Authors: Russell Blake
JET V - Legacy
JET V – Legacy
Russell Blake
Copyright © 2013 by Russell Blake. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact:
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Excerpt from Blood of the Assassin
Blood of the Assassin
A German hit man has targeted a world leader for execution. In a high octane race against the clock, an unlikely alliance must track and stop the assassin before he can carry out his unthinkable scheme. The fifth of the bestselling Assassin novels, Blood of the Assassin can be read as a stand-alone novel or as the continuation of the series.
More details on Russell’s website
Author’s Notes
JET V – Legacy
was a tremendously fun book to write, coming as it does after the favorable reception of the first four volumes in the series. The goal was to continue in the vein I mined when writing
JET IV – Reckoning
, and have the story unfold over a relatively short period of time – a week or so. I wanted to keep up the pace and the sense of momentum as, just when it seems Jet is finally going to catch a break and have a shot at a normal life, her world is upended and the poop hits the fan, yet again.
I hope you enjoy the latest installment in Jet’s saga. I’ve had a ball recounting her story and seeing where it ultimately leads. It’s always a wonderful feeling when the character takes over, and I can honestly say that for the last few books I’ve had literally no idea where the plots would wind up or what she would get into next.
That’s a fascinating feeling, and a little scary; but it seems to be working, so now probably isn’t the time to change anything.
And so, without any further delay, I proudly present this fifth installment in Jet’s ongoing drama. Strap in – it promises to be another hell of a ride.
Chapter 1
Four weeks ago, Genoa, Italy
A cold rain fell from the gunmetal sky, driven by a relentless wind that carried with it the distinctive smell of the sea. The Mediterranean was unrecognizable as the placid, azure depiction on the tourist-shop postcards, instead an angry snarl that battered the breakwater of the Genoa harbor with startling intensity. The overcast brooding over the city flashed with bursts of lightning as dusk released its hold and night settled in, the celestial pyrotechnics illuminating the hulls of massive cargo ships secured to the concrete piers that lined the waterfront. Rivers of murky water streamed down the ancient gutters, spilling over onto the cobblestones that jutted through the asphalt where it had worn away, a casualty of the near-constant procession of overloaded semi-rig wheels that carried cargo to and from the busy port.
Two security guards in black slickers patrolled near the access gate for the B section, reluctantly making their slow rounds, inured to the deluge and reconciled to slogging through whatever nature threw at them, fortified by strong black tobacco cigarettes and the knowledge that payday was right around the corner. The yard was empty, the shifts of rowdy longshoremen having departed for the day, and other than the token security presence and an occasional scurrying wharf rat desperate to find shelter, the area was deserted.
Across the boulevard from the ships, a long line of bars and inexpensive restaurants stretched endlessly, their shabby, weather-beaten façades offering a promise of rough seaport hospitality. Working girls shook water off their raincoats as they entered the saloons, sizing up with scant enthusiasm the pickings on a weeknight: the typical assortment of thieves, fishermen, and seamen huddled around the bars, drinking in earnest as they eyed each other morosely, hunkered down for a long night.
Above a particularly glum watering hole boasting a faded sign with a stylized caricature of a cutlass-brandishing mallard sporting a pirate’s hat, dim amber light glimmered through a set of threadbare curtains that were closed to preserve the privacy of the walk-up apartment on the second floor. Sixty yards down the street, parked where it had been most of the afternoon, was a robin’s egg blue Volkswagen van with windows tinted so dark they were opaque. To a casual observer the van would appear empty, but in the rear two men were hunched around a set of flat-panel monitors, the black-and-white screens flickering with a ghostly glow.
The object of the men’s attention was the stairway that led to the apartment over the bar, and they had been peering at the screens, checking to verify that the feeds from the concealed cameras and the laser mics were picking up as much as possible given the short notice of the operation and the rain. Word of the meet had only come in that morning, and considerable resources had been mobilized to get the two of them into position and a few microphones in place. The storm had been a bit of bad luck, but after countless operations they had learned to play the hand they were dealt – there was no point in bemoaning the absence of ideal conditions. They were professionals, seasoned and hard, and if there was a way to make it work, they would find it.
Bringing the local intelligence personnel into it had never been considered – the Italians were leakier than the wooden skiffs that dotted the wharf, and wouldn’t be used even as a last resort. Despite a supposed environment of cooperation and peace, the civilized veneer of the current climate masked a perennial adversarial nature inherent to the game. The men trusted no one but their own; and even then, with trepidation born of habit. They were used to operating alone, undercover, for weeks or months at a time, and had been stationed in Italy for over a year, eavesdropping on an ostensibly friendly regime.
