Читать книгу Fight Fire With Fire - Amy J. Fetzer - Страница 10

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 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 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.”

“A lifetime wouldn’t change that day.” Then he grabbed her close, hugged her tight, then laid a deep, quick kiss on her that rocked her to her knees. “That’s a proper thank you.”

She sputtered, unaccustomed to anyone treating her like that. She didn’t want to dissect the wonderful little spin of heat, but she didn’t back away either.

Then he said, “So who’s the suit?”

Moving out of his arms, she crawled to the rear of the trailer and spied around the rotting tire. “Someone to watch carefully. The kid?”

It amused him that she wasn’t giving up any information. “A parole fugitive.”

She scowled and glanced. “You’re a chaser?”

“For this guy, I am.” He drew out his billfold and flipped it open. Diplomatic Security.

“I thought you’d still be a Marine.”

“So did I,” he murmured, pocketing it and watching.

She settled beside him, looking through a monocular. When Barasa ducked into the backseat, she stood and retraced her steps to the bike, but she had company. “It’s great to see you again, Riley, but we part here, and I think you should forget about that kid.”

“I won’t.”

And she knew it. He’d gone after his friend in Serbia against direct orders. She wasn’t getting rid of him that easily. She went to her bike, backing it out of hiding, then swung her leg over.

“You owe me.”

Gripping her helmet, she tipped her head. “I thought it was you who owed me .”

“That too. But I won’t go away.”

Safia knew when she’d hit a brick wall and was about to concede when he scowled suddenly and tipped his head, preoccupied. She realized he was miked up as he strode nearer to the water and looked toward the bridge.

“I need a ride.”

She shook her head. “I’m tracking a target and he’s leaving.” The town car was moving.

“I can find him again, trust me.” Riley climbed on behind her. “But Sebastian’s in trouble, west of the bridge, and he’s unarmed.”

Oh jeez, she thought, the clean-up was in the skiff. She kicked over the engine, then worked on her helmet.

Riley wrapped his arms around her waist and turned his ball cap around. “Just be gentle with me, lass.”

“Been that long, has it?”

She gunned the engine and maneuvered the bike through a narrow alley, then shot west. The limousine turned in the opposite direction and he felt her tense. He should probably tell her he shot a bio-marker in Vaghn’s ass, but he needed to know exactly how she was involved. Because Vaghn wasn’t just a parole jumper anymore. He was caught up in a deadly business that brought in the CIA. She was the best lead he had, he admitted, yet riding behind her was a test of his pucker factor as she raced at spine numbing speed toward the bridge.

Safia was glad she had communication inside her helmet. “Base, get me what you can on Riley Donovan and Maxwell Renfield.”

“How do you have two names?”

“Donovan is a passenger.”

A bark of laughter came through and then, “How’s that feel?”

Warm and protected, she thought for a second, his body pressed tight to her back. She couldn’t recall the last time she had a man wrapped around her. December, Spain, she decided, Antonio. She could call on him any time, but the Spanish matador had a narcissistic ego she barely tolerated and that made it easy to use him just for sex. Shallow, she knew, but there you go, the life of a spy. Relationships brought questions. She didn’t like lying to someone she cared about so she solved it by not getting too involved.

Why she was thinking like that with Riley on the back of her bike, she didn’t have a clue, but she’d take the rare attraction for what it was, a man who knew and accepted what she did for a living. Sorta.

“You’re in good company,” Ellie said. “That much I’ll say.”

Safia could hear the laughter barely concealed. “Spill it, you little witch. You like tormenting me.”

“Well it’s just so hard to do, Raven. Or should I change that to Riley’s Girl? Oh my, he’s hot.”

This wasn’t the oddest conversation she’d ever had with Ellie, but it was close.

Yes, Riley was good looking, but it wasn’t his looks that made him so likeable. He definitely had that Irish charm going for him still. “He’s too old for you.”

“They all are. Dragon One, freelance retrieval experts, former USMC. Ooh-rah. Sebastian Fontenot, Maxwell Renfield, Killian Moore, Sam Wyatt and Doctor Logan Chambliss, he was a Navy Seal. Cool.”

“Keep going,” she said, wondering what constituted retrieval.

