Fight Fire With Fire. Amy J. Fetzer
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enough field experience,” she aimed at her boss.
“You have it now.” Her boss gestured to the black van several yards below on level ground, the single windowless door open and showing its luxurious interior. “Let’s get some food in you first.”
His tone was dismissive, as if this was just a rude interruption at a party. She wasn’t going to forget the past days anytime soon and looked at the reason. He didn’t move, brown eyes barely visible inside the dingy hood. His fingers flexed and she remembered them around her throat, holding her off the ground like a rag. In two steps, she was in his face, the knife sinking into his side as she drove her knee deep into his groin. He buckled with an oof and she gripped the hood hard enough to hear it tear and whispered, “Someday, I’ll repay that game. On my terms.”
“No. You won’t,” he gasped, and he was right. He’d have a different face. But she wouldn’t forget the voice, or the pain.
“That’s not wise!” her boss said somewhere behind her.
She twisted the knife as she pulled it out and shoved him off, stepping back. “But it felt good.” She turned away as the man tried to straighten and failed. “Is that face courtesy of U.S. dollars?”
Her boss froze, nodding to the driver who moved to the van. “You saw his face?” He waved to her tormentor, and she didn’t have to look to know he was slipping back into the stone prison. He gave off the stench of his own urine.
“You know I did. That beast didn’t do a damn thing without your approval. Who is he?”
“That’s classified.”
“Not if you want me to work for you again.”
He snorted disdainfully. “It’s above your pay grade.”
“Then give me a raise.” She walked past him. She’d have time to address that subject later. This was far from over. “How long was I in there?”
“Twelve days.” He picked his way downhill. “A record, I believe.”
How could he look unruffled and dignified when she smelled like rat droppings and could feel blood warming down her back? “You’re a parasite and I want to beat the living hell out of you… sir .”
“Good, keep that close.” He flicked a hand at the prison behind them. “Remember it often, nothing is as it seems.”
She stopped, but he kept going. “That includes you. I don’t trust you anymore. Your ethics are wretched and I’m debating continuing to work for you.”
The bastard stopped and looked back at her. Then he had the gall to smile. “Welcome to the inner ring.”
That caught her breath for a second.
“You were outstanding.”
“You couldn’t just trust me? Have a little faith?” Instead, they hurt her before the enemy could. Sounded like Munchausen’s syndrome and she wanted him to have a taste of it, but then he had the decency to help her in the van. He was also better trained and signed her paychecks. Halfway in, she froze, her gaze landing on the woman sitting in the rear, looking pristine and regal.
Now she knew who’d really orchestrated this. “I’ll remember who did this to me,” she said with undisguised rancor.
The woman only tipped her head, her lips curving with approval.
Safia gripped the knife, her expression warning them not to push her further. Message sent, she thought, and was damned amused when both of her superiors kept their attention on the knife till she laid it across her lap. When someone let out a noisy breath, she settled in the plush bucket seat with a little satisfaction. But not nearly enough.
Her boss produced a bottle of water, sweating condensation. She broke it open and drank deeply, and as the van pulled away, she shifted to look out the rear window at her prison growing smaller by the moment.
The rush of water she’d heard was the narrow waterfall that fell into a small pool shaped by stones. On the whole, it was supposed to look natural. She didn’t get that feeling. Aside from the citadel behind it, it was too beautiful, artfully overgrown and perfectly concealed. She wondered what else had happened in a place like that.
“So…I’m guessing the Philippines, maybe? Not Okinawa, too many American eyes.” Her gaze sailed over the grounds, picking out plants and trees. It reminded her of a canyon in the monkey forest. “Indonesia?” Only her gaze shifted to her boss, waiting for confirmation.
“Very good.”
She doubted he’d give her the truth anyway. How many places like this were located around the world? Who was using them? Was her phantom just waiting for his next victim? It made her sick. She’d no intention of letting her superior forget this perverse test of honor, and decided she’d watch her own back from now on.
When the van rolled onto even ground, she settled gingerly into the seat, feeling the scrape of wet fabric against the welts swelling on her spine. The woman was already on satellite communications, her world quickly changing. She took a long drink of water, a salute to herself.
Well, I guess it’s official then.
I’m a spy.
2 years later, Serbia,
4 miles from the Kosovo border
Riley recognized the shrill whine of an incoming missile and rushed toward the crumbling building. Each step was a struggle, Captain Sam Wyatt’s weight bearing down on him. The missile hit, throwing them forward and obliterating half the street. Riley’s knees hit the ground, driving pain up his thighs. Debris struck him in the back, his burden threatening collapse. The enemy wasn’t done with them and a trail of bullets chased toward his heels as he pushed to his feet, dragging the wounded pilot along. Thirty feet, twenty…Riley fell behind the remains of a wall, the rest of the building destroyed by Russian missiles to keep the border uncrossable. It was working—but it was where he needed to go.
He lifted Wyatt’s arm from around his neck, then leaned him against the wall before easing him to the ground. The morphine deadened the pain, but Riley worried the splint he’d made wouldn’t hold. The leg was already at an odd angle. Sam needed better medical care and soon. He was bleeding again.
Snaps of gunfire struck the ground, the wall, and Riley considered how to get his ass out of this one. The air moved slowly, thick with smoke and dust and covering the sun. No place was safe. Smart people fled to the countryside. The city was deserted except for scatters of rebel resistance trying to protect themselves from Serb soldiers bent on genocide. Oh yeah, that wee bit of U.N. cease-fire negotiations worked splendidly. He took his bearings, then surveyed his immediate surroundings for better cover.
He had maybe a half hour before the patrol caught up with them, and they had trucks. Time to eat crow and call in the cavalry, he decided, and reached for his radio. He found a smoldering jumble of wires and melted plastic. “Bugger me. So. Fighting it is then.” He checked his supplies, but he knew exactly how much ammunition he had left. Not enough to keep renegade Serb soldiers off his back for long.
Jagged cinder block shattered above his head in a spray of chalky rocks. A chunk hit Wyatt’s cheek as Riley pushed him further to the ground. He howled, and Riley let him, but held him down to keep him from thrashing. Bullets chunked away at their position, intermittent, taunting. Northeast, he thought, and hovering over Wyatt, he aimed. He didn’t get off a shot.
A line of bullets sliced across his position and he felt each hit vibrate the wall, chip near his boot. Jesus Mary . Two directions . It wouldn’t be long before the barrier was gone. He looked at Sam, thinking he’d made it worse for him, dragging him all this way. Now the fractured bone threatened to come through the torn skin. He couldn’t pull the tourniquet any tighter or risk Wyatt losing his leg. Riley glanced behind them. The border was less than four miles away. The closer he got to it, the better his chances of friendlies.
Three successive shots hit the ground twenty