The room was a similar layout to the one upstairs but was dusty, filled with boxes and broken furniture. It looked like it hadn’t been used for years. John stepped one leg over the sill and slipped through the window. He skirted the piles of boxes and approached the door. He tried the handle, and the door opened—thank God it wasn’t locked. It looked like luck was finally running in John’s favor.
He opened the door a crack and listened. The building was silent, the stairwell dimly lit. Slowly, he stepped outside and looked up the stairs. The door to the upper room was still closed. John crept up the stairs, and stopping beside the door, he closed his eyes, summoning up a mental picture of the room, remembering where the man was sitting and his approximate distance from the door. He turned the Glock around in his hand, so he was holding it by the barrel, took a deep breath and twisted the door handle.
60
The door swung open, and John took five paces toward the Thai man, raising the Glock above his head as he did so, his sole point of focus being the man’s head. The Thai man turned in surprise and raised one arm in defense… but he wasn’t quick enough. John brought the Glock down with a crack on the side of his head, knocking him off the chair, onto the floor. John looked down at him, hoping, just as in the movies, he had knocked him unconscious. But no, life didn’t work like that, and the man was only stunned. He groaned, shook his head, and attempted to push himself away from John. John stepped forward and kicked him between the legs.
“That’s for Adriana, you fucking bastard.”
The Thai drew his knees to his chest in agony and retched. The anger still boiled inside John. He dropped to his knees and slammed the butt of the Glock down again on the man’s head. The man cried out, and John raised the gun a third time and brought it down. The skin on his head split, exposing the flesh beneath, but this final blow seemed to have worked. The man’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he stopped moving, appearing to be out for the count. John knelt beside him, panting, his hands shaking, his eyes wide. A noise behind him brought him back to the present.
Turning, his eyes regained their focus as he looked at Adriana, bound to her chair. He wiped the butt of the pistol on the man’s shirt, then tucked it into his waistband, and stood. He rushed over to Adriana and knelt beside her.
“This might hurt,” he said and carefully peeled the duct tape from her mouth.
“John,” she gasped.
John wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her hair.
“How did you find us?”
John pulled away and held her at arms’ length.
“It’s a long story,” he grinned. “Now let’s get you out of this chair.”
“First, check on Amira, is she okay? They beat her a lot.” Adriana turned her head to look at Amira lying on the floor. “Amira?”
John moved over to her, squatted down, and touched her arm. She flinched.
“It’s okay, it’s me, John. You are safe now.”
Amira opened her eyes and turned slowly. “John?”
“Yes, Amira, you are safe now.”
Her eyes darted from his face to Adriana’s and back again. Slowly, she eased herself into a seated position, wincing at the effort. Her eyes fell on the Thai lying on the floor.
“Everything will be okay now, Amira. You are safe now.”
She didn’t reply, her eyes not leaving the Thai man.
John stood and walked over to the Thai and searched his pockets, removing the keys to the handcuffs, a phone, and his wallet. He walked behind Adriana’s chair and unlocked the cuffs, freeing her hands. She rubbed her wrists, the skin raw from the chafing from the metal. Her feet were still secured to the chair legs, so John looked around for something to cut the tape. There was nothing on the camp bed, and he had found nothing he could use in the man’s pockets, so he pulled out the keys to the Toyota and sawed at the duct tape until it split, then with his hands, pulled the two ends apart until the tape tore in two. He repeated the process with the other leg.
“Are you okay to walk?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” Adriana shook her legs out and stood.
“Good. We need to get you out of here before Hassan or anyone else comes back.” John glanced over at Amira who still sat, staring at the Thai.
“Amira.” She raised her eyes slowly and looked at John. “Amira we have to go now. Can you walk?”
She just stared back, her face expressionless. Adriana knelt down beside her.
“Amira, listen. We are going now. Somewhere safe, but you need to get up.”
Amira’s eyes flicked to Adriana, and after a moment, she nodded.
“Good,” Adriana looked up at John.
“One sec, I need to do something.” John grabbed the Thai under the arms, dragged him to the chair, and pulled him up until he sat on it. Picking up the handcuffs from the floor, John secured the Thai’s hands to the uprights on the back of the chair. Looking around the room, he spotted the roll of duct tape, picked it up, tore off a strip, and stuck it over the man’s mouth, then duct taped the man’s legs to the chair legs. Adriana watched him without speaking until he was finished.
“What are you going to do with him?”
“I don’t know yet, but first, let’s get you out of here.”
He knelt beside Amira, and together, they lifted her to her feet. She groaned with pain. John exchanged a worried glance with Adriana before they guided her toward the door.
“We have to go down three flights of stairs, Amira. Can you manage?”
Amira nodded.
“We’ll help you, but if you want to stop, just say so, okay?”
Amira nodded again, and with Adriana and John on each side of her, set off down the stairs, Amira obviously in a lot of pain. They stopped briefly at each landing to allow her some respite, before continuing downward. Upon reaching the ground floor, John eased her down until she sat on the steps.
“Wait here, I’ll bring the car.”
