JET II - Betrayal (JET #2) (3 page)

For a moment, he thought he’d missed his footing, then the crackle of dry branches accompanied his body falling into the dark.

Blinding pain stabbed through him. Intense, searing agony from his abdomen, chest and legs.

Gordon’s vision blurred as he gazed skyward, the moon mocking the spectacle of his body impaled on sharpened bamboo stakes in the bottom of the pit, his blood seeping black around the lethal spears in the eerie luminescence. His disembodied mind wondered whether the trap was designed for wild boar, deer, or some other delicacy. The pain receded as his consciousness seemed to float above him, observing his pathetic state, his existence brought to an abrupt end in a trench in an unnamed hellhole somewhere in a jungle God had forgotten.

Time seemed to compress as a simultaneous rush of regrets and memories overwhelmed him. Gordon’s last thought was that it wasn’t supposed to end this way, that he still had more to do. Even though he’d personally released many from their mortal coil and watched impassively as they died, his own passage surprised him, and he finally understood the puzzled look in the eyes of his victims when their moment had come.

With a last involuntary shudder, he strained against the stakes, then stiffened, convulsed, and went limp, his ultimate breath escaping with a wet rattle as blood filled his lungs and his heart gave up its pointless struggle to beat.

Chapter 2

Present Day, Omaha, Nebraska

The airport was bustling, all cool chrome and franchise restaurants hawking overpriced snacks and six-dollar coffee. Beef featured prominently in the local lexicon, and placards of cows staring in bovine wonder at the passing passengers adorned any walls that didn’t tout burger specials or extra-large-sized beverages or desserts.

The air was crisp as Jet approached her rental car, toting her suitcase as she walked through the parking lot, dodging pools of water from the melting snow. She’d gotten her first look at the great state of Nebraska on approach, and her initial impression of it, and Omaha, could be summarized in one word: flat. The few hills were all of a couple hundred feet tall, rolling, covered with farmland. Large though it was, the city was set in a familiar mold, but with a decidedly American suburban feel to it. From the air, it looked like one large tract home development.

She found her Chevrolet and tossed her suitcase in the back seat before sliding behind the wheel and starting the engine. The little four cylinder motor revved as it warmed up, then settled into a monotone hum as she pulled to the exit and handed the attendant her paperwork.

The flight from Paris had been long, and the connecting leg in Chicago annoying, but she was here now. The only question was what to do next. She had an address and a name. That was it. No plan. No strategy.

She’d tried to formulate one on the plane, but she didn’t know enough about the situation to be effective. The only information Jet had was the identity of the person who had been given her daughter after she’d been stolen from her at birth. She had no idea what the person or people knew or didn’t know, or what David had told them as a cover story. She highly doubted that he’d told them the truth. That had never been his style. As far as they knew, the baby could have been an orphan, or had been rescued from an abusive situation.

Jet had never even seen her daughter, Hannah. She was sure she’d recognize the two-year-old, but the truth was she might not. Jet knew nothing about anything in the little girl’s life since she had disappeared from the hospital following a difficult delivery – the doctor had lied, telling Jet that her baby had died during childbirth.

She didn’t even know her daughter’s name.

Her new name. The name given to her by the people who were the only parents she’d ever known.

Jet’s eyes welled up, but she fought back the urge to cry. She was just exhausted from the ordeal of the last few days: her lover’s death at the hands of Grigenko, the murderous Russian oligarch who’d sent a hit team to kill her as well. The gun battle at his yacht. A harrowing escape from France. Discovering the daughter she’d believed dead was actually alive.

She knew she was running on fumes, but she couldn’t rest until she had her daughter back.

And then what?

And how?

She glanced at herself in the rearview mirror, inspecting her newly trimmed, dyed black hair and then caught a look at her eyes. They were tired. The last week had worn on her, and the stress was starting to show, even if nobody else could see it but her. She needed to rest.

But first she needed to get her daughter.

