by Toby Neal
The muddy bank gave way to waist-high grasses interspersed with tropical trees. Sophie ate another energy bar, supplemented by a couple of guavas. The food gave her enough energy to pick up her pace to a trot once she found a narrow cow path.
She kept a close eye out for the area’s worst hazard, the monocled cobra. Cobras liked grassy areas, and this type of field was their favorite kind of habitat. Mostly feeding on rats and mice, cobras were aggressive when frightened—and the last thing Sophie needed to deal with right now was an extremely venomous snakebite.
The baaing of animals ahead speeded her on—where there were domestic animals, there were people! A few hundred yards farther, Sophie felt her spirits lift to spot a native farmer dressed in simple clothing tending a herd of goats. She greeted him in Thai with a grateful smile and a small bow, ignoring his astonished expression at her unexpected appearance. “Can you direct me to the road? I am lost.”
He did better than that, escorting her, along with his bleating charges, all the way to the dirt track she’d identified on the GPS. She thanked him and then dug into her pocket, producing a handful of colorful cash. “Can I hire you to take me to the outskirts of Bangkok?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Day Twenty-Five
Connor followed the Master down a dank, mildew-smelling hallway to a flight of cut stone stairs. His legs were still weak from being bound for days, and his belly was hollow—he was long past the point of mere hunger. He gritted his teeth and gripped the rough wall to help pull himself forward, but dizziness forced him to lean against it.
The Master turned to look at him, then without a word, looped Connor’s arm over his shoulder and helped him up the stairs. At the next landing, he told the ninjas stationed there to take Connor to his chambers and prepare a bath. “Treat his injuries. I will be along to speak with him after he has had time to rest.” Connor kept his head hanging, not letting on that he understood the language.
“Your chambers, master?” Disbelief was clear in the ninja’s voice.
“You heard me the first time.” The Master made a gesture with his hand. The man dropped to the ground and began doing push-ups.
Another ninja rushed forward to take Connor’s weight. “Right away, Master.”
Connor glanced back as he was half escorted, half carried down the hall. The Master had disappeared down the stairs again, but the ninja who had misspoken was still doing push-ups.
Connor had the feeling that he would not stop until he collapsed.
How did the Master command such obedience, even from Pim Wat?
Connor was borne along the hallway to a sumptuous apartment. The ninjas carrying him barked out orders to a guard standing by the door of the apartment, and that guard ran off as the ninja hoisted Connor through the doorway.
Connor lowered his head as if exhausted, which he was—but he also needed to take in and observe everything about this environment. This could be his only chance to escape.
Persian carpets and embroidered tapestries softened the harsh stone of the living area they entered, set with a low divan and a comfortable armchair arranged with a low table in front of a fireplace. A fire crackled on the hearth, rich with the smell of sandalwood. Priceless artworks, framed in gold, glowed from the walls.
Through one open door, Connor glimpsed a majestic bedchamber. And through another, a bare, monastic cell of a room with nothing to soften it but a small prayer rug, rolled out in front of a flickering brazier on an altar.
The master was allowing Connor to see inside not only the fortress of the Yām Khûmkạn, but his own private living space.
To what purpose? This whole situation could be an elaborate game of “good cop, bad cop” designed to gain his trust.
The ninja helping him assisted Connor into a bath chamber off of the bedroom. A stone privy with a polished wooden seat and cover hid behind a painted screen; a ewer of polished tin held water for rinsing away the waste. A huge copper bathtub dominated the room.
Connor parked himself on the privy while several ninjas carrying buckets filled the tub with steaming water.
So far, Pim Wat was the only woman he’d seen in the whole place.
Connor was nodding with exhaustion when the tub was finally filled and he was helped into warm, herb-scented water. He nearly fell asleep as his body was scrubbed and his wounds cleaned. Finally, the ninjas helped him out of the bath. They helped him onto a stone platform covered with layers of absorbent cotton cloth—a crude massage table, Connor realized, as an older ninja with kind eyes and a tonsure of hair around his baldpate entered the room.
