Fight Fire With Fire.

by Amy J. Fetzer

  “My sister has to hear that. She swears there are no good imitators.”

  “I inherited it from my father, I guess. He spoke seven languages.”

  “I can’t keep one straight,” Max said, sliding onto an upholstered stool at the kitchen counter and nursing his coffee.

  “He’s lying,” Riley muttered and stood slowly. When she looked him over like he was a buttered scone, he motioned her toward the kitchen. Close proximity to her wasn’t helpful right now.

  “I’ve got the gear booting up,” Max said. “And someone named Ellie called, it rang in the bedroom with the mirror on the ceiling.”

  Mirror? Riley mouthed and Max’s expression said he should go look for himself.

  “Oh man.” She rushed to where she’d left her link and switched it on. There was nothing there and she grabbed the phone, hitting the speed dial.

  “Ellie?”

  “Vaghn’s marker has moved.”

  She hit the speaker. “Repeat last.”

  “That biomarker, Commander Chambliss notified me. Vaghn is in the Singapore Four Seasons on Orchard Boulevard now.”

  “Did you tell him about the blast?” Riley’s gaze flicked to Max.

  “No sir. Not authorized.”

  “Thank you,” Riley said. “They’re going to hear about it soon.” He and Max walked toward the bedrooms and privacy.

  Safia switched to the handset and ended the call. Ellie didn’t need orders. She was an overachiever and would notify Safia if the situation changed. She went to the windows, the sun lighting the gray rooftops and washing the world clean. Well, for a few minutes anyway, she thought, sipping, then thought of Riley and Max in the bedroom telling their friends about Sebastian. She hadn’t been touched by a death since her family’s murder. She wouldn’t let it. But when Riley knew he had to tell them, his stricken expression made her throat hurt. They were more than mates, they were lifelong friends. She wondered what that felt like, and had a lovely “woe is me” moment before she shook it off and went back to the kitchen. She needed to be productive.

  Riley smelled bacon before he left the room.

  “Marry her,” Max said, inhaling the aroma. “She can cook and spy.”

  Riley laughed to himself. “I can’t see it. Sorry.” He wanted to, and the thought startled him.

  Max glanced. “Sometimes you don’t have a choice. Killian sure didn’t.”

  Riley wasn’t listening and stopped at the edge of the kitchen counter. Any old-fashioned image he might have had was shattered. She was loading a weapon with a croissant in her mouth. The bacon jiggled as she popped in the magazine.

  “Guess I was wrong,” Max said under a laugh.

  She bit into the pastry, and laid the gun on the counter near a box of breakfast croissants. She waved at them, telling them to help themselves before she sat in front of the computers.

  “Base is downloading that file you had on the flash drive.”

  “Fantastic,” Max said and took her place at the long dining table set up with computers.

  On the floor was a stack of old newspapers and Vaghn’s bag of trash. “You think there’s evidence in there?” she said to Max.

  “I wanted to be sure.” He handed her a pad of paper. “I have this, but so far, it’s meaningless. The pad has his last impression on it. It’s a sequence of symbols, numbers, letters, and crap that may just be doodling.”

  Riley examined it. Max had used graphite to bring up the impressions. “Not doodling,” he said. “It’s repeated a couple times.” With his little finger, he pointed out two more. “Memorizing.”

  When the download finished, Max typed at the computer, then said, “Doesn’t work, at least not in that sequence.” He left the chair, spread newspapers on the tile floor, and dumped the trash in the middle. There were several pieces of balled up scrap paper in the heap along with some moldy garbage. Safia grabbed a wooden spoon from a ceramic crock of tools, then knelt at the pile. She flipped the food containers and tipped her head to read the names.

  “He likes sweet and sour pork.” She turned another. “He lived in the projects, the buildings due for destruction.” She glanced up and Riley nodded, impressed. “These containers are from restaurants all on the same street, each with window service you can walk right up to and order and don’t have to be seated inside.” Someone on the run didn’t want to be closed off from escape, he thought.

