“I will make you pay, you motherfucker!”
He turned and opened the cupboard, removing the bottle of Botanist and a glass. Pouring himself a generous measure of gin, he gulped it back, gasping as the liquid burned his throat before refilling the glass. Walking over to the sofa, he placed the glass on the coffee table, bent over, righted the lamp, then picked up the bag containing the Glock. He sat down, took another large mouthful of gin, then emptied the contents of the bag onto the sofa. He picked up one of the two empty magazines William had given him, opened the box of rounds, and one by one inserted them into the magazine. He would get them back. He just needed to work out how.
53
The two magazines now loaded, John slotted one into the Glock and felt the weight in his hand. It felt familiar, like an old friend. He had used one before… not fired it, used it only as a threat. Holding the Glock now gave him an element of comfort. He wasn’t planning to fire this one either but hoped its mere presence at the relevant time would be enough to get things done. He laid it back down on the coffee table and closed the box of rounds. Taking another sip of gin, he stared at the weapon. His hands had stopped shaking, and his heart had reached normal levels of activity. The act of loading the weapon had served as a meditation, calming his nerves.
His mind replayed the images he had seen on the CCTV screen. There had been a policeman or at least a man in a police uniform and a man in plain clothes. John had no idea who they were. He had never seen them before. John rubbed his face with his hands, then stood and paced around the room. What should he do next? What was the next step? He thought hard.
Of the two women, it would be harder for them to deal with Adriana. Amira was illegally in the country, there would be no record of her, and no-one in Bangkok would notice her missing. It would be an easy matter for them to lock her away, never to be seen again or even worse… kill her and dispose of the body. The thought made John’s heart race again, and he took another deep breath to calm his nerves. He would have to do something fast.
Adriana would be harder to deal with. She was a registered resident of the country, a foreign national with a passport, a job, a lease on an apartment. If she went missing, someone would notice it in a short space of time. What did they plan to do with her? John stopped pacing and stared out the window, his hands on his hips. He assumed they would use her as a bargaining tool. But for what? One thing was for sure, judging by the fire evident in her eyes in the CCTV video, she wouldn’t be an easy hostage.
John turned and focused on the Glock lying on the table. The only person he knew who was definitely involved was Hassan Rahman. He would start with him.
54
John sat on a tiny, plastic stool on the pavement, his iced coffee untouched on the equally tiny, fold-out table beside him. He had a clear view of the entrance to Hassan’s building down the street. The street coffee vendor busied herself, sweeping her little patch of pavement, preparing for the evening rush. John ignored her, not once taking his eyes off the building entrance. He wore a baseball cap and sunglasses, the Glock hidden under his shirt, tucked into the rear waistband of his pants. Beside the footpath, a motor-cy sat waiting, the bored looking rubjang sitting side-saddle, watching people walk past. John had paid him a large amount of baht to be on call for him. He didn’t know if Hassan was in his building, but when John had called the restaurant, a staff member told him Hassan hadn’t come in yet, so John hoped he was still home. He had nowhere else to wait.
After half an hour, his iced coffee had melted into a brown slurry, and the street vendor was getting increasingly annoyed about John taking up her valuable real estate without spending more money. A few cars had come and gone from the building, but none of them contained Hassan. John sat forward and watched as the gates opened again, and a black Lexus pulled out, pausing as the driver looked both ways before merging into the traffic. As it passed, John spotted the unmistakable shape of Hassan in the back seat. John jumped up, almost knocking his drink over and rushed to the motor-cy. He patted the rider on the shoulder and pointed after the Lexus before climbing on the back. The rubjang twisted the key, revved the engine, sending a cloud of grey smoke over the pavement, then pulled out after the Lexus.
John followed the Lexus to the end of the Soi and waited until it joined the slow-moving traffic on Sukhumvit Road. He motioned for the rubjang to slow down, curbing the rider’s instinctive desire to race between the cars. The rubjang shook his head but did as John instructed, keeping two taxis and a Toyota pickup between them and the Lexus. John was sure Hassan was heading to the restaurant as usual but hadn’t wanted to take the chance he would miss him. Sure enough, after ten minutes, the Lexus indicated left and turned down onto Soi 20. John signaled to his motor-cy rubjang to follow slowly, and as the Lexus pulled up outside the restaurant, he instructed him to pull over. He got off, handed over two, one hundred baht notes to the now very happy young man and sauntered toward the restaurant.
He stopped about fifty meters away and crouched down as if tying his shoelace. Hassan had entered, and the tall, unfriendly European woman with the clipboard stood at her usual place at the entrance. John stood up and looked around. To his left was a doorway to a shop storeroom. He stepped back into the shadow and observed the surroundings. It was early evening, and the street was busy, now that the temperature had dropped a little. Traffic flowed past in each direction, and tourists and locals wandered past, either heading home from work or out for dinner and shopping. Across the road, a group of heavily made-up women in pink satin blouses and matching skirts sat on the steps of a brightly lit foot massage parlor, chewing gum or staring at their phones, occasionally calling out “You want massage?” as someone walked past. A tour bus disgorged its load of Indian tourists outside the Indian restaurant, and a scrawny cat with half a tail scampered across the road, just avoiding being hit by a motorcycle. The street looked normal. No-one seemed to be waiting for John.
