JET XV
Sahara
Russell Blake
Copyright © 2019 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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Contents
Books by Russell Blake
About the Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Excerpt from A Girl Apart
Books by Russell Blake
Co-authored with Clive Cussler
THE EYE OF HEAVEN
THE SOLOMON CURSE
Thrillers
FATAL EXCHANGE
FATAL DECEPTION
THE GERONIMO BREACH
ZERO SUM
THE DELPHI CHRONICLE TRILOGY
THE VOYNICH CYPHER
SILVER JUSTICE
UPON A PALE HORSE
DEADLY CALM
RAMSEY’S GOLD
EMERALD BUDDHA
THE GODDESS LEGACY
A GIRL APART
A GIRL BETRAYED
QUANTUM SYNAPSE
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
RAGE OF THE ASSASSIN
The Day After Never Series
THE DAY AFTER NEVER – BLOOD HONOR
THE DAY AFTER NEVER – PURGATORY ROAD
THE DAY AFTER NEVER – COVENANT
THE DAY AFTER NEVER – RETRIBUTION
THE DAY AFTER NEVER – INSURRECTION
THE DAY AFTER NEVER – PERDITION
THE DAY AFTER NEVER – HAVOC
THE DAY AFTER NEVER – LEGION
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 X – INCARCERATION
JET XI – FORSAKEN
JET XII – ROGUE STATE
JET XIII – RENEGADE
JET XIV – DARK WEB
JET XV – SAHARA
JET – OPS FILES (prequel)
JET – OPS FILES; TERROR ALERT
The BLACK Series
BLACK
BLACK IS BACK
BLACK IS THE NEW BLACK
BLACK TO REALITY
BLACK IN THE BOX
Non Fiction
AN ANGEL WITH FUR
HOW TO SELL A GAZILLION EBOOKS
(while drunk, high or incarcerated)
About the Author
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 fifty novels, including Fatal Exchange, Fatal Deception, The Geronimo Breach, Zero Sum, The Assassin series, The Delphi Chronicle trilogy, The Voynich Cypher, Silver Justice, the JET series, Upon a Pale Horse, the BLACK series, Deadly Calm, Ramsey’s Gold, Emerald Buddha, The Day After Never series, The Goddess Legacy, A Girl Apart, A Girl Betrayed, and Quantum Synapse.
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, 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
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Chapter 1
Werl, Germany
The media circus had begun as a staged event to highlight the number of immigrants that were part of the prison population – the theme being that unrestricted immigration policies had resulted in a dramatic increase in crime, not to mention the cost to jail the lawbreakers in conditions comparable to those of a four-star hotel in their home countries. Other marches that had been simultaneously planned for two other prisons were also underway, part of a nationalist wave sweeping across Germany. The new surge of populism alarmed the current government, which had been largely responsible for the influx of northern African immigrants stoking the public’s ire, and the establishment was well represented by a phalanx of riot police carrying Plexiglas shields and batons.
Inside the high brick prison walls, the scene was more orderly. Guards surveyed the hundreds of inmates from strategically located stations around the central courtyard or from watchtowers, those at the latter locations armed with sniper rifles. Due to overcrowding, the prison population was allowed to congregate in the open areas until ten p.m. before retiring to the cells, which were strained to the bursting point from the recent increase in convicts.
Near one of the cell block entrances loitered a group of seven men, all swarthy and obviously of Arab blood, their beards announcing them as some of the strict Muslims imprisoned along with rank-and-file German criminals. Tariq, a tall, gaunt man with olive skin and a lush black beard, leaned into his companion and muttered in Arabic, “It is almost time.
I only need ten minutes. You know what to do.”
His companion surreptitiously glanced at a cheap plastic watch before flicking his eyes to the guards. “Good luck, my brother. We shall make it so.”
Tariq detached himself from the group. After sidling through the open doorway, he stopped at the nearest cell and ducked inside. He crossed to the stainless steel sink, felt beneath it, and retrieved a makeshift blade honed to a razor edge in the machine shop from a piece of scrap metal. A splash of water, and he drew the blade down across his cheek, removing an inch of scruff before rinsing the hair down the drain and continuing the process of shaving away his manly pride.