“Private hire, well-equipped, and from the look of their record, very dangerous. You should get along fine.”

“Last job?” She needed something current.

There was a stretch of silence so long that she thought she’d lost the signal.

“Raven,” Ellie said softly, “I just got an access denied to files on them.”

“Interesting.”

“ No, it locks me out. I can’t bring up any details. It has a notation for referencing Major General McGill for authorization.”

“Our last director, that McGill?”

“ Roger that.”

That changed everything, she thought. McGill’s command had been temporary, only for a few months but she felt the shake up all the way in Asia. He was the reason she had direct relay with Ellie twenty-four/seven. Intel in her hands. She adored the man for that.

“Okay back off. Don’t send up any signals. They’re after Barasa’s package. He’s a fugitive and no, I don’t know his name yet, but Riley has Diplomatic Security credentials and they’re legit.”

“So…” Ellie said and Safia could imagine her leaning on her elbow, her chin in her palm. “What I’m thinking is they were heading out of Singapore with their prisoner already secured, and you screwed it up.”

“Yes. I did.” She was never going to live this down and supposed she had to take her hits. She deserved them. Thankfully, she wasn’t normally wrong or she’d be out of a job. “It was difficult to tell the good guys from the bad at the moment.” Lame, Safia, really lame.

“ Dragon One are the white hats, confirmed.”

It wasn’t so much of a relief. She worked alone and didn’t like bringing anyone inside her operations. Too many chances for leaks and breaks in cover. Yet Dragon One had a McGill stamp of approval and ignoring another set of expert eyes was asinine, this Op was quickly blossoming out of control.

2 hours earlier

6°21´ N, 134°28´E

Sonsoral Islands, Philippine Sea

Bridget braced her footing and sighted on the island. Like a string of pearls unraveling, the islands were scattered south of Palau. This one was nearly two hundred miles away from the main island.

She lowered the glasses and unclipped her radio, then looked to the pilothouse as she spoke. “Circle it once. There’s a better spot to come ashore in the southwest.”

Travis responded with a cheeky, “Are you questioning my topography or getting a wee lazy?”

She brought the radio up. “Funny, love, that’s not what you said last night.”

She heard the hoots from the sailors and captain, and smiled. The only two sharing a bed on board, they were the brunt of jokes often. But they’d been married too long to take offense and joined in the fun.

“I’d rather dive in, but after the ruins, I’ve got another twenty-four hours before I can go deep again.”

She was eager to return, yet she’d spent too long diving off Okinawa with minimal surface time between. It forced her to stop longer to let her blood refresh with oxygen. She clipped her radio to her belt and sighted in again. Returning to this island was her decision. Despite Jim’s reluctance, she’d pitched the side expedition to the project board. Jim was wounded by something, and the lack of trails or any reported inhabitants convinced her and the money. The prospect of animal survival worked into her Tsunami expedition. She kept her expectations low, but Jim deserved an answer. And well, she was just plain curious as to what had attacked him.

She lowered the field glasses and saw Jim bend over a duffle of equipment, the claw marks on his throat no longer inflamed, but deep. An invisible spray bandage protected it. Occasionally, she caught him touching it and knew the trauma lingered in his mind. The man spent most of his career inside a testing lab, just being in the field was new to him.

She walked toward him, her hand on the rail as the ship cut through the sea. “Jim, you can reconsider going ashore.” He looked up, a little offended maybe.

“I’m going. Even if it’s just a monkey surviving the storms around here,”—he zipped the duffle and straightened—” I need to know.”

She nodded and didn’t press. She had a habit of mothering her staff, but honestly, some of these men needed guidance. When the vessel came around the most southern point, she recognized the shoreline formation she’d brought up earlier on satellite. She radioed the captain to stop. They would go ashore on the rubber skiff.

A little tingle of excitement danced on her skin as she went to properly suit up. She walked the passageway, cornering toward their room when her radio hit the bulkhead. It fell, spinning across the deck, and she dove to catch it before it slid under the rail and into the sea. She barely nabbed it and crawled her fingers over it to get a better grip. Then it crackled and clicked. No one spoke. She stood, checking the setting. The frequency was off by a couple degrees. The channel was open.

She looked at the island, and for a second, wished her brother was here.

Because she swore she heard breathing.