Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

rush. A clue. He ran back to the tent. The container hovered on the tines of the forklift. Its front consisted of a grille that covered the compressor and fan, and the large door was sealed with a plastic cable tie and bore some sort of label.
    “I must check that extra unit. Now.”
    The corporal shook his head.
    “You heard Petrovic. We can’t open anything until the cargo is signed for.”
    “I don’t care. I’ll take responsibility for opening it.”
    Vermeulen signaled the forklift driver to place the unit on the ground. He pulled his pocketknife out and bent down to cut the plastic tie. A strong hand grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back from the container. Petrovic.
    “Keep your fucking hands off that unit,” he hissed, taking a boxer’s stance.
    “I won’t and you can’t stop me.”
    Vermeulen turned back to the unit. Before his knife reached the plastic tie, he felt a gun barrel against his head.
    “Drop the knife and turn around slowly.”
    Vermeulen turned to face Petrovic, who kept pointing the gun at him. The corporal and the other soldiers stood and gaped.
    “Listen, asshole. You can’t check the cargo until it’s signed for. So why don’t you go to your hotel, get some rest, find a whore, whatever, until that formality has been taken care of.”
    The sight of the pistol took the wind out of Vermeulen’s sails. But he decided to play tough.
    “What are you going to do? Shoot me?”
    Petrovic’s eyes narrowed.
    “I will,” he said. His tone left no doubt that he meant it. “ ‘Courageous Pilot Prevents Pilfering of UN Supplies.’ It’ll play well in New York. And don’t count on these guys helping you. They don’t want any trouble. They want to go home.”
    Vermeulen swallowed. He had overplayed his hand. Without a weapon, he could do nothing. In a vain attempt to maintain his dignity he picked up his knife, straightened his jacket, and turned to the Toyota.
    “Take me to Colonel Zaman, Walia.”

    T HE CEILING FAN spun lazily. Small eddies in the smoke rising from his Gitane were the only indicators that the hot air moved at all. Stripped to his shorts, Vermeulen lay on the bed in his hotel room. His third bottle of Primus rested on his stomach. At least the beer was cold, even though it tasted like piss. He lifted the bottle to check the name of the brewery.
Brewed under license of Heineken.
Damn! You’d figure a former Belgian colony would at least have a decent Belgian beer, like De Koninck or Celis. Hell, he’d even settle for a bottle of Duvel.
    He drew hard on his cigarette. The coarse tobacco crackled and sparked.
    Colonel Zaman, commanding officer of this UN outpost, had been unavailable. His deputy, a timid paper pusher in a major’s uniform, was afraid to make a decision. He rattled off the usual excuses: Can’t order Nepali soldiers without talking to their superiors. Better wait until their master sergeant signs the manifest. Yes, the pilot was out of line, but he was right about his cargo. No harm done. The weapons, if they were there — the major made no effort to hide his skepticism — would still be there in the morning. Extra guards would make sure of that.
    What was Vermeulen doing here? Chasing gunrunners? That seemed so futile. There’d be plenty whether or not he nailed that son of a bitch Petrovic and whoever worked with him. But would it come to that? Judging from his past experience, no.
    He could easily write his report now. Inconclusive evidence, no witnesses, peacekeepers absolved — the usual bureaucratic-speak that declared victory even as it left everything unchanged. It would make everyone happy.
    This job stank, Vermeulen knew that. More than once, he’d been ready to call it quits. But each case was a new opportunity, a chance that, this time, justice would be done. That’s why he couldn’t write the report yet. But his reservoir of hope was slowly running dry.
    He lit another cigarette and watched the smoke curl upward until it reached the faint turbulences below the fan.
    A door slammed down the corridor. The UN had chosen Bunia as the headquarters for the Ituri Brigade, so a bevy of aid organizations had descended here as well. Those with more money occupied several rooms the Hotel Bunia reserved for its important visitors. He’d seen a few at breakfast, B-list Hollywood personalities wearing brand-new safari clothing and big smiles.
    More steps in the corridor. They slowed as they reached his door. He raised his head. A