Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

driver observed him for a while but then must have decided that breaking and entering were not his cup of tea. He and the car disappeared.
    By the time there were two screws remaining, the knife had scraped his right palm raw. In anger, he kicked the gate. It creaked, and the latch rattled. He aimed carefully and put all the force he could muster into the next kick. The gate sprung open with the sound of screws being wrenched from wood.
    The inside of the tent was dark. By the narrow beam of his penlight he made out five pallets in the rear. The refrigerated units stood closer to the front, their compressors humming. A tangle of power cords connected them to the outlets mounted on a pole to the left of the entrance.
    The extra refrigerated container — he remembered the code number — sat closest to the entrance. Its door was still sealed with a plastic cable tie. Without hesitation, he cut the tie and opened the door.
    A wave of putrid stench enveloped him immediately. The beer in his stomach gurgled uneasily, sending a wave of nausea upward. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his mouth and nose. His penlight revealed the source of the reek. The bags of once frozen food had swollen to resemble grotesque pillows. Many had burst. Mold blooms as large as pizzas covered the interior of the container.
    It all fit together. This container was extra, and last week one had been missing. The plane had stopped somewhere, dropped off the container, and then picked it up a week later. Without electricity, the food’d be rotten, all right — a perfect cover for smuggling weapons.
    The sound of a truck arriving stopped him. Doors slammed. Angry voices. They had discovered the open gate. He stuck the penlight in his pocket and slipped toward the rear of the tent.
    Not a moment too soon. The door of the tent opened and the bright beams of flashlights danced across the tent fabric. He ducked behind a pallet.
    “Hijo de puta,”
somebody swore.
    “Fuck! Somebody opened the container!” Vermeulen recognized the pilot’s voice. “Raúl, check if anyone is still here. The rest of you, get the guns out now. We gotta move fast.”
    A flashlight lit up the rear of the tent. Raúl came closer. Vermeulen’s mind ran through his options. There were none. These men had guns; he had a little knife. No contest.
    Raúl stopped on the other side of the pallet. His flashlight bounced across the dark reaches of the tent. Raúl stepped to the left. Vermeulen crawled to the right, keeping the pallet between them.
    He was now in plain view of the men at the entrance, but they were busy tossing the rotten food on the ground.
    Raúl walked toward the last pallet.
    “¡Nadie!”
he shouted to the front.
    Vermeulen felt exposed. He crawled to the pallet on the left and knelt in the dark space between it and the side of the tent. The beam of Raúl’s flashlight swung around. The beam stopped, lighting the space he had just left. Vermeulen’s heart skipped. There, glinting in the beam, lay his penlight. It must have dropped from his pocket.
    “¡Mira!”
Raúl shouted and held the penlight in the beam of his torch. Vermeulen crawled behind the pallet Raúl had just left.
    The men in front had started stacking the guns in a pile. They were in a hurry.
    Another voice told Raúl to hurry up, they didn’t have all night.
    Raúl shrugged, pocketed the penlight, and joined the men up front.
    Time was running out. Vermeulen had to stop them before his evidence disappeared. He knelt down and cut a long slit into the tent fabric. His escape prepared, he took his lighter and lit the plastic netting around the nearest pallet. The flame licked up quickly. The other pallets caught fire just as fast. He crawled out of the tent and held his lighter to the tent fabric. The nylon fabric burst into flames.
    Voices shouted inside. In no time, flames erupted through the top of the tent. The soldiers raced to safety in a mad scramble. The tent had turned into a torch, lighting up the airport like a bonfire.

    C OLONEL ZAMAN STOOD up when Vermeulen was led into his office the next morning. His appearance evoked memories of the Raj — a uniform that looked as if it had been ironed after he’d dressed; a dark mustache, neatly twirled at the ends; slicked-back dark hair with a few white strands that framed the pale olive narrow face; keen eyes and a sharp nose. He seemed distraught.
    “Mr. Vermeulen? What can I do for you? We have to make