“Prataporn.”
“Kup?”
“Where is the Englishman?”
Prataporn studied the men for a moment, cursed, then shouted at the guards.
A guard approached the doorway of the hut and peered inside. He turned and called out, and the other guard ran over, and they both stepped inside.
“What’s going on?”
“He’s inside, Sir. He’s not moving. They think he’s dead.”
“How hard did you fucking hit him? I told you I wanted him alive.” Hassan glared at Prataporn and wiped his neck again. “Bloody idiots,” he muttered under his breath.
At that moment, an old man at the front of the assembled men groaned and collapsed on the ground. Three men gathered around him and tried to lift him up but gave up and laid him back on the ground. They shouted at the other prisoners, who gathered around and started shouted angrily, waving their fists in Hassan’s direction.
“Fucking sort them out, Prataporn. I don’t have time for this.”
“Kup.” Prataporn nodded at the remaining guard who picked up a stick, and they both walked toward the protesting men.
Hassan turned and glanced back at the two policemen leaning against the hood of their pickup, watching the scene with amusement. He snorted in derision, then looked around for some shade. The sooner he was out of this shithole and away from these idiots, the better.
75
Inside the hut, John was face down on the floor, his head angled to the side, his eyes slightly open, just enough so he could see what was happening. To the left and right of the door, hidden in the darkness, stood Abdul and Shakeel, poised, their eyes on John, waiting.
John willed himself to keep still and held his breath as one of the guards peered in the doorway, then shouted back toward the guard hut. Any moment now. He waited, allowing himself to breathe shallowly until another guard arrived, then they both stepped inside. From outside, he heard raised voices as the next phase of the plan went into action but forced himself to focus only on the interior of the hut, the only area he had control over. Through the crack in his eyelids, he saw the guards come closer, one stepping around him.
When they both bent down and grabbed his arms, he rolled over jerking the guard closest to the door off-balance and into the guard on the other side. John pulled up his knees, swiveled around, and kicked out at the legs of the furthest guard, knocking him to the floor as the other guard landed on top of him. Shakeel and Abdul leaped forward and grabbed the guard on top, dragging him to the floor, then laid into him with punches and kicks.
John jumped onto the other guard, grabbed his hair with his left hand, pulling his head back, and punched him in the face with his right. The guard raised his hands in defense and tried to scramble out of the way. John pounded his face repeatedly with his fist and elbow until the man stopped struggling and lay there whimpering, blood leaking from his mouth and shattered nose. John stood up, panting and glanced over at the other man who was now unconscious, his face battered and bloody, Abdul and Shakeel standing over him.
“Come on, let’s go!”
The three men rushed out the door and made a quick assessment of the scene, their eyes blinking against the bright sunlight. The remaining guard was laying into the men with a stick while Prataporn stood in front of them shouting. John led the charge towards Prataporn, Abdul, and Shakeel close behind him. The other men, sensing the tide had turned, leaped on the guard, some grabbing his legs, others reaching for the stick. With a crack, the stick came down on one man’s head, splitting it open, knocking him to the ground, but he was replaced by another and another. John raced around them as the guard was overwhelmed and disappeared from sight amongst a sea of bodies. The shouts and screams of the men and women faded away, John’s only focus to catch Prataporn. Prataporn saw him coming, and his eyes widened in fear. He turned on his heels and sprinted for the Isuzu.
Over by the gate, the two policemen, no longer amused, jumped into their pickup and reversed at speed toward the gate. The pickup hit the gate post coming to an abrupt halt. The cop changed gear, drove forward, spun the pickup around in a cloud of dust, and took off out the gate, followed on foot by Hassan’s driver, waving his arms at them in panic.
John could hear Abdul and Shakeel running behind him, but Prataporn had already reached the Isuzu and wrenched the door open. He reached inside, then spun around, pointing the Glock straight at John and pulled the trigger. John leaped to the side as the gun fired, hit the ground, and rolled out of the way.