He cracked open the door and slowly peeked out, looking left and right, but the street was empty. Stepping out, he jogged down to the end of the road. He started the Toyota, then swung it around in a U-turn and drove back to the building. Leaving the engine running, he got out, walked around to the passenger side, and opened the door.
Walking back into the building, he got Amira to her feet with Adriana’s help. Together, they guided her out and helped her sit in the passenger seat and closed the door behind her. John straightened up, removed his wallet from his pocket, pulled out a large handful of cash, and passed it to Adriana.
“What’s this for?”
John reached up and held Adriana’s upper arms.
“We can’t go back to either of our apartments, so take the car… go to…” John thought for a moment, “Go to the Pat Pong area. Do you know it? It’s close by.”
Adriana nodded but with a quizzical expression.
“I know, I’m sorry, it’s not the best area to send you, but find a cheap love hotel and take a room for the whole night. They won’t ask for ID, they just want cash. We don’t want anyone to know where you’re staying.”
“What do you mean? Where are you going? Aren’t you coming with us?”
“No, I’ll join you soon.” John glanced back at the building. “I have some questions that need answering first.”
“John you have to hurry. I overheard them saying something about another shipment coming tonight. They were going to send Amira back with them.”
“That’s what I want to find out. I need to stop this shit from happening. Do you have a phone?”
Adriana shook her head.
“Of course, stupid question.” John thought for a minute. “Wait one sec.”
He turned and ran up the stairs to the third floor and picked up the man’s phone from the floor where it had fallen. It was an iPhone and was locked.
“Shit.”
John looked over at the man who was still unconscious. He walked behind the chair, reached down for his hand, hel
d the man’s thumb to the phone, and unlocked it. Opening the settings, he canceled the lock, then dialed his own number. Once his phone rang, he ended the call and ran back downstairs to where Adriana was nervously standing beside the car.
“Here, take my phone. There’s a missed call on it. Save that number, and when you find a place, call me… no, text me on that number and tell me where you are.” He held up the Thai man’s phone. “I’ll get it on this.”
Adriana tilted her head to one side, studying his face in the light of the street lamps, then nodded and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly.
“You be careful, John. I don’t want to lose you again.”
John’s eyes teared up. He kissed her neck, then pulled away so he could kiss her on the forehead. He gazed down into her eyes.
“Don’t worry, after this, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
Adriana smiled, her eyes filling with tears. John stroked her hair and swallowed.
“Now go, quickly.”
61
John watched the taillights disappear down the street, the silhouettes of Adriana’s and Amira’s heads just visible through the rear window. He glanced around to make sure the street was still empty, then went back inside. Entering the room on the third floor, he saw the man was still knocked out. He slapped him on the cheek, but there was no response. John pulled up a chair and sat down, at the same time removing the man’s iPhone from his pocket. He opened the messaging app and scrolled through the messages. There were messages from someone labeled ‘Boss,’ the latest sent that evening, saying, I’ll be there at 11. ‘Boss’ must be Hassan. John read through the message history but couldn’t find anything useful. He scrolled through the phone book, but without an explanation, the numbers and names meant nothing to him.
He sighed and looked at his prisoner again. He was starting to stir, and John watched as the man groaned and his eyes blinked open. He looked blankly at John, then suddenly, recognition or memory kicked in. He stiffened and struggled, realizing he was bound to the chair. He grunted and struggled for a moment more, then sat still and stared at John, his eyes filled with a mixture of anger and fear.
John stood, crossed to the window, pulled it closed, bolting it. He walked back to the door and closed that too. Picking up the remote for the air conditioning unit, he turned it on. It started with a rattle, then settled into a noisy hum. Good, the more background noise, the better. He slid his chair closer to the man and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his face close to the man’s.
“I’m going to ask you some questions. I will remove the tape from your mouth. Don't even think about making a noise. No-one will hear you.” John straightened up, removed the Glock from his waistband, and placed it in his lap. The man’s eyes widened. “Understand?”
The man nodded reluctantly.
John reached forward and tore the strip of tape from the man’s face.
“Arrgh,” the man cried out and shook his head. “Yet mae!”
“Watch your language,” John growled, picking up the Glock, pointing it at him.
“Heeia,” the man sneered at him. “Fuck you ai farang.”
John shrugged and stuck the duct tape over his mouth again. He turned the Glock around gripping the barrel and before the man could move his head, brought the butt down on his nose with a satisfying crack. Blood burst from his nose as the man grunted and groaned in pain, tears streaming from his eyes as blood ran down from his nostrils and dripped onto his shirt.
“I warned you.”
John sat back and watched him, waited until he finished struggling, his chin dropping to his chest. Then he reached forward and more gently this time, peeled off the duct tape again.
“Let’s start again.”
The man raised his head slowly, looked John in the eye, then spat a mouthful of blood and saliva in John’s face. John shrugged, stuck the duct tape back on his mouth, and stood, laying the Glock down on the chair. He moved to the bed, grabbed a corner of the sheet, and wiped the blood off his face. Standing there, he looked back at the prisoner, thinking of his next move. He needed information, and he needed it fast. The longer he stayed here, the riskier it would be for him.