Jet fished around in her purse and retrieved a handheld GPS unit. She thumbed it on, and the little screen flickered to life. Stabbing at the tiny keyboard, she entered the street address, which she’d committed to memory, then peered at the display. According to the unit, she was seven and a half miles from the house. A quick look at the onscreen map told her that she could be there within fifteen minutes.

She swung onto the main artery that led to the outskirts of Omaha, mind racing over the possible scenarios she would find when she arrived at where her daughter had spent the last two years. Jet didn’t know what to expect; her throat tightened with accumulated tension. She forced herself to relax. Getting agitated was dangerous and would serve no useful purpose.

When she arrived at the subdivision, it was as anonymous as any she’d seen, filled with identical homes built from one of three different templates – modest affairs for the middle-class working folk, who apparently made up much of Omaha. Many of the cars were medium-priced American models, and it being a mid-week afternoon, the streets were empty, with everyone either at work or picking up children from school.

Jet had never been to the United States before, so the Norman Rockwell neighborhood was inherently foreign to her, as was the sheer size of everything. The shopping plazas, the cars, the people, the roads were all big. It was as if someone had supersized the entire country. She’d never seen anything like it, but she resolved to try to fit in so as not to attract attention. Her greatest asset at this point was that she was completely off the radar – invisible, traveling on one of her alternative passports, her identity a Belgian freelance journalist.

She slowed her speed as she rolled past the address, looking over the unremarkable single-story house with practiced eyes. A fence, no doubt a backyard, two car garage, probably three bedrooms judging by the size. Absolutely nothing to distinguish it in any way from the hundreds of other tract homes on the long, quiet street.

After pulling over, she jotted down the phone number of a real estate agent whose sign was planted in the front yard of the home next door. A stroke of luck if she could get in. It would tell her everything she needed to know about floor plans, quality of any security systems, neighborhood watch groups, door and window locks.

The downside to the neighborhood was that it afforded few places to hide, and it looked like the kind of place where everyone knew one another, meaning there was no way she could easily mount a watch on the house. She’d have to get creative – there would only be one shot at getting her daughter, and she couldn’t blow it.

She meandered down the street, jotting down a few more phone numbers – apparently there were a decent number of sellers, victims of the lingering financial crisis that had stretched for almost half a decade. Every other sign declared foreclosure or that the home was bank-owned – including the one next door to her target.

There was nothing more to see. Her next stop would have to be to get a disposable cell phone and then find a motel nearby. Twisting the wheel, she headed back the way she’d come, eyes darting back to the house as she passed it again. There were no obvious signs of life, but then again the blinds were closed on the front windows so it was hard to judge whether anyone was home.

A few blocks down the road, Jet pulled into a Target parking lot. She shut off the engine and popped the trunk, then transferred her suitcase to where it would be out of sight. No point in begging any thieves, although, so far, Omaha looked like a postcard for suburban safety.

Ten minutes later, she returned to the car and made a call on her new burner cell phone.

“Realty World. This is Joanie!” an overly cheerful voice chirped.

“Yes. Hello. This is Susan,” Jet lied. “I’m looking at homes, and I got your number off a sign in front of a house I liked…”

“Oh, yes! A house! Well, you’ve come to the right place! Which one was it?”

Jet told her the address.

“Mmmm. Yes. I know the one. That’s a great deal. The bank owns it. Wants to unload it as soon as possible. You can probably steal it, and they’d lend you the money to do it!”

“Well, that’s good to know. I’m looking all over, but that seems to be a nice, quiet neighborhood. Is there a time when I can get in to see the place?”

“Of course. How about in an hour? Can you make it then?”

“That would be perfect.”

“Susan, right? What’s your last name?”

“Jacobs.”

“And will your husband be with you?”

“No. The house is for me.”

“Wonderful. And do you have financing in place so you can write an offer?”

Jet was rapidly growing annoyed with the pre-qualifying.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. There are a lot of homes out there. I plan to pay cash whenever I buy and then get a mortgage once I’ve bought it.”

“Oh, good. I like that. You know what you want, and you’re not going to waste any time.”

