Free Troubleshooters (Jackson Chase Novella Book 2) by Connor Black Page B

check the shells to see if they were armed or booby trapped. The last thing we needed was one of the young policemen detonating the stack and turning us all into mince.
    Sterba ran off, and Kahembe asked, “What were the markings?” I knew that he meant the names, decals, and decorations that adorned every dala dala.
    “It was silver, with a large circle on the side that was filled half red and half blue. A white line went through the middle. I didn’t see a name.”
    Kahembe turned again to his man, who was now on the radio. He added detail to what was surely a be on the lookout order. He nodded to me, indicating the alert had gone out, and I went to the side of the room where Sterba was crouched down near the artillery shells.
    The garage had, for the most part, been emptied whenever it had been abandoned. But a few tools were scattered about, and a spare tire leaned against the wooden pallet that held the shells. Several policemen surrounded Sterba, two taking notes as he quickly explained how to disarm the shells.
    When he had finished, he stood up and looked at me. Kahembe joined us.
    “No trigger, so we’re safe,” Sterba said. “Your men should know what to do with these now. Did I hear you getting the word out about Naseeb and Chen?”
    “Yes, Chief,” he replied. “There are policemen out now looking for dala dalas that match your description. But you should know that there are hundreds of them in the city, many with similar markings.”
    “We’ll need one of your cars, Lieutenant,” Sterba said. “The old truck is just down the road, and we need to go after her. Now.”
    As Kahembe was about to reply, a fourth car pulled into the station. An officer jumped out and ran towards Kahembe, a piece of paper in his hand. Kahembe grabbed the paper as Sterba and I turned to the closest vehicle.
    “Wait! You will want to see this,” Kahembe said, his face showing despair. “After he was so dramatic at the bakery, I wanted to check out Naseeb Aman. We had nothing on file under that name here. The request had to be sent to Dar, where guide permits are recorded. We’ve been waiting for this to arrive by messenger, and it’s not what I wanted to see.”
    He extended the piece of paper, and I took it. It was a photocopy of a guide permit, required by anyone commercially driving tourists. The ID photo showed the smiling face of a thin black male that was clearly not our Naseeb Aman.
    “The real Naseeb is black, not Arab,” I said to Sterba, handing him the photocopy.
    “Jesus,” Sterba said. “He took the real Naseeb’s place to keep tabs on the investigation.”
    “And to throw us off the scent by planting the phone in the bakery,” I added.
    Kahembe shook his head side to side. “Terrible,” he muttered. The movement of his head shook loose a memory. I struggled to bring it to the surface, looking at Kahembe, then back to the policemen surrounding the artillery shells we had found.
    Then it hit me.
    “Car bomb,” I said.
    Sterba looked at me, puzzled at first, but he quickly understood. “The tire.”
    Kahembe’s face showed confusion. I explained, “This garage has been cleaned out, Lieutenant. Whether it was by the last tenant or looters, there’s not a tool or part in here. But right by the shells is a perfectly good spare tire. Why, in Tanzania, would you drive anywhere without a spare?”
    “You would never, unless you needed to conceal something in the vehicle,” he said, instantly understanding. “The roads are too rough and service stations too far apart.”
    I ran to the side of the nearest police car and hopped in. Sterba followed.
    “Where are you headed?” Kahembe asked.
    “It’s only a hunch. Something our fake Naseeb said.”
    “Where?”
    “The market.”

12
    “ W ant to tell me why you think he’s headed to the market?” Sterba asked as I raced down the road back into town.
    “When Naseeb took us to the bakery, do you remember going by the market? He said it used to