Fon started to flounder with a delayed panic, thrashing about with her arms. “Relax, I will hold you up. Just don’t fight me,” Regan shouted.
Fon stopped panicking and relaxed as Regan took hold of her blouse with one hand and supported her under the shoulder with the other. Regan noticed a longtail boat heading towards them and heard its noisy outboard motor spewing greyish blue noxious exhaust fumes.
“Fon, wave your arms so he can see us.” Fon waved her arms frantically above her head while Regan kept her afloat.
The boat headed towards them. It slowed down as it drew alongside, and the sole occupant threw them a line. Slowly but surely, inch by inch, the boatman hauled first Fon, then Regan to the side of the boat. They clambered aboard, grateful and exhausted. Regan and Fon lay on the wooden planking recovering from their dunking.
Fon kissed Regan and said, “Thank you.”
Regan smiled an acknowledgement. He looked up and saw the boatman with a gun in his hand pointing straight at Regan.
In broken English, he said, “Shut up and don’t move.”
Regan and Fon were not inclined to argue. They complied until the longtail reached the nearest shore on Phuket Island. Regan and Fon scampered over the side, waded through the shallows and walked on to the sandy beach. There they stood for some five minutes guarded by the armed boatman.
Regan said, “What’s going on?”
“Shut up!” the guard snapped back.
Two minutes later, Regan heard the sound of a truck. It appeared on the rough road beyond the fringe of coconut trees. It looked like a delivery van. As he saw Vitale and Watkins get out of the van, he thought, Yeah, it’s delivering bad news. He also saw they were both armed.
“Must have had more guns in the car,” Regan muttered, knowing their guns were useless after submersion in salt water.
Vitale and Watkins were angry. Regan could tell from their faces. There was a loud bang as a coconut fell on the roof of the van. Watkins wheeled around and fired a shot at the van leaving a hole in the side.
Jittery, thought Regan and whispered, “Fon, do as they say.”
“Okay, Steve.”
Watkins approached with Vitale watching every move with a gun at the ready. The Texan searched both Regan and Fon thoroughly and checked Fon’s mouth this time. She cooperated by opening her mouth and displaying an empty cavity. He found the knife and the .38 in Fon’s blouse pockets. Watkins tucked both into his safari-style tunic. He also found the soaked 9 mm still secured in Regan’s waistband and also placed that into a jacket pocket.
Now satisfied both were unarmed, Watkins turned to the boatman.
The boatman said, “My money now for the boat and my van.”
Watkins made no reply, just shot the boatman in the head twice. The Thai boatman fell dead to the ground. Watkins fired once more into the back of his head.
Vitale said, “Right, get in the back of the van.”
Regan said, “Where are you taking us?”
“Lucky’s Bar, but it isn’t going to be so lucky for you or her. We’ll find a quiet room and if it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to find out who the fuck you really are. If you don’t tell me, I’ll beat the shit out of your whore here until she begs me to stop or you fess up.”
Using the gun, Vitale pushed and prodded Regan and Fon to the rear doors of the van. Watkins opened them and took out a length of rope. He first tied Regan’s wrists behind his back, then did the same with Fon. Once they were inside the back of the van, he lashed the remainder of the rope to a metal spar overhead. Watkins closed the doors and Regan heard the click as they were locked.
11
I'm a Nobody
The van slowed down opposite Lucky’s Bar. No one saw the following motorbike, but the rider saw them checking out the bar. The van drove on and came to a halt in a parking slot about fifty yards beyond Lucky’s Bar.
Vitale turned around and spoke through the wire mesh separating the cab from the rear of the delivery van. “Listen up, you two. Here’s how it’s gonna play out. We are going to do one more circuit of the block to make sure nothing is going on we don’t like the look of. When we get back, Les will untie you both. We all walk in like nothing is wrong. You two first and we will shoot both of you if there’s any monkey business. Capiche?”
Regan said, “Right. Got it.”
Vitale said, “Regan, Ryan, Irish, or whoever the fuck you are, get a key for a quiet room. Upper floor, not facing the street and next to a fire escape. Okay?”
Regan nodded.
“I didn’t hear you!” Vitale hissed.
“Okay, okay. Fuck you,” Regan said.
