price, without placing someone she cared about at risk. It was that simple.
No one over here knew her sister existed. Ash had made sure to circulate a ß awed newspaper report from her past in which Emma was reported bludgeoned to death along with their mother. The fact that her father was serving a life sentence was, however, widely known among her business associates, as was the fact that Ash wouldn’t lose any sleep if someone shanked him. She hadn’t stayed in touch with friends from her past and avoided making new ones when she moved here. She knew Tubby had Þ gured out she was queer, but he was the kind of guy who got worked up about “faggots” but thought lesbianism was hot. They never talked about it.
By tomorrow he would know Ash had rescued a woman from local thugs and then had dinner with her. He had sources all over town and a couple of his hirelings had entered the bar just as Ash did. There was bound to be someone at the hotel who would pass on the information if she slept with Charlotte. Then they could never be seen together again.
She paced resolutely for a few more seconds, then dialed. “Tubby.
You got something for me?”
“Yeah. A new customer. So don’t piss me off with any more of that shit about needing time out and business back home.”
“You have my complete attention and I’m ready to get back to work.” If nothing else, she needed the distraction while she got everything arranged so she could leave PNG for a long period.
“Security detail,” he said. “Morons going native. The usual caper.”
“Tourists looking for thrills?”
“Even dumber. Scientists.”
Another geological research team surveying for new mining sites, Ash assumed. “Who’s the customer?”
“It’s not important.”
• 77 •
JENNIFER FULTON
Ash groaned inwardly. Since the Sandline scandal, Tubby had become the biggest private-security middleman in PNG, providing operational support for the likes of Rio Tinto and Freeport-McMoRan.
He didn’t need any more mining clients, but he couldn’t resist helping out competing interests for the right price. It created bad feelings, but the local chopper pilot shortage meant the big boys didn’t have a whole lot of leverage. They were all deeply paranoid, all competing for the government’s favor, and all trying to spy on one another. Tubby made a pile of money serving many masters and having loyalty to none.
“How much?”
Tubby sucked his lips. Ash would recognize that sound in her sleep. “Your end is Þ fty.”
“Fifty large? Just for ß ying them?”
“Fuck, no. You’ll be setting up their campsite. Running the close-protection team. Meeting them at pick-up points. The whole nine yards.”
It still sounded like a cakewalk. “How many on the NGD team?”
“Four.”
The standard team for a high-risk Iraqi gig was eight, so four seemed heavy duty for a few guys picking up rock samples. On the other hand, Tubby took advantage if he thought he could. He’d probably sold this new customer on a high-priced package, scaring executives with espionage horror stories. Mining companies still shuddered over the Bougainville Þ asco. It had been a huge embarrassment to have one of their own caught hand in glove with a corrupt government, funding a private army to attack the entire population of an island. All because the Bougainvilleans had dared to shut down the mining that was destroying their environment and poisoning their children.
Tubby had discovered he only had to mention that weeping public-relations scab and his clients opened their checkbooks. They wanted to do business discreetly and with as little collateral damage as possible.
If a problem happened, they liked everything cleaned up ASAP so they could disclaim all knowledge. Sweetheart close-protection assignments like the one Ash was hearing about did not pay Þ fty thousand bucks unless there was a serious ß y in the ointment.
“I’m in,” she said. “What’s the
No one over here knew her sister existed. Ash had made sure to circulate a ß awed newspaper report from her past in which Emma was reported bludgeoned to death along with their mother. The fact that her father was serving a life sentence was, however, widely known among her business associates, as was the fact that Ash wouldn’t lose any sleep if someone shanked him. She hadn’t stayed in touch with friends from her past and avoided making new ones when she moved here. She knew Tubby had Þ gured out she was queer, but he was the kind of guy who got worked up about “faggots” but thought lesbianism was hot. They never talked about it.
By tomorrow he would know Ash had rescued a woman from local thugs and then had dinner with her. He had sources all over town and a couple of his hirelings had entered the bar just as Ash did. There was bound to be someone at the hotel who would pass on the information if she slept with Charlotte. Then they could never be seen together again.
She paced resolutely for a few more seconds, then dialed. “Tubby.
You got something for me?”
“Yeah. A new customer. So don’t piss me off with any more of that shit about needing time out and business back home.”
“You have my complete attention and I’m ready to get back to work.” If nothing else, she needed the distraction while she got everything arranged so she could leave PNG for a long period.
“Security detail,” he said. “Morons going native. The usual caper.”
“Tourists looking for thrills?”
“Even dumber. Scientists.”
Another geological research team surveying for new mining sites, Ash assumed. “Who’s the customer?”
“It’s not important.”
• 77 •
JENNIFER FULTON
Ash groaned inwardly. Since the Sandline scandal, Tubby had become the biggest private-security middleman in PNG, providing operational support for the likes of Rio Tinto and Freeport-McMoRan.
He didn’t need any more mining clients, but he couldn’t resist helping out competing interests for the right price. It created bad feelings, but the local chopper pilot shortage meant the big boys didn’t have a whole lot of leverage. They were all deeply paranoid, all competing for the government’s favor, and all trying to spy on one another. Tubby made a pile of money serving many masters and having loyalty to none.
“How much?”
Tubby sucked his lips. Ash would recognize that sound in her sleep. “Your end is Þ fty.”
“Fifty large? Just for ß ying them?”
“Fuck, no. You’ll be setting up their campsite. Running the close-protection team. Meeting them at pick-up points. The whole nine yards.”
It still sounded like a cakewalk. “How many on the NGD team?”
“Four.”
The standard team for a high-risk Iraqi gig was eight, so four seemed heavy duty for a few guys picking up rock samples. On the other hand, Tubby took advantage if he thought he could. He’d probably sold this new customer on a high-priced package, scaring executives with espionage horror stories. Mining companies still shuddered over the Bougainville Þ asco. It had been a huge embarrassment to have one of their own caught hand in glove with a corrupt government, funding a private army to attack the entire population of an island. All because the Bougainvilleans had dared to shut down the mining that was destroying their environment and poisoning their children.
Tubby had discovered he only had to mention that weeping public-relations scab and his clients opened their checkbooks. They wanted to do business discreetly and with as little collateral damage as possible.
If a problem happened, they liked everything cleaned up ASAP so they could disclaim all knowledge. Sweetheart close-protection assignments like the one Ash was hearing about did not pay Þ fty thousand bucks unless there was a serious ß y in the ointment.
“I’m in,” she said. “What’s the
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