He thought fast. He had no plan. Maybe he should confront Hassan and find out what he’d done with Adriana and Amira? He bit his lower lip and reached back for the Glock in his waistband, checking it was still there, drawing comfort from the knowledge he could use it if needed.
He couldn’t decide what to do. How was he going to find them? He clenched his fingers open and closed and shifted from one foot to the other, trying to release nervous tension. A vision of Adriana being slapped in the lift flashed before his eyes, and he made a decision. He removed his dark glasses, useless now in the low light of dusk, waited for a gap in the traffic, and crossed the road, slowing to a casual walk as he approached Dragon. He smiled up at the haughty European and walked straight past her.
“Sir…” she called out
John pretended not to hear and walked into the restaurant, the woman deciding it was too much trouble to chase him in her vertiginous heels.
John stepped up onto the raised decking and quickly scanned the restaurant and bar area. It was still quiet, only a couple of businessmen sitting at the bar and a young couple canoodling at one of the corner tables while in the center of the restaurant, a tourist family with two young kids sat for an early dinner.
Good. Striding toward the door at the rear, John gambled it was Hassan’s office. He angled his head away from the security camera above the door and pushed down on the handle with his left hand while reaching behind him with his right. He stepped inside quickly, pushing the door closed with his foot, drawing the Glock from his waistband with his right hand and pointing it at the man sitting behind the desk at the back of the room. John reached behind him, locked the door, and walked forward, keeping the Glock pinned at Hassan’s face.
Hassan pushed back his chair, the look of surprise on his face quickly replaced with one of anger.
“Where are they?” John growled.
Hassan didn’t answer, just stared at John.
“I said where are they?”
“John Hayes,” he sneered. “Who do you think you are, coming into my offic
e, pointing a gun at me?”
“Fuck you, Hassan. Tell me where they are.”
“No.”
Shit. This wasn’t how John had planned things.
“Fucking tell me, you bastard.” John struggled to control his emotions. His heart was racing, his trembling hand unable to keep the gun steady.
Hassan leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands on his chest. He cricked his neck left and right and smiled.
“You won’t shoot me. My staff will alert the police the minute you do. You should leave, and I mean leave the country. You will find it very difficult to live here from now on. I have connections. You’ll wish you’d never set foot in Thailand,” he sniggered, clearly enjoying being in control of the situation.
John’s eyes flicked around the room, looking for an advantage, anything he could use to regain the upper hand. On his right stood a row of filing cabinets, and on the left, a small bar and a display cabinet filled with books and Asian objets d’art.
“I know you broke into my apartment. I don’t know how you got onto my balcony, but I know it was you. I saw you on the CCTV.”
“Prove it.”
“I don’t have to prove it, John Hayes. I can tell the police anything. With my connections, do you really think they will believe you?”
“I know you took them.”
“Can you prove it?… I don’t think so,” Hassan scoffed.
John lowered the weapon, considering his options. Shit. Deep down John knew Hassan was right. What could he do? His shoulders slumped.
Hassan’s eyes glimmered in triumph.
“Leave my office now, and……” Hassan sniggered, “because I’m a gentleman, I’ll give you twenty-four hours to leave the country.” He shrugged, “But if you don’t…” He left the threat hanging.
John glared at Hassan, his fingers clenched around the grip of the pistol hanging at his side. There was no way he would leave the country and let this bastard get away with kidnapping the woman he loved, but he needed to regroup. He needed to come up with another plan because this one had failed miserably. He took a step back toward the door and slipped the Glock back into his waistband, pulling his shirt over it.
“Ha,” Hassan scoffed. “I knew you had no balls. Now get out.”
John ground his teeth together, anger mixed with frustration filling his body. He turned toward the door, and behind him, Hassan called out.
“Enjoy your flight, John Hayes. While you are eating your peanuts and sipping a glass of wine, I will be tucking into that Portuguese bitch of yours.”
John spun around, stepped over to the display cabinet on the left side of the office, grabbed the nearest ornament, a jade dragon, and hurled it at Hassan. Hassan ducked but too late. The dragon struck him on the head with a crack, knocking him to the floor. He cried out in pain.
“Take that, you motherfucking bastard,” John growled. He opened the door, snicked the lock on the door handle, stepped outside, and pulled the door closed behind him, locking it from the inside. As the barman looked at him questioningly, John smiled and called out. “Mr. Rahman asked not to be disturbed.”
John glanced around the restaurant and thought fast. He couldn’t leave by the front entrance. If Hassan sent someone after him, that would be the first place they would go. Instead, he turned right and walked past the bar, down the small open-ended passageway toward the toilets. John walked past the toilet door, and where the passageway opened into the garden, John took a quick look behind him to make sure he wasn’t seen, then stepped into the lush foliage. He pushed through it to the boundary, scaled the fence, and dropped into the neighboring property’s garden. A dog barked, and John ran to the rear wall, and jumped up, grabbing hold of the top and hauling himself over as the jaws of an Alsatian snapped shut just below his feet.
