Page 40 of The Big Fix

We all bowed back.

When I straightened, he said, “You’re here for the Demon, yes?”

Of course the name of the boat was the Demon. Why wouldn’t it be? “We are.”

He held out the keys to Jing, which I found interesting because that meant he’d looked at all of us, me, her, Garland, and Nam, and instantly decided Jing would be driving. I was a little hurt.

“I suggest you depart with haste,” the man said kindly. “It would probably be best.”

Did we need the sarcasm?

Immediately, he moved to the front of the boat as we climbed aboard, and told Jing she had onboard GPS as the engine roared to life.

“Just follow the arrow, don’t get lost, you’ll be fine.”

It was all quite logical.

“You’re a riot, sir,” Jing told him.

“My wife says this as well. A house has been arranged for you on Koh Kret, so again, follow directions and don’t get lost.”

“Will do,” Jing replied, and then we were off like a shot.

For maybe five minutes, it was nice, the wind soothing and cool at the speed we were going, but then, of course, we had company.

“Three boats,” Garland grumbled, turning to me. “Begging your pardon, sir, but who are you that everyone wants to kill you?”

That was the million-dollar question, because in all honesty, most of the people who wanted me dead were, in fact, already dead themselves. I didn’t have a lot of enemies walking around. That simply wasn’t how it worked. “I’m nobody special,” I assured him.

“Three boats chasing us says that’s a lie, Colonel.”

I had no idea what to tell him.

The three long-tail gunboats were advancing on us at high speed. I counted five men on each craft, but they were moving, we were moving, and I didn’t have my glasses, so there could be more, or less. God, I really did need to retire after this. Not that fifty-six was old, but being on an op, needing glasses for distance—and reading—was not great.

“I see automatic rifles,” Garland said to be an asshole, showing off his seeing skills.

“Hey,” I called over to Jing, “how fast can this boat go?”

“Not fast enough,” she said snidely.

“Why are you mad at me?” I yelled at her.

“I’m not mad at you. I’m just sick of being here! I wanna go home,” she shouted back.

I understood the impulse. “Well, don’t let us die, and I promise you, you’ll go home.”

I heard her growl. “This boat will easily do seventy knots.”

Which meant eighty miles per hour. It was fast, but not crazy fast. “Is that enough to outrun the gunboats?”

“Not a chance. They can get us easy.”

Shit.

“But,” she said as I walked up beside her, “like every high-power, long-nose dragster, you sacrifice speed for maneuverability. We won’t have to repel boarders, but that becomes a moot point if they’re shooting at us.”

It did. Our pursuers had guns, and in a straight line, across open water, that was lethal. What also didn’t help were the mystifying number of small boats, river taxis, ferryboats, and water buses on the river. I liked our chances of shaking off the boats at low speed—the trick was maintaining enough distance to avoid being blasted to bits by their guns.