Jet by Russell Blake Read Free Book Online

perspiration, a smell like wet wool, and metabolized ethanol seeping from tired pores. The flight from Mexico City had been turbulent, and even free cocktails all night had been inadequate to quiet his jangling nerves.
    This was the second leg of his trek, which had originated in Guayaquil, Ecuador. He’d done the trip four times now in as many months, but he still hated the experience, even though the money was insane for a retail clerk who’d hit the wall on luck.
    The pilot’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker, welcoming everyone to Spain, the volume too high for the enclosed space. Alonso fought to keep from growling at the short older woman who kept bumping him with the sharp corner of her carry-on bag, oblivious to the damage it was inflicting on his tired thigh, and watched the backs of the business-class travelers’ heads begin to move like obedient cattle on a slaughterhouse ramp.
    And then he was pushing forward with the rest of the fatigued travelers, eager to get out of the aluminum tube onto terra firma. His feet felt swollen and sore in his loafers, thirteen hours of forced immobilization having taken its toll. He hobbled through the door and up the Jetway, which was adorned with photographs of smiling, attractive people engaged in hospitable endeavors: offering a tray with fresh seafood, a colorful beverage with the sparkling blue of the Mediterranean in the background, strolling past Madrid’s breathtaking architecture with welcoming expressions.
    The contempt he felt was the same as the last three times, and the voice in his head sounded identical, insisting that it was all a lie, a sham to trick the unwary, that reality was nothing like these pictures, these hired actors with their engaging symmetrical faces and promising come-hither looks, these ad agency-created stylized greeting committees with racially neutral complexions and only moderately prosperous wardrobes.
    He didn’t know why he hated them so vehemently, but that he did was undeniable, which he wrote off to sleeplessness, as he had the times before. Some part of him understood that his reaction was abnormal, but he was uninterested in pursuing whatever part of his damaged psyche so objected to the images. He just wanted to collect his two suitcases, amble through customs and immigration, and be on his way, ten thousand dollars richer before his head hit the pillow a few hours later.
    The air-conditioning was in fine working order as he stood by the baggage carousel, watching the conveyer cycle, nervously tapping his foot to some inner beat only he could hear. His first suitcase appeared and he barely made it in time to snag it from the belt, his progress impeded by two overweight geriatrics who seemed so mesmerized by the sight of orbiting luggage they were unaware of anyone but themselves. A minute later his second bag arrived, and he was fitting the first atop the second when two soldiers accompanied by a beagle materialized from a doorway and moved toward the carousel.
    The dog eyed the passengers with the good-natured countenance of his breed and then went rigid when he turned in Alonso’s direction. The soldier handling him stopped talking to his partner and looked Alonso up and down as the dog stood frozen.
    “Sir, are those your bags?” the second soldier asked.
    “Um, yes. Why?” Alonso asked.
    “Please come with us,” the first soldier said, patting the dog’s flank and handing it a treat. The dog refused to budge, and it took two tries to get him to waddle toward Alonso, whose heart was now pounding hard enough in his chest to be audible across the terminal.
    “Why? What’s wrong?”
    “Just routine. We need to inspect your luggage.”
    “Inspect? Why? I’ve been through security in two different airports, and I’ve been traveling for twenty hours. You can check my ticket. I’m about ready to drop…”
    “This way, sir,” the first soldier said, and Alonso watched as the second murmured into a microphone clipped