When he was done, Tariq walked to one of the bunks and kneaded the unusually bulky pillow. He grunted and looked around and then removed a pair of dark green slacks and a matching shirt and jacket. He stripped off his prison togs and quickly donned the uniform, breathing heavily as he struggled into the jacket. A pair of worn boots several sizes too large completed his outfit, and within seconds he was at the open cell door, the blade in hand, head cocked while he listened.
A shout greeted him from the courtyard, and then another, and then whistles joined the melee as more voices yelled in anger and alarm. Tariq waited until the half dozen cries had become scores, and then sliced his forehead with the blade. When the warm trickle ran to his eyebrows, he returned the blade to its hiding place beneath the sink as blood streamed down his newly shaven face. He allowed a suitable amount of crimson to darken the collar of his shirt before clamping the cut closed with his fingers and moving from the cell. As more voices hollered from the courtyard, he gave the nearby yard entrance a wide berth and continued down the corridor to the next doorway. A glance outside revealed a riot in process, with the guards attempting to restore order with their batons and whistles as inmates swung at each other with bare fists.
Tariq edged into the courtyard and along the cell block wall until he was near one of the guard posts, where a short German guard with the physique of an anvil called to him. “How bad are you hurt?”
“Bad enough.”
“Get to the infirmary. We’ll have this lot under control in no time.”
“Will do.”
Tariq brushed past him and strode to where two guards were watching from behind bulletproof glass by the administrative entryway. When he reached the heavy steel door, one of the men tripped the lock release, and the metal slab swung open. Tariq stepped through, and the hydraulics reclosed the door with the heavy thunk of a bank vault, and then he was marching along the pristine hallway, brushing past other uniformed guards, who gave him room, his bloodstained shirt and face telegraphing his destination.
He knew from studying blueprints that the infirmary was halfway to the main prison entrance, down a flight of stairs on the basement level. He’d correctly determined that an injured guard during a prison riot wouldn’t be subjected to the usual rigid scrutiny that anyone roaming the halls would under normal circumstances, and his confidence grew as he reached the stairwell and another guard moved aside to allow him to pass.
“Need any help?” the man asked.
“Nein. It’s a scratch,” Tariq answered in fluent German.
“Good luck. Doesn’t look like a scratch to me. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“Thanks.”
At the basement level, Tariq stopped at the second doorway and tried the handle, which twisted in his grasp. He stepped into a dark room and felt for the light switch. The overhead fluorescent bulbs flickered to life, bathing the area in cold white. He locked the door behind him and strode to where a tall metal cabinet stood by one of the massive fan housings that lined the wall.
During the summer months, the huge blades would have been spinning at high RPM, forcing air up into the building; but now, in late autumn, the weather was cool and the ventilators were shut down. Tariq knew that there were six similar vaults scattered around the compound, but had chosen this one due to its proximity to the infirmary, as well as its accessibility by the maintenance crew that two of his men were part of.
Inside the cabinet he found a power screwdriver, a hammer, a penlight, and a chisel right where expected. He pocketed the chisel and slid the hammer into the waistband of his pants, and then went to work with the screwdriver on the nearest housing, the tool’s whine loud in the confined space, but a necessary evil that was part of his calculated risk. When he had a section of the housing free, he lifted it clear and peered inside the shaft, which was black as the grave. He replaced the screwdriver in the cabinet and extinguished the lights and, after switching on the flashlight, climbed into the shaft and began a crawl that would take him a hundred and forty-six meters to an exhaust vent on an outside wall.
Tariq wasn’t worried about the housing being discovered. By the time anyone sounded the alarm about a prisoner escape, he would be long gone, and it would take hours of studying security cam footage to understand how he’d evaded all the safeguards designed to keep inmates imprisoned, much less from what area he’d escaped. The courtyard scuffle he’d arranged would occupy at least a half hour of the guards’ time, and when a head count ultimately turned up a missing man, it would take yet more precious time to identify and search for him.
