Ops Files II--Terror Alert

JET – Ops Files

Terror Alert

Russell Blake

Smashwords edition. Copyright © 2015 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:

[email protected]
.

Published by

Co-authored with Clive Cussler

THE EYE OF HEAVEN

THE SOLOMON CURSE

Thrillers

FATAL EXCHANGE

THE GERONIMO BREACH

ZERO SUM

THE DELPHI CHRONICLE TRILOGY

THE VOYNICH CYPHER

SILVER JUSTICE

UPON A PALE HORSE

DEADLY CALM

RAMSEY’S GOLD

The Assassin Series

KING OF SWORDS

NIGHT OF THE ASSASSIN

RETURN OF THE ASSASSIN

REVENGE OF THE ASSASSIN

BLOOD OF THE ASSASSIN

REQUIEM FOR THE ASSASSIN

The JET Series

JET

JET II – BETRAYAL

JET III – VENGEANCE

JET IV – RECKONING

JET V – LEGACY

JET VI – JUSTICE

JET VII – SANCTUARY

JET VIII – SURVIVAL

JET IX – ESCAPE

JET – OPS FILES (prequel)

JET – OPS FILES; TERROR ALERT

The BLACK Series

BLACK

BLACK IS BACK

BLACK IS THE NEW BLACK

BLACK TO REALITY

Non Fiction

AN ANGEL WITH FUR

HOW TO SELL A GAZILLION EBOOKS

(while drunk, high or incarcerated)

Featured in
The Wall Street Journal
,
The Times
, and
The Chicago Tribune
, Russell Blake is
The NY Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author of over thirty-five novels, including
Fatal Exchange
,
The Geronimo Breach
,
Zero Sum
,
King of Swords
,
Night of the Assassin
,
Revenge of the Assassin
,
Return of the Assassin
,
Blood of the Assassin
,
Requiem for the Assassin
,
The Delphi Chronicle
trilogy,
The Voynich Cypher
,
Silver Justice
,
JET
,
JET – Ops Files
,
JET – Ops Files: Terror Alert
,
JET II – Betrayal
,
JET III – Vengeance
,
JET IV – Reckoning
,
JET V – Legacy
,
JET VI – Justice
,
JET VII – Sanctuary
,
JET VIII – Survival
,
JET IX – Escape
,
Upon a Pale Horse
,
BLACK
,
BLACK is Back
,
BLACK is The New Black
,
BLACK to Reality
, and
Deadly Calm
.

Non-fiction includes the international bestseller
An Angel With Fur
(animal biography) and
How To Sell A Gazillion eBooks In No Time
(even if drunk, high or incarcerated), a parody of all things writing-related.

Blake is co-author of
The Eye of Heaven
and
The Solomon Curse
, with legendary author Clive Cussler. Blake’s novel
King of Swords
has been translated into German by Amazon Crossing,
The Voynich Cypher
into Bulgarian, and his JET novels into Spanish, German, and Czech.

Blake writes under the moniker R.E. Blake in the NA/YA/Contemporary Romance genres. Novels include
Less Than Nothing
,
More Than Anything
, and
Best Of Everything
.

Having resided in Mexico for a dozen years, Blake enjoys his dogs, fishing, boating, tequila and writing, while battling world domination by clowns. His thoughts, such as they are, can be found at his blog:
RussellBlake.com

To get your free copy,

just join my readers’ group here:

http://bit.ly/rb-kos

Nine kilometers south of Tel Aviv, Israel

Maya ignored the bead of perspiration trickling down her forehead and blinked it away as it completed its inexorable descent and splashed into her eye. Her attention was riveted on the doorway to her right as she crept on catlike feet, her combat boots nearly silent on the dusty path between the dilapidated structures, the blazing sun creating an unbearably humid swelter amidst the crumbling buildings.

Movement drew her gaze to the right for a split second before she dismissed it and refocused on the doorway, her new Glock 17 clutched in a two-handed grip as she moved in a crouch. It was just an errant bit of desiccated vegetation blown by the hot breeze, she thought, and then she rolled to the side as the door flew open and a figure filled the aperture.

She held her fire. It was a student carrying a book bag – a boy no more than thirteen.

Not a threat.

Maya was already back on her feet by the time she’d fully processed the thought. Her pulse thudded in her ears as she willed her breathing back to its shallow norm. The pistol grip felt slick in her hands as her eyes roamed over the façade before settling on the rusting hulk of an ancient sedan abandoned near the curb. The windows were coated in a film of grime that made it impossible to see through them. She remembered her training and peered beneath the vehicle, looking for the telltale giveaway of feet, but only saw tires – not by any means proof positive that nobody was lying in wait, but sufficient to lower her threat evaluation by several degrees as she sidled toward the car.