Both wore navy blue wool pea coats over their coarsely woven sailor’s sweaters. Outwardly they were indistinguishable from the rest of the denizens of the seedy waterfront underbelly: Corsicans, Italian Mafia, Russians, and now freelancers from North Africa and the former Soviet satellites vied for dominance in a constantly shifting criminal stew, where allegiances and rivalries were decided in blood – and the fish regularly dined on the losers of the myriad power struggles.
The smaller of the two, his three-day growth of beard dark on his swarthy face, tapped one of the monitors with a stubby finger, its screen intermittent from an electrical short somewhere in the wiring.
“How are we supposed to get anything when they give us crap to work with and no notice? This is bullshit,” he groused, sticking to Italian, as agreed.
“Adam, I swear, do you have to complain every time we do one of these? Come on. It could be worse, eh? We could be doing this outside, getting soaked. I’ll take this any day,” his companion Samuel muttered softly, scratching his chin stubble before raising his arms over his head and stretching.
“I thought the party was supposed to have already started,” Adam said. His eyes never left the image of the doorway being broadcast into the van from the concealed array on the roof, the cameras and microphones disguised as a luggage rack and an old television aerial from the seventies.
“Sorry if the intel wasn’t precise enough. Do you have a hot date tonight I don’t know about?”
“I just don’t like these kinds of loose operations. The whole thing’s been rushed. That means there’s a bigger chance of mistakes.”
“Thanks for the capsule summary on the dangers of inadequate preparation. I’ll remember to include it in the Surveillance 101 textbook I’ve been working on,” Samuel said dryly. The banter was expected and familiar, a way of reducing the tension that went hand in hand with the duty.
“This has been a waste so far. That’s all I’m saying. And it’s forty-five minutes past the witching hour and nobody’s appeared. It’s bullshit.”
“Yes…it’s bullshit – as you keep stating – but the lights are on, so they’re expecting someone. Patience, my friend, patience. We’re here for the duration. Let’s see what shows up as the night progresses, shall we?”
“Probably only more toothless hookers and drunks. Seems like they’re the only ones stupid enough to be out in weather like this.”
“Since when did you have anything against either?”
“I didn’t say I did. I’m just jealous. Everyone’s inside enjoying their drinks while we’re sitting out here freezing our asses off. It stinks, is my point.”
“Noted. I’ll make sure that the report conveys your lack of enthusiasm when alcohol and prostitutes aren’t included with the job.”
“Make sure of it. Maybe we can get some welcome changes made. About frigging time.”
Both men stopped their chatter as a tall man in an obviously expensive overcoat made his way up the sidewalk from a black Lexus that had pulled to the curb, his umbrella shielding him from the worst of the weather. Adam and Samuel exchanged glances as the man walked past them. They flicked several switches on the console next to them, and then Samuel began recording the feeds for posterity.
“I can’t make out much. The damned rain and the umbrella aren’t doing us any favors,” Adam griped, turning a knob in an effort to increase the sensitivity of the primary camera.
“See if you can get his face. That was one of the top priorities, besides recording whatever we can pick up on tape.”
“I’m trying. But I’m not a miracle worker. We don’t have a lot going for us here. The lighting is getting all but wiped out from the rain…”
“Just do the best you can,” Samuel snapped, eyes boring into the monitors.
“He’s going in,” Adam said in a hushed voice, as their quarry punched the button on the intercom and stood, waiting.
“Are you getting anything decent?”
“The umbrella is in the way. I can deal with the lighting, but I can’t see through fabric.”
“What about the microphones?”
“Until they start talking inside we’re not going to know. But it looks positive. Check out the signal strength on the audio,” Adam said, pointing to a graph on a scope and adjusting the gain. “Picked up the door buzzer pretty well.”
The directional microphones were designed to detect vibration from the window panes and convert them into sound. The gear was highly accurate under normal circumstances, but in a squall like tonight’s the efficiency was going to be severely tested. Both men knew it, but they didn’t have a lot of options. They’d considered posing as maintenance workers or custodians in order to position some bugs, but had nixed the idea when they’d seen the layout of the building – it was too risky, and they couldn’t chance being detected. Their orders had made that painfully clear. They were to avoid engaging the target under any circumstances.
The occupants of the flat hadn’t left the building since the van had taken its position – thankfully close enough to use at least some of the equipment. Samuel had circled around the long waterfront block a dozen times before a spot had freed up as workers left for home. Once wedged in, he’d made the best of the situation. They had recorded a few murmured phone calls over the last hour, but other than that, however many people were upstairs, they weren’t speaking to each other.
Adam made another minute adjustment to one of the microphones, and when the street door lock buzzed to admit the new arrival, it sounded like a siren in both men’s headphones.
“Did you get anything?” Samuel asked, and Adam ignored him as he concentrated on the camera’s signal.
“Not great, but I think we got a good enough shot of him to send in and get a head start,” he finally said, still listening intently.