The healer assessed Connor with gentle fingers, anointing his many bruises and scrapes—and finally, covered him with a blanket.
He slept.
Pim Wat ground her teeth as she stomped away from the holding cell. How could the Master undercut her like that before the men? Before the prisoners?
She powered up the rough stone stairs to her apartment and opened her mouth to shout for Armita—and remembered again a wound that tore into her heart. That faithless jade had taken her granddaughter and disappeared!
“Foul daughter of the devil! Offal of a rotting goat! How could you do this to me, Armita!” Pim Wat’s eyes stung suspiciously. No! She wouldn’t cry over that miserable she-hag!
Bursting with fury, Pim Wat stormed into the small antechamber that had been Armita’s, opening off of her own apartment. She flung open the wooden cupboard that held Armita’s clothing. Most of Armita’s simple wardrobe was gone, but a few nicer gowns that Pim Wat had given her for public appearances and travel still hung neatly in the armoire.
Pim Wat pulled a knife from her waistband and slashed the garments, cursing and growling. No, she wouldn’t cry over her maid’s betrayal—but she would rage.
Rage was good. Rage protected her. Rage felt like cleansing fire.
And just that suddenly, the rage was spent, disintegrating into the empty ash of loss.
Pim Wat stood in a pile of brightly colored silk, satin, lace, and cotton, the narrow-bladed knife dangling from her hand. Rags still clung to a few hangers. Armita’s personal scent, a gentle aroma of sandalwood and beeswax, rose from the ruined garments.
Grief and loneliness swamped Pim Wat.
She was alone. Betrayed by those closest to her. She’d devoted her life to the Master and to the Yām Khûmkạn; and what did she have to show for it? Nothing!
Her daughter was an angry, distant stranger. Her maid and closest friend had stolen her grandchild. And now her lover had betrayed her and embarrassed her in front of their men.
Worst of all was how keenly Pim Wat missed Armita. Her daughter’s nanny had been with her seven days a week for more than twenty years.
Pim Wat fell to her knees in the midst of the shredded fabric. She let go of the knife, and scooped the ruined clothing into her arms. Crushing her face into the scraps, she gave way to her tears, weeping without restraint.
“Beautiful One.” The Master’s hand on her shoulder was a point of heat in a world gone cold. He dropped to kneel beside her, drawing her close. He kissed her forehead, wrapping her in his arms. “Haven’t I told you that you must master your emotions?”
“I cannot,” Pim Wat sobbed.
He pressed her wet face into his chest. She sagged, melting against him, and he tipped up her chin and kissed her. “I love the taste of your tears for how rare they are.” He kissed her some more, lifted her out of the pile of ruined clothing, and carried her to the bed.
They had played many games on that bed—extended their pleasure with props and techniques, with role play and bondage and chemical assistance. But this time the Master merely stripped her and took her, and comforted her with his body and his love.
She cried again at the end, and he drank her tears.
He stroked her naked flesh as their passion cooled and they lay facing each other. “You did wrong with those men, Beautiful One. That violence was not what I wanted.”
Pim Wat
gazed into his eyes. Sated from passion, their color reminded her of deep purple pansies. “You gave me freedom in how to achieve the goal. I only sought to get the outcome we wanted.”
“But you did not need to hurt anyone to get that. I want you to watch how I get what we want without even one more act of suffering.”
Pim Wat frowned. “They are willing to die before they tell you anything.”
“We will simply tell them the truth. They will communicate with your daughter, and she will come to us and give us what we want in exchange.”
“I don’t understand how that will happen.” Pim Wat sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Sophie Malee hates me now.”
“You have caused that, my Beautiful One. You do not understand people and what motivates them. Of her own free will, Sophie will come to us. And Hamilton? I have plans for him. He is more than he appears.”
Pim Wat recognized the speculative look the Master got in his eye when he was considering a highly placed recruit. “You have a hundred apprentices,” she snorted. “Hamilton is not malleable clay.”
