at the moment ‘where’ is a yacht currently sailing on the South China Sea toward Hong Kong.” Vanner had e-mailed him a first-class ticket from Singapore to Tan Son Nhat International Airport in Ho Chih Minh City. An escort there would take him to the helicopter that would ferry him out to the boat.
“Works for me,” Morgan had replied. Checking his ticket, he saw the flight left in three hours. Fortunately, he always kept a light duty bag packed, and he had grabbed it, flagged down a motorcycle taxi, and headed for the airport. He’d lost an hour and fifteen minutes to the packed streets, and made it through security with ten minutes to spare.
The eighty-five-minute flight had been uneventful; it was only when he landed that things had started to get a bit—unusual.
He was met by a spectacularly beautiful young woman, with eyes so deep blue Jace thought he might drown in them if he wasn’t careful, and lush brown hair braided into a single, thick rope that was draped over one shoulder. She was damned young—if she was twenty, he was a Thailand whoremaster—and was holding a small sign with “J. Morgan” on it.
Jace walked up to the young woman, his six feet, three inches making her look up at his face.
“That’s me.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Morgan,” the young woman said in accented English, but didn’t extend her hand. “My name is Martya. Our pilot would like to get underway, so unless you have any more luggage to pick up . . . ?”
“I’m ready to go.”
Martya looked around before leaning closer to him.
“Are you not carrying?”
The former Recon Marine kept his face deadpan.
“Weapons, drugs, or both?”
“Oh, I am sorry . . . I am not quite used to the language—”
“It’s all right, Martya, I’m not carrying anything.” He wasn’t crazy enough to try either, particularly in Singapore, where the drug laws made America’s look like a slap on the wrist.
“Is good. Follow me, please.”
“With pleasure.” Carrying his bag easily in one hand, Jace followed the slim girl out of Terminal Two, through the airport, and out the main entrance door, into the heat of an early Vietnamese fall. Outside the main building, she headed toward a cluster of hangars well away from the main runways. “Our helicopter is over here.”
“I’m right behind you.” Quickening his pace, Jace easily kept up with the smaller girl as they headed for a Eurocopter AS355 helicopter that was warming up as they approached. Another woman, dressed in cargo pants, T-shirt, and aviator sunglasses, stood at the passenger door, obviously waiting for the pair.
“Any trouble finding him, Martya?” she shouted over the din of the whirling blades. The slender girl shook her head as she climbed aboard.
“Copilot Tamara Wilson, former U.S.M.C! Pleased to meet another jarhead!” she shouted.
“The pleasure’s all mine!” he yelled back.
Tamara jerked a thumb at the passenger compartment.
“Climb aboard, I’ll stow your bag.”
“Can do!” Jace said as he stepped up into the rear of the aircraft, where his next surprise was waiting.
There were two other girls besides Martya inside, each as beautiful as she was. One was a stunning tiny blonde with perfect, milk-white skin who introduced herself as Xatia. The one beside her was freckled, but her skin tone, along with curly, bright-red hair, suited her emerald-green eyes perfectly. Her name was Tsira.
Besides a small seat for him, every other square inch of the passenger compartment was taken up by several cases of beer, a brand called Mountain Tiger. Jace had heard of it; some Eastern European microbrew, apparently selling like crazy in the States. Practically impossible to get in Southeast Asia, however.
“Everything all right back there, Captain?”
Jace looked toward the cockpit to see another woman on the stick. She was short and trim, with all the right parts in all the right places. He must have been staring, because her lips
“Works for me,” Morgan had replied. Checking his ticket, he saw the flight left in three hours. Fortunately, he always kept a light duty bag packed, and he had grabbed it, flagged down a motorcycle taxi, and headed for the airport. He’d lost an hour and fifteen minutes to the packed streets, and made it through security with ten minutes to spare.
The eighty-five-minute flight had been uneventful; it was only when he landed that things had started to get a bit—unusual.
He was met by a spectacularly beautiful young woman, with eyes so deep blue Jace thought he might drown in them if he wasn’t careful, and lush brown hair braided into a single, thick rope that was draped over one shoulder. She was damned young—if she was twenty, he was a Thailand whoremaster—and was holding a small sign with “J. Morgan” on it.
Jace walked up to the young woman, his six feet, three inches making her look up at his face.
“That’s me.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Morgan,” the young woman said in accented English, but didn’t extend her hand. “My name is Martya. Our pilot would like to get underway, so unless you have any more luggage to pick up . . . ?”
“I’m ready to go.”
Martya looked around before leaning closer to him.
“Are you not carrying?”
The former Recon Marine kept his face deadpan.
“Weapons, drugs, or both?”
“Oh, I am sorry . . . I am not quite used to the language—”
“It’s all right, Martya, I’m not carrying anything.” He wasn’t crazy enough to try either, particularly in Singapore, where the drug laws made America’s look like a slap on the wrist.
“Is good. Follow me, please.”
“With pleasure.” Carrying his bag easily in one hand, Jace followed the slim girl out of Terminal Two, through the airport, and out the main entrance door, into the heat of an early Vietnamese fall. Outside the main building, she headed toward a cluster of hangars well away from the main runways. “Our helicopter is over here.”
“I’m right behind you.” Quickening his pace, Jace easily kept up with the smaller girl as they headed for a Eurocopter AS355 helicopter that was warming up as they approached. Another woman, dressed in cargo pants, T-shirt, and aviator sunglasses, stood at the passenger door, obviously waiting for the pair.
“Any trouble finding him, Martya?” she shouted over the din of the whirling blades. The slender girl shook her head as she climbed aboard.
“Copilot Tamara Wilson, former U.S.M.C! Pleased to meet another jarhead!” she shouted.
“The pleasure’s all mine!” he yelled back.
Tamara jerked a thumb at the passenger compartment.
“Climb aboard, I’ll stow your bag.”
“Can do!” Jace said as he stepped up into the rear of the aircraft, where his next surprise was waiting.
There were two other girls besides Martya inside, each as beautiful as she was. One was a stunning tiny blonde with perfect, milk-white skin who introduced herself as Xatia. The one beside her was freckled, but her skin tone, along with curly, bright-red hair, suited her emerald-green eyes perfectly. Her name was Tsira.
Besides a small seat for him, every other square inch of the passenger compartment was taken up by several cases of beer, a brand called Mountain Tiger. Jace had heard of it; some Eastern European microbrew, apparently selling like crazy in the States. Practically impossible to get in Southeast Asia, however.
“Everything all right back there, Captain?”
Jace looked toward the cockpit to see another woman on the stick. She was short and trim, with all the right parts in all the right places. He must have been staring, because her lips
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