  She moved aside a damp novel and newspapers with sauce staining the pages, then nudged what looked like a gum wrapper, trying to flip it over. Max leaned to one of their cases, unzipped the side and pulled out gloves, handing them to her. She snapped them on and picked it up. “It’s a peel off, like a label backing.” She tipped it to the ceiling light. “There’s an impression.”

  Max took it, slid it into a mini scanner. From the floor, he leaned to tap keys, and the image appeared. He increased the size a thousand-fold.

  “That looks like a computer chip,” she said.

  “Possible.” Max reversed it.

  “It’s a wireless booster,” Riley said, then popped the breakfast sandwich in the microwave. “That just protects it for transport, but the chip enables a computer to pick up a wider wireless range and hop off private networks.” He hit the buttons.

  “He’s hopping networks? Geez,” Max said. “Probably cloaked too.”

  Safia sat on the floor, and wrapped her arms around her knees. She stared at the trash for a second, then said, “Profilers say each bomb maker has a signature.”

  “Except Vaghn didn’t create bombs.” Riley tossed the hot sandwich from hand to hand. “He developed hand-held and transport mounted weapons. This isn’t his usual forte. I’m not sure it was in the pack.”

  “What else could it be?” she asked.

  “It was a CIA station, take your pick,” Riley said. “Covert or not, there is such a thing as leaks. We have to consider other reasons until we know for certain.”

  “Know what for certain?” Max snapped. “That a bomb exploded? That Sebastian is dead!” Riley frowned, and Max took a slow breath, then apologized. “The timing of the calls and them on the line is not coincidence.” He looked at Safia. “You said so yourself.”

  She agreed.

  “We’re assuming there was something in the pack. It can’t be the phone,” Riley said. “Because I know I shut it off.”

  Safia stood and went to refill her coffee. “The station’s back up data is with Langley, but even if I ask them to send it, we don’t have the equipment to handle it here. Not all of it. There are only two other stations and they aren’t outfitted nearly as well. Singapore isn’t a national security threat, just the people passing though it.”

  Riley pulled his TDS Recon from his back pocket and wiggled it. “We have a common number.” Her brow knit. “Both phones had one caller that matched and I called it.”

  She leaned to look at the screen and under her breath, she added, “And you’re giving me lip service about trust?”

  His glance slid to hers. “It’s the lip service that did it,” he said giving her a really goober look.

  She rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “So Barasa and Vaghn called this woman.”

  “No. She did. Incoming only.”

  She looked thoughtful. “The money doesn’t usually get that close. Often, it’s just a pick up and a drop off. International electronic accounting isn’t a venue either. Money has to be washed a few times first.” She frowned, held up her hand for a moment. “Wait a second. I assumed she’s the money with the production she made about meeting Barasa and showing her firepower. But it’s possible she’s after just Vaghn. Since Barasa has him, he might be using Vaghn as a chip in his favor.”

  “Barasa has Vaghn, his fat brain and his laptop with whatever that bleeding thing is—” Riley gestured to the computer screen that was encrypted into a colorful mess. “And we have zip.”

  “Let Base work on getting the GPS log for the number, but I say it’s time
to use and abuse some resources.” The phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID before she hit the speaker.

  “Will you put your comm-link back on?” a young voice said and Riley smiled. “This phoning you is annoying.”

  “Wow, must be like the stone ages for you, actually dialing,” Safia said. “Report.”

  “I hope you’re dressed,” Base said. “The target is moving. Fast.”

  Eleven

  Woodbridge, Virginia

  The ringing phone disturbed the first rest Hank could grab since the chemical theft. His wife nudged him, handing the cordless over his shoulder and he wondered why she insisted the phone be in her side of the bed when it was always for him.

  He glanced at the clock. At this hour, it wouldn’t be good, he thought, glancing at the number. He propped on his elbow, then put the phone to his ear. “Jansen.” He yawned and blinked, then rubbed his face.

  “Sir, Major Beckham. At twenty-two hundred forty-six hours, a blast with a two-megaton range occurred in Singapore.”

