Troubleshooters (Jackson Chase Novella Book 2) by Connor Black Page B
Authors: Connor Black
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to be sure. I holstered my weapon, disgusted at this lack of progress.
“Damn it, Sterbs, I have had enough!” I said with a bit more volume than intended. “We’re chasing, playing detective.”
“I know, but that’s how this one is going. Gotta play the hand you got, partner, so let’s stay cool and keep hunting.”
I looked at him, my teeth clenched in the frustration I felt. He was right, of course. But that didn’t mean I had to like it.
“We have to stop them, Sterbs.”
“We will,” he replied, his voice calm. “Now let’s clear these buildings.”
We continued, scanning the odd assortment of sheds and the gaps between, and still found nothing more than the occasional worker who would wave, or come up and ask us about the explosion.
The last building was the fire brigade shed. Beyond that, only a scattering of rusty barrels and retired trucks and tractors remained. We resigned ourselves to the fact that whoever had loaded that suitcase had long since left and went to see Kahembe.
“Anything?” he asked.
“No, Lieutenant,” I replied, likely betraying a bit of my frustration.
His hands clenched. “I have had enough of this in my city, Commander. This has to stop.”
“I feel the same way, Lieutenant. And what I’ve had enough of is playing defense.”
Kahembe stepped forward, coming closer to me. He stood ramrod straight, and, grasping both of my shoulders, said, “Then don’t, Commander. Find the monster that is terrorizing my city. Find him now.”
As if on cue, my phone vibrated. I looked at the screen and scrolled through the message.
“Locations on calls made during the hotel attack are in from Chen,” I said.
“Be nice if Naseeb could take us directly to these locations, since he knows the area,” Sterba said, looking down at his own phone, “but still no response from him.”
“She’s given us coordinates. I think we can figure it out on our own.”
“Those sound like the famous last words of every male.”
Kahembe shook his head and returned to the hangar.
10
T he locations Chen had provided were scattered, and often on strips of road in between clusters of buildings, likely from someone driving along and placing a call. Some came from street corners where people gathered and motorcycle taxis took a break from the intense sun beneath scraggly trees. Our chat with the men in each of these locations turned from friendly to rather quiet when we asked about the provenance of their phones.
A few of the marked locations were the ubiquitous mobile phone stands that were a part of every dusty little row of shops. And while nice enough, the proprietors had no idea that some of the SIMs they had used were stolen.
We carried on, wanting to cover each location, and soon found ourselves near the edge of town on the western side of Arusha, the road that eventually turned north to Nairobi.
Head down, monitoring the map display on his phone, Sterba said, “Number eleven on the list. Just over a klick ahead.”
We hit, for perhaps the hundredth time, a large pothole in the dirt road. Sterba’s head knocked into the doorframe.
“Could you please not hit every hole in the road?”
“Could you please stop whining every time I do?”
“200 meters,” he finally said. “Left side.”
I scanned ahead. A woman stood below a tree next to a bushel of onions, waiting for a bus or dala dala. A man pulled a wooden wagon loaded with corrugated roofing material past her. Just beyond them was what appeared to be a disused petrol station. A faded sign reading ‘Niake’ stood on two exceptionally tall posts. The pumps had been pulled out, but the workshop and attached office remained.
I slowed, preparing to make a left turn into the area under the portico where the pumps once stood. Just as my finger went to the indicator, Sterba suddenly said, “Contact! Don’t turn. Continue straight ahead.”
I resisted the urge to turn and look, sensing that Sterba’s urgency meant whoever
“Damn it, Sterbs, I have had enough!” I said with a bit more volume than intended. “We’re chasing, playing detective.”
“I know, but that’s how this one is going. Gotta play the hand you got, partner, so let’s stay cool and keep hunting.”
I looked at him, my teeth clenched in the frustration I felt. He was right, of course. But that didn’t mean I had to like it.
“We have to stop them, Sterbs.”
“We will,” he replied, his voice calm. “Now let’s clear these buildings.”
We continued, scanning the odd assortment of sheds and the gaps between, and still found nothing more than the occasional worker who would wave, or come up and ask us about the explosion.
The last building was the fire brigade shed. Beyond that, only a scattering of rusty barrels and retired trucks and tractors remained. We resigned ourselves to the fact that whoever had loaded that suitcase had long since left and went to see Kahembe.
“Anything?” he asked.
“No, Lieutenant,” I replied, likely betraying a bit of my frustration.
His hands clenched. “I have had enough of this in my city, Commander. This has to stop.”
“I feel the same way, Lieutenant. And what I’ve had enough of is playing defense.”
Kahembe stepped forward, coming closer to me. He stood ramrod straight, and, grasping both of my shoulders, said, “Then don’t, Commander. Find the monster that is terrorizing my city. Find him now.”
As if on cue, my phone vibrated. I looked at the screen and scrolled through the message.
“Locations on calls made during the hotel attack are in from Chen,” I said.
“Be nice if Naseeb could take us directly to these locations, since he knows the area,” Sterba said, looking down at his own phone, “but still no response from him.”
“She’s given us coordinates. I think we can figure it out on our own.”
“Those sound like the famous last words of every male.”
Kahembe shook his head and returned to the hangar.
10
T he locations Chen had provided were scattered, and often on strips of road in between clusters of buildings, likely from someone driving along and placing a call. Some came from street corners where people gathered and motorcycle taxis took a break from the intense sun beneath scraggly trees. Our chat with the men in each of these locations turned from friendly to rather quiet when we asked about the provenance of their phones.
A few of the marked locations were the ubiquitous mobile phone stands that were a part of every dusty little row of shops. And while nice enough, the proprietors had no idea that some of the SIMs they had used were stolen.
We carried on, wanting to cover each location, and soon found ourselves near the edge of town on the western side of Arusha, the road that eventually turned north to Nairobi.
Head down, monitoring the map display on his phone, Sterba said, “Number eleven on the list. Just over a klick ahead.”
We hit, for perhaps the hundredth time, a large pothole in the dirt road. Sterba’s head knocked into the doorframe.
“Could you please not hit every hole in the road?”
“Could you please stop whining every time I do?”
“200 meters,” he finally said. “Left side.”
I scanned ahead. A woman stood below a tree next to a bushel of onions, waiting for a bus or dala dala. A man pulled a wooden wagon loaded with corrugated roofing material past her. Just beyond them was what appeared to be a disused petrol station. A faded sign reading ‘Niake’ stood on two exceptionally tall posts. The pumps had been pulled out, but the workshop and attached office remained.
I slowed, preparing to make a left turn into the area under the portico where the pumps once stood. Just as my finger went to the indicator, Sterba suddenly said, “Contact! Don’t turn. Continue straight ahead.”
I resisted the urge to turn and look, sensing that Sterba’s urgency meant whoever
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