“Yu dan hlang,” Prataporn screamed, “stay back” and fired again.
John heard a grunt and a thud, and he glanced back to see Abdul lying in the dirt, blood spurting from a wound in his thigh.
“Fuck,” John cursed and scrambled away, looking for cover. He sprinted for a tree on the far right of the compound and dived behind the trunk as a bullet sent up a puff of dust in the dirt just behind him. He gasped for breath, then peered around the trunk at Abdul.
“Hang on, Abdul, I’m coming to get you.” John looked around for Shakeel and could see him taking cover behind the Land Cruiser. The men, frightened by the gunshots, lay flat in the dirt in front of their hut, the broken body of the guard among them. The women had wisely disappeared from sight, either inside the hut or behind it. John looked toward Prataporn who stood with his back to the Isuzu, his eyes wild, waving the Glock in all directions, screaming in Thai.
But one man was missing, and John couldn’t see him anywhere. Somehow in all the melee, Hassan had got away. He would deal with him later.
John signaled to Shakeel who was peering out from underneath the Land Cruiser. He nodded in understanding. John hesitated, summoning up the courage to move.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
He took a deep breath, then carefully stood, keeping the tree trunk between him and Prataporn. Peering around the trunk, he was about to run when he noticed one of the men getting to his feet and paused to take a better look. John watched as the old man stood, straightened his shoulders, and started walking toward Prataporn.
Prataporn shouted in Thai and pointed the Glock at the old man. He fired, and a puff of dust appeared to the right of the old man’s feet, but he didn’t stop. He kept walking as the other men raised their heads in amazement.
This was just the distraction John needed. He sprinted out from behind the tree, heading away from Prataporn, toward his back in a flanking maneuver while on the other side, Shakeel did the same. Prataporn fired again at the old man, this time the bullet landing in the dust to his left. He kept walking, his face strangely calm. Shakeel was closest to Prataporn, and at the last minute, Prataporn sensed his approach and spun around, pointing the Glock at Shakeel’s head. Shakeel dived for the dirt and rolled away, giving John just enough time to reach Prataporn and leap for his back, knocking him to the ground. The Glock went flying from his hand into the dust as John pounded the sides of Prataporn’s head from behind. Prataporn twisted and bucked beneath him. He turned over and threw a right and left to John’s midsection, knocking the wind out of him. John gripped him with his knees, but Prataporn threw him off into the dirt. John rolled over and tried to scramble away, but he was too slow, unable to breathe. Prataporn landed on his back, pinning him to the ground. He pounded John’s head with his fists, sending stars to John’s eyes. John twisted and bucked, trying to throw him off until suddenly, John felt the weight of his body disappear. He rolled over and raised his fists to defend himself, but Prataporn was gone. Instead, he saw Shakeel standing beside him, the Glock in his hand, and the body of Prataporn lying in the dirt at his feet. John pushed himself to his feet and patted Shakeel in the shoulder.
“Thank you, my friend.” He peered down at Prataporn. “Is he dead?”
“No, I just hit him.”
“Okay.” John felt a stinging on his lips and touched his mouth. His fingertips came away sticky with blood.
“Shit, Abdul.”
He turned and ran over to where Abdul wa
s lying, the old man squatting beside him in the dirt.
“Abdul.”
“I’m okay, Mr. John.”
John knelt beside him, patting the old man on the shoulder as he did so.
“Let me take a look.” He moved the cloth of Abdul’s sarong out of the way and examined the wound. It didn’t look deep, and the bleeding had slowed down. “I think you will be okay, Abdul. It doesn’t look deep, I think the bullet just grazed you.” John looked up. “Shakeel, check the cars. There might be a first aid kit in one of them.”
Shakeel ran off, and John asked one of the other men standing beside them, “Bring me his belt,” waving at Prataporn.
