Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

this quick. I have to deal with the aftermath of a fire.”
    His clenched jaws told the whole story — endless investigations, reviews of procedures, new training protocols, a complete nightmare.
    “I know. I was there. The objects of my investigation were in that tent.”
    The colonel shook his head.
    His day has just gotten worse
, Vermeulen thought.
    “You were at the airport in the middle of the night? Why?” the colonel asked.
    “I just wanted to make sure the cargo area was secured, as your deputy had assured me it would be. It wasn’t.”
    “Did you see the fire?”
    “Yes, I saw the flames when I arrived. I saw the pilot and several Spanish-speaking soldiers.”
    “Spanish-speaking, you say? Did you see any insignia?”
    Vermeulen shook his head. The colonel made some notes on a pad.
    “Did they find guns in the tent?” Vermeulen asked.
    “Yes, AK-47s and MP-5s. All burned, of course. It took a while to get the fire extinguished.”
    “Have you ordered anyone arrested?”
    “Arrested? Why? The cause of the fire is unknown.”
    “What about the people by the tent?”
    “Lots of people were there, trying to douse the fire.”
    “I just told you who started it.”
    “But you don’t know that. You only got there after the fire had started.”
    The truth began to sink in slowly. And when it finally hit, Vermeulen had to press his lips together to keep from screaming. Setting the fire had ruined his investigation. He knew who the culprits were but couldn’t finger them unless he admitted to setting the fire. Which would mean the end of his job.
    “You should at least arrest Petrovic,” he said, sounding deflated.
    “The pilot?” Colonel Zaman raised his left eyebrow. “Why?”
    “Because the guns came on his plane. I need to question him.” The colonel shook his head. Vermeulen knew what would come next.
    “We don’t know that. Besides, he’s a civilian contractor. I can’t arrest him on your say-so.”
    “My mission,” Vermeulen said, trying to conjure gravitas out of thin air, “authorizes me to interview anyone attached to the UN operation here. That includes Petrovic.”
    The colonel sighed.
    “You may interview him if you can find him, but I can’t arrest him; I trust you understand that. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

    I N DAYLIGHT , M AMA Tusani’s club was even less appealing. The bar still reeked of stale beer and tobacco smoke, but the shabby interior was no longer hidden by the darkness. An ancient tape player looped through a scratchy collection of American hip-hop. Some girls were hanging around the bar, but one o’clock in the afternoon was clearly not the main business hour.
    Vermeulen had gone to the club after leaving Colonel Zaman’s office. It was an obvious choice. He’d met men like Petrovic before. Despite their swagger, or maybe because of it, they were essentially stupid. Of course Petrovic would be at the club. One last screw before flying back to Kampala.
    Mama Tusani stood behind the bar. She nodded and held up two fingers.
    “Be careful, he’s got a gun,” she whispered.
    He marched past the ragged curtain and ripped open the second door. Lily lay on the bed, her arms tied to the bed frame, her eyes wide with fear. Petrovic lay on top of her, pressing down hard.
    Images of Gaby in that hellhole in Antwerp ran through Vermeulen’s mind. His heart pounded and he had to stop himself from pulling Petrovic off the girl.
    Petrovic smiled when he saw him.
    “Vermeulen. What a surprise. Want to join the party? Lily here has many talents.”
    Petrovic’s smile turned Vermeulen’s blood to ice. The gangsters who held Gaby had smiled like that. The crooks he investigated smiled like that. Certain they were untouchable. Too often, they were right. But not this time.
    “Get dressed, Petrovic, you’re coming with me,” he hissed through clenched teeth. His heart pounded.
    “I’m not going anywhere,” Petrovic said. He rolled to his side languidly. “Hey, Lily, let’s show this guy a good fuck.”
    Petrovic’s clothes lay piled at the foot end of the bed. Vermeulen bent down, rifled through them, and found the gun, a Beretta. He flicked off the safety and pointed the pistol at Petrovic. “Get dressed, Petrovic. Now!”
    “Hey, careful with that,” Petrovic said with a bored expression. “It doesn’t suit you. I bet you never even fired one.”
    “You’re wrong there. We shot all kinds of vermin on our farm. Now get up and get