Fight Fire With Fire. Page 8

  You’re not getting away that easy, he thought and with smoke coiling around him, he aimed for precision and fired. It hit Vaghn in the rear, throwing him inside. Four successive shots flew past him and punctured the aircraft, liquid spewing before smoke snaked from the fuselage. Who’s the enemy here?

  The chopper struggled in the air, then rose a thousand feet and flew out to sea.

  Riley spun and saw a helmet disappear over the edge of the barrier. The ATV twins were only thirty yards away. Riley hurried to his buddies. Max was on the ground, his upper body in the truck wreckage. For a second he thought Mat was hit till he came back with two machine pistols and tossed one to Sebastian. Max was wearing Vaghn’s backpack.

  Now the playing field was even. “Hey!” he shouted, his hands out. “Where’s mine?”

  “Smashed, and you’re armed,” Max said, using the truck for cover and shouting for people to get off the bridge.

  Sebastian fired a single shot at a time at the ATV guy’s feet. It didn’t stop them and they fired back. “We need to question them!” Riley rushed to cover them, but Sebastian waved him off. “Get that shooter!”

  Riley didn’t hesitate and ran, then vaulted onto the walkway. He leaned out to see the land below. No sign of the shooter. Damn. He swung over the edge and rappelled down the cables and joints. He dropped to the ground, then pushed his hydrogel kneecaps to perform.

  Jason Vaghn grappled to get inside the chopper and hands pulled at him, thank God. Gray-black wind swirled through the interior, the odor of burning oil pungent as someone shoved him against the bulkhead. Pain shot up his leg, blossomed to his ass, and he inhaled through clenched teeth. Goddamn Donovan, he thought, and finally opened his eyes. A man in a jumpsuit uniform knelt, tore his pant leg to his thigh and probed his wound. He said something Jason thought was Malaysian as he wrapped his leg in a field bandage. Jason pushed him away and finished it himself.

  Three men were in rescue uniforms, one of them dead and lying near the door, the trail of blood spread wide. There was a rack of rifles anchored to the back with gear he recognized for thermal tracking. A dark skinned man handed him a set of headphones and he worked them on, his wrists still cuffed.

  Jason looked up at the guy in a suit, for crissakes, and said, “Just who the hell are you people?” They weren’t what he’d been warned to expect.

  The man didn’t say anything, as he leaned to pull a latch. It released the cable on the dead man, and as smoke sucked inside the tottering craft, he shoved the body. It rolled over the edge and dropped to the sea. The other men did no more than salute the air and close the door. And Jason realized he’d gone from one fire, right into another.

  Five

  Riley didn’t get the chance to run.

  A motorcycle shot out from under the bridge supports and headed right for him. He tried to knock the rider off, but he swerved and shot past. Riley ran after it, uphill to the main road. Traffic was snarled, people milling around their cars. Riley moved swiftly between, but ahead, the biker puttered slowly around the bottleneck of humans. They didn’t take kindly to a bike on the sidewalk, but it gave him time to catch up. Then the rider found open space and blasted through. Damn. He ran up the back of a cab and stood on the trunk, ignoring angry shouts in three languages as he searched the crowds. He spotted his target and jumped to the sidewalk, pushing his way between the throngs and when forced, showing his badge and making a hole. It wasn’t happening fast enough, but in the stillness of traffic, he heard the sharp whine of the motorcycle. The water. The coils of smoke from the chopper was a marker to follow. That biker had some answers and he needed them. It didn’t make sense to shoot out the truck tire, then plant a handful of bullets in the helicopter. Was the biker a rival to the men who nabbed Vaghn? His suspicions brewed as he turned off the street and ran down an alley toward the water. He didn’t know what he’d do, but at least the view was better and he could see further up the coastline. He hustled between buildings and surveyed. The shoreline was ragged from floods and typhoons. The giant cement X’s piled to halt erosion were worn down like broken bones.