  “Drop the Intel speak, Beckham, and give me the shit,” Hank said and his wife smacked his rear.

  “Analysts believe the RZ10 was used.”

  “Good God.”

  “Just enough to flatten about eighteen acres and kill an estimated thirty thousand,” the major added.

  Hank sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Jesus, how’d it get that far?” he said, switching on the lamp. It had only been days since the theft, he thought as he moved to the closet and pulled out his uniform.

  “That’s the problem. According to Agent Choufani it was passed off in the last twenty-four hours.”

  He went still for a second. “Then it’s something else. Notify General Gerardo. I’m on my way in.”

  “Yes, sir, but you should know the center of the blast was a CIA station.”

  He closed his eyes for a second. “Find out what you can about the agents assigned there.” He ended the call, then shaved and dressed quickly, pausing long enough to kiss his sleeping wife before heading to the Pentagon.

  He’d missed his exit and was on his second turn around DuPont circle when he wanted to pull off for some coffee, but the city was still sleeping. Gerardo was likely waking the Joint Chiefs.

  Marina Bay

  Singapore

  Safia went to the doorway between the dining room and kitchen, then hip-checked the wall. It sprang, a bank of shelves hidden behind. Riley’s eyes widened. “God, I love a woman with her own arsenal,” he said, his gaze flicking over the stash of hand weapons.

  She laughed lightly. “Your tax dollars, so help yourself.” He reached for a rack of glass tubes and Safia snatched his wrist. He met her gaze. “Poison, and mishandling them will kill you before you realize it.”

  “I remember something like that from Thailand,” Max said.

  “That’s where I got it.” She turned down the hall toward a bedroom. “Riley, you might find some clothes in the mirrored room,” she called over her shoulder.

  “You should see it,” Max said, taking ammunition for his own nine millimeter sidearm. “Really kinky stuff. With costumes.”

  Pocketing ammo, Riley swung a look at him. “Bugger me.” She did say she bought it as is, and he went to investigate the room, finding clothing with tags, dusty but serviceable. The costumes ranged from Arabian nights sheik robes to an innocent schoolgirl’s with a kilt that gave him the creeps. He changed into a clean black tee-shirt still in tissue wrapping, and cargo pants that looked like his old marine uniform in solid gray. He met Safia in the hall, frowning at the difference in her appearance.

  Her long dark hair was pulled tight into a ponytail high on her head and braided, but it was the bit of makeup around her eyes that gave an Asian appearance to her Middle Eastern looks. Her sexy body-shaping tank top and rolled shorts had his attention as she wrapped a hoodie around her waist, then knelt to lace ankle boots. Man, she had great legs, he thought, and asked for her comm-link. He reset them with Base control so they could hear Ellie, but not each other. He didn’t plan on being separated from her, but Safia’s voice would echo.

  Heading to the garage, Riley feared this was their last chance to take Vaghn back. Within minutes, they were in the underground garage, and Riley knew he’d never get used to that speed-demon lift ride.

  “What do you want,” she said, pointing at the two vehicles in the furthermost corner of the garage. “Fast or inconspicuous?” One was a green Land Rover covered in dirt, the other, a dark British Racing blue BMW hardtop.

  “Fast,” he said. “I don’t think covert is an option anymore.” It was a given that Vaghn wouldn’t keep his mouth shut about Dragon One.

  “Agreed.” She tossed him the keys.

  He sailed them right back. “Your town and I hope you can get us around morning rush hour.”

  Safia smiled and climbed in. They had tracking on a GPS on the dash, and he’d already loaded the biomarker trace on his Recon. He concealed his weapons as she drove from ground level to the street. “You should probably buckle up,” she said, then rocketed into morning traffic.

  Riley slapped a hand on the dash, giving her a side glance and her girly giggle made him smile. Singapore was awake, and he navigated her toward the biomarker, then frowned when the beacon turned toward the water. “Pasir Panjang Terminal.”

  “The docks?” she said, glancing, then down shifting. “Shipping him out to where? It would be easier to fly him, and Barasa’s jet is in a hangar.”