Once he had the belt, he fastened it above the wound in a makeshift tourniquet. Shakeel returned with a first aid kit, and John applied a dressing to the wound, bandaging it as best as he could. They carried Abdul into the shade of the tree and laid him on the ground. John squeezed his shoulder.
“We’ll get you to a hospital soon, Abdul. You will need stitches.”
Abdul smiled, and John straightened up and looked around at the men and women gathered around him—the hopeful faces of all ages, men, women, and children.
“You are all free now,” he smiled. “These people won’t bother you anymore.” He turned to Shakeel.
“Shakeel, can you make sure all the guards are secure?” John nodded in the direction of the guard lying on the ground. “Is he alive?”
“I think so, but he won’t be troubling us for a while.”
“Good. Lock them all in the hut,” John grinned. “Let’s see how much they enjoy that.”
Shakeel chuckled and signaled to a couple of men to help him.
“The first thing we need to do is find water,” John spoke up, addressing the crowd.
One of the Bangladeshi men pointed toward the guard hut. “They have a borewell beside the hut.”
John turned, looked toward the hut, and realized the door was closed. He frowned. He was sure it had been open earlier. He walked over and tried the door. It was fastened from the inside. He stepped across to the window and peered through the dirty glass. It was dark inside and difficult to see. He squinted, trying to make sense of the interior. It was only when Hassan moved, that he spotted him hiding in the corner.
76
John turned and waved a couple of the younger men over. “Do you speak English?”
“A little.”
“Okay. The man who put all of you in this camp, the Boss man, he’s hiding in this hut. We need to get him out.”
The young man translated to the other men, then they called out to the others who came running. John stood back and watched as they hurled themselves at the door, again and again, until the wood splintered, and the door gave way. The men poured into the hut, and a moment later, dragged the big, fleshy, linen-clad mass of Hassan out into the sun and dropped him, face down in the dirt. John walked over and squatted beside him.
“Turn him over.”
Two men stepped forward and rolled him over. Hassan panted, his stomach rising rapidly up and down, mucous running from one of his nostrils, and what looked like tears running down his face.
“Are you crying?”
Hassan said nothing, his eyes darting from John to the crowd and back again.
“Now, who doesn’t have the balls, huh?”
As John spoke, the memories of all that had happened in the last few days came flashing back. The sight of Amira cowering in her room, her battered and bruised face wet with tears. Adriana being kidnapped from the apartment and being slapped in the face by Prataporn. Amira beaten to within an inch of her life. Then the stories from the men in the camp. He had thought so much about this moment, about what he would do when he got hold of Hassan, but now that he was here, all he felt was disgust.
“This man is responsible for all of you being kept in this camp.” John raised his voice so all could hear. “He has made millions from you and many people like you. He profited from your misery. While he kept you here with little food and water, he has been living the life of a millionaire in Bangkok. A beautiful apartment, expensive food and drink every day, enjoying himself while you rot here in the jungle.” John paused and looked down at Hassan with loathing. “Think you’re a tough guy? You’re just a fucking bully. Fucking scum.”
John clenched his fists, gritted his teeth, his whole body tense, then exhaled. He’d had enough. He was tired and had a better idea. He stood up and addressed the crowd.
“I’ll leave it up to you to decide a suitable punishment,” He turned and walked away.
There was silence at first, but then he heard cries of pain as the group closed in on Hassan and kicked and punched him, venting their fury on the man who had exploited them.
John walked over and knelt down beside Abdul. The old man was sitting, holding Abdul’s hand, and John gave him a weary smile before addressing Abdul.
“How are you feeling, my friend?”
Abdul opened his eyes and smiled weakly. “I’ve felt better, Mr. John, but I’ll survive.”
“Good.” John nodded in the old man’s direction, “It was thanks to Uncle here we could get hold of Prataporn. He’s a tough old goat.”
“He is, Mr. John.” Abdul squeezed the old man’s hand. “Tougher than us young ones.”