  Gray vapor lingered in the early twilight and he spotted the spinning tail prop of the chopper, the rest blocked by a building that extended to the banks. Still in the air, it wobbled as the pilot tried to set the wounded bird down when his controls were smoking. They’ll end up in the brink, he thought and quickly worked his way to the pier, running out on the floating dock, then hopping to another. The weathered wood listed and rocked. Riley paused till it settled, then headed for the Jet Ski tied up at the end of the pier. He slid onto the seat, and drew his penknife to start it, then saw the key on the floorboard. Irish luck is shining, he thought.

  The engine purred as he pushed the throttle and swirled away from the dock, taking it slow and staying as close to the shore as depth would allow. He was less than a half mile away riding around a jetty when he saw the chopper fly inland. Riley gunned the ski onto the sand, abandoned it, then climbed the slope to the crumbling service road.

  Red painted buildings crowded the shore and reeked of rotting shellfish. A cannery, he thought and walked closer to the structure. He heard the beat of blades, saw the smoke trail. Stopping at the edge of the building, he saw their target further upriver; a parking lot for small craft launching. The tide sloshed on the ramp, deserted for the evening. He hurried alongside the building back to the street, noticing exits and wondered just what he could do right now, outnumbered and outgunned.

  Leaning against a shop wall to catch his breath, he pressed the mic on voice activate and hailed Sebastian, but couldn’t get a signal. He tried it again before he moved away from the wall, nearly in the street, yet when he looked farther up the avenue, he glimpsed the rear of the motorcycle before it disappeared between buildings.

  He forgot about the signal and followed the rider.

  Sebastian hurried around the dented cars and fractured glass. The smell of gasoline boiled in the heat, the sun punishing and low in the sky. People scattered. He prayed the bad guys didn’t spray the place with random fire again, and signaled Max. They bolted, drawing attention to themselves and not the locals, but as they reached the side of the bridge, he realized the ATV pair were turning back. So did Max.

  “Now what do they think they’re doing?”

  “Not a clue, they’re boxed in,” Max said, straightening from a crouch.

  From the Malaysia side, the blue lights of the Singapore border police raced closer and he could hear sirens from somewhere in the city behind him.

  “So are we.” Max left his hiding place and walked into the open, ignoring Sebastian’s calls, then looked back at him. “They’re ditching over the side.”

  Sebastian frowned. “Not unless they have ropes there.” It was a hundred foot drop into a depth that was debatable given the weather. He hurried to stop them when the men split apart and climbed the railing. “Oh crap.” He ran to reach the closest, but the guy simply met his gaze, then smirked sadly. He turned and jumped.

  “No!” Sebastian lurched, grabbing a fistful of shirt, and held on. The fabric ripped. The weight nearly took him over the side and he jammed his knees between the steel rail slats and felt the painful pressure on his thighs. The man dangled, made no effort to reach him. Then he yanked at his shirt buttons.

  “Don’t do this, man, it’s not worth it!” Sebastian shouted, his arm feeling ripped from the socket. “We can help you!”

  The man looked up, his expression almost relieved. “I am already dead.”

  With both hands, he ripped the shirt open and slid out of the sleeves. As he fell to the water, he twisted his body so he’d hit headfirst. The splash was abrupt and Sebastian turned his face away, but caught the burst of red in the murky green water.

  “Dammit. Who’s got these guys so scared?”

  He hurried toward Max on the other side of the bridge. He had a hold of the other guy, keeping him back from the edge. Then the man leveled his weapon at
his face and Max let go, backing away. Instantly, the guy ran to the side and jumped. Max hurdled the rail onto the walkway to look over the side.

  “It’s deeper. He’s alive.” He hopped back to the road. He headed to the the only thing running, the ATV. “You get that asshole, and I’ll get us some wheels and block escape.”

  “How do you expect me to get down there?”

  Max hitched the backpack and shrugged. “Jump. He made it.”

  Sebastian groaned, looked down. The river was a sewer. “It’s going to take me forever to clean this gun.” He swung over the side.

  Safia heard sirens. At least the injured would get help.

  “Raven, give me status, please.”

