JET - Ops Files
Authors: Russell Blake
JET – Ops Files
Russell Blake
Copyright © 2014 by Russell Blake. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact:
Cover Photo by: Regina Wamba of
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Thrillers by Russell Blake
FATAL EXCHANGE
THE GERONIMO BREACH
ZERO SUM
THE DELPHI CHRONICLE TRILOGY
THE VOYNICH CYPHER
SILVER JUSTICE
UPON A PALE HORSE
The Assassin Series by Russell Blake
KING OF SWORDS
NIGHT OF THE ASSASSIN
RETURN OF THE ASSASSIN
REVENGE OF THE ASSASSIN
BLOOD OF THE ASSASSIN
The JET Series by Russell Blake
JET
JET II – BETRAYAL
JET III – VENGEANCE
JET IV – RECKONING
JET V – LEGACY
JET VI – JUSTICE
JET VII – SANCTUARY
JET – OPS FILES (prequel)
The BLACK Series by Russell Blake
BLACK
BLACK IS BACK
BLACK IS THE NEW BLACK
BLACK TO REALITY
Co-authored with Clive Cussler
THE EYE OF HEAVEN
Non Fiction by Russell Blake
AN ANGEL WITH FUR
HOW TO SELL A GAZILLION EBOOKS
(while drunk, high or incarcerated)
About the Author
A
Wall Street Journal
and
The Times
featured author, Russell Blake lives full time on the Pacific coast of Mexico. He is the acclaimed author of many thrillers, including the Assassin series, the JET series, and the BLACK series. He has also co-authored
The Eye of Heaven
with Clive Cussler for Penguin Books.
“Capt.” Russell enjoys writing, fishing, playing with his dogs, collecting and sampling tequila, and waging an ongoing battle against world domination by clowns.
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Author’s Note
JET – Ops Files
was written as a prequel to the bestselling
JET
series in order to satisfy a constant demand I’ve gotten since I released the first book: readers want to know how Jet became the Mossad’s most lethal operative.
I’d been toying with the idea of a series within a series for a while, in particular a few novels that chronicled Jet’s adventures in her past life. I wanted it to read like the rest of the books – unapologetically over-the-top, with an emphasis on larger-than-life breakneck action – but I also wanted to explore how she became “the most kick-ass female protagonist in fiction,” as one reviewer kindly phrased it. I wasn’t sure how to accomplish that, so I kept putting it off, and before I knew it, fourteen months had gone by. Then a friend of mine said something that struck me as self-evident: you never know until you write it.
So write it I did. The story begins nine years ago, before she’s recruited into the Mossad, when Jet is just Maya Weiss, no code name, a lowly private serving her mandatory time in the Israeli Defense Force, stationed at a checkpoint in the West Bank.
Let me state, for the record, that nothing in this adventure is intended to reflect reality – any resemblance to real people or institutions is purely coincidental, and as far as I know the Mossad doesn’t operate top-secret hit teams around the globe, nor does North Korea sell nerve gas to terrorists.
At least, I hope not.
Chapter 1
Ramallah, West Bank
An arid wind blew a beige dust devil down the desolate road that ran from Ramallah to Jenin. Ribbons of orange and crimson streaked the edge of the predawn sky as another long night drew to an end. The young Israeli Defense Force soldiers manning the checkpoint fidgeted near a baffle of sandbags, the final minutes of the graveyard shift fast approaching on a rural thoroughfare that saw little nocturnal traffic.
Maya rubbed a fatigued hand across her face and exchanged a glance with Sarah, her friend and confidante on the lonely duty, and the only other woman on the all-night vigil. Four soldiers, relaxing with their rifles hanging from shoulder slings, stood by the two-story tower that had been erected the prior month to afford a better view of approaching vehicles. A scraggly rooster strutted along the sandy shoulder, a solitary visitor on the deserted strip of pavement, its crimson-crowned head bobbing in determination as it strutted to a destination unknown.