“You don’t see in him what I do.” The Master’s face was calm, implacable. “He wants so much more from his life than he is getting. I can give that to him.”
“I don’t understand your interest in Hamilton. It’s Jake who is her lover; you need him to get her to come. And I don’t want to let Jake go.” Pim Wat bit her lip, pouting.
“You killed him. Fortunately, Hamilton and I revived him.”
“I didn’t mean to kill him. I had other plans for Jake . . .” Pim Wat fiddled with a jade ornament tied into the Master’s hair, averting her eyes.
“I know. You wanted to violate him. Make him serve you in bed. Hurt your daughter by forcing her lover.”
Pim Wat looked up reluctantly. The Master saw Pim Wat clearly, but nothing in his demeanor changed; his eyes were still velvety and loving.
“You are a cobra, my Beautiful One. Hissing and venomous. But you are my cobra.” He stroked her breast, tweaked her nipple. “My deadly love. I will satisfy your bloodthirsty urges.” The Master wound his hand in the skein of her long black hair, pulled her closer so that she bared her throat to him. “You need no one but me. You want no one but me.” But instead of her neck, he leaned over and bit her breast.
Pim Wat shrieked. She bit him back, sinking her teeth into his shoulder. They wrestled and thrashed; blood was drawn on both sides—and the Master thoroughly obliterated her lingering thirst for Jake’s body.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Day Twenty-Five
“Hamilton.” Someone was calling his name.
Connor woke and groaned at the stiffness of his body. He looked up. Rosy sunset filtered through a narrow slit at the top of the room—the day was almost gone. He was chilled and sore; the bruises around his wrists and ankles throbbed.
“You will feel better once you have eaten.” The Master’s captivating voice came from the doorway. “Come. Join me for dinner.”
Connor swung his legs off the stone platform and sat up, fighting dizziness. He slid down to stand, pulling the cloth that had been used as a towel off the stone and wrapping it around his naked waist before spotting a black gi hanging from a peg on the wall. He took a moment to don the shirt and loose pants, knotting the belt at his waist. He was stronger, and walked straighter—but now he felt a grinding pinch in his belly, the gnaw of urgent hunger.
A small round table had been set up in front of the fireplace, and the divan and loveseat moved back. One of the ninjas carried in a tray loaded with covered dishes, bowed to the Master, and left, closing the door behind him.
Connor eyed the table for anything like a weapon, but a pair of wooden chopsticks did not seem like a weapon that would make a dent on a martial artist of the Master’s stature—because though he’d never seen the man in action, everything about him spoke of deadly competence.
A lamp burned on the rough stone wall, bathing the Master in a subtle glow as he used a simple bamboo scoop to serve a delicious-smelling meat and vegetable stir fry over rice into a bowl for each of them. He poured a ruby-colored drink from a carafe into horn cups. Connor watched as the man picked up his chopsticks. Every movement was graceful and definite.
“Eat. You must regain your strength,” the Master said. “But not too fast.”
Connor nodded and picked up his chopsticks. Why was this man being kind to him? Had he really not known what Pim Wat was up to in her torture chamber? Did he know how she’d executed his men in the jungle? Clearly this man was in charge—but Pim Wat must be a lieutenant or second in command.
The food was as good as it smelled—fresh and perfectly cooked, redolent of ginger, lemongrass, and garlic, and the rice fragrant and sticky. Connor found himself wolfing down the meal. He forced himself to slow down, to chew carefully, to quaff the ruby-colored drink, some kind of tangy fruit juice, between bites.
Suddenly full, he pushed his plate away, breathing through a wave of nausea.
The Master rang a small brass bell. The ninja who’d helped Connor cleared their plates, then returned with a tea tray. The man closed the outer door, leaving them alone.
“I know who you are,” the Master said. He poured tea into translucent porcelain cups.
Connor’s belly lurched—he had eaten too much. “I don’t know what you mean.” He took the delicate teacup, turned it in his hands, trying to warm his cold fingers.
“You are the computer vigilante called the Ghost.”
