Jet (7 page)

The car returned him to the alley, and he retrieved his phone from the storage compartment of the scooter, where he’d ditched it in case it was somehow being tracked – a very low probability since it was an unlocked version he’d bought slightly used at the local flea market only three weeks earlier; but still, a potential risk.

He thumbed through the menu and selected an icon in the password-protected area and activated it. A black-and-white image came to life on the screen, and he peered at it with the intensity of a scientist through an electron microscope. The interior of the shop looked as he’d left it, nothing out of place. The tiny remote camera on a laptop he left strategically positioned, covered in dust, an apparent failed repair, offered a reasonable image – enough for him to feel more relaxed. Perhaps it was a false alarm. A bum trying the rear door or a short or a…

He squinted at the slight movement he’d detected in the corner of the screen.
There
.

Almost out of the field of vision of the laptop, but not quite.

It was the toe of a boot.

Someone was in the shop. And that someone had taken sufficient precautions to avoid being seen by the laptop camera. Almost.

Which confirmed that it was a pro.

Possibly a team.

There was only one reason he could think of that a professional would be waiting for him at his store, and it wasn’t for computer repair.

Jet mopped the wood floor of the dining room, cleaning up the splatter left behind by Hannah, but her mind was elsewhere. She couldn’t believe that she’d spent well over a year with her daughter since reuniting with her – the time had flown by. It was with mixed feelings that she packed her off to preschool every day, but she knew it was important for Hannah to be around other children, to have friends, to interact and socialize. If it was up to Jet, she’d keep her daughter by her side twenty-four seven, the memory of their near misses still as fresh as a bleeding wound, but that would ultimately be bad for her child, so against her emotional judgment she let her go.

Her phone trilled from the kitchen, the distinctive ring that she’d assigned to Matt’s calls. He’d probably forgotten something and wanted her to ride over on her bicycle when she was out later and swing by his shop. She didn’t mind – she had five hours to fill before Hannah would be back.

She leaned the mop against the wall and hurried into the kitchen, answering on the fourth ring.

“Hi.”

“I’m blown,” Matt said, and then the call died mid-sentence.

She stared at the phone like it was a live scorpion, processing the two-word warning, and then rushed up the stairs, her conditioning kicking in. She pressed redial, but her phone showed no signal, alerting her to the likelihood that someone was jamming it.

Jet moved to the bedroom window and stood in the shadows, peeking out at the street. Three sedans she didn’t recognize were parked in front of the house, as were two vans, one of which boasted an array of antennas.

The source of the jamming.

She crossed the room with silent steps and made for the hatchway that led up into the attic. She and Matt had agreed on a set of prearranged signals in the event of a problem, one of which was to raise the shade in the circular attic window, which meant
danger, it’s not safe
. Jet had no idea who was coming for them, but she’d figure that out once she’d escaped from the house.

The safest way to do that was via the roof, in light of the sudden crowd out on the street.

She was halfway to the window that faced the rear yard when she heard the front door open, its hinges deliberately unlubricated so they’d squeak if an intruder entered while they were asleep. It would take them mere seconds to confirm that the downstairs was empty, which would lead them to the second story, and then to her. If she had a minute, she’d be lucky.

Jet slid the wooden window up and winced at the sound. There was no time to retrieve her dash bag hidden in the basement; she’d have to worry about money and documents later. For now, the imperative was to get clear of the threat, whatever it was.

Her thoughts shifted to Matt. He was a big boy, an experienced field operative with exceptional skills, so if it was possible to evade his pursuers, he would. She needed to focus on her own predicament – which the pounding of footfalls from the stairs beneath her told her was dire.

She drew a deep breath and pulled herself out the window, and then reached up and gripped the rim of the flat roof. When both hands were locked onto the edge, she swung her legs out, straining for momentum, and hoisted herself upward. Her arm muscles burned from the sudden effort, but she ignored the pain as she rolled onto the roof and forced herself to her feet. She’d evaluated possible escape routes in anticipation of an emergency, and while vaulting from house to house wasn’t ideal, it was the only option given the circumstances.

