Fight Fire With Fire. Read online

  A heavy hitter, whoever they wanted to retrieve. After Venezuela, did the team really want to do anything remotely connected to government intelligence work again? One thing he knew for certain . . . “You’re two stepping, Sam, and I’m wondering what’s so bad that you can’t spit it out.”

  He heard him sigh through the phone. “It’s Vaghn.”

  For a moment, his muscles locked. The name burst with memories he wanted to forget. He turned away from the crew working around the mini sub he’d repaired only yesterday. “He fled the country, didn’t he?”

  “Quite easily, from what we can tell.”

  Well, he couldn’t say he didn’t warn them. “So why don’t the DS just go get him?”

  “It’s a little trickier than that. You need to hear it all first, but it’s your call, partner.”

  At least it wasn’t CIA clean up. But the DS weren’t slackers. They knew about his ties to Vaghn before they contacted D1. That meant someone was doing him a favor and he needed to know who.

  “I’m about six hundred miles out in the middle of the South Pacific. It’ll take a day to get to land with an airport.”

  “Got it covered. Tessa is coming by seaplane. She should be in your sights in a couple hours.”

  He looked at the horizon, cloudless and blue. He didn’t ask for details, wanting to take this contract through a filter. He ended the call and tapped the satellite phone against his thigh, remembering the trial; Vaghn smiling when he was sentenced to five years minimum security. He’d planted his fist in the man’s face about a minute later. But beating him wouldn’t make Vaghn care. Vaghn was soulless, bloody arrogant and unfortunately—a brilliant weapons designer. The combination created a lethal genius with the attitude of a psychopath.

  Vaghn testified that he’d released the pair of newly designed rifles for field-testing after they were given the required controlled tests. Evidence said he had, but only twice before the weapon was in the hands of Riley’s team. Two of his troops had paid with their lives when the misfired laser weapon struck across their faces, severing their heads at an angle. It was the worst accident he’d ever witnessed. That his friends, his Marines, had died because of Vaghn’s arrogant carelessness and sloppy miscalculations, put him on Riley’s needs-to-die list for a long time. He was off radar till now.

  He felt suddenly anxious to get on dry land.

  Travis came out of the pilothouse and hurried down the steep metal staircase to the first deck. He held a hand radio. “Riley, something’s wrong.”

  Immediately Riley grabbed his binoculars and focused on the shore. There was no sign of Jim and Derek. As Travis neared, he heard the transmission.

  Hard breathing came with, “Can you hear me? . . . the shore . . . hurry!”

  Riley grabbed his duffle and ran to the rail. Travis followed.

  “No, Trav, let Riley handle it,” Bridget shouted, rushing to the rail. But her husband simply blew her a kiss as he went over the side.

  A scream came through the radio, cut short, but he was already priming the motor, frustration mounting as he yanked the pull cord once, twice. The engine roared, water swelled around the propellers and as soon as Travis was seated, he gunned it.

  “We’ll never make it over the reef,” Travis shouted. He kept the radio to his ear, transmitting they were coming. There was no response.

  “We don’t have time to go around.” Leaving the boat and hoofing it wouldn’t help them now.

  Riley pushed the throttle down, the rubber craft bouncing over the water toward the reef. He glanced back to the ship, judging the push of his wake, and when white water swelled beneath the lightweight boat, he gunned the engine. The boat sailed over the razor sharp reef to the tidal basin. Riley kept going, rushed the boat onto shore and cut the engine. He climbed out. Travis started to follow.

  “Take it back out into the lagoon, keep it running. No telling what spooked them.”

  “I’m betting it’s lizards, the weenies.” Though his expression said otherwise as Travis immediately moved into Riley’s position, then tossed him the radio.

  Riley grabbed his Glock from the duffle and followed the footprints from the water’s edge. A few yards in, he was at the edge of the jungle.

  Nothing moved. The walkie-talkie remained silent.

