Jet by Russell Blake Read Free Book Online Page A

to his shoulder, its cord trailing down to a radio at his belt.
    “I…can I use the bathroom first?”
    “I’m afraid not. But there’s a bathroom in the inspection area you can use.”
    Half an hour later Alonso was sitting in a holding cell, the twenty kilos of uncut cocaine that had been packed into the false bottom and sides of the suitcases easily discovered with the help of his canine nemesis, and his papers and personal effects confiscated as he waited for the narcotics squad to arrive.
    As instructed by his paymasters, he refused to make any statement or answer questions, merely insisting that he wanted to speak to his attorney. He’d managed to thumb his cell phone when it had been obvious that he wouldn’t be able to talk his way through an inspection, and had gotten off a single short call to a number he’d been told never to dial unless something catastrophic happened.
    Now he was waiting, facing decades in prison if convicted – which he surely would be, given the weight and the quality he’d been caught with red-handed.
    The door to the holding cell opened. A heavyset man with thinning black hair slicked straight back, his face pockmarked and besmirched with the nose of a lifetime heavy drinker, entered and sat across from Alonso. Another cop stood inside the door and pushed it closed. The first man cleared his throat and leaned forward across the steel table, a tired expression on his face.
    “You won the lottery on this one, huh, Alonso? Is that even your real name?”
    Alonso didn’t answer or acknowledge the question.
    The man tried again. “You know what the penalty is for smuggling twenty kilos of cocaine, Alonso? They bury you under the jail. And trust me, here, with budget problems, the prisons make the ones in Ecuador look like five-star hotels.”
    Alonso swallowed hard, but maintained his silence.
    “You’re a good-looking young man. You’ll be very popular. I read a study the other day about the AIDS infection rate in the prison population. I doubt you’ll live out your sentence, Alonso – not after you’ve been passed around the cell block like a pack of Marlboros a few thousand times.” The man looked over Alonso’s shoulder at his companion by the door. “My money says he’ll like it.” He cocked an eyebrow at Alonso. “Which is a shame, because we all know that you’re small fry. You don’t have what it takes to be trafficking serious weight. I can see that with one look at your shoes. Cheap. Worn. You’re just a mule who got caught. Which the courts will recognize if you make a statement and tell us who put you up to this.”
    Alonso wiped sweat from his brow. “I want my lawyer.”
    The big man laughed, the sound ugly and mean. “I see you’re confused. That’s not how it works around here. Did they tell you that would be your ticket out? Guess what, Alonso? They lied. I say the word and you’re going into the hole, and it will be a month before you talk to anyone. Your paperwork will get lost, and you’ll be doing hard time with the worst miscreants I can bunk you with – guys who’ll rape you till you need stitches just to hear you scream. Is that how you want to play this, tough guy? Because when I stand up, the party’s over, and I don’t care if you sing a confession at that point. So make up your mind. You going to cooperate, or throw your life away as the cell block punch?”
    Alonso hated the perspiration that was now running freely from his hairline down his neck almost as much as the images that seemed placed in the Jetway to torment him. He was preparing to speak when a knock at the metal door interrupted him. The cop across from him threw his partner a dark look, and he opened it. Alonso could make out a hushed conversation, and then the cop rose and joined his partner at the doorway.
    The room emptied, leaving Alonso to his thoughts. He blotted his forehead with the back of his arm, his shirtsleeve sour with the astringent tang of fear. By the