  She heard the fear in Ellie’s voice. “I blew it. One of them spotted me and he’s on my tail.” And that wasn’t all, Safia thought, tumbling her suspicions over in her mind.

  “Can you lose him?”

  “I’m trying,” she said as she found a space and rode between it. “He doesn’t matter right now.”

  Barasa was going to leave the country, she could feel it. He wanted the blond man enough to risk this spectacle and that need alone put the target on the side of darkness. He’d go underground and locating him would be nearly impossible. He had all those low friends in skuzzy places and she didn’t expect the GPS to be on his car long. He was paranoid enough to sweep the restaurant, he’d certainly do double duty on the car. Then he’d know how closely he was watched. No, this mess won’t be good.

  She angled the bike up the street, weaving around pedestrians and cars, and generally pissing off the locals. Buildings were emptying for the day, people hailing cabs and boarding buses. But the accidents on the bridge brought the artery to a standstill.

  “Base, did you get the license on that green truck?”

  “It’s a rental. Signed by Maxwell Renfield. I bet he’s lost the deposit now. U.S. passport, by the way.”

  “An American? Great.” She just crashed a fellow country-man’s truck. The handcuffs should have been enough of a clue. Though she never knew terrorists to use cuffs, there was always a first time. The possibilities weren’t looking good, but she’d trusted her instincts till he shot his own captive in the butt.

  “It doesn’t get better.”

  Figures. “Spill it.”

  “The bill went to the U.S. Consulate.”

  “Well . . . this day is going downhill nicely, isn’t it?”

  She didn’t want to get into a political exchange. Firing her weapon would do it though. Diplomat Security along with all the others were stinkers for behaving by the international rules when other countries ignored half of them. Singapore was nothing if not corrupt.

  She bent over the handlebars, shooting between two trucks and jetting ahead. The chopper rode the skies like a Frisbee, rocking violently. The doors were shut, the windows tinted dark, but the curls of smoke were obvious.

  “Do you have SAT to track Barasa?”

  “No, we’re out of range. I’m silent.”

  Damn. “Hop onto Singapore Air Force frequency, and don’t give me lip about authorized.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  She couldn’t risk losing him and slowed the motorcycle, then shut off the engine and coasted it between a coffee shop and a printer service. She stretched, then left the bike behind a couple of overflowing trash cans and wildly growing palms. She moved toward the water side behind the buildings hemmed in dense grasses and sandwiched herself between a small dozer and a pit. The air was rank, but after a minute of working off her helmet, she was used to the odor. Cement formed a box where fishermen deposited their catch. The cannery didn’t export outside the country. The fisheries around here were nearly spent and the unkempt grounds said the industry wasn’t doing well.

  She looked to the sky as the chopper struggled in the air. Smoke rolled from under the pilot’s position, then a sharp loss of power sent it crashing the last ten feet to the ground. The pilot bailed first, rushing around with an extinguisher, spraying the hull.

  Safia smiled, appreciating that at least that round went where she aimed. She glanced over her shoulder, fixing the radio mic in her ear. Onlookers noticed the smoke, yet none came close; a couple girls ran in the other direction. She wondered if they’d recognized Barasa as he stepped out. His eyes shielded by sunglasses, he adjusted his jacket and sleeves as a uniformed man pulled another man from inside. Barasa’s body blocked a clear view, but his prisoner was hooded and bound.

  The guy from the truck everyone wants. His lower thigh was bloody and crudely wrapped. He was a shaggy blond, a head shorter than the other two and sandwiched between. Barasa’s thug of the day wore the right uniform, but lacked the correct insignia. Knock-offs made anywhere, she thought, but admitted it was clever. It also warned her that he was well prepared for his latest weapons deal. Enough to have help standing by.

  While the pilot had the smoke under control, they weren’t going anywhere without a ride. Barasa led the package toward the opposite side of the lot. She moved to see and thought, now it’s in my court. His familiar navy blue Town Car pulled in, then circled as if to go back out. She drew her single scope monocular to check the plates before the position blocked it. She’d only delayed the inevitable. Barasa had what he wanted.

