Fight Fire With Fire. Amy J. Fetzer

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      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.