A gunshot rang out, and John spun around. The crowd slowly backed away from the body of Hassan, leaving Shakeel standing over him, the Glock in his hand. Hassan lay unmoving, his clothes torn to shreds, his body battered and broken, blood seeping out from a hole in his forehead. Shakeel stepped back, looked up, and caught John’s eye.
He glared back, his features consumed with fury. He looked down at the body again, then turned away, visibly relaxing, his face softening as the rage dissipated. He walked over, turned the Glock around and held it out, butt first to John. John stood up and took it, saying nothing. Shakeel turned back to look at the body before speaking.
“He was a disgrace to my country and to my people, John. But now…” Shakeel shook his head. “He can never exploit us and people like us again.”
John slipped the Glock into his waistband and placed a hand first on Shakeel’s shoulder, squeezing it, then patted him on the back. Keeping his hand on Shakeel’s shoulder, they both stood, looking across the packed dirt at the body of the man who had destroyed so many lives.
77
John was overseeing the distribution of water from the borewell when they heard an engine racing toward them from the jungle. They looked up in panic as the police pickup came careening into the camp in a cloud of dust, two men, dressed in black combat fatigues, armed with automatic weapons standing in the tray.
“Shit,” muttered John, reaching behind him for the Glock as the occupants of the camp ran for cover. The pickup slid to a halt, and the two armed men jumped to the ground, dropped to one knee, and scanned the camp through their weapon sights.
John stepped behind the wall of the guard house, the Glock ready in his hand and watched as the front door of the pickup opened, and the driver climbed out, a fit-looking young man in black, a serious looking handgun in his hand. He took up a position behind the open door, rested the barrel of his weapon on the door frame, and scanned the camp from behind his mirrored Ray-Bans.
John frowned. These guys didn’t look like police. Who the fuck were they? Did Hassan have a boss?
The passenger door opened, and John’s eyes widened in shock as the occupant climbed out. His heart leaped into his throat, and he sprinted toward the car as fast as he could.
Throwing his arms around Adriana, he whirled her off her feet, burying his face in her neck, squeezing her as hard as he could before finally pulling his face away to look at her. Tears of relief ran down his face, and before long, she was crying too.
“How did you find me?”
Adriana grinned and tilted her head to the side to wipe the tears from her face with her shoulder.
“Your friend, William. Thank God, you’re safe. I was so worrie
d, John.” She looked at his swollen lip, the bruising on his face. “What happened to your face? Are you okay?”
“Everything is wonderful now.” He dropped his arms and clasped her hand with his left, tucking the Glock back into his waistband with his right. Nodding at the three armed men, he said, “I see you brought the cavalry.”
Adriana looked around. “It doesn’t look like you needed it.” Her eyes fell on the body of Hassan, lying in the dirt. She gasped, “Is that…” Her hand went to her mouth.
“Yes.” John gently turned her away. “Where’s Amira?”
“She’s safe with William and his wife… but, John, what happened here?”
“I’ll tell you, don’t worry, but not now.” He led her toward the tree. “Come, there are some people I want you to meet.” Stopping halfway, he asked, “By the way, where are the cops whose car you stole?”
“They’re tied up in the back of the pickup,” Adriana winked.
“There was another guy… Hassan’s driver?”
“He’s in there too. It’s a bit crowded.”
John looked at her with pride, his eyes tearing up again, then led her by the hand toward the shade of the tree.
“Adriana, I would like you to meet my friends, Abdul and Shakeel. They have some stories you need to hear.”
78
It was two days before John and Adriana could leave the camp. There was a lot to do.
John had taken Abdul into town and found a doctor to stitch his wound and give him a handful of antibiotics and painkillers. The doctor was confident the wound would heal nicely, and a large tip forestalled any attempt on his part to ask too many questions.
With William’s men, they had brought back plenty of food, water, bedding, and toys for the children. When John had a decent cell phone signal, he put in a call to the UNHCR in Bangkok and explained the situation, sharing the location and photos of the camp.
A New Beginning Page 19