  “Marked?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Too well guarded to get that close. His men won’t let anyone without custom’s credentials within a hundred yards.” Riley’s look questioned. “He’s got official connections and uses them.”

  She downshifted, putting the car into a corridor between two trucks, then like a bullet, popped through and skirted a traffic jam on side streets. An old woman tossed water on her walkway as they zipped past. Then the area opened, the shadow of tall buildings no longer crowding as she drove to the docks. Warehouses lined the road in, then split off in wide streets to different companies and cargos. A granary was at the farthest end, but Riley didn’t think they’d stash him on a barge. They moved too slow.

  “Can you narrow the location?” she said, coming to a fork. “It’s a big place.”

  “Pier twenty-two,” he said, watching the neon dot blink.

  “That’s Chang Ju Shipping.” She frowned. “Triad owned.” She cornered the sports car, cutting between dockyards and loading ramps, then slid into the parking lot. They both left the vehicle, moving quickly down the pier.

  The morning dew sheened the metal surfaces. Trucks and forklifts were still, the smell of oil and fuel blended in the air with the scent of coffee. Workers didn’t pay them any attention as they hurried past. Riley glanced at his comm-link to judge location, then stopped and backed up in the shadows of a warehouse. Workers hosed down the concrete and buckets on chains that swung from the dock to dump the fish into iced storage. Women walked in groups toward the fishery. Some milled, waiting for the first catch to arrive to prepare it for sale. Yards beyond, stretching into the water, the pier was nearly deserted except for a handful of people.

  They moved alongside the warehouse, a shabby metal building with three wide doors. Only one was open and Riley glanced inside. Water dripped and trickled off equipment. A young man with a large hose propped on his shoulder sprayed the concrete, washing fish guts into the sea. Probably why the waters were shark infested, he thought, then glanced at his comm-link.

  “The marker stopped.” He nodded ahead. “He’s near the water.”

  A tugboat and a fishing trawler were side by side. The crewmen cast lines from the pier, the stack burping smoke as the hundred-foot fishing trawler started to float away from the dock.

  Riley’s gaze flicked between the two boats. “Which one?”

  “The trawler,” she said beside him. “That will take him up river, even as far a
s Indonesia and Thailand without much notice.” It was backing away from the pier and swinging toward open seas. “We’re going to lose him.” She started for the dock, but he stopped her.

  “Something doesn’t feel right,” Riley said and they backed into the shadows of the fishery again.

  “The bad guys never do the norm.”

  “But why would they put him on a boat? Barasa has a jet.” His gaze moved to the high spots. Two men sat on the steel girder of an unfinished warehouse like magpies on a branch. About twenty feet above the ground, the pair drank from Styrofoam cups and stared out at the water. Several yards across the loading dock, a small work crew checked in at a toll booth–sized shack. One dark skinned man lingered back, dressed a bit heavy for the tropics. Riley couldn’t tell if they were tearing the structure down or building it; the area below the warf road was packed with construction equipment sitting idle.

  He studied the faces again, the position of the marker. A few yards ahead, men pushed open the tall steel doors, metal to metal shrieking like a Banshee howl broken short. At the tip of the piers, trawlers were already heading out to sea, the slow process marked with seagulls flocking the nets. He moved forward and glanced inside the warehouse. Against the back wall, a line of industrial ice machines groaned with their own weight, ready to melt in the Singapore heat. Why here? he wondered.

  His gaze swung to the girders. The men were gone. His gaze lowered over the skeleton of the building. He saw the muzzle flash and threw himself back into Safia. The round hit the warehouse, ringing the metal wall.

  “Silencer,” she said, huddled behind a forklift, her weapon drawn.

  Aiming his gun, Riley glanced up at the bullet hole in the metal where he’d been standing. “Well. Clearly these weren’t the clever trousers in the closet.”

  Safia snickered a laugh. “Guess you were right. They’re using Vaghn.”

  “The marker is heading east now,” Base said over the radio. “About fifteen miles an hour. It’s fifty yards west of your position. You should be able to see something.”