Jet sighed. “I’ll see you at the house in an hour, right?”

“Absolutely!”

Jet wondered what assertiveness training course the auto-suggesting saleswoman had gone to, and disconnected with a shake of her head. She checked her watch and confirmed that she had time to find someplace to spend the night. Someplace quiet.

Twenty minutes later, she had checked into a generic motel, two stories, with exterior room entrances and nobody watching the comings and goings of the occupants. She’d asked for the quietest spot they had, and the woman at the reception desk put her in the ground floor room at the far end of the complex. It turned out to be simple, clean and adequate, with an electronic in-room safe and wireless internet. She hastily unpacked her few possessions and locked her IDs in the safe along with most of the cash she was carrying. She’d have a better idea what she would need to source once she’d scoped out the neighbor’s house.

Joanie turned out to be a mid-forties woman who precisely matched her voice. With a bouffant hairdo and an evangelical smile, she wore a pant-suit and sensible shoes and shook hands like a man, before launching into a non-stop barrage of information and questions.

As they walked through the home, Jet pretended to care about the amount of space in the kitchen, the faux granite counters, the new appliances. There was no furniture, and the carpets had been recently changed, and the interior painted, so it smelled like chemicals and stagnant air.

“Like I said. The bank is motivated. You know how that is,” Joanie enthused.

“Well, it’s in reasonable shape. What can you tell me about the neighborhood? Is it safe?”

“Oh, extremely. It’s one of the lowest crime rates in all of Omaha!”

“That’s good to know. And what about a neighborhood watch?”

“You know, I don’t think they have one. There hasn’t been a break-in for years. I mean, many, many years. That just doesn’t happen here. You couldn’t find anything safer.”

“Have you shown it a lot? How long has it been on the market?”

Joanie checked the listing paperwork.

“Looks like almost five months. And no, it hasn’t had a lot of traffic. Not too many folks want to move during the winter months, with the snow and storms and all. I think you could pick it up for a song.”

Jet spent half an hour with the pushy agent, entertaining her high-pressure sales pitch and then decided she’d seen enough. Joanie insisted on showing her the backyard, which was in disrepair after being ignored all winter, before they finished on the front porch. She tried to get as much information out of Jet as possible, who invented a background – being transferred to open a new insurance office in town, from Seattle, looking to make a decision within a week, definitely a buyer… Joanie’s eyes widened when she heard that Jet wanted to buy soon, and she redoubled her insistence that this was a perfect house for her.

“I think you should write an offer. Just a lowball, but it can’t hurt, and if you get it for that…well, there are all sorts of deals, you know?”

“Joanie. Thanks for your time. I have your contact information. I’ll get back in touch with you if I need to see the house again and write an–” She stopped mid-sentence as a car pulled into the driveway next door, and a woman got out, then walked to the rear passenger door and opened it.

To unstrap the toddler in the child seat.

Jet’s breath caught in her throat.

The woman was medium height, a muted blonde, dressed in office clothes, and was fumbling with an overstuffed plastic shopping bag as she unclasped the buckle on the safety seat.

Joanie’s incessant chattering faded into a distant tremolo as the blood rushed to Jet’s ears and her heart began trip-hammering. She heard herself mumbling some vague assent to the annoying woman in response to yet another suggestion that she write something up on the house, and then time grudgingly creaked forward again, and the slow-motion state she’d found herself in for a few seconds shifted back to reality.

The blonde lifted the toddler out of the seat and set her gently on the driveway, where she stood unsteadily and then trailed the driver to the front door on the chubby, slightly wobbly legs of a healthy two-year-old.

She was absolutely beautiful.

The most gorgeous sight Jet had ever seen.

There was no mistaking her. Even from thirty feet away, she could see herself in the tiny face, the cast of the eyes, the nose. That was her daughter. Her Hannah. A flutter of Jet’s essence shifted in her abdomen, a momentary recollection of the life she’d carried to term, its tiny heart beating in cadence with her own.