The van set off once more on a circuit that would take twenty minutes owing to the traffic. The man on the motorbike watched the van set off, turned off the bike’s engine and pushed it into an alley behind Lucky’s Bar. He took off his black helmet than mopped the sweat from his brow and eyes. He slid off the black backpack and rested it on the seat of the bike. After checking its contents, he placed the helmet under his arm and walked down the alley to the front entrance of Lucky’s Bar.
He approached the bar and said, “How much for a room for one night?”
The man behind the bar said, “Two hundred single. Three hundred- baht double bed.”
“Single,” motorbike man said as he pulled off some notes from a roll and handed them over.
“You want receipt?” the bar man said.
“No,” the stranger replied.
“Here your key. Room 301 up the stairs. Only single we have next to family room.”
The stranger took the key but instead of heading straight to his room, he sat at a table and ordered a soft drink. There he sat, sipping his refreshing, cold drink and playing a film in his mind. He was visualising what would happen and what he needed to do when he saw the two Americans face to face. He played it over and over in his head, frame by frame, picturing all the possible outcomes. He didn’t feel at all nervous. This was payback time.
* * *
The delivery van made slow progress through the narrow Patong streets thronged as usual with tourists, locals, tuk-tuks, weaving motorcycles and all the usual traffic hazards. It took thirty minutes to complete the circuit. Watkins parked the van in the same parking slot, leaving a short walk to Lucky’s Bar.
Carlo Vitale got out of the front passenger seat, walked to the back, unlocked the doors and spoke to Regan and Fon. “Right. No freakin’ funny business. Just act like all is normal. No moves. If you make a false move, I’ll shoot the whore first then you. Got it?”
Regan said, “Yeah, I got it.”
“What about your piece of pussy? Don’t she speak or she too busy sucking your dick?”
Regan made a grab for Vitale’s collar.
Fon clasped his arm and said, “Steve, leave it. I’m a big girl. I heard you too. I got it. Okay.” Fon shouted the ‘okay’ and spat on Vitale’s shoes.
Vitale had no chance to react as Regan held Fon’s hand, almost dragging her out of the rear doors. They were now standing on the street in full view of any curious onlookers.
Carlo Vitale swallowed his pride, suppressed his anger and said, “Walk. Get the room key and make it a comfortable room. I need space to talk to you, Regan.”
Regan and Fon walked steadily towards the familiar bar. It had been home to them both for many months. Their clothes, now dry, did not draw any attention, though Fon’s nurse’s uniform did attract some inquisitive stares from passers-by who recognised her. Their bare feet also attracted some curiosity.
As they walked through the front door of Lucky’s Bar, each was unaware of the heart-pounding sensation in their respective breasts. Regan told himself to relax. It’s only a fear of the unknown, he mused. Fon’s mouth was dry and she called upon the Lord Buddha to protect her and Steve.
Regan said to the barman, “Key for 302 please, Mong.”
Mong said, “Sure. You okay, Mister Ryan?”
“Fine, Mong, got some b
usiness with these two guys and need a quiet place to talk.”
“Fon, Mae’s mother called here two times. Her Mama wants to speak to you.”
“Later, Mong. I call her later. I must go with Mister Steve.”
“Ah, Okay.” Mong handed the key to Regan and said, “302.”
Motorbike man looked up on hearing ‘302.’ Good, he thought. He had seen them all enter the bar but feigned not to see anything at all. He was now fully aware of who everybody was. After all, he had followed them all the way from Bangkok. He watched them make their way to the stairs to climb to the third floor. Motorbike man heard the clip-clop of the Texan’s boots fade, picked up his backpack and climbed the same stairs to the same floor but let himself into Room 301, first checking that Room 302 was the adjoining room. It was.
He smiled at his good fortune. Once inside the room, he checked the contents of the backpack. Yes. It’s all there, he assured himself, smiled and took out the SIG Sauer P226 Tactical first. It was fitted with an extended five-inch barrel machined with external threads. He then screwed the suppressor to the barrel. No noise. With that thought, he heard loud music coming from the adjoining room 302. It was full volume.
Might still need the suppressor, he surmised, and turned to look at himself in the full-length mirror on a wall of the hotel room. He posed, adopting the firing position, aiming at the reflection. He saw calmness. His hands were rock-steady. He paused and noted how young he looked: a fresh-faced young man, twenty-five years old, jet black hair.
