Fly by Night by Ward Larsen

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 thequickest 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.