Jet dared a glance over the rim and confirmed that the street was now clogged with vehicles, two of them police cruisers with their roof lights flashing. The sight gave her pause – why were the police coming for her? It made no sense. She and Matt weren’t on any lists; they didn’t even have the utilities in their names.

A shout from below told her that someone had spotted her. She bolted for the far edge of the roof and, without hesitation, threw herself into space, her body leading her legs. She absorbed the momentum of her impact with her shoulder and rolled once, allowing the movement to soften the shock to her spine, and was back on her feet and running as hard as she could by the time her body could protest the rough landing. Her parkour practice was paying off as she sprinted for the next roof and repeated the maneuver, ignoring the danger inherent in spanning the ten-foot gaps between the houses.

Another hard landing, and then a yell from below confirmed she wasn’t in the clear yet. She continued traversing the rooflines until she’d arrived at the end of the long block and now had nowhere to go but down. The only lucky break was that few would be foolhardy enough to follow her onto the roofs from her window, so they couldn’t know which home she’d disappeared into. But that advantage would only last so long, and she’d have to move fast or she’d be dead in the water.

She swung over the edge, and her feet felt the sill of the attic window – the houses had all been built at the same time using the same design, so this one would be identical to the one she and Matt rented. Jet kicked hard and was rewarded by the sound of breaking glass as the pane fell inward. She waited a split second and then levered her legs into the attic and released her grip.

Jet landed on the dark wooden floor in a scattering of glass shards. She paused as she got her bearings and then moved to the hatchway leading to the second-floor hall. The collapsible stairs lowered easily, and she descended into a carpeted hallway lined with photographs of stern gray-haired people in formal poses. She cocked her head and listened for any signs of life, but as far as she could tell, the house was empty, which made sense – most would be at work, the luxury of being a stay-at-home mom not a common one in Kosovo.

She edged to a nearby doorway and twisted the knob. Inside was a Spartan bedroom with lace curtains over the window. Jet moved to the edge and peered at the intersection, which thankfully was empty; the commotion further up the block had remained there, at least for now. With a final look to confirm that nobody was on the sidewalk, she returned to the hall and made her way down the stairs to the ground floor. After a momentary debate over which door to exit through, she went for the rear of the house, figuring that she’d have more options than if she stepped out onto the front porch.

The door opened with a clatter and she cringed – she’d banged a ceramic bowl half-filled with milk, set out for a cat. She ignored the noise and moved down the steps, and was rounding the corner of the building when a male voice spoke from behind her.

“I figured you’d choose the back. Put your hands in the air. You’re under arrest.”

She slowly raised her hands and turned to face the speaker, a middle-aged man with a light sheen of moisture on his forehead. But for his discomfiture, she noted that the pistol in his hand was rock steady.

“I’m unarmed,” she said. “Why are you arresting me? I’ve done nothing wrong. What’s the charge?”

The man’s lips pulled into a twisted smile. “Do you always try to escape across your neighbor’s rooftops? We’ll start with trespassing. As to the rest, you’ll find out soon enough.”

“I–”

“Shut up and do as you’re told. You’re in enough trouble as it is. Don’t piss me off.”

Another figure appeared in the side walkway, also holding a revolver, and lowered it when he saw Jet with her hands above her shoulders.

“Cuff her,” the man behind her growled, and the newcomer nodded and approached, reaching into his pocket for his handcuffs as he replaced his weapon in his shoulder holster. Jet eyed him neutrally as she assessed whether she could disable him and get his gun before the other cop could shoot, but decided it was too risky. Instead she slowly lowered her arms, palms up, so he could take her into custody.

Rumyantsevo, Russia

Streaks of moisture ran like sweat down the bare concrete walls of the cell in Rumyantsevo prison, where one of Yulia and Taras’s accomplices sat on the cold floor, awaiting his turn with the facility’s infamous interrogation group. Following their arrest, they’d been separated, and he expected that the Russians were working on each of them, trying to glean information.

