With the phone still clenched between his ear and shoulder, Larry Green smiled. It’ll be like a meteor strike on Walden Pond.
His long strides gave Davis presence, a sense of purpose. It also gave him no more than twenty seconds to figure out what the hell to do.
Option 1: Get in the commander’s face, tell him to take his boys and shove off. That might work. More likely he’d get arrested. Worst case, shot. Davis kept up his pace as he struggled for Option 2. His trajectory was taking him to the tiny gap between the officer and the doctor. The soldiers were all frozen in place, watching Davis with the same regard they might give to an oncoming steamroller.
He noticed that much of the cargo was stenciled with U.N. logos. When he was two steps away, Davis yanked out his NTSB ID and quickly fanned it in front of him. Nobody looked at the credentials because they were busy watching him. Jammer Davis knew how to intimidate. He had the size and the stare. He also had the perfect voice, a bass reverberation that passed right through soft tissue and lodged in people’s spines.
“Davis, with the U.N. Inspector General’s office,” he said. “Whatever the hell is going on here, it stops right now.” He put out an arm and barged in between the two like a referee separating a pair of prize-fighters. Once established, Davis made his choice. He half turned to face the doctor.
“You,” he said stridently, “will back off and let these men finish their work!”
Her eyes went wide with surprise. She’d been expecting an ally, a knight in shining armor.
“Who are you to tell me this?” she responded in English.
Good, Davis thought, she speaks English.
He turned to the officer and got his first close look. A gaunt man, he was leering at Davis with reddened, dopey eyes. The eyes of an addict. There was no name over his breast pocket, no embroidered block letters or acetate tag. The boss-man did, however, have a distinguishing mark — a scar on one cheek. He seemed to hold his chin at an angle to put it on display, probably hoping Davis would think he’d gotten it in a knife fight or some kind of duel to the death. It might have been that. But more likely it was a vestige of something less dramatic. A car wreck or a drunken father.
If the man was worried about Davis being less than a yard away, it didn’t show. He was confident. He was also stupid. Jammer Davis had joined the United States Marines right out of high school, had boxed at the Academy. He’d learned a lot about close-in combat from some of the most skilled practitioners in a very nasty business. Right now, Davis was close enough to render the man’s sidearm useless. He figured he could break this doped-up loser’s neck in about two seconds, and based on what he’d seen so far, tomorrow he wouldn’t feel particularly bad about it. But there was more to consider. To be exact, seven considerations, all with rifles and machine pistols. The other men here might be soldiers in the loosest sense, but a disciplined fighting unit they were not. If Davis took out their leader, the guy with the quickest trigger finger would have the inside track to becoming the new alpha dog.
Having figured all that out, Davis addressed the woman again.
“You have no authority here,” he said. Which implied that perhaps he did. “These men should finish their work. I’m sure the supplies will be put to good use.”
Scarface appeared to contemplate this, which suggested that he too spoke at least some English. His hand was still near the handle of his revolver, but more relaxed now. Davis looked right at the guy, then rolled his eyes in the direction of the doctor and shook his head, the way guys did to say, Women! Two clouded eyes came alight, like searchlights out of a mist. The boss man smiled and said something to his men. It was probably an off-color joke, something sexist and demeaning. Scarface chuckled, and when he did, everyone seemed to lighten up.
Everyone except the doctor.
Davis saw her reaching a boil, so before her lid came off he reached out and grabbed her by the arm. Grabbed hard, his fingers clamping like a vise. The doctor winced, and again Davis thought, Good. She had gotten so wrapped up in her objective that she’d lost her situational awareness. Pilots simply referred to it as SA. Knowing what was going on all around you. In aerial combat, you had to do a lot more than just fly your own jet. You had to know where your adversaries were, where your wingman was, the height of the mountains below and the clouds above. Sometimes it was a lot of information, a big picture that had to be whittled down and prioritized. That was what this passionate Italian doctor had lost. The big picture. She’d been so incensed by the hijacking, all she’d wanted to do was challenge it, not study the odds. But now her arm hurt, and that made her forget about her precious truckload of supplies. Made her consider a lower level on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.
Davis leaned closer to her, and twisted his head so no one else could quite see. He whispered, “Faites-confiancemoi. Laissez lui allez.”
The doctor stared at him. She was certainly educated. And Italy was right next to France, so there was an excellent chance that she would understand the French phrase. Trust me. Let it go.
She did. Or at least she calmed down. Davis eased his grip on her arm. Let her go.
The soldiers switched the load from one truck to the other with quick efficiency, like they’d done it all before. Davis took note of what they were stealing. Blankets, medicine, bulk food. Most would probably still make its way to those in need. There was just another middleman now. That’s what Davis told himself, again and again.
The doctor backed away, clearly not wanting to watch. She went to the driver’s side of her truck, still seething, but quiet. She had her SA back. When the thieves were done with the transfer, the officer looked at Davis and gave him a knowing grin, along with a two-fingered salute. Davis returned it, rather subtly, with a one-fingered variant. The little convoy drove off at a more leisurely pace than it had arrived. Sitting in the passenger seat of the jeep, the commander looked smug. Davis wondered briefly if he had made the wrong choice, wondered if he should have broken the guy’s neck after all. The other men might have cheered. Might even have made Davis the new squad leader. Yeah, he thought, that’s just what I need. My own private army.
Once the trucks were out of sight, he turned to the doctor. She was at the running board going over a clipboard with a pencil, probably checking off what she’d lost, item by item. Damage control. When she was done, she set the clipboard on the front fender, came over, and stood right in front of Davis. With a big windmill swing, she slapped his face hard.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Six hours.
That was how long Davis had been in-country, and he already had five confirmed enemies. Three Arab thieves, Schmitthead, and now an overwrought Italian physician. At that rate, by the end of next week—No, he decided, no need to go there.
The doctor’s slap hadn’t mitigated anything — she still looked furious. He found himself wondering what she’d look like if she smiled.
He said, “You’re welcome.”
Way too early for a smile. Just anger. Or, best case, maybe quizzical anger now.
“I will not thank you. You have done me no favors,” she said. Her English was decent, albeit laced with a hard accent.