exotic food drifted on the evening air as the annual Carnival festival lurched into full roar. Excited groups of young children tore up and down the waterfront, peals of glee and laughter battling with the din of adult celebration. From far and wide, revelers packed the streets, beers hoisted high to the setting sun, welcoming the untamed night that was to follow. Flashes of coffee-colored skin, strong white teeth and long, smooth legs hinted at the weekend’s delights as a tremble of simmering promise pervaded the atmosphere, of possibility and inebriated hope. Drums pounded hypnotic tattoos as the flamboyant costumes and masks paraded, the natives and visitors alike bubbling with a giddy sense of abandon.

The chime of the little internet café’s front door sounded, jolting Maya’s focus from the computer screen at her desk in the rear office. She pushed her long, black hair from her face with a listless hand and clicked the mouse with a sigh, noting the onscreen time. There had been no visitors for at least an hour, and she was getting ready to close. Her assistant had taken off at five, eager to join the bash, leaving her to clean up at the end of the day. Now, four hours later, there was little hope of any more revenue with the town in party mode. Anyone on the streets would have a more tangible kind of entertainment in mind than the sort found in cyberspace.

As she shouldered through the hanging beads that separated the back from the storefront, a garrote looped over her head, and she barely got her left hand up in time to keep it from closing around her throat. She sensed the raw strength of her assailant as the wire bit into her hand and instinctively stomped on the top of his foot, trying to break his hold. Had Maya been wearing her boots she would have broken metatarsal bones, but with tennis shoes, all her effort bought was a grunt and a momentary relaxation of the deadly pressure.

Blood ran down her wrist as she threw herself back, driving her attacker against a granite counter supporting a bank of monitors. A screen tumbled to the floor and shattered as she groped along the edge of the computers for anything she could use as a weapon.

Her fingers found the neck of a Fanta bottle, and she swung it back to where his head would be. It connected with a satisfying
thunk
, and she swung it again, this time feeling it break against his skull. Ignoring the pain from the garrote, she stabbed behind her head with the jagged edge of the broken bottle, again and again, then heard a muted exclamation as a warm gush sprayed against her upper back. The grip on her loosened, and she swung around, bringing her knee up in a fluid motion as she flung the garrote away. She felt her leg connect with the soft flesh of his groin and caught a brief impression of a hardened middle-aged face with blood streaming from the man’s lacerated cheek and right eye. He swung at her with a fist, but she ducked to the right, and the punch went wide. She slashed at him with the bottle again, then feinted with it as she kicked him in the abdomen with all her might.

The attacker’s legs buckled, and he stumbled, hitting his brutalized head against the counter as he dropped to one knee. Stunned, he reached into his pocket and extracted a switchblade. The blade snapped open – he lunged – she dodged the knife and kicked him again. This time he was ready for it; she felt the stiff muscles of his stomach tighten for the blow. As he crashed against the counter again, she flung the bottle at him then grabbed a flat screen monitor and swung it against his head, connecting with his cheekbone. The screen splintered as she continued to beat him with it, savaging what was left of his face.