“Only ten more minutes,” Maya said, stifling a yawn.
“Not that you’re counting every second or anything, right?” Sarah smiled, her cherubic features and bobbed whiskey-colored hair peeking from under her helmet a stark contrast to Maya, all angles and emerald eyes and black hair.
“Am I that transparent?”
“Why don’t you hit it a little early, and I’ll cover for you? If anyone asks, I’ll say you had to use the latrine.”
“I don’t want Kevod jumping down my throat.” Sergeant Kevod was their superior, a petty tyrant who routinely abused his authority by making leering passes at his female charges – always completely deniable but as palpable as a blow to the face. He’d made a clumsy proposition to Maya several weeks after she’d been assigned to the squad, and hadn’t taken her rejection lightly. Ever since that incident he’d had it in for her, and the past months had been an endless series of petty humiliations Maya had stoically suffered in silence, refusing to allow his misogyny to get to her.
“Don’t worry. Numbnuts is asleep in his bed. Your secret’s safe with me.”
Maya smiled and eyed the soldiers by the tower, who were murmuring among themselves, leaning against the support posts, occasionally glancing at their female counterparts. “I owe you one.”
“Such drama. Go on. Nobody will miss you. It’s dead out here,” Sarah said with a wink.
Maya shouldered her IMI Tavor TAR-21 assault rifle and made her way to the women’s barracks, next to where the all-male morning shift was preparing for its eight-hour duty. She pushed open the door and moved to her trim cot. She could hear the men in the adjacent building as clear as if she’d been standing in the same room, bantering and cursing as they shrugged into their uniforms.
Dim headlights approached the checkpoint from the north. The lamps flickered as an ancient red and white ambulance bounced along the rutted asphalt, its motor laboring with an asthmatic wheeze. The Israeli soldiers stiffened as the vehicle coasted to a stop, and Eli, a tall youth in his final year of duty, broke away and joined Sarah at the wooden barricade. The driver rolled the dusty window down and handed over his identification papers to Eli as Sarah slowly walked around the vehicle, looking it over.
Eli studied the license and registration in his flashlight’s beam, holding up the identity card and comparing the driver’s leathery countenance to that of the man in the photograph. The driver winced as the beam played across his face, and Eli lowered his flashlight.
“Where are you going?” Eli asked.
“The hospital. We have an injured boy in the back who’s in bad shape.” A fly buzzed from a nearby pile of refuse and drifted through the window. The driver waved it away with an irritated hand.
“What happened?”
“He fell off a ladder. We think his back might be broken.”
Sarah rejoined Eli and stared impassively through the windshield at the driver and the younger passenger, who looked ill at ease. Their eyes locked through the grimy glass, and after a long moment his gaze darted down to where a beige woven blanket rested on his lap. A butterfly of disquiet fluttered in her stomach, and she slowly reached for the grip of her weapon. Eli was oblivious to the change in her demeanor and was handing back the paperwork when Sarah called out to him.
“I want to search the vehicle,” she said, steel in her voice.
Time slowed to a crawl as silence followed her demand. The engine ticked a rhythmic staccato accompaniment to the burble of the exhaust. The passenger’s gaze flitted to his companion, who sighed and shook his head.
“With all due respect, this is a critical case. Minutes count.”
Sarah peered into the darkened ambulance interior and then returned her attention to the driver. She was about to repeat her demand when a tiny bead of sweat traced its way from the man’s hairline down the side of his face, in spite of the predawn cool. Her pulse quickened as she watched the errant drop of moisture, pulled inexorably by gravity toward his shirt collar, which she noted was soiled. He blinked, and Sarah stepped back and swung the ugly snout of her rifle at the ambulance.
Eli never saw the submachine gun that erupted from beneath the passenger’s blanket as the driver leaned back to give his partner room to fire while he simultaneously stomped on the gas. Slugs slammed into Eli’s chest as Sarah threw herself to the side, but not in time to avoid being hit even as she let loose a rattle of return fire.