  Riley went left to the jagged rock extending over the shore where they’d first entered the forest. Footprints confirmed it, and he followed them into the darkness, pausing to let his eyes adjust before advancing. The ground was soft beneath his dive boots, a mossy wet odor stirring with each step. And something else he couldn’t put a finger on, but it was rank. About thirty yards in, he came to a small shadowy clearing. They’d been digging here, he realized, but no tools, no struggle. No men.

  A rustle made him duck near a tree. Then he saw a figure plowing through the foliage, but couldn’t tell who it was. Riley called out seconds before Jim burst through the darkness, tripped, then regained his footing.

  “Riley! Go back, don’t stay!” he said, pushing him, then glanced behind himself. Derek came running full force and Jim caught him, both winded and not wasting a moment to get to shore. “Come on!”

  But Riley wasn’t easily spooked and watched the forest, backing away slowly till daylight touched his back. He turned, maneuvering around the rocks to shore.

  Whatever scared the two men sent them splashing into the water. Travis motored near, but Riley could tell Jim was having trouble. Riley dove into the water, swimming furiously. He grabbed Jim, pushed him to the boat, then reached for Derek. He shoved his ass up and in, then treading water, he watched the shore. The jungle beyond came alive. From the trees to the ground, it rustled.

  Three heartbeats later, it stopped, only the breeze pushing leaves. Something survived the last major storm, he thought, then waved to Travis. He skidded closer and Riley grabbed the ropes and rolled smoothly into the craft. He pointed down the long stretch of lagoon. “We have to go around it.”

  Travis headed out of the basin. Jim and Derek lay face down in the bottom of the boat, breathing hard, neither talking. Riley exchanged a look with Travis, then leaned forward to roll Jim on his back.

  “Oh, Christ on a cross,” Travis said, releasing the throttle.

  There were two bloody slashes across the left side of Jim’s neck.

  48 hours earlier, Singapore

  With the package tucked under his arm, he watched the deliveryman return down the hall to the staircase, then closed and locked the door. Walking back to the table, he picked up the phone.

  “What the hell are you doing?” the voice on the line snapped. “We’ll miss the window!”

  “Hardly.” He checked his watch. “Do it now.”

  A few seconds passed, then, “It’s done, Jesus, if anyone finds—”

  “They won’t. I’m smarter than you, remember.”

  “Christ, you’re a bastard.”

  “My parents would agree, I’m sure.”

  He ended the call and tore open the wrapping, smiling at the paperback novel. At the table, he sat and opened his Yahoo account. There were five spam messages, subject line, Viagra. Figures. The world was one big dick, he thought as he checked the date and time of each. He clicked on one, opening it. The single row of letters and numbers marked it as spam. On a pad, he jotted down the sequence, deleted them all, then opened the book and found the page he needed.

  He’d been warned to expect a way out. He thought he’d had that in a non-extradition country. Or any other one with the least friendly diplomatic ties to the U.S. of A. But the perfect opportunity would never arrive.

  Waiting longer put his life in greater danger. They were watching him. He knew that a week ago. He didn’t know how many, but felt them. Whether they were friend or foe, it didn’t matter. His new employer would keep his word. He’d wanted his skills enough to offer ten million American. Half that was already in his Swiss account as a show of good faith.

  Yeah, he could risk it.
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  His own calm surprised him, and he wondered if he really thought that five million in the bank would protect him. Because that’s about all the backup he had. Moving to the table, he shut down the laptop, popped out the flash drive, then pocketed it safely in the seam of his jacket. Insurance was always near. He carefully replaced his equipment in the cases, then methodically arranged them in the satchel. More was required of him. Rich beyond his imagination meant now he had to earn it.

  By betraying his country a little more than he did the last time.

  Three

  Sungei Kadut, Singapore

  Jason Vaghn III was the Jeffrey Dahmer of weapon designers.

  A silver spoon in the mouth, “daddy pay his way out of trouble” genius that had military contractors begging for his talent—until they witnessed his macabre skill at work. His weapons didn’t kill, they maimed. Now, all banned by the U.S. military.