He knew they couldn’t expect any leniency. Attempting to buy missiles on the black market for whatever purpose would be dealt with swiftly and harshly. If he’d any doubt that their situation was dire, that had been dispelled when they’d been incarcerated at one of the most notoriously brutal prisons in Russia, pending a trial that would be little more than show.

A guard opened the door, and a short man in an ill-fitting black suit peered over a pair of steel-rimmed square spectacles at him before entering. He carried a folding chair in one hand and a small voice recorder in the other. The guard closed the door, remaining inside the cell, and the man walked over to where the prisoner was struggling to his feet.

“Evgeny Petrov, you know why you are here: high crimes against the Russian people,” the little man declared in a surprisingly deep voice. “I am Inspector Savenkov. I will be handling your interrogation, which will either be a simple, straightforward affair, or a nightmare straight out of hell, depending on how you respond – or don’t.”

“I don’t…”

“Silence!” Savenkov spat, and then unfolded the chair and lowered himself heavily into it. “You will speak only when I allow it. You will answer direct questions when I give you permission. Your role in this misadventure is already well established. Your colleagues have been more than forthcoming, so this is nothing more than a formality, to give you the opportunity to cooperate. If you don’t, I don’t personally care, because you will be sentenced to a life in prison – a short life, I might add.”

Evgeny waited, his legs weak from hunger and fear, barely managing to stand without collapsing. Savenkov removed his glasses and cleaned them with a cloth handkerchief before perching them back on his nose and scrutinizing the prisoner. Seconds ticked by, and when he finally spoke, his voice was soft.

“You were attempting to purchase missiles. We know that you represent a faction that is working on behalf of the pro-Ukrainian administration. We know everything. There is no reason to hold anything back. The others have already confessed.”

Evgeny tried to simulate confusion. He’d thought through his story, and there was no way to prove that he wasn’t working with the pro-Russian separatists. “No. We aren’t pro-government at all! We’re part of the insurgent group working against the illegitimate Ukrainian administration. You’ve got it all wrong.”

“That’s not what they admitted to. Your lies will do you no good.”

The questioning went on for a half hour, at the end of which it was clear that the Russians hadn’t bought his story and were convinced that Yulia’s group was anything but pro-Russian. But Evgeny had painted himself into a corner with his feint, and he was now committed to his version of the truth, no matter how implausible. By the time Savenkov rose, a disgusted look on his face, Evgeny was trembling from exhaustion.

“This ridiculous story is what you’re sticking to?” Savenkov demanded. “You’ll regret it. I can assure you of that.”

“Inspector, I swear I’m telling the truth.”

“I don’t believe you. In any case, it doesn’t matter. You were attempting to purchase enough missiles to start a small war. Whatever side you’re on, that’s still illegal here, and you will be dealt with swiftly. I’d hoped you would be more amenable to reason, but I see my time’s been wasted.”

“Inspector, I’m not even Ukrainian. I was born across the border, here, in Russia. In Kursk. You can check. I’m Russian. Whatever you think you know, it’s wrong, or at least incomplete.”

“Why would I care where you were born? You’re nothing to me.” Savenkov rose stiffly and folded his chair. “I’d advise you to think about our discussion. When I return, it will be with one of our interrogation specialists. I trust you can imagine how that little chat will go? So far all you’ve done is spun lies. But we’ll get to the bottom of things. We always do. If I were you, I’d be asking myself how you could cooperate, in an effort to get your sentence reduced. The alternative is hard labor in Siberia.” He took two steps toward the door and paused. “I will check on your story of being Russian-born. But in the end, it will be actions that determine your fate, not words. You will be made an example of, and I assure you, the experience will be worse than anything you can imagine.”

Savenkov left the cell, seeming to suck any life out of it with his departure, and the guard slammed the slab door behind him and locked it. Evgeny collapsed on the floor, his energy spent, his feverish mind working on some way to impress the inspector that he was not really the enemy. He understood the confusion, as well as the approach the man was taking, and while Evgeny was loyal to the Ukrainian cause, he’d heard enough stories of Russian prison to fear for his future.