Fight Fire With Fire. Amy J. Fetzer
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“Hardly.” He checked his watch. “Do it now.”
A few seconds passed, then, “It’s done, Jesus, if anyone finds—”
“They won’t. I’m smarter than you, remember.”
“Christ, you’re a bastard.”
“My parents would agree, I’m sure.”
He ended the call and tore open the wrapping, smiling at the paperback novel. At the table, he sat and opened his Yahoo account. There were five spam messages, subject line, Viagra. Figures. The world was one big dick, he thought as he checked the date and time of each. He clicked on one, opening it. The single row of letters and numbers marked it as spam. On a pad, he jotted down the sequence, deleted them all, then opened the book and found the page he needed.
He’d been warned to expect a way out. He thought he’d had that in a non-extradition country. Or any other one with the least friendly diplomatic ties to the U.S. of A. But the perfect opportunity would never arrive.
Waiting longer put his life in greater danger. They were watching him. He knew that a week ago. He didn’t know how many, but felt them. Whether they were friend or foe, it didn’t matter. His new employer would keep his word. He’d wanted his skills enough to offer ten million American. Half that was already in his Swiss account as a show of good faith.
Yeah, he could risk it.
His own calm surprised him, and he wondered if he really thought that five million in the bank would protect him. Because that’s about all the backup he had. Moving to the table, he shut down the laptop, popped out the flash drive, then pocketed it safely in the seam of his jacket. Insurance was always near. He carefully replaced his equipment in the cases, then methodically arranged them in the satchel. More was required of him. Rich beyond his imagination meant now he had to earn it.
By betraying his country a little more than he did the last time.
Three
Sungei Kadut, Singapore
Jason Vaghn III was the Jeffrey Dahmer of weapon designers.
A silver spoon in the mouth, “daddy pay his way out of trouble” genius that had military contractors begging for his talent—until they witnessed his macabre skill at work. His weapons didn’t kill, they maimed. Now, all banned by the U.S. military.
Vaghn’s very existence bit a raw nerve that hadn’t deadened with age.
Riley didn’t take a life easily, but for Tripp Vaghn, he’d make an exception.
He should be satisfied, but a five-year prison sentence for two deaths wasn’t enough. Riley knew Vaghn; the attitude bred into the spoiled boy had created a man who thought his genius put him above the law. While he’d been clean since his release, he had virtually no assets (the guy didn’t even own a car), and he’d lived on a trust fund from his great-grandfather that barely kept his electricity on.
To the FBI, he wasn’t a flight risk. Oh yeah, that was good Intel.
Taking surveillance off him was their first mistake. The second was believing that his sentence to not design or recreate any weapons or fuels of any kind, permanently, would matter. Not only was he too egotistical to think rules applied to him, he wouldn’t even try.
He’s already put something out there.
Vaghn wasn’t in Singapore in the hopes of disappearing. He had help getting this far, Riley thought, rubbing the back of his neck and watching the surveillance screens. Vaghn was privileged to reams of classified material. The judge warned that if he disclosed even one word, she’d charge him with treason, a death sentence. Why she didn’t sentence him adequately years ago was more political than handing down justice. Vaghn had been an employee of Noble Richards, a government contractor, and the projects were top secret. The company had influence in Washington. Riley would bet half of congress didn’t know how much classified R&D work the National Intelligence Council farmed out to “outside resources.” The secrets of the super power in shaky hands, as far as he was concerned.
Vaghn was proof of genius run amuck.
The door opened suddenly behind him and he scraped up the gun and turned.
Max put his hands up as best he could with a sack of groceries in his arms. “Jeez! No wonder your sister cut you a liberty pass off her ship.”
“She had enough people to boss around.” Riley laid the pistol aside.
Max chuckled as he set the bag down and pulled out bundles. Riley turned back to the camera feeds.
A breeze barely moved the torn bamboo shades. The paddle fan spun in a crooked thump overhead, and they were lucky to have some electricity. The unending humidity kept the air heavy and odors from the street fermented, occasionally masked by a whiff of frying bean curd or hokkien noodles. Somewhere tinny music played. They were positioned on the third floor of a row house, and high enough to have a wide vantage point. Like tired souls leaning on each other, the narrow homes were destined for demolition, most already uninhabitable, he thought with a glance left at the six-foot gap of missing floorboards. But people stayed, refusing progress until it was forced on them.
On the off chance that Vaghn might recognize him from their past, Riley stayed out of sight. After a month of Intel, cornering the guy was the plan. He didn’t doubt Vaghn would run. He was hunted and the squalor he was living in said as much. From inside the small flat, he watched the feed from mini cameras positioned around Vaghn’s last location. A DS agent gathering information on another case had spotted him after the FBI flooded U.S. agencies with his photo. Pinpointing it had taken a week. They’d been here twenty-four seven since then and still no sign of him.
Riley expected Vaghn to have changed his looks, a little dye, some facial hair so he could blend in.
“Any clue what that guy saw in the jungle?” Max asked.
“Bridget thinks it was an iguana. Jim says bigger.” He’d believe the archaeologist’s version. The man was too much of a detail nut not to be accurate. “He said he was spooked, fell, then claws swiped at him. He got up and ran.” Screaming into the walkie-talkie. He’d lost that and his bag. Dumbshit, he had a weapon, the spade. But his sister reminded him in that superior tone of hers that most people didn’t respond well under duress. Maybe he’d call Jim in a couple days to see if he remembered anything new.
“The assistant?”
“He didn’t encounter it. But said it was like something big behind a curtain.” He shook his head and remembered the jungle shivering. “Bri won’t bother with it. It’s not on her expedition budget program, and that he was injured will make her more stubborn.” That he was glad to avoid. “Besides, she was too damn eager to dive the Yonaguni ruins off the coast of Okinawa.”
“Man, I’d kill for the chance to get wet there.”
He glanced up. “I think I can arrange that after this is secure.” He waved at the screens on the desk.
“You’re on.” Max handed a paper wrapped lump.
He found a fried bean curd wrap filled with steaming meat. It was probably wise not to ask after the species, but it smelled great. He chowed down, his attention on the three laptops. Each had four views in a grid on the screen. They covered a four-block radius from where Vaghn was last spotted. Sebastian was on the streets. His dark hair and perpetually tanned skin coupled with the right clothes let him blend in easier than any of the team. He was getting to know the locals by now, turning down dinner invitations.
Riley wanted out there to search for the little prick, but the whole idea of surveillance was not to be seen. “What do you think he’s doing?”
On the screen, he watched Sebastian stop a teenager with a package, slip him money and head this way. “ He has a delivery, ” came through the speaker.
Sebastian gave the address and Riley