Fight Fire With Fire. Amy J. Fetzer

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      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 countryman’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 СКАЧАТЬ