Jet

  ~ ~ ~

  Jet was up early the next morning, the clamor of traffic below her window acting as an alarm clock. She took a shower, noting that her hand was free of infection. The mirror confirmed the shoulder and knife wounds were also clear. She turned and studied her face. The discoloration on her jaw was noticeable, and probably would be for at least another couple of days. She’d need to get some makeup to cover it so as not to arouse attention.

  She checked the time and decided on some exercise before breakfast – a daily regimen she’d adhered to since her teen years. After pulling on the shorts and T-shirt, she strapped on the backpack and grabbed a hand towel and her water bottle, and then hit the stairs.

  Once at the beach, she took off down the sand at a run, moving rapidly past the vendors, who were just setting up for the day. This was their reality, selling trinkets or snacks along a desolate stretch of the Caribbean in a city most had never heard of. They would live, love, fight and die there, and none of it would ultimately change much of anything.

  She pushed the fatalistic thoughts aside as she stretched out along the strand, sweat beginning to trickle down her back as the morning heat increased with the ascent of the sun. A gathering of gulls hopped in and out of the creeping tide while pelicans wheeled overhead, occasionally dive-bombing for their breakfast beyond the surf line.

  On her return to the hotel, she stopped at an internet café that featured ten-year-old PCs, and slipped the proprietress some coins in exchange for a half hour of time. She logged on and began a search for any news from Trinidad. It didn’t take her long to find it.

  Every online site on the island had extensive coverage of the bloodbath. All described it as an unprecedented outburst of regrettable drug-related violence, with speculations about cartels battling for supremacy over territory. Photos of the bullet-riddled SUV and car abounded, as did several grisly crime scene photos of blanket-draped forms surrounded by police.

  And there was her passport photo. She was listed as wanted for questioning – ‘to assist the authorities with their inquiries’, as the hacks had tactfully phrased it.

  Reading on, she saw that the coverage didn’t really have any substance, and the articles were all essentially the same. Sensationalistic descriptions of running gun battles and carnage, all of them gravitating to the organized crime angle. By some miracle, no tourists or other innocents had been harmed, and Carnival festivities were still in full swing, albeit with a heightened police presence.

  Two of the papers had posted short accounts of the stolen boat and the explosion in Venezuelan waters off of a remote, uninhabited stretch of coast. None made any connection between the shootings and the theft – it was viewed as a separate incident. A government official made a terse statement about a probable gas fire onboard and left it at that.

  One of the articles described the dead men as from former Soviet bloc countries. Nothing more specific. That tied in with what she’d seen of them – obviously not Latin. It went on to hint that perhaps the Russian mob had made a play against local drug lords and discovered the hard way that they weren’t welcome.

  None of the articles mentioned that all of the gunmen had been equipped with identical silenced weapons. The police had probably left that out of their press briefings.

  Her time expired, she pushed back from the computer and stood. At the counter, she asked about stores that might carry items like makeup and underwear, and was directed to a shop a few streets over. She located it easily and soon was back at the hotel, contemplating her reflection again.

  It was time to deal with her hair. She rummaged around in the backpack and extracted one of the dye boxes. Her natural black had to go. There was no question that any surviving pursuers would have forwarded on a more up-to-date description of her than her passport photo, and her thick black locks were now a liability.

  An hour later, she rinsed the last of the color away. She was now a medium brunette. No more obviously dyed than many of the other chemically lightened women she’d seen on the waterfront. If anything, the somewhat brassy look made her less obvious, less striking, and made her features appear to be more likely Latina, especially with her tan.

  A few dabs of makeup, which she normally eschewed, and the facial bruising was toned down to an acceptable level. She packed up her belongings, carefully stowed the dye materials in an empty plastic clothes bag, and was ready to go.

  Jet spent a few minutes wandering around the block where the bus station was located, on the alert for anyone suspicious watching the departures. Other than the usual miscreants that were for some reason drawn to bus depots, she didn’t spot anyone. She approached the ticket counter and bought a ticket – the next coach left in forty-five minutes and would take the rest of the afternoon and much of the evening to get to Caracas, a city of almost seven million and the capital of Venezuela. The international airport there would have flights to almost everywhere in the world, so she would be unlimited in her options.

  Which brought her up short. So far, she’d been driven by an imperative to get as far from her pursuers as possible. But then what? She hadn’t formulated a plan yet, preferring to react rather than try to steer events.

  That couldn’t last. As she browsed the newspaper rack, part of her mind was mulling over possible next moves.

  She glanced at her watch and asked the magazine vendor whether there was an electronics store anywhere nearby. She needed a cell phone. With ten hours to kill on the bus, it would be helpful to be able to get on the internet and research things such as flight schedules. The young woman nodded and pointed to a shop across the street.

  Jet was quickly able to find a Nokia with web-browsing capability, which she bought, along with several airtime cards. A late-model bus pulled into the station, and she scooped up her purchases and ran for it. The last thing she wanted to do was miss her ride and spend another day in Carupano. It was too close to Trinidad for comfort.

  The door opened, and she stood in line with the other passengers. Thankfully, her seat was only a few back from the driver, so she wouldn’t be sitting by the bathroom for the whole trip. Her luck didn’t completely hold, though, when a mother and three small boys took the seats behind her. One immediately began crying when the other smacked him, and Jet turned around and gave the oblivious mother a dark look. The woman got the message and shifted the little squawker across the aisle then took the seat behind Jet herself.

  As the bus bumped along the streets leading to the highway, Jet stuffed tissue in her ears and settled in for the long trip. She had nobody sitting next to her, at least for now, so she closed her eyes and reconciled herself to thinking through her situation and devising a plan.

  In order to do so, she needed to understand how whoever was targeting her had located her.

  And to do that, she needed to go back down a rabbit hole she thought she’d sealed off forever.