A window creaked almost imperceptibly above a storefront. Maya was already in motion at the sound, her senses hyper-tuned as she ducked for cover even as she brought her weapon to bear on the second story. Three windows, all open. The flutter of white drapes in the corner of one. Another squeak – a rusty hinge protesting the wind’s gentle push. No glint of a rifle barrel, no face pulling back into the shadows, no watchful eyes studying her, waiting for an opportune moment to strike.

Get a grip. Focus. You’re better than this.

Her inner voice chided her for the false alarms. She was a professional now, supposedly cool under pressure, and her heart was trip-hammering like a debutante’s after a first kiss. That wouldn’t do – it could get her dead in a hurry.

Her reverie was cut short by a scrape from near a truck a dozen yards further along the dusty way. A shoe on pavement. Maya was running toward it, closing the distance to improve her odds of a kill shot, when a figure ducked from around the front fender with the distinctive shape of an AK-47 gripped in its hands.

The Glock bucked like a living thing as she fired four shots at the gunman’s torso, the grouping tight, she noted with satisfaction, even as another figure showed itself in the doorway by the truck. A woman wearing a long shapeless black burka stepped from the recess, and Maya relaxed.

And spotted her error as the barrel of an assault rifle swung from beneath the woman’s robes.

Maya’s weapon barked and two shots hit the woman squarely in the chest. Maya didn’t wait but charged the truck, only to change direction at the last second and sprint toward the far building, beyond which lay a vacant lot with the remnants of a demolished brick structure strewn in the tall grass.

Grass that could easily hide an assailant.

She was nearly to the edge of the lot when the truck exploded, the shockwave knocking her to her knees. The doors blew outward as an orange fireball soared into the sky, and her ears were ringing as she struggled to her feet. She hadn’t been expecting that.

Which was another slip. She had to be prepared for anything and everything. The one that would kill her would be the one she didn’t see coming. That lesson had been drilled into her over and over, and she could hear her instructors’ voices repeating the mantra as she staggered toward the lot, shaking her head to clear it.

The mission objective was located across the road – an innocuous hardware store, whose sign over the barred pictured window featured a painted hammer with a pair of overall-clad legs marching toward a running nail.

According to the scenario report, she was to assume the owner was in the business of supplying the locals with more than tools.

The carnage in the street was a good indication that was a safe assumption.

Gunshots barked from the shop, and Maya bolted for the nearest doorway – she’d be a sitting duck in the field, with not enough time to take cover in the grass. She dismissed firing at the shooter as she ran, and instead slipped the pistol into her waistband. Maya took two running steps up the side of the arched doorway and catapulted herself to the far second-story terrace jutting from the front façade. Her hands caught the lip, and the momentum of her legs carried her torso up enough so she could haul herself onto the ledge and then swing over the iron banister, the months of parkour training naturally complementing the gymnastic skills she’d acquired in adolescence. The weapon across the road chattered again as she landed. Her abs and arms burned from the strain, but she ignored the pain and stayed in constant motion.

She was already through the terrace door in a shower of broken glass, her pistol back in hand, when the gunfire stopped, leaving the street eerily silent except for the crackling of the burning truck. She cocked her head, listening, and swept the area with the Glock as she forced herself forward toward the rear of the unfurnished room.

She’d been spotted, so the only possibility of survival was to do the unexpected.

Maya spied stairs to the upper story, and within seconds was on the roof, running along the flat surface as she gauged the distance between the building she was on and the one adjacent. Probably three meters.

Her body seemed to hover in the air between the rooftops, hanging in flight like a black-clad bird, and then she was rolling as she struck the far roof, the force of the impact absorbed by the momentum.

She wasted no time heaving the wooden door open, and took the rickety rungs of the ladder two at a time as she lowered herself onto the landing.

There was no sound. Nobody in the building, as far as she could tell.

The rear service door hung off one hinge. The old wooden slab had decayed to the point of being useless, and a single blow from her boot sent it tumbling into the dirt. Maya was a dark blur as she streaked to the alley she’d just vaulted over, and she barely hesitated when she burst from the space. The hardware store was now only a few meters from her.

Movement from inside the store caught her eye, so she fired into the recesses of the shop as she approached. She fished a grenade from her pocket, pulled the pin, and tossed it through the doorway before throwing herself sideways to avoid the worst of the blast. A door opened onto the street at the corner, slamming against the frame, and she fired twice even as she landed on the hard-packed red dirt, her eyes unblinking.

A whistle blared from the other end of the lane.

“Stand down,” a deep male voice called – Jaron, the head of training in the top-secret Mossad camp.