Fight Fire With Fire. Amy J. Fetzer

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СКАЧАТЬ in her street clothes. Removing the mic, she tossed the uniform in a laundry bin, and before she left, she slipped an envelope into Miya’s locker vent. The day’s wages and tips were a payback for Miya’s keen eye.

      She zippered her tight fitting jacket and left. Outside, she hurried to the far corner of the lot and threw her leg over her silver motorcycle. She twisted her hair up to put on her helmet, then started the bike and left the lot at a moderate speed till she cleared the next street. She urged the machine faster. Two blocks away, she turned on the small GPS screen on the dash. Her mic relay went through her helmet.

      “I’ve got him. Damn, he’s passing Changi and heading to Seletar airport.” And not in the direction of his last phone call. She followed and Barasa’s car took the Central expressway, gaining speed. “Get me some SAT info, now, Base.”

       “Yes ma’am. We have imagery of the field. A plane is landing.”

      “Check for clearance of his jet. He can’t leave till I tag it.” Tracking Barasa was a lesson in international hopscotch. He paid bribes to get in and out of countries without notice, but most often, he was welcomed by the latest regime.

      She spotted the dark blue town car that was larger than most of the vehicles on the road and slowed, keeping at least a hundred yards back. She leaned, taking a turn that put her on the other side of the runway. It was a private air strip, reserved for those who could pay the fees to land. Three hangars located at the far end were open, a helicopter shadowed inside one. She stopped the bike near a park bench off the highway, her position secluded enough by trees and shrubs someone took the time to trim. The runway was off Seletar’s 747 traffic, yet further up the road the highway split, dividing smaller towns and villages on the edge of the water. A stone’s throw would land on the poorest of Singapore.

      She left the bike, bringing her backpack and digging out her binoculars.

      She sat on the metal table with four chairs permanently attached and flipped up her visor. She focused on the field. The town car was just making it around the long drive to the airstrip. Tires are a little low, she thought, waiting for the show to begin. Too often, he was legit, magically producing the right papers for his cargo. Interpol hadn’t given up on catching him, but Safia knew that letting him have some rope would get them more. He’d been in very bad company lately and following the money trail didn’t get her enough. While his accounts were modest enough not to draw the attention of the international banking community, recent increases in the millions said otherwise. Whatever he was up to, was big.

      The roar of engines whining down for a landing made her swing the glasses left. Too fast to be safe, the Gulfstream jet touched down. Barasa left the car and stood next to it, his bodyguards at the rear looking like Secret Service in bad suits. She noticed several feet to the right of him was a shade cabana, a table and—oh you’ve got to be kidding—linens and set for a tea?

      She swung her attention to the jet as it powered down and the door opened, lowering the steps. A figure moved in the dark interior and Safia was surprised when a woman stepped out. That explains the tea set.

      The woman wore a pale gray suit, cut close, the skirt longer than fashion but her shoes were the bomb. Bright red. She sighed, wishing for playtime to be a girl. The woman descended the jet’s stairs and walked straight to Barasa before he could meet her. She didn’t offer her hand nor did he. Red shoes went to the shade and sat. Barasa was slower to follow, his attention on the woman’s rear. Clearly, he’d other plans for her, but Safia was interested in Red Shoes.

      Women didn’t fit in the world of arms dealers. Aside from the fact that half the buyers seeking weapons were Muslims and therefore still in the dark ages, she thought snidely, most men had ego problems with strong women. They felt threatened. Barasa didn’t. He seemed amused.

      She needed to get closer and hopped on her bike, riding it to the fork, then doubling back to the airfield. She stopped the bike behind a tall chengal pasir tree. They were sitting at the table, a servant who must have come from the jet, pouring for them. A sharp breeze battered the cabana, taking away a piece of linen. The woman didn’t notice nor acknowledge the servant chasing after it. Was she the money?

      Safia raised the cell phone and snapped a picture of the two, then hailed Base. She worked the slideout keyboard. “Base, I’m sending you a photo. Run everything.”

       “Confirmed jpeg and running.”

      “Ya know, you can drop the military speak, Ell.”

       “Yes ma’am.”

      Safia shook her head, and sighted through the monocular, using its digital camera to get a full face shot as she watched the pair converse. The woman was beautiful, her black hair twisted up to show off her slender neck and reminding Safia a little of Audrey Hepburn. Way out of place. The suit was designer, the shoes…fifteen hundred easy. Though this was Singapore; knock-offs were sold on every street corner.

      She studied the unlikely pair.

       Who are you Red Shoes, and what are you doing with that nasty arms dealing trash?

       Four

       Sungei Kadut

       Singapore

      Max was finishing off Riley’s wrap when he saw movement behind the salty glass of a storefront. He grabbed his binoculars, sighted, shifting his position on the windowsill. His side of the neighborhood was empty except for a couple of dogs that would end up as dinner if they weren’t careful. A few entrances up from Vaghn’s suspected address, a bell plinked as a shop door opened.

      A man appeared, then turned west. That he didn’t look left kept Max watching. Who didn’t check for oncoming anything? Max slipped back inside and went to the laptops, keying up the next street in their four-block radius. He focused the tiny pen-sized cameras, then saw the man turn the corner. A few seconds passed before he could get a face shot.

      The man appeared, his image clarifying with each step closer.

      Max grabbed the radio. “Riley. It’s not him!”

       “Repeat last?” came back. “I’m three feet away.”

      Max grabbed his weapon, holstering it behind his back. “I’m telling you, he’s here . Your guy’s a freakin’ decoy!”

      Over the wire, he heard a scuffle, then cursing. When Riley’s voice came back on, he could tell he was hoofing it fast. “Some Australian. Vaghn paid him a hundred. Where the hell is Vaghn now?”

      “On Pi Nang Road, west. I’m going after him.” Max went out the fire escape, and when he hit the ground, the ladder shot off its track. He darted out of the way as it crashed to the pavement and crumbled in a pile of rusted iron. “One step closer to demolition.”

      He took off in a hard run and glimpsed the guy’s brown tee shirt that hung to his thighs, his jeans rippling with fabric. “Behind the village, toward the river,” he said over the personal roll radio. “Same clothes, same pack.”

      Where was he going? There wasn’t a damn thing on the water except shanty homes slapped together with tin and wood discards from recent construction. The river was so shallow along tributaries the next monsoon would wash away any evidence of their existence. He hauled ass past new construction toward the old and almost untouched. Lush with palms and towering banana trees, the paved land blended into dirt roads, rutted and sloping toward the water.

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