Free Reflexive Fire - 01 by Jack Murphy Page A

contacts, Deckard had managed to find one textile plant that was printing off rolls of fabric for Canadian desert uniforms as well as Italian 'vegetato' woodland camouflage fabric.  Mr. Yao had understood that once the freight forwarder sent the bill of lading to the textile company's bank, the documents would then be forwarded to Deckard's accountant and the monetary transaction would then occur.
       Now he was asking for a down payment.  Deckard was already paying a huge overhead for Yao to source and supervise the cutting and sewing of the fabric by a third source.  He had contemplated having the fabric shipped to Tamil Nadu where the old ladies could take some time off from sewing lingerie and deliberately trashing pairs of jeans to make them look more trendy for American kids and construct the uniforms.  Once again it was an issue of time. 
       He just didn't know how much or how little he had.
     
     

     
      
       “Why have you fucking done this!” Djokovic hissed.  “ I already had an arrangement.”
       Deckard's Executive Officer had cornered him coming out of his office.
       “Regarding?” Deckard said, refusing to allow himself to be baited out.
       “You know what,” the Serb practically spat.  “The AK-47s I ordered.”
       “That was a bad call,” Deckard shot back.  “The Century Arms AK-103 rifles are superior to those Bulgarian made ones you had your eye on.”
       Djokovic's resistance proved to Deckard what he had already suspected.
       “I had made deal!”
       “And I canceled it.”
       “You are still new here, O'Brien.  It is not good idea for you to make trouble.”
       “Tough titties.  I run this outfit and I'll be damned if I have my boys running around half-cocked carrying rifles made with frames that are not properly riveted and will fall apart in a year.”
       The truth was that Deckard had made some phone calls regarding his second in command.  His real name was Dejan Serbedzija, wanted by the International Criminal Courts for war crimes in the Balkans.  He knew he recognized him from somewhere but couldn't quite place him until now.  Deckard had been part of a task force charged with apprehending several war criminals in the region years ago.
       Of course after the UN brokered cease fire, all that went away.  The under-the-table deal for peace was amnesty for many of those responsible for the ethnic cleansing that had taken place.  Since then Serbedzija had bounced around, a no-job to dirty gun for hire.
       The Serb sneered at Deckard.  Clearly the conversation was not going as Serbedzija had expected.
       Now he also understood his irrational argument for the Bulgaria deal.  He could only be this passionate about such a non-issue if he was getting kickbacks from the manufacturer.
       “You had better watch yourself,” Serbedzija said, turning on his heel and skulking off.
       Deckard smirked.
       He knew the corporate offices would never let him fire the Serb.  He was clearly a plant put inside Samruk by the old men at the Grove to keep tabs on Deckard and what he was up to.
       No, he couldn't fire him, but he could sure as hell arrange a friendly fire incident.
       As the Serbian war criminal must know from personal experience, the best place to hide a murder is on the battlefield.
     

Six
      
    The long drive into Astana had given Deckard plenty of time to think, and the more he thought about it the more he was convinced it was time to take a closer look at Samruk International.
       Driving his company-issued BMW all the way into the capital on Sofeivskoe Highway, he passed by the bazaar and the train yard, noticing that signs of industry and construction were everywhere.  The expected Soviet-era apartment blocks or micro-royans were nowhere to be seen.  Instead it reminded Deckard of a developing city like Dohuk at first glance, but with its own Central Asian twist.
       Crossing a newly built