He dropped over the other side into the carpark of an apartment complex, straightened his clothing, and walked casually through the carpark out onto the street. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his pants to hide their shaking and breathed in deeply through his nostrils before exhaling through his mouth. It did little to make him feel better. His temples throbbed, and as the adrenaline slowed its passage through his body, he was filled with an overwhelming sense of despair.
The police would now be after him, and he was no closer to finding out where Adriana and Amira were being kept.
He was screwed.
55
John walked blindly down the Soi, completely unaware of his surroundings. All he could think of was Adriana handcuffed and beaten. Why, why, why, did he let her get involved in rescuing Amira? No. He shook his head. He would never have been able to live with himself knowing Amira was being kept as a slave, and he did nothing about it. He had to get a grip on himself and his thoughts. Defeatist thinking would not rescue the two women. He could never have known they would be captured, but now it had happened, and he had to find a way to deal with it. The women’s lives depended on him.
John stopped his mindless walking and looked around. He was in the middle of Soi Eighteen, running parallel to the Soi where Dragon was located. The thought of Dragon gave him some satisfaction. The jade dragon must have weighed almost four pounds. It was a fitting weapon and would have hurt.
John scanned the shop fronts around him. He had the spark of an idea. He needed cash. Spotting an ATM, he walked over and made the maximum daily withdrawal. He then crossed over to a travel agent he had noticed earlier and pushed open the door. It was a locally owned business, dealing in bus tickets and daily excursions, and the owner and her family appeared to be living in the rear of the building. Two children and a dog sprawled in front of a TV in the corner, and at the counter, a tired-looking lady in Hello Kitty pajamas put down her bowl of noodles and greeted him with a weary smile.
“Sawasdee ka. Can I help you?”
John smiled and raised his hands in a wai.
“Sawasdee kup. I saw in the window you have a car for hire?”
“Ka,” the lady nodded enthusiastically. “I give you good price.”
“Kop khun kup. Where is the car?”
The lady pointed out the window. “Over there. Toyota.”
John looked out the window at the white Toyota Corolla parked at the curb. Perfect. Anonymous enough to blend into the traffic.
“I’ll take it. Now.”
The lady’s smile grew bigger.
“Sir, please take a seat. You give me license, passport, and credit card, ka.”
John sat down and removed his wallet. He handed over his license.
“I lost my credit card, I will pay you cash,” he told her, not wanting to leave too many clues about what he was doing. If the police accessed his bank records, all they would see was a large cash withdrawal, but they wouldn’t know where he had spent it.
The travel agent looked at him warily.
“How much is the daily rate?” John asked.
She narrowed her eyes, looking him up and down. “Two thousand baht.”
The price was double what she should charge him, but John didn’t care.
He counted out eight thousand baht and looked up. “For four days.” He held it over the counter, and as she reached for the money, he pulled it back just out of her reach. “And no passport.”
“Ten thousand baht,” came back the reply, her greed overtaking her caution.
“Done,” John counted out another two thousand baht and handed it over. Not providing the passport was probably a waste of time. She had his license, but it only had his name and local address on it. If the police tracked him to the travel agent, he didn't want to be handing them information on a plate. They could probably track down his passport number, but he hoped doing so would delay them. Perhaps he was being paranoid, but better to be safe than sorry.
The lady photocopied his license, rummaged around in a drawer, then handed the license back with the keys.
“Four days.”
“Kup,” replied John, and walked out of the shop.
<
br /> 56
John reclined his seat until his line of sight was just above the steering wheel and settled in for a long wait. Once again, he was sitting in a car, waiting to follow someone, a pattern in his life that seemed to repeat itself with increasing regularity. He had parked four buildings down from Dragon with a clear view of the entrance. He assumed Hassan was still there; his black Lexus was parked by the curb just back from the entrance, the windows open with the driver sitting, watching a movie on his phone.
John checked his watch. It was now just after eight p.m., and the restaurant and bar had filled up. John hoped he wouldn’t have to wait until closing, but if that’s what it took, he would do it. He had no other options right now. He adjusted his position and felt the Glock dig into his back. Shifting forward he reached behind him, removed it from his waistband, and placed it on the seat beside him, covering it with his baseball cap. He wound the windows down halfway to let in some air. Music and laughter from a beer bar filled the air, and John wound the passenger side window up again to cut out the noise. Before long, John’s shirt was stuck to him, and sweat ran down his forehead into his eyes. It would be a long night.
Around ten thirty, John’s bladder protested, and he thought about where he could go to relieve himself. The beer bar was the closest option, but he was reluctant to lose eyes on Dragon. He looked around for an empty bottle, but the car interior was clean, and the street too well-lit for him to pee into a bottle, anyway. Someone was bound to notice. He clenched his teeth and tried to think of something else.
As if answering his prayers, he saw the lights of the Lexus turn on, and it rolled slowly toward the entrance of the restaurant. The driver jumped out and walked around to open the rear passenger door as Hassan appeared from inside Dragon, a bandage wrapped around his head
A New Beginning Page 13