Russell Blake - Jet

She found a serviceable hotel a block and a half off the beach. The room was clean and comfortable, with a reasonable bed and a mild breeze blowing off the Caribbean. After unpacking her few belongings, she went in search of stores, and several blocks away, she came across one that looked promising. Within a few minutes, she found a pair of jeans and a top that would work — long-sleeved lightweight cotton in muted blue and green — and some running shorts and a T-shirt. Jet paid for her purchases and changed into the jeans and top at the store, stuffing her dress and blouse into the bag — then went in search of dinner.

She found a promising eatery on the malecon and took her time over her meal, but by the end of it, she realized she was exhausted. The night on the beach hadn’t been particularly restful, and she’d only been able to doze as the Isuzu had weaved through the jungle hills — she needed some solid hours of uninterrupted sleep.

It was getting dark as she exited the restaurant, and the stream of beachgoers had dried up. Jet stuck to the main seafront road, in no hurry, and was looking forward to the inviting bed in her room, when she turned the corner that led to her hotel.

A blur of motion came at her as she passed a small alley, and she barely had time to register a twenty-something-year-old man in a stained soccer jersey approaching her holding a knife. She threw her clothes bag at his head and then swiveled and grabbed his knife arm, then slammed the heel of her right hand into his face, catching him on the chin. He winced in pain from the blow, but he didn’t drop the knife, although he’d stopped his surge and was standing facing her, breathing heavily, a trickle of blood running down his chin. He spit a bloody gob of froth and a decayed tooth into the gutter, and glared at her. He was emaciated and smelled sour, with a junkie’s distinctive body tics.

A smaller man, older, with a face that resembled nothing so much as a rat, edged to the alley mouth, his eyes darting down the street to confirm there were no witnesses. He clutched a length of pipe and held it like he had used it before. The stink of sweat and tobacco wafted off him like a noxious fog.

Jet quickly sized them up. These were common muggers, thieves that plagued the more prosperous areas of most Venezuelan cities, on the prowl for easy targets of opportunity.

Tonight they’d picked the wrong victim.

She debated possible tactics as they moved slowly around her, circling, trying to get behind her. There was a small amount of primitive strategy to their movements — they stayed well separated so she could only focus on one at a time. Under any other circumstances, it would have been a good gambit.

She decided on subterfuge and misdirection as opposed to a frontal assault. Let them come to her.

Her eyes widened as she swung her head around in fright.

“Please. Don’t hurt me. I don’t have any money, and I…I know karate.” She sounded convincing. The tremor in her voice as she said ‘karate’ was particularly feeble.

The smaller man laughed, an evil, humorless bark and, without saying a word, stepped towards her and swung the pipe at her shoulder.

From there, everything happened fast.

Her kick caught him in the groin, arresting the swing as he let out a moan and doubled over. She kicked him one more time, this time in the head, and he sprawled onto the filthy pavement, the pipe banging against the surface before rolling from his grip.

The younger man rushed her, but she easily blocked the upward sweep of the knife and leveled a brutal strike to his throat with a closed fist. His free hand clutched at his windpipe as he fought for breath, and she slammed her good hand into his knife arm. He dropped the blade with a clatter and bent over, struggling for air.

She watched him gasping. She hadn’t landed a lethal blow, choosing to pull the strike at the last second, so he would eventually recover. Still, neither one of them would be mugging anyone in the near future.

“Pick up your buddy and get the hell out of here before I tear your arms off and beat you over the head with them,” she said in a low voice as she knelt and grabbed the knife, eyes on her incapacitated assailants.

The man on the ground groaned as the younger one staggered over to him.

There was nothing more to see. It would take them a few moments to collect themselves and be able to walk, by which time, she’d be long gone.

Jet scooped up the plastic bag with her clothes in it and backed out of the alley, watching the motley pair to ensure she wasn’t surprised by an unexpected burst of stamina from either man, then hurried up the block and entered her hotel. She was reassured to note that her respiration and heart rate were normal. This was the old Jet. The instincts that had served her so well had come back quickly.

Not all of them, though.

She hadn’t killed either mugger.

In the old days, she wouldn’t have pulled the punch.

Jet stripped off her clothes and took another shower with cool water before throwing herself onto the bed. She groped for the bedside lamp and switched it off, plunging the room into darkness, the only sound an occasional car rumbling down the street to the beach.

She was out cold within sixty seconds.

Two Years Ago, Trinidad

“My water broke.”

The nurse took Maya’s hand and led her to a seat. After a hurried discussion on the telephone, she turned to face Maya again.

“The doctor is on his way, darling. Just come lie over here, and we’ll get you ready. Don’t worry about anything,” the nurse cooed in a heavy island lilt, motioning at a gurney an orderly had pushed through the double steel doors of the emergency room.

With the nurse’s assistance, Maya did as instructed, and within a few minutes, she was wheeled into a private room. Another nurse took her vital signs and helped her into a hospital gown, hanging her clothes carefully in the small closet.

The contractions were coming more regularly, and when the doctor rushed in wearing street clothes, she exhaled a sigh of relief. He performed a brief examination and listened to her stomach with a stethoscope, then told the nurse in a hushed voice to bring a portable ultrasound unit in immediately.

“What’s wrong, Doctor?” Maya asked.

“Probably nothing. Don’t worry. I just want to check something,” he said, but wouldn’t look her in the eyes.

The nurse returned with a cart, and the doctor quickly put gel on the probe tip and moved it slowly around her abdomen. His expression as he watched the monitor was strained. When he looked up at her, he was frowning.

“There’s a problem. The baby’s heart rate is in a critical zone. We’re going to have to do a C-section immediately.”

“No! I don’t want one. I told you I want to deliver naturally.”

“I’m afraid there’s no choice in the matter. I’m sorry. We don’t have any time to waste. Seconds count. Both you and the baby are in danger.” The doctor turned and issued a set of terse instructions to the nurse.

Maya processed his statement, sweat rolling down her face.

“Fine. Do what you have to do. Just make sure my baby is okay.”

He nodded at the nurse, who hurried out of the room, returning in a few moments with an orderly pushing another gurney — this one with an IV bag suspended from a hanger. Maya shifted onto it with the orderly and the doctor’s help, then the nurse started an IV line and motioned to the doctor. He withdrew a syringe from his bag and approached her, then fixed her with a caring gaze.

“We’re out of time. I’m going to give you the anesthesia and get you into surgery. The injection is much faster than gas. Are you ready?”