Ops Files II--Terror Alert (32 page)

Maya gave him her own sad smile. “Nobody lives forever.”

~ ~ ~

A month later, Mogappair, India

The street market was teeming with humanity, thousands of shoppers moving along the dirt paths between the stalls, the chatter of bargaining a steady hum of offers, protests, oaths, and entreaties. Street urchins ran along the muddy way, chasing each other and laughing, as stern-faced women sought out the best deals, their eyes distrustful as vendors promised them extraordinary quality for a pittance. Spices mingled with the sour tang of unwashed bodies as vendors stirred pots of curry on plastic tables, creating a pall of nauseating aromas that hung over the area like a cloud.

Ajmal Kahn moved along with the crowd, his canvas shopping bag half full of fruit, anonymous in the press of flesh in a pair of worn brown slacks and a white short-sleeved button-up shirt. He slowed as he perused a particularly appealing stack of oranges, and began the process of negotiation with the wizened merchant, whose initial price was tantamount to robbery.

Two minutes later, after pretending to walk away twice, he had three of the succulent fruit in his bag, having bested the man and paid what Kahn thought was reasonable. It wasn’t so much about the money – although since the failure in England his funding had abruptly dried up – as it was about the challenge. It was best to keep one’s skills honed under all circumstances, he thought, and the local vendors were some of the most cutthroat thieves on the continent, worthy adversaries in an ongoing test of wills.

A stand stacked with consumer electronics attracted his attention: piles of radios, flash drives, and knockoff cell phones littered the table display. A large man with an impressive mustache stood beside it, his skin the hue of almonds. Kahn pointed to one of the cell phones. The man held it up for Kahn to inspect, threw out a price, and Kahn laughed scornfully.

“Are you mad? I could buy the whole store for that,” he said.

“It is of the finest quality and will work without problems for years,” the vendor countered.

“It looks like the cheapest grade of junk from China.”

“Oh, no, it is original. Very superior grade.”

Kahn waved a dismissive hand. “I am not a rich man.”

“But you are a discerning one to have spotted this treasure among the rest.”

“My time is short. How much? Best price.”

The vendor lowered his asking price by half – still far too high. Kahn spat beside the stall and glanced at the next one, where an old man was performing dentistry on a worker, extracting a rotting tooth, his instruments in a dirty cup sitting on a stained blanket with a sign offering top-shelf dental work while you wait. The worker’s eyes teared as the street dentist wrenched with a pair of rusting pliers and then held up an incisor in triumph, the root dangling blood and pus. A scraggly rooster picked through the area beside him and then hurried away when the patient uttered a low moan of gratitude as the dentist handed him a sponge with anesthetic on it to stuff in the new gap.

“I can offer perhaps a third of that, and even at that price, it is far too much,” Kahn said, seeming to have lost interest in the exchange. The vendor, sensing that his customer’s attention was drifting away, countered with a price that was closer to a decent deal. He watched Kahn’s face for a sign of reaction, for his eyes coveting the phone, but saw nothing but the imam’s hard stare.

“You will not find anything like this. It is of the latest manufacture. Finest sort, really.”

“It is used. I can see that. I am not a fool.”

“You are clearly discerning. It was my personal phone, only for a few days, and I treated it better than one of my children.”

“I can see the scratches on the screen from here.”

“No, those are from my hand. It is perfect.”

Kahn was shaking his head when he felt a stab of pain in his lower leg. He started, but it quickly faded – one of the myriad shoppers had bumped into him with something. Careless fools, all of them, he thought, and resumed the negotiation. “I will pay no more than…I will…”

The vendor’s face seemed to elongate and distort, and Kahn’s voice sounded distant and hoarse to him as he tried to form words. For some reason his brain’s ability to communicate had failed him, and all he could manage were unintelligible gurgles. The vendor was staring at him like he’d lost his mind, and Kahn tried to turn and walk away, but his muscles had joined his brain’s rebellion, and his legs betrayed him as he took a step.

He dropped to the ground, his eyes glazing over, as the vendor knelt by him, pulling at his shirt collar to open it and give him air. A small crowd gathered around him as he moaned, and then his lungs refused to accommodate his need for air, and his chest stilled.

A black fly landed on his open eye, but he was unable to blink it away.

Ten minutes later, two policemen were holding the crowd back while the ambulance technicians worked their way toward the dead imam, his bag now gone, its bounty now belonging to one of the urchins, his wallet empty after the officers searched it in vain for identification.

Maya watched the commotion from several booths down. The umbrella that she’d used to inject the neurotoxin rested by her side, innocuous, half-covered by the folds of her muted burgundy sari. She paused to take a picture with her phone and then pushed her way past the curious onlookers, her mission successfully completed.

At the market entry, she approached a heavyset older man who was chain-smoking at a café table and sat across from him.

“He died like a dog, in the mud,” Maya said.

“One less parasite on the planet. Good job.”

“What time is our flight?”

Uri looked at his watch. “Four hours. We’re good.”

“If you need a filling, there’s a guy down the way doing bargain dentistry. Maybe he can whiten your teeth or something,” she said, smiling, eyeing the full ashtray beside his coffee cup.

“Something to consider. I find it hard to resist a bargain.” He grinned and stubbed out his cigarette. “Did he have anyone with him?”

She shook her head. “No, he was alone.”

“Then we’re done here.”

“We still need to find those who funded him. They’re the real problem. Without their money, he’d just be a goatherd somewhere in the desert.”

Uri nodded. “All things in time, my dear. All things in time.”

<<<<>>>>

Thanks for reading
JET – Ops Files: Terror Alert
.

I hope you enjoyed it.