Connor set the cup down too hard. Tea splashed onto the tray. “Ridiculous.”
The Master sat back. A slight smile curled his full lips. “You needn’t worry. I don’t even plan to tell my Beautiful One, though how I found you was through tracking her phone communications. She’s been receiving information from you for over a year now. Targets you want her to eliminate. And she has done that for you.”
Connor lifted the teacup again, for something to do.
He’d taken out the remaining brown contact lens and dropped it as soon as he could after his wrists had been freed; the thing had been in his eye way too long and had irritated his cornea. He guessed that the brown hair dye was fading from his naturally blond locks too. His cover as Sheldon Hamilton was blown.
Had Jake gotten a good look at him with only one contact in? Hopefully not. If Jake ever put Connor’s Sheldon Hamilton identity and the deceased Todd Remarkian persona together, he’d be pissed—at Connor, but even more, at Sophie for keeping Connor’s secret.
“There’s a reason I disguised my looks,” Connor said. “But this vigilante stuff is nonsense.” Deny, deny, deny.
“I won’t engage in petty argument with you.” The Master sipped his tea.
Connor looked around. “Where is the baby? We came for her.”
“The child is no longer here.” The Master set his cup back on the tray and laced his fingers over his flat belly. A fresh scratch marred the golden-brown skin of his neck; Connor could have sworn it hadn’t been there when he’d seen the man earlier. “This is no place for a baby.”
“Where is she?”
“That need not concern you. What should concern you is that we still need Sophie.” The Master leaned forward, meeting Connor’s eyes. “The Yām Khûmkạn’s primary mission is to protect and serve Thailand’s royal family. We are the remnant of the dynasty’s original castle guard.” The Master poured more tea. The aromatic scent settled Connor’s roiling stomach. “The crown prince is only nine years old. He has a rare form of leukemia. Sophie is his second cousin, and out of all the world the only match that we’ve been able to find to donate needed bone marrow to him. We need her to save his life.”
Connor’s mouth had fallen open somewhere along the way, and he closed it with an effort. “Why didn’t Pim Wat just tell Sophie this? Ask her to donate the marrow?”
“My Beautiful One . . . hates to admit any weakness. Appealing to her daughter’s compassion is not her style.”
“Stealing Sophie’s child has no
t endeared her, either.”
“Pim Wat claims taking the child was an impulse. She hoped the baby would be a match for the prince, and that she would not need to bring Sophie here since Sophie had proved recalcitrant. But the infant was not a match. Then, Pim Wat’s maid took her and disappeared.” The Master sipped his tea imperturbably.
Connor sat up as adrenaline hit his system. “Armita took the baby.”
“Yes.”
“And I take it you don’t know where they are.”
The Master’s pansy-colored eyes met Connor’s squarely. “Do you think you would even be alive right now if Pim Wat had the baby to use as leverage on Sophie?”
Connor’s heart thudded. “You expect Sophie to come here and donate bone marrow in exchange for Jake and me?”
“Yes.” The Master leaned forward. “And because she would not want to see an innocent child die. Her own relative.”
Connor sat back and shook his head. “I’m guessing Armita is in touch with Sophie now. Sophie will stop at nothing to be reunited with her child. She won’t come here once she has Momi. You’ve miscalculated.”
“I don’t miscalculate. She will come for you.” They locked eyes. Connor looked away first. “Put your wrist on the table,” the Master commanded.
Connor found himself doing so, resting his fist, fingers up, on the flat surface. Riverlike blue veins tracked over his rigid ligaments, disappearing into the meat of his muscled forearm. The insides of his wrists were marked by the brass handcuffs, purplish creases and red scrapes marring the pale skin.
The Master put his forefinger and middle finger on a spot just below Connor’s hand. He pressed down lightly.
Connor froze, paralyzed. His breath caught and held—his diaphragm refused to respond. His body went rigid. He couldn’t even blink. His skin crawled with bizarre sensations. There wasn’t a thing he could do about any of it—he was trapped in his immobile body.