It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was adequate, and his escape was now a foregone conclusion as long as he didn’t make any stupid mistakes. Tariq crawled with dogged determination, ignoring the pain in his knees and elbows caused by rivets embedded in the hard surface. When he reached the exhaust vent, he eyed the iron braces that formed a protective grid in the dim glow of the penlight, which he then flicked off and pocketed.
The chisel made short work of the braces where they connected to the concrete, softened over decades to the point where it took only a few blows with the hammer to slice through the walls and tear the screws free. The designers of the prison had never contemplated the ventilation grids as barriers to keep inmates in or intruders out, so they weren’t the heavy, military-grade hardware with which most of the rest of the prison had been built.
Three minutes after starting on the grid, he kicked it free and could stare out into the night air, the sound of the protest from the far side of the compound faint but audible.
Tariq lowered himself feet first until he was hanging from the cavity, and then released his hold and fell into the darkness. He dropped four meters and landed hard, wincing from a lance of pain in his right leg as he rolled and then forced himself to his feet. He tested his weight to confirm nothing was broken, and then took off at a measured clip for the perimeter fence, which was more an afterthought to keep graffiti artists away from the walls than a serious impediment to escape. At the fence he used the claw end of the hammer to scrape away enough of the soil at the base to squeeze beneath it, and then he was on the far side, jogging toward the road, where a car would be waiting to spirit him away.
He reached the strip of pavement and cursed under his breath when he didn’t see any likely cars – all appeared empty, their windows lightly misted with condensation. He glared at his surroundings, his mind racing, and ducked into the shadows of a doorway as headlights bounced along the road toward him. A vehicle approached, and his breath caught as it slowed and coasted to a stop ten meters away. Tariq peered from the doorway and saw that it was his ride, and exhaled in relief before looking around to confirm nobody was watching, and sprinted for the car.
A woman sat behind the wheel with a grim expression, which surprised him only momentarily – nobody had consulted him on who would pick him up, and it made sense to use someone who would be unlikely to arouse suspicion if stopped. He opened the passenger door and dropped heavily into the seat as the woman put the transmission into gear. He’d barely pulled the door closed when she took off, the motor buzzing like a leaf blower from beneath the tiny hood.
“We have another car waiting two kilometers away. This one is for the traffic cameras,” she said in Arabic, her accent musical in spite of the circumstances. “Stolen four hours ago.” Her
eyes flitted to the dried blood on his face. “Do you need medical attention?”
“No. It’s already clotted. Just get me to the other car and I’ll be fine.”
“There’s a bottle of water and some orange juice in the glove compartment.”
Tariq nodded at the thoughtfulness of his followers at foreseeing that he might need fortification after his sprint to freedom. “Good. Any problems? You’re late.”
“They closed down some of the approaches because of the protest. Couldn’t be helped.”
A handheld radio crackled, and a baritone German voice emanated from the speaker. The woman’s expression didn’t change when the transmission ended, and she barely slowed as they reached an intersection. “We’ll hear on the police band as soon as they put out the word on you. So far, nothing. Just a lot of traffic about the protest and crowd control.”
Tariq allowed himself a rare smile and rubbed his smooth chin. “Everything is working perfectly.”
“So far,” the woman agreed.
“Let’s hope it continues. We only need a few hours of fortune favoring us and we’ll be home free.”
Chapter 2
Al Ghurayfah, Libya
Salmon and crimson had painted the western sky as the sun sank like a burning ember into the pall of haze hanging over the high ridge that stretched to infinity along the southern reaches of the desert. Only a few of the homes in the small town had lights burning in their windows; the majority plunged into darkness with the passing of day, electricity an impossible luxury in an outpost at the edge of a sandy hell, the heat stifling even as night fell.
A battered Toyota truck bounced along a rutted dirt street and pulled to a stop in front of a single-story mud-brick home. Two men carrying Kalashnikov assault rifles climbed from the ancient vehicle and approached the front door. It opened after a few moments, and after scanning the empty road, they entered.
“My friends!” said the man who’d let them in. “Come. Sit with me and celebrate the escape of our friend and spiritual leader. It is a joyous occasion we’ve been awaiting for too long.”