Fight Fire With Fire. Amy J. Fetzer
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over the table, her position offering a clear view of her objective. Table eight.
Cale Barasa enjoyed a meal with the casual grace of a king. His light brown skin glowed like polished copper in the glare of the sun, the carefully manicured goatee added a dash of piracy. She’d give him props for looking suave. But if he didn’t want notice, he shouldn’t have worn a thousand dollar suit to a seaside Polynesian restaurant. She couldn’t see his eyes, hidden behind sunglasses and he didn’t take them off when a bodyguard hopped up from a nearby table and lowered the sunscreen. She caught a whiff of his Cuban cigar as the busboy returned with fresh dishes and set the table. She folded napkins precisely as Miya taught her and set them in the wine glass to resemble a coral flower. Hers looked a little limp.
In her line of vision, Barasa answered his phone, then sat up a bit straighter.
His lunch date was a slim black haired woman perched on the edge of the chair in a practiced pose designed to get attention. Gorgeous woman. Did she know the company she kept? Safia doubted it. The woman questioned him, and he waved her off rudely, then shifted away. Conveniently toward Safia. A quick glance to the next table told her his bodyguards were more interested in their meals than watching his back. The piglets had requested a male waiter, and she was happy to oblige. They were ugly when they ate, a fact that put them apart from their boss.
She moved to the next table, a step closer, and tried to read his lips, but she hadn’t heard him speak to know his accent. Her sources couldn’t pinpoint it beyond maybe Congolese or African. He had a Euro look going on, yet even before intelligence made the connection of arms to Barasa, she knew he was a scuzbag in designer duds. He’d crossed her path one too many times, often followed by people dying.
It was the company he kept that brought more attention. A deal maker, he put elements together. Like Hezbollah and necessary weapons. He didn’t have a conscience or a cause. While he was very careful to never be seen in a country the U.S. or Britain could extradite him from quickly, he’d slip up. She wanted to be there when it happened.
Safia felt an odd tremor to be so close to this man.
She could liquidate him right now, but that wouldn’t get who was pulling his strings. Barasa might be careful about his conduct, but he had deadly friends who could turn on him at any moment—a threat that ruled his actions with ruthless paranoia. She’d tracked him a month ago and he’d hopped countries so fast it was like trying to follow a fly. Plus, his past didn’t exist. Point number forty-four in the suspicious behavior manual, she thought making it harder to understand him and catch him in the act. He was rarely close to his own hardware, and knew which rock to slip under and be protected. On the surface, he was sophisticated, but he didn’t flaunt his wealth with the ease of someone who’d grown up with it.
People didn’t die around Barasa, they disappeared. Proven a moment later when his bodyguard hopped from his table, a phone to his ear as he went to the dais. It wasn’t the same man as three days ago, nor was he as refined as the last. This guy’s like a farmer in a suit, she realized. His walk was too stooped for his age, yet with a broad back and shoulders. It was the hands that cinched it. Leathery with thick white calluses. Not a guy accustomed to the high life and firing a weapon. She could tell when his holster jabbed him as he sat and he had to adjust it. Anyone familiar with carrying a weapon would have made allowances. He did it again when Barasa waved him back.
So who was on the phone that changed his mood?
Forced to turn her back on him for the job, she backed up, hoping to catch some conversation. She’d have saved herself the trouble and bugged the reserved table if Miya hadn’t warned her his people check it for just that before he entered the restaurant. She finished refilling glasses, then moved to the ice machine outside the dining area and a bit down the hall. She had a clear view.
Barasa checked his watch, then suddenly stood and tossed a wad of bills on the table. He said something to the woman, then turned his back on her. The woman pouted, grabbed some of the bills and left. The bodyguards jumped up and followed. Barasa came toward her, head down, still on the phone. The guards went out the front. When he passed her, Safia followed him through the restaurant.
He was mad and in a hurry. It delighted her no end. His long legs overtook the distance. She hurried after him, keeping back just enough that he wouldn’t make her till she remembered she was supposed to be here, not him. He went in the kitchen.
She stopped short. Who are you running from? Or to?
The door swung closed. Through the frosted glass, she saw him move away from the door and she pushed through. He shouldered workers out of his way and she glimpsed him stop near the dishwasher station, then continue through to the back door. Stopping about thirty feet behind him, she pinched the hem of her tropical print apron, flicking on the microphone.
“He’s coming your way.”
“Got him. Just exiting now.”
Agents were her eyes on the perimeter. “His ride is marked?”
“Tagged and running.”
“Tail him just the same.” She’d blow her cover if she followed him in her uniform and quickly turned back into the kitchen, moving around the chaos of cooks, dishwashers, and busboys to where Barasa had stopped briefly. She glanced around. To the left was the dishwasher station, steam coiling up as a young boy sprayed the racks. Across from it were four lined trash cans, no lids, brooms, mops, and a large slop bucket sold to local farmers.
She looked down into the pail of vile brown muck.
“Oh no he didn’t ,” she said softly.
The cell phone sank beneath a day’s worth of restaurant leftovers. Gross.
A busboy stared with wide eyes as she rolled back her sleeve and plunged her hand into the slop. I deserve extra pay for this. She swished her hand and found the phone, shaking off glop, then grabbing a rag. Wiping it down, she prayed the moisture hadn’t ruined the memory. She turned it on, and scrolled to the last number.
The prefix said it was the other side of the island.
She hurried to the locker room, stripped, washed off the foul smell of spoiled food and Chinese five spice, then dressed in her street clothes. Removing the mic, she tossed the uniform in a laundry bin, and before she left, she slipped an envelope into Miya’s locker vent. The day’s wages and tips were a payback for Miya’s keen eye.
She zippered her tight fitting jacket and left. Outside, she hurried to the far corner of the lot and threw her leg over her silver motorcycle. She twisted her hair up to put on her helmet, then started the bike and left the lot at a moderate speed till she cleared the next street. She urged the machine faster. Two blocks away, she turned on the small GPS screen on the dash. Her mic relay went through her helmet.
“I’ve got him. Damn, he’s passing Changi and heading to Seletar airport.” And not in the direction of his last phone call. She followed and Barasa’s car took the Central expressway, gaining speed. “Get me some SAT info, now, Base.”
“Yes ma’am. We have imagery of the field. A plane is landing.”
“Check for clearance of his jet. He can’t leave till I tag it.” Tracking Barasa was a lesson in international hopscotch. He paid bribes to get in and out of countries without notice, but most often, he was welcomed by the latest regime.
She spotted the dark blue town car that was larger than most of the vehicles on the road and slowed, keeping at least a hundred yards back. She leaned, taking a turn that put her on the other side of the runway. It was a private air strip, reserved for those who could pay the fees to land. Three hangars located at the far end were open, a helicopter shadowed inside one. She stopped the bike near a park bench off the highway, her position secluded enough by trees and shrubs someone took the time to trim. The runway was off Seletar’s 747 traffic, yet further up the road the highway split, dividing smaller towns and villages on the edge of the water. A stone’s throw would land on the poorest of Singapore.
She left the bike, bringing her backpack and digging