  Vaghn’s very existence bit a raw nerve that hadn’t deadened with age.

  Riley didn’t take a life easily, but for Tripp Vaghn, he’d make an exception.

  He should be satisfied, but a five-year prison sentence for two deaths wasn’t enough. Riley knew Vaghn; the attitude bred into the spoiled boy had created a man who thought his genius put him above the law. While he’d been clean since his release, he had virtually no assets (the guy didn’t even own a car), and he’d lived on a trust fund from his great-grandfather that barely kept his electricity on.

  To the FBI, he wasn’t a flight risk. Oh yeah, that was good Intel.

  Taking surveillance off him was their first mistake. The second was believing that his sentence to not design or recreate any weapons or fuels of any kind, permanently, would matter. Not only was he too egotistical to think rules applied to him, he wouldn’t even try.

  He’s already put something out there.

  Vaghn wasn’t in Singapore in the hopes of disappearing. He had help getting this far, Riley thought, rubbing the back of his neck and watching the surveillance screens. Vaghn was privileged to reams of classified material. The judge warned that if he disclosed even one word, she’d charge him with treason, a death sentence. Why she didn’t sentence him adequately years ago was more political than handing down justice. Vaghn had been an employee of Noble Richards, a government contractor, and the projects were top secret. The company had influence in Washington. Riley would bet half of congress didn’t know how much classified R&D work the National Intelligence Council farmed out to “outside resources.” The secrets of the super power in shaky hands, as far as he was concerned.

  Vaghn was proof of genius run amuck.

  The door opened suddenly behind him and he scraped up the gun and turned.

  Max put his hands up as best he could with a sack of groceries in his arms. “Jeez! No wonder your sister cut you a liberty pass off her ship.”

  “She had enough people to boss around.” Riley laid the pistol aside.

  Max chuckled as he set the bag down and pulled out bundles. Riley turned back to the camera feeds.

  A breeze barely moved the torn bamboo shades. The paddle fan spun in a crooked thump overhead, and they were lucky to have some electricity. The unending humidity kept the air heavy and odors from the street fermented, occasionally masked by a whiff of frying bean curd or hokkien noodles. Somewhere tinny music played. They were positioned on the third floor of a row house, and high enough to have a wide vantage point. Like tired souls leaning on each other, the narrow homes were destined for demolition, most already uninhabitable, he thought with a glance left at the six-foot gap of missing floorboards. But people stayed, refusing progress until it was forced on them.

  On the off chance that Vaghn might recognize him from their past, Riley stayed out of sight. After a month of Intel, cornering the guy was the plan. He didn’t doubt Vaghn would run. He was hunted and the squalor he was living in said as much. From inside the small flat, he watched the feed from mini cameras positioned around Vaghn’s last location. A DS agent gathering information on another case had spotted him after the FBI flooded U.S. agencies with his photo. Pinpointing it had taken a week. They’d been here twenty-four seven since then and still no sign of him.

  Riley expected Vaghn to have changed his looks, a little dye, some facial hair so he could blend in.

  “Any clue what that guy saw in the jungle?” Max asked.

  “Bridget thinks it was an iguana. Jim says bigger.” He’d believe the archaeologist’s version. The man was too much of a detail nut not to be accurate. “He said he was spooked, fell, then claws swiped at him. He got up and ran.” Screaming into the walkie-talkie. He’d lost that and his bag. Dumbshit, he had a weapon, the spade. But his sister reminded him in that superior tone of hers that most people didn’t respond well under duress. Maybe he’d call Jim in a couple days to see if he remembered anything new.

  “The assistant?”

  “He didn’t encounter it. But said it was like something big behind a curtain.” He shook his head and remembered the jungle shivering. “Bri won’t bother with it. It’s not on her expedition budget program, and that he was injured will make her more stubborn.” That he was glad to avoid. “Besides, she was too damn eager to dive the Yonaguni ruins off the coast of Okinawa.”

  “Man, I’d kill for the chance to get wet there.”

