Russell Blake: Jet

Spray shredded along the hull as her speed increased until she was tearing through the water at over sixty miles per hour. The lights of Cap d’Ail twinkled as she blew past the point, racing towards Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, where once around the tip, she would have a straight shot at the airport in Nice.

A searchlight pierced the night from behind her, playing over the sea, and she sliced further towards shore, braving the surf and deadly rock outcroppings to lose the patrol boat that had hurtled out of the harbor in chase. She was airborne for a few seconds before she crashed back into the waves and cranked the gas, hoping to outrun the Monaco boat.

A voice boomed from the pursuit craft, but she couldn’t make out what it was saying. She peered down at the speed indicator and saw that she was now doing almost seventy miles per hour. There was no way it would be able to catch her. She just hoped that she could avoid any French patrols and get to the airport in time to stop Grigenko. It was a long shot, but at this point, it was the only one she had.

She zigzagged erratically to create a more difficult target, leaning forward to minimize her profile. She knew she wouldn’t be able to outrun a helicopter if the police were able to get something into the air that quickly, but it was dark, so as long as she could stay out of the searchlight she had a good chance with the boats.

When she rounded Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, she saw Nice spread out before her like a field of light, the airport shimmering on the shore at the far side of the city. The swell increased in size, slowing her, but making it even harder for the chasing boat to gain on her. She glanced back and saw that it had given up — no doubt, the Monaco patrol had radioed ahead and handed the problem off to the French.

The airport was no more than five miles, and she could easily identify its buildings blazing bright on the water. At her current speed, she would be there in seven minutes or less. Then the question would be whether she had made it in time to stop Grigenko. At any moment, he could be taking off in his custom Gulfstream G-550, headed for Omaha, his objective no doubt Hannah. She understood that this was a blood feud, a vendetta, and the Russians were serious about their feuds — he would go scorched earth and slaughter anyone close to Jet, and the closest person in the world was her daughter.

She squinted and wiped salt water out of her eyes, then saw the telltale flashing lights of a French police boat off in the distance, headed in her direction from the marina on the far side of the airport.

There was no way she could take the jet ski all the way without the French intercepting her. She would have to cut inland and beach it, then steal a car.

Jet turned and headed towards the shore, and a few minutes later, she was flying through the rolling surf and sliding up the sand. Once on land, she took off at a run, wary of the inevitable police presence once her position had been pinpointed.

Traffic on the frontage road was still heavy, and as she sprinted up the beach to the long promenade she searched around for any target of opportunity. A woman walking a Pomeranian recoiled when she saw Jet, dripping wet in her soaked black leather, puddles of water pooling with each high-heeled step. She gave the woman a demented look and shouted, “Boo!”

The woman nearly fainted.

A man pushing an old BMW motorcycle was preparing to climb on at the curb. Without thinking, Jet ran to him and wrenched the handlebars out of his hands, knocking him to the sidewalk when he started screaming at her. She threw her leg over the seat, fired up and revved the motor, then slammed it into gear and shot between two cars into the night traffic.

The wind buffeted her as she slalomed around the slower-moving vehicles, the warm air blowing the worst of the salt water from her outfit. Horns honked in protest as she ran a red light, narrowly missing a sedan before running up onto the sidewalk to get past a taxi that had double-parked to pick up a fare.

Sirens howled from a block behind her as a squad car gave chase. Glancing over her shoulder, she could see the flashing orbs on its roof, and she gunned the motorcycle around the promenade benches as she raced down the pedestrian walkway. She could still hear the horns blaring from the police car as she swung down a side street and disappeared.

Two minutes later, she pulled onto the frontage road that circled the airport, and she twisted the throttle, urging the old motorcycle to give its all. As she approached the far end of the runway, she spotted the distinctive shape of the Russian’s jet near one of the low buildings — no doubt the private plane terminal. Her heart sank when she saw the landing lights illuminated — it looked as though it was ready for takeoff.

Jet skidded to a rolling stop near a security gate, the guards astonished to see a Valkyrie in leather riding an antique. She saw her opportunity — a three-foot gap between the gate and the fence. As they stood gawping, she dropped the clutch and hammered on past them and onto the airport grounds. They yelled at her as she flew by, but she ignored their warning and headed for the maintenance vehicles parked at the side of the terminal, her anxiety mounting as the jet’s door closed and it began rolling to the taxi area.

An airport truck rolled along a hundred yards in front of her, a mobile passenger stairway mounted on its chassis. She sped towards it, and after overtaking it, she cut it off, forcing it to a stop. In a fluid motion, she reached around and unzipped the backpack, whipping out the P90 and pointing it at the driver.

“Out. Now. Don’t make me shoot you,” she yelled in French.

The open-mouthed driver raised his hands and quickly complied. She jumped behind the wheel, jammed the shifter into gear and floored it. The heavy vehicle lurched forward with a roar as the bewildered maintenance worker stood with his hands still raised above his head, trying to make sense of what had just taken place.

The pilot smiled as the tower gave him clearance to taxi. With a curt glance at the instruments, he reached forward, toggled the transmit button and confirmed. They were number one for takeoff and would be airborne in minutes.

Grigenko sat in the oversized reclining chair nearest the cockpit, his legs up on the footrest, a glass of vodka in his hand. Oleg peered through the window, absently watching the terminal. The pilot’s voice came over the speakers.

“We are cleared for takeoff, sir. Please fasten your seatbelt. We will be in the air shortly.”

A map popped up on the large flat screen TV on the forward bulkhead, a red line charting their planned flight path to the United States.

Grigenko felt for the remote control in his seat arm and switched it to television, thumbing through the channels until he found live news coverage of the fire in the Monaco marina. His beloved Petrushka was ablaze and looked like it would be a total loss. The newscaster’s excited voice recited statistics on the boat’s cost and then launched into a measured description of the reclusive Russian oligarch who owned it.

“So, the insurance company is going to be pissed, nyet ?” Grigenko said with a harsh laugh, then took another swallow of vodka. Oleg smiled in obligatory amusement.

Grigenko glanced out the window, movement having caught his eye. Just a maintenance vehicle .

“Once we’re in the air, I’m going to get some sleep. It’s been a long day,” he said, stretching his arms overhead with a yawn. He pushed a button on the seat, and the windows went opaque, blocking out the glare from the runway spotlights.

The pilot inched the controls forward, increasing power to the engines as the Gulfstream started its takeoff run. It began crawling forward and then quickly accelerated, pushing him back in his seat.