To get your free copy, just join my readers’ group here:
http://bit.ly/rb-kos

• You can also follow me on Twitter at
  @Blakebooks
  , or like my Facebook page at
  Facebook.com/Russell.Blake.Books
  
• Reviews help other readers find books. I appreciate all reviews, and every one matters.
  
• You’ve just read the second of the JET (prequel) series. The other books in the series are
  JET ~ Ops Files
  (prequel),
  JET
  ;
  JET II ~ Betrayal
  ;
  JET III ~ Vengeance
  ;
  JET IV ~ Reckoning
  ;
  JET V ~ Legacy
  ;
  JET VI ~ Justice
  ;
  JET VII ~ Sanctuary
  ;
  JET VIII – Survival
  ; and
  JET IX ~ Escape
  . I hope you enjoy them all.
  

If you’d like to read an excerpt from
Ramsey’s Gold
, the first book in an exciting new adventure series by Russell Blake, please turn the page.

†

Russell Blake

Copyright © 2015 by Russell Blake. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

Southwest of Cajamarca, Peru, A.D. 1532

Lightning flashed through the anthracite clouds that roiled over the jungle canopy as an explosion of thunder shook the earth. A long line of llamas, their matted fur drenched from the constant downpour, shambled along a trail deep in the rainforest. The animals staggered under heavy loads strapped to their backs, hooves slipping in the mud and pulling free with a sucking sound.

Thousands of the unfortunate beasts had been conscripted into duty on the far side of the Andes Mountains, their drovers trudging beside them to see to it that none wandered off with precious cargo. Inkarri, the head of the expedition, had made it clear that this was a sacred mission, with the destiny and survival of the Inca Empire at stake.

Only two months earlier the Spanish conquistadors had betrayed Atahualpa, the Inca emperor, whom they’d captured through trickery. After hundreds of loads of ransom had been delivered to the Spanish leader in the Inca city of Cajamarca, the conquistadores had broken their promise and executed Atahualpa. Word had spread through the Inca world of the treachery, and an edict had gone out: the prosperous Inca nation’s treasure was to be safeguarded, far away from the invaders.

Inkarri had traveled for many weeks, first crossing the Andes and then tackling the western jungle’s swollen rivers. He’d braved impossible terrain to put as many natural barriers between his people and the invaders as possible. Now, hundreds of miles from home, the procession was running short of resources. Many of the animals had perished along the way, and every surviving beast now bore an insupportable burden.

Inkarri knew his trek couldn’t continue. The latest attack on his group by the hostile Amazon natives had taken its toll – hundreds of his men had died repelling the assaults. He slowed at the head of the column and cocked his head, his bronze features haggard from the trip’s demands, and listened intently.

From the thick underbrush ahead came Lomu, his second in command, who’d been scouting with an advance party for possible new routes. Inkarri held his hand over his head to signal a stop.

Lomu wiped rain from his face before leaning in close. “I found a promising site an hour away. It has streams – tributaries to the big river that winds through the area, so there will be plentiful fish,” he said in a quiet voice. “And I saw an auspicious omen. A jaguar, standing in the center of a small clearing. It’s what we’ve been waiting for. As clear as the gods could make it.”

Inkarri looked to the sky. “An hour, you say? Very well. We have another few left before it gets dark. How difficult does it look to defend?”

“If attacked we would have the high ground. And there’s a narrow river that runs along the northernmost section, which will serve as a natural barrier.”

Inkarri nodded. “Pass the word down the line. We’re headed to our new home.”

Lomu rushed to share the news with the men. They were close to their journey’s end, and the beginning of a new, secret life in an inhospitable wilderness. Their mission was clear – to establish a new city away from the Spanish where the wealth of the nation would be safe, a cradle for the fresh start of the civilization. When they had done so, Inkarri would return to the empire with news, leaving a trail of false clues and deceptive directions to confound any would-be pursuers. He’d seen the avarice of the conquistadores, and witnessed their duplicity, and knew their lust for gold and emeralds would never die – that he and his kind would never be safe.

It would take months to create a habitable enclave, but when he’d done so, he would set up small camps along the trail to help new arrivals find the city. Once he was back among his people, he would recruit women and more able-bodied men to colonize the area and build a new capital.

Inkarri watched Lomu disappear down the column of tired llamas, communicating the tidings to men who had been through an ordeal unlike any in their people’s history. The jungles east of the mountains had been the limit of the Inca world, and it was only a compulsion to survive that had driven Inkarri’s group into its reaches.

At last they arrived at the site. The sun broke through the clouds – the first pause in the rain in three days. Inkarri eyed the trees, taking the measure of the area. After several moments of silence, he moved to the center of the clearing and stood, his arms spread, the sun’s dimming rays warming him as he offered a quiet prayer of gratitude for bringing them safely to this spot. When he faced his warrior brethren, gathered in a large ring around him, he beamed confidence and conviction.

“Our quest is over. Remove the treasure from the animals and let them rest. Organize patrols to ensure our safety this night, for tomorrow we begin building a new future in this place.” Inkarri paused, taking in the men’s expressions. “Oh, Inti, god of sun and light, and Apocatequil, god of thunder, thank you for leading us to this blessed spot. We shall honor you with a city the likes of which has never been seen. It shall be called Paititi, after the jaguar father you sent as a sign. Its riches shall be legendary – the stuff of which dreams are made.”

Lomu gazed at the hundreds of bags the men were placing on the wet ground, brimming with gold and jewels, and his eyes came to rest on the pride of the Incas: a massive chain crafted from thousands of pounds of gold, its gemstone-crusted serpentine links glowing orange in the waning light, so heavy that it had taken a hundred men to carry it. Even with all the other riches in the clearing, it was breathtaking to behold, and Lomu felt justifiable satisfaction in spiriting it away to safety.