  She backed into hiding. “Base, you still have the GPS tag on the limo?”

  “Roger that.”

  “Tell me it’s on the east side of the bridge.”

  “Confirmed.”

  She let out a breath, then returned to her position. At least he hadn’t found it yet. “I’ve got visual on his sedan and the chopper.”

  “Your plan?”

  “Don’t have one. You?”

  “I don’t do field work.”

  Safia chuckled to herself, then pulled the silencer from inside her jacket and screwed it into position. Rather the conceal till necessary type, she returned it to the holster, but felt it hit something. She unzipped. The jacket was designed to give her the straight shape of a man, and the padding housed pockets for her favorite tools. It was custom made by Miya’s sister. She found the cell phone from the slop bucket and turned it on. She considered how to use it as a distraction, then arched a brow when the hourglass rolled on the little screen, surprised it worked after swimming with the fish-special.

  She worked to find the last number and nearly jumped out of her skin when it rang in her hand.

  Riley watched her. That he’d been chasing a woman wasn’t so much of a shock. Once he got a good look, he knew the rider was either female or a skinny man. She was a bloody master over that race bike though, but he didn’t have time for games. When he saw the phone in her hand, he took a chance. He could hear the soft ring from here, and hit the speaker on Vaghn’s phone.

  When she looked up, he waved.

  That didn’t go over well, considering he was aiming his .45 at her. He had a good angle, just not a clear shot. She was tight against the shed, but only thirty feet away. She started to draw her weapon, and he shook his head, motioning her to stand and walk left, into the shade and out of plain view. He waited.

  She stood, but didn’t move.

  Instead, she answered the phone. He spoke first.

  “I believe this is what I call a Mexican standoff.”

  “It’s what I call pissing in my yard. Who are you? Maxwell Renfield?”

  Riley frowned. “Clearly your resources are better than mine.”

  From his position, he could see his target several yards upriver. The chopper was empty, but there was movement around it. A uniformed man raced to the docks and dropped into a skiff. Still wearing the crash helmet, the man yanked the pull rope and backed the skiff out, then hauled ass downriver. Where was he going in such a hurry?

  Pocketing the phone, he darted to the next bit of cover, a rusty boat trailer, its cargo a chunk of driftwood that vaguely resembled a sailboat. He ducked low and looked back to see her scramble to his left.

  “Go,
shoo. Don’t get involved in this.” She made a face and Riley laid flat on the ground, then shimmied under the boat trailer for a look at the lot.

  Safia moved in closer, kneeling. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something felt suddenly familiar, making her senses keen. “What are you trying to do?”

  Now there’s an interrogator’s question, he thought, hiding his smile. “Find a way to get my prisoner back.”

  “Prisoner?” Oh no he wasn’t.

  He glanced at her. “Yes, you shot the wrong tire.”

  She’d been aiming for the ATV, but at the last moment, they’d moved ahead. She hadn’t meant to crash it, just slow it down. Still, it had the desired effect. Trouble for Barasa, and this guy apparently.

  Riley watched the men milling near the rear of the car. The gag and blindfold first made him think they were holding Vaghn hostage. Vaghn’s family was wealthy, but disowning him after his conviction was a sure bet no one would pay a ransom. If the captors knew anything about Vaghn, it would be his finances, so what’s with the blind and gag treatment? Surrounded, Vaghn would feel isolated, without control. Interesting. The guy normally didn’t know when to shut up.

  “This is a new box of frogs, isn’t it?”

  Safia’s gaze shot to him and she ducked in, her gaze soaking in his face. She experienced a strange sense of dejà vu. “I know you,” she said, frowning.

  He scoffed. “I doubt it.”

  What was it about him? Then she saw him again, younger, bloodied, that teasing smile, and she knew. “Fundraiser. The pilot.”

  His features tightened, and he backed up from under the trailer and sat up. His gaze ripped over her face and she felt devoured by that look.

  “Safia? From Serbia?”

  She smiled, nodded. His shock was adorable. “Nice to have made an impression, Riley.”