Fight Fire With Fire. Amy J. Fetzer
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smart?”
He was. So what’s with the giveaway? Riley took a bite of the sandwich, his gaze flicking to each picture. “Something’s not right.”
Just as Sebastian entered the building, movement at the far edge of the roof caught Riley’s attention. Thinking it was birds, Riley went to the window, pushing back the bamboo shade. “Heads up! He’s using the fire escape. West side!” He dropped the food, then scooped up the gun and radios. “Max, direct me.”
“You got it.”
He didn’t take the door, exiting out the window and using the fire escape. He hit the ground in a crouch and straightened to hear Max say, “He’s on the roof heading to the north end, but he’s not running.”
Excellent. He was still blind to us. “Tell me when he’s on the ground. Sebastian?”
“Headed west, I’ll try to cut him off before he gets to the markets.”
If Vaghn reached the crowded food kiosks, their chances would quickly thin.
Riley hurried to the end of the building, knocking aside trash in the alley. At the edge, his gaze slid over the crowds of patrons and vendors, then jerked back to a man with shaggy hair. The light shade stood out against the throngs of dark haired people. Just as the awning shadowed him, the man looked over his shoulder.
“It’s him.” Riley was already advancing. “Sebastian, watch my flank. I’ve got him.”
“He made you?”
“No, not yet. Come east. He’s cutting through Kopi tiam s.” The two-acre mall of food vendors was impressive, the entire complex covered against the blistering sun. Even in the late afternoon, the crowds were heavy. He moved left, careful not to get too close. Steam shot up from cookers behind the counters, orders called out in Malay and Mandarin. Riley saw Sebastian hanging back when Vaghn stopped at a vendor and handed over money for Ngo Hiang ; spiced pork and prawn rolled inside a bean curd skin and deep-fried. Everything around here was fried, he thought, stooping a little when Vaghn looked around before taking a bite.
He was between them, along with five aisles of tables, chairs, and forty vendors serving over a thousand people. Riley paralleled Vaghn, a few yards behind. The guy was afraid, stopping to look behind himself and using the reflection in windows to do it. He had the fugitive life down well. Vaghn walked to the entrance on Woodlands Road, around the pillars supporting the roof of the two-acre food court squashed between high-rise housing complexes.
Riley noticed he had a satchel and a backpack. He wasn’t coming back. He nodded to Sebastian. Riley was within earshot of him, then within reach. Sebastian came around from the east to the front, cutting Vaghn off.
Riley moved up behind him.
E ring
Pentagon
Colonel Hank Jansen kept a brisk pace down the corridor. To those who were aware, his presence on this floor spoke of trouble. Today was no exception. He glanced at his watch. He’d have to cancel dinner plans, but disappointing his wife came with the job.
A Marine guard snapped to attention and he paused long enough for security, then turned the next corner and opened the large oak door. Few looked up or stopped their discussion as he entered, yet he noticed that at least three were already answering their phones. The word was out.
He went directly to the screen controls and typed, linking the feed from his operation, then stepped back and picked up the remote. “Gentlemen.”
The room quieted.
“Delta class intelligence. Direct your attention to the screen.” Chairs swiveled around, but Jansen didn’t wait. He keyed in the satellite feed. “This is an air strip in Britain. Eighteen minutes ago.” It showed a glimpse of the runway, but focus was on a gray building, small and heavily fortified with two-stage security. He drew the image back a few feet, exposing the surrounding grounds and the bodies tumbled like pillars.
“Good God. The count?” someone asked above some colorful curses.
“A detachment of fifteen. Ours.”
“I’m not familiar with the target,” an admiral said.
“The shipment of RZ10 stored and bound for R&D Ordnance.”
The joint chiefs murmured among themselves.
Once the shipment was turned over for storage, Americans guarded it, but it was the British military’s responsibility to see it to ordnance specialists from both countries—and Jansen’s job to keep track of it. All was well until about a half hour ago.
“This is thirty minutes prior.” Jansen watched the attack that was so carefully executed he’d have thought it was one of his own teams. The men standing guard dropped like rags, no force, no gunshots. They simply collapsed. Gas? he wondered. A moment later, two men in full black ops gear approached, set charges and broke through to the container, a building created to protect the RDX fuel to the degree that a tornado or even an earthquake wouldn’t harm it.
The thieves quickly passed through without explosives, using a composition that smoldered yet didn’t blast. From what he could see, it cut through the titanium door and one man simply pulled off the lock and tossed it. His fury pushed up his blood pressure. America had billions in Research and Development and analysts to anticipate different types of attacks, and some slipper faction gets in without trouble? And what the hell did they use?
He waited till the escape was apparent, then turned it to live-mode so the joint chiefs could see that British Royal Marines had arrived and the MI5 investigation was underway. “I will contact MI5 in thirty for a report. Diplomatic Security is in the area to assist.”
He moved to the head of the table near the screens linking them to major movement across the globe.
“We have ascertained this. The British knew when we did. The alarms tripped after the first blast.” He played the long-range video, drawing back to before the guards fell. “We’ve learned in this frame,” he froze it briefly, “the shots were fired out of range of surveillance cameras. All but one camera, intentionally concealed, were taken out simultaneously. Prior to that, sensors picked up no more movement than a squirrel. Not a single pressure sensor went off. That means the weapons were not only silent, but had a tremendous range. The building was fifty yards from the nearest solid marker, a military motor transport section of vehicles recently repaired and awaiting transport to Iraq.”
“So what did they do? Drop out of the sky?” a three star general asked.
“I haven’t had time to speculate, sir.”
“How much did they take?” the Secretary of the Navy asked.
“One canister.”
“Only one?”
“Yes, sir.” It confused him too. They’d passed the opportunity to steal mass quantities of the most highly explosive liquid component created. One question loomed over all others. How did anyone know it existed? Getting it to Britain was a logistics nightmare, and Hank thought the fuel should be destroyed. It was too unstable, and the reason it was kept in two binary agents. They were still volatile, but manageable. A canister was one half liter, unmixed.
“We’ve never seen anything this tightly executed,” an officer said, watching the replay.
“Looks like one of ours.”
“I agree,” Jansen said. “They could be ours turned mercenary.” Blackwater had already coaxed their highly trained military away, paying them more than the government could even consider.
Discussion tripped around the long polished oak table as Jansen’s phone vibrated softly. He glanced at the text message and immediately crossed the room. His aide waited on the other side. The lieutenant handed him a printout from MI5. Hank scanned it, then looked up.
“Puzzling, isn’t it, sir?”
“It