He scanned the room, searching for inspiration. Spotting the sink, he got an idea. He walked over, picked up the bucket and filled it with water, then walked back to the prisoner, pulling the sheet off the bed as he passed. The prisoner eyed him warily as John put the bucket on the floor beside the chair. Walking behind the chair, he tipped it over, so the chair was lying on the floor, the prisoner facing upwards, his legs in the air. John looked down at him, the prisoner staring back, not sure what was happening. John wasn’t sure if what he was about to do would work. He’d only seen it in a movie but didn’t have too many options.
Taking a deep breath, he ripped the tape off the man’s mouth, covered his head with the sheet, then slowly poured the bucket of water over the man’s face. The prisoner twisted his head from side to side, his legs twitching frantically as he struggled for breath. Once the bucket was empty, John set it down and removed the sheet. The man coughed and spat as he tried to empty his lungs of water. John picked up the bucket, refilled it, and stood beside his prisoner.
“Will you answer my questions now?”
The man said nothing, just lay there, panting.
John shrugged, covered his face again with the sheet as the man protested. John ignored him and emptied another bucket over his nose and mouth. The bucket empty, he stood and waited, watching the wet sheet move up and down as the man desperately sucked in air.
After a minute, John set the chair upright and pulled the sheet off the man’s head. He sat there panting, defeated, his chin resting on his chest, his shoulders rising up and down as he regained his breath.
“Now?”
The man sniffed, spat water from his mouth onto the floor beside him, and nodded, avoiding eye contact with John.
“Good.” The CIA was correct. Enhanced interrogation techniques worked. John pulled his chair over, picked up the Glock, and sat down.
He would start with an easy question. “What is your name?”
“Boon,” he mumbled.
“See, that wasn’t difficult was it? Now, Boon, if you answer my questions truthfully, I will let you go. I’m not interested in you. I’m interested in the people in charge. Do you understand?”
He nodded.
“So, let’s start with Hassan…”
Fifteen minutes later, John had received enough answers to satisfy himself. He sat, staring at the man, thinking. He’d been helpful, told John everything he needed to know, and John had said he would let him go. But now, he wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to do. He despised these men and their trade in human misery, their exploitation of the poor to make a profit. It disgusted him, and even though Boon wasn’t one of the kingpins, he still knew what he was doing, and John wasn’t inclined to let him off easily.
As if sensing what John was thinking, Boon looked up. His breathing was labored, blood still seeping from his crooked nose, congealing with snot above his open mouth.
“Now you’ll let me go?” he croaked. “I told you everything.” John studied him for a moment, the Glock in his right hand, the handcuff keys in his left. He looked at the keys, but he couldn’t get the vision of Boon slapping Adriana out of his head.
Without looking up, he spoke, “Yes, you helped me.”
Boon’s eyes followed him as he stood up, a look of hope evident in his expression.
John set the Glock down on his chair, then walked behind Boon’s chair and stood, looking at Boon’s handcuffed hands. He tossed the keys in the air, once, twice, struggling with a decision. Boon twisted his head, trying to see what he was doing.
John sighed, “Okay.”
He bent down, picked up the roll of duct tape from the floor, tore off a fresh strip, reached over Boon’s head, and stuck it firmly over his mouth. Boon’s eyes widened, and he protested, his words
completely obscured by the duct tape.
John tipped the chair back until it was lying on the floor, retrieved his Glock from the chair, then walked over to the bed and picked up the pillow.
As he walked back, Boon realized what was going to happen and struggled violently, twisting and turning, his screams muffled by the duct tape. John looked down at him, his mind made up.
“The broken nose was for Adriana. This is for all the Amiras whose lives you have destroyed.”
John folded the pillow double, knelt down, buried the nose of the Glock in the pillow, and put a bullet into Boon’s head.
62
Hassan reached over to the ice bucket, removed the bottle of champagne, and topped up his and Paween’s glasses. It was their second bottle of the night, and it was already two-thirds empty.
“Here’s to another successful delivery.” Paween raised his glass and clinked it against Hassan’s.
“Indeed.” Hassan sipped his glass of champagne and regarded Paween over the rim. A girl sat on the Police General’s lap and giggled at whatever he said while running her hands over his plump midriff. She was young enough to be his daughter and wore far too much makeup, but who was Hassan to judge? He also liked them younger, but his preferences swung toward the Caucasian side of the world. He took another drink and savored the crisp taste of the champagne as it slid down his throat. He felt a nice buzz, and it numbed the pain from his head injury.
Despite the late hour, almost one thirty a.m., the restaurant was still packed. It had been all week, probably one of their best weeks since they opened. Business was good. In his other venture, another boatload of refugees had arrived safely that morning. He had already picked out the prettier girls and was having them brought to brothels here in Bangkok. There were six of them this time, young Rohingya girls from across the border in Myanmar, fresh and untouched. He would get a good price for them, enough to cover his transportation costs, so everything else he made on this shipment would be pure profit. The stronger men were being shipped off to the fishing trawlers on the Gulf of Thailand, and others would be held in camps in the jungle while he extorted their family members for more money. It was a good business, and with Paween’s help, ensuring the police always looked the other way, one that ran smoothly.
A New Beginning Page 15