Russell Blake: Jet

Maya rolled from the cover of the structure, took aim, then fired a slew of two-round bursts into the sedan. The submachine gun’s armor-piercing bullets sliced through the doors like they were warm butter; the horn sounded as the driver’s head smashed forward against the steering wheel. The shooting from the car stopped.

A dark Ford Explorer screeched around the corner and raced directly at her. She could see a figure leaning out of the passenger side window with a pistol, and she didn’t hesitate to use the MP7’s superior range. She flipped the weapon to full auto and emptied the gun into the SUV. Without taking her eyes off the Explorer as it bore down on her, she ejected the spent magazine and slammed another one home, then continued firing burst after burst at close range. The gunman fell back into the cab with a grunt, and his pistol clattered to the ground.

The vehicle slowed, then veered away from her before bouncing onto the sidewalk and crashing into a parked Mitsubishi. Maya emptied the rest of the second clip at it and slapped the third one into place.

A light went on in the house behind it.

The bullet-riddled SUV showed no signs of life.

She listened intently for any more vehicles but couldn’t discern much over the din of the dead sedan’s horn, which was still blaring.

A light went on in another nearby home. Glancing around, Maya spun and ran as fast as her legs would carry her, reversing her direction to take her farther from her apartment.

At the end of the block, she stopped and unscrewed the suppressor, then stowed the weapon back in the bag. No point in terrifying everyone she came across.

She kept moving until, two blocks away from the gun battle, she saw a solitary headlight bouncing towards her. A motor scooter whined its way down the little street, moving along at no more than twenty miles per hour. Maya stopped and waved until it slowed and then rolled to a stop. A young man looked her up and down in the faint lighting.

Maya threw him a luminescent smile. “Hey. Are you going to the party by the water? My ankle is hurting…”

He returned the smile. “Sure. Hop on. I’m Kyle.”

“Nice to meet you, Kyle. Veronique.”

She put her arms around him, and they sped off. Her pursuers, and the police, if they were now part of her problems, would be looking for a single woman, not a couple on a motorbike.

Maya removed her left arm from his waist and felt the bullet graze on her shoulder. Her hand came away with blood on it, but she could tell it was only a flesh wound. Still, she had the problem of how to conceal it — she’d hoped by now it would have stopped bleeding.

A block from the beach Kyle eased to a stop to avoid a swarm of drunken pedestrians, and she abruptly hopped off the back.

“Thanks, Kyle. See you around,” she said, vanishing into the crowd as he tried to process what had just happened.

Maya ducked into the first trinket shop she came to and bought a black T-shirt with a PADI symbol on the front, tossing payment at the bored shopkeeper before dashing out. She slipped into a grimy space between two buildings, pulled off her bloody long-sleeved shirt and dropped it into the gutter before pulling on the new one. The bleeding from her shoulder had finally slowed, the bullet having effectively cauterized most of the wound, and the shirt’s dark color would mask any leakage. She reached into her purse and retrieved one of the gauze pads Roberto had given her, then stuck it up the sleeve and onto the graze.

That was all she could do for now. She checked the time and saw that it was already ten thirty. The ferries had stopped running, and the airport would be a non-starter. The corpses would result in a full-court press by the police, and even the controlled chaos of a big weekend like Carnival wouldn’t be enough cover. That left two choices — either find someplace remote to hide for at least a day or two, or steal a boat tonight and try to make it to the Venezuelan mainland.

She didn’t like her odds hiding. The shootings would be the biggest news to hit the island in years, so even the normally relaxed locals would be scared, shocked, and on high alert. And once they put her identity together with the bodies at the cafe…

Her picture would be everywhere. All the authorities had was her passport photo, which now looked almost nothing like her — in the picture, she had shorter auburn hair parted on the side, with blond highlights along the front, whereas now it was her natural black color and three years longer — but she could only change her face so much.

She was going to have to find a boat.

Several marinas dotted the stretch of shore nearest Venezuela, just west of Port of Spain. The good news was that the whole town went a little crazy during Carnival so security was likely to be lax. Anyone working would be wishing they had the night off so they could enjoy the show, not watching for boat thieves.

She fished the feathered mask out of her purse and donned it, then glided back into the mass of partyers, this time just another anonymous merrymaker enjoying the festivities. The volume of the music had increased, as had the beat, the intensity matching the growing atmosphere of capricious mayhem that was spilling onto the streets. A woman in a beaded dress wearing an elaborate headdress danced by, her hips performing impossible undulations to the island rhythms, while a group of younger girls giggled as they watched a trio of tough-looking teens eyeing them from the other side of the road.

A hand nudged her purse, and she grabbed it, simultaneously twisting as she flicked open her butterfly knife. A wide-eyed islander found himself with the razor-sharp blade at his throat; the heavy scent of fear and sweat and coconut rum assaulted her with each of his panicked exhalations. He backed off, hands raised, muttering that it was a mistake.

Maya lowered the knife and flipped it closed with a lightning motion. Petty thieves were a constant during street festivals like this. She’d have to be more careful. She’d been so busy formulating her plan and watching for potential killers — she hadn’t factored in the local predatory hazards. That couldn’t happen again.

Several streets from the main drag, she flagged down a taxi and told the surly driver to take her to the marina by the yacht club. He grunted assent and crunched the old car into gear, growling a fee that was double what it should have been. She didn’t complain. The marina was in one of the ritzier neighborhoods, and he probably felt there should be a premium.

As he dropped her off a quarter block from the empty parking lot, a warm breeze was wafting from Venezuela, less than twenty miles away. It smelled of the sea and heavy jungle, the vegetation blending with the salt air in a way unique to that stretch of coast. Down at the water, the powerboats rocked gently at the docks, pulling lazily on their creaking lines. The yacht club itself was dark, closed for the night.

A security guard lounged on a folding chair near the main gate, laughing with a woman who was telling a story in the distinctive island patois, its musical lilt as distinctive as a primary color. A tinny, calypso rhythm refrained from a portable stereo near the guard shack, the light wind seasoned with the pungent scent of marijuana.

The woman took a swig from a bottle and passed it to the uniformed man, who made an unintelligible comment, laughed, and drank deep. This encounter obviously had a destination before the evening was over, and Maya guessed that the couple would either retreat to the security room for a little privacy, or move to a vacant boat. Such things were not unknown to happen when the trade winds blew.

She checked the time impatiently, resigned herself to waiting, and retreated into a dark recess where she could keep an eye on them.