Russell Blake - Jet

“Is it ever?”

Moshe named a price.

David whistled.

“I presume you’ll want that in dollars, no shekels. Do you have anything that would be comparable to the MTAR?”

“Not really. It’s extremely compact and packs a wallop. But I can get another one within a couple of days with no problem. And dollars would be just fine, as always.”

David considered it, then shook his head. “I’ll get back to you on that. Let’s see the goods…”

Moshe rolled to a wooden case and lifted the lid, then pulled out an evil-looking weapon that would have been at home in a science fiction film.

“MTAR-21 — the good old X95-S. With integrated silencer, laser sight and two extra magazines. Only fired by a little old lady. Comes with a hundred rounds of ammo. For you, I will make it two hundred, no extra charge. Perfect for home defense if a platoon of Hamas is bearing down on you. Light, accurate, deadly,” Moshe recited.

“I know the weapon.”

“Nothing like it.”

Humming to himself, Moshe rolled to another box and extracted a new Glock. Within a few minutes, he had everything sitting on top of one of the crates.

“Got a bag?” David asked.

“Fifty dollars.” Moshe grinned. “Kidding.”

David counted out the crisp hundred dollar bills while Moshe ferreted around in another box. He handed the bundle of notes to Moshe, who nodded and held out a rolled up duffle.

“Call me if you need another MTAR. I gotta get one as a replacement anyway, but I can put a rush on it.”

“Will do. Pleasure doing business with you, as always, Moshe,” David said, taking the sack from him.

“Likewise. You need anything else?”

“Don’t think so. Stay away from Trina. She looks like trouble.”

“I have enough excitement in my life. Then again, she’s got a sparkling personality…”

“I got that.”

The men exchanged muted smiles.

As David packed the gear into the black nylon sack, Moshe noted that he loaded the magazines and chambered rounds in the weapons, and said nothing. David shouldered the bag and made for the storeroom door.

“I can find my own way out.”

“Don’t be a stranger.”

Trina was staring blankly at the street through the floor-to-ceiling windows when he stepped back into the showroom. She looked high. Not his problem.

“Have a nice day,” she offered in a desultory tone.

“You, too.”

He swung the glass door open and stepped out onto the sidewalk, pausing to get his bearings before returning to the car.

Jet was watching her side mirrors when he got in. He leaned over and placed the duffle on the rear seat, then sat back and fastened his seatbelt.

“Did you get everything?” she asked, starting the motor.

“Only had one MTAR. He can get another one within a couple of days.”

“We don’t have a couple of days.”

“I know.”

Jet and David endured the clusters of stopped cars until they were out of the Jerusalem, at which point the road opened up and they were able to make better time. On the outskirts of Tel Aviv, David disclosed he was hungry, so they stopped for lunch at a seafood restaurant and took a table at the back, where they were alone. When the fish came, it smelled heavenly, and they eagerly devoured it as they debated their next move.

“It’s dangerous to the point of being foolhardy,” David stated flatly.

“Not if we’re careful.”

“It also has us acting as judge and jury.”

“Like all the operations I’ve ever been on. The only difference is that in this case I’m making the judgment, not some anonymous wonk I’ve never heard of,” she argued, “and we might gain useful intel on Grigenko.”

“What if we’re wrong?”

“We aren’t.”

“The man is a legend in the Mossad. He deserves better than this.”

“No, he doesn’t. Nobody argued my needs and wants or tried to defend my right to fair treatment when the gunmen were trying to kill me.”

They sat, eating in silence, David troubled by her intentions.

When they had finished their meal and were back in the car, he was still obviously upset.

“What if I refuse to participate?”

“Then you can sit this one out. I’ll deal with it myself,” she said.

“Is there anything I can say to talk you out of this? Or at least to get you to slow down a little?”

She didn’t answer, just threw him a look he knew too well as she drove wordlessly towards the cottage.

They found a parking spot a block away from the house. Jet retrieved the bag from the back seat before David could get it. He was still recovering, and there was no reason for him to carry the weapons, even if she was annoyed with him over his stubborn objections to her latest scheme.

When they rounded the corner, Jet grabbed his arm and slowed.

“What?” he asked.

“Up ahead. Hundred yards. Two vehicles. SUVs. Drivers are still in them. Not moving.”

“You sure? Shit.”

“Is the MTAR loaded?”

“One in the hole.”

She pulled his Glock free of her purse, slipped it to him and unzipped the duffle. Then all hell broke loose.

Six men came running up the street wielding submachine guns and pistols. Jet pushed David away from her and dropped to her knee just as the lead man opened fire. She heard the telltale whistle of bullets slicing through the air as David’s Glock barked from a few yards to her right, where he’d taken cover behind a car. Throwing herself to the sidewalk, she whipped the MTAR free and squeezed off three short bursts. The two lead men went down hard, their weapons slamming into the pavement as her rounds tore through their torsos. A third man spun and fell after one of David’s shots clipped him, but they were too far away for the Glock to be accurate. Jet fired another burst, and the fourth man’s throat erupted a bright crimson arterial spurt, then she crawled towards the garage as David lay down covering fire.

She just made it when slugs pounded into the wall. Jet let loose two more percussive salvos as David ran in a crouch to her. Firing down the street, she reached into the bag with her free hand, groped around, then handed him another full magazine for the Glock. They changed positions. David peered around the corner and emptied the pistol at the gunmen as Jet stuck another magazine in her back pocket and ran towards the rear of the house. David followed suit, slamming the new clip into his weapon as he moved.

Jet made a hand signal — David shook his head, no. She wanted to circle back around and take on their pursuers. What they needed to do was to get the hell out of there. Jet ignored his agitated expression and edged to the rear corner, then sprinted to the opposite side and tore as fast as she could for the front again.

Footsteps thudded on concrete as the remaining men ran towards the garage. Crouching low, Jet set the MTAR on full auto and took cover behind a garbage can. One man passed her, then another, and she sprang up and unleashed a hail of rounds, cutting the pair down before they had a chance to turn and face her. She spun and ejected the spent clip and slapped the second into the gun, then carefully loosed a short burst at the first SUV that was bearing down on her in reverse, tires smoking.

The fuel tank detonated, and the vehicle exploded with a whump. She felt the force of the blast on her face, then David was pulling on her arm, dragging her back.

“Let’s get out of here. Now. Come on.”

She jerked her arm free and gave him a withering glance.

“We don’t know how many there are,” he hissed, “and the police will be here in minutes. Think. If we want to fight another day, it’s time to move.”

She took another look at the street where the truck was belching flame and nodded.