  He glanced up. “I think I can arrange that after this is secure.” He waved at the screens on the desk.

  “You’re on.” Max handed a paper wrapped lump.

  He found a fried bean curd wrap filled with steaming meat. It was probably wise not to ask after the species, but it smelled great. He chowed down, his attention on the three laptops. Each had four views in a grid on the screen. They covered a four-block radius from where Vaghn was last spotted. Sebastian was on the streets. His dark hair and perpetually tanned skin coupled with the right clothes let him blend in easier than any of the team. He was getting to know the locals by now, turning down dinner invitations.

  Riley wanted out there to search for the little prick, but the whole idea of surveillance was not to be seen. “What do you think he’s doing?”

  On the screen, he watched Sebastian stop a teenager with a package, slip him money and head this way. “He has a delivery,” came through the speaker.

  Sebastian gave the address and Riley glanced at the street map, then keyed in the correct camera. So, there’s your hideout.

  “He’s going by Wang Chung, by the way. I thought he was smart?”

  He was. So what’s with the giveaway? Riley took a bite of the sandwich, his gaze flicking to each picture. “Something’s not right.”

  Just as Sebastian entered the building, movement at the far edge of the roof caught Riley’s attention. Thinking it was birds, Riley went to the window, pushing back the bamboo shade. “Heads up! He’s using the fire escape. West side!” He dropped the food, then scooped up the gun and radios. “Max, direct me.”

  “You got it.”

  He didn’t take the door, exiting out the window and using the fire escape. He hit the ground in a crouch and straightened to hear Max say, “He’s on the roof heading to the north end, but he’s not running.”

  Excellent. He was still blind to us. “Tell me when he’s on the ground. Sebastian?”

  “Headed west, I’ll try to cut him off before he gets to the markets.”

  If Vaghn reached the crowded food kiosks, their chances would quickly thin.

  Riley hurried to the end of the building, knocking aside trash in the alley. At the edge, his gaze slid over the crowds of patrons and vendors, then jerked back to a man with shaggy hair. The light shade stood out against the throngs of dark haired people. Just as the awning shadowed him, the man looked over his shoulder.

  “It’s him.” Riley was already advancing. “Sebastian, watch my flank. I’ve got him.”

  “He made you?”

  “No, not yet. Come east. He’s cutting through Kopi tiams.” The two-acre mall of food vendors was impres
sive, the entire complex covered against the blistering sun. Even in the late afternoon, the crowds were heavy. He moved left, careful not to get too close. Steam shot up from cookers behind the counters, orders called out in Malay and Mandarin. Riley saw Sebastian hanging back when Vaghn stopped at a vendor and handed over money for Ngo Hiang; spiced pork and prawn rolled inside a bean curd skin and deep-fried. Everything around here was fried, he thought, stooping a little when Vaghn looked around before taking a bite.

  He was between them, along with five aisles of tables, chairs, and forty vendors serving over a thousand people. Riley paralleled Vaghn, a few yards behind. The guy was afraid, stopping to look behind himself and using the reflection in windows to do it. He had the fugitive life down well. Vaghn walked to the entrance on Woodlands Road, around the pillars supporting the roof of the two-acre food court squashed between high-rise housing complexes.

  Riley noticed he had a satchel and a backpack. He wasn’t coming back. He nodded to Sebastian. Riley was within earshot of him, then within reach. Sebastian came around from the east to the front, cutting Vaghn off.

  Riley moved up behind him.

  E ring

  Pentagon

  Colonel Hank Jansen kept a brisk pace down the corridor. To those who were aware, his presence on this floor spoke of trouble. Today was no exception. He glanced at his watch. He’d have to cancel dinner plans, but disappointing his wife came with the job.

  A Marine guard snapped to attention and he paused long enough for security, then turned the next corner and opened the large oak door. Few looked up or stopped their discussion as he entered, yet he noticed that at least three were already answering their phones. The word was out.

  He went directly to the screen controls and typed, linking the feed from his operation, then stepped back and picked up the remote. “Gentlemen.”