The sight prompted a dialogue between right and wrong in his mind:
‘Can you do this?’
‘Sure, I can.’
‘You have never killed a man before.’
‘Carlo Vitale is not a man. He’s vermin.’
‘But you are a doctor.’
‘Yes. And now I’m a doctor of death. I’m ready.’
The doctor turned away from the mirror, went to the bag and withdrew the syringe and a vial full of an oily amber tinted liquid. “Now I’m ready,” said the doctor.
Over the loud music in Room 302, the adjoining room, he caught a British voice shouting, “I told you before in Miami. I’m a nobody. A nothing. Just a dealer. A bad guy like you.”
Then an American voice with a New York accent, “Okay, wise guy. Tell me this. Why two names, two passports?”
“My name is Steve Regan. I can’t use that passport in Thailand. Steve Ryan is a false name, a false passport. I’m wanted in this country.”
“For what?” asked Vitale in his rasping accent.
“I killed a guy in a bar fight in Pattaya.”
“When?”
“Three years back. Before I met you in Miami.”
Watkins was standing by the door with his gun trained on Fon. She was sitting on one of the two armchairs in the room. Regan sat the other a few feet away. Carlo Vitale sat on the edge of the bed interrogating Regan. He was pointing at Regan with one hand every time he asked a question, and the other hand held a gun.
Regan said, “Let me ask you something?”
Vitale looked bemused and said, “What the fuck you think this is? A business convention?”
“I need to know something. It may sound stupid but I need to know.”
“Shoot.”
“Why do you need to know if I’m a cop?”
“Yeah. That is stupid. You got to be kidding me, right?”
“No. I’m serious. Bill knew I was no cop. Why isn’t that good enough for you?”
“Bill’s dead so he can’t tell me nothing from the grave.”
“No. You’re not getting it. Bill infiltrated British Customs, right?”
“Right,” Vitale said looking puzzled.
“If he was in deep with them, which he was, he would have known if I was a cop, ergo he would have told you. Capiche?”
“Ergo! Ergo! Speak freakin’ English, will ya?”
“Therefore. Therefore, you would have known because Bill would have told you. He didn’t tell you because I’m not a cop. He would have known if I was.”
“What was the name of the bar in Pattaya?”
“The Black Cat.”
“Know it, Les?”
“Yeah. It’s a dump. There was a guy knifed there a few years back. I remember a Brit was wanted for killing the guy, an Aussie, I think.”
Regan said, “Yeah, he was an Aussie.” He thought, thank fuck my back story is sound.
“Look Regan, Ryan, who the fuck, my guts tell me you ain’t right. Think you might talk if we rough up your whore here,” Vitale said nodding towards Fon.
“Don’t touch her. It’s nothing to do with her.”
“Tell you what, Regan. Tell me you’re a cop and the only one who dies is you.”
“I’m a cop. Like fuck I am! How many times do I have to tell you I’m no cop? Besides, I don’t trust you. You’re gonna kill us both whatever the truth. Why is this so important to you?”
“Let me put it this way. If you are, they might not kill me. Might being the key word.”
“Who’s they?” Regan asked.
“Spooks at Langley. CIA. That’s who the guns are for. They run them to some tinpot commie country in Central America.”
“Why?” Regan said.
“Why? Why? I don’t fucking know why! They just do. That’s what the CIA do, cause trouble in other countries in the name of freedom. What matters is when they find out the guns aren’t delivered, they will be mighty pissed. They won’t come looking for you. It’s me they will want. If you’re a cop, they might give me a break, especially once they know I’ve wasted you.”
“You know? I actually feel a bit sorry for you,” Regan said with a smile.
Vitale rose from the bed and cracked his pistol over the side of Regan’s head. “Shut the fuck up, Regan.”
Fon started to rise out of the chair on seeing blood seeping from Regan’s temple. Watkins pushed her backwards with such force the chair fell back. Fon cracked the back of her head on the wall with enough force to cause concussion.
“Okay, okay, enough is enough. Les, tear the bitch’s clothes off and get the special tool ready.”
Les Watkins strode over to Fon, reached out and took hold of her uniform blouse by the collar. He yanked it. It tore straight down the middle. Fon was now sitting in the chair wearing her bra and skirt.
“Wait,” the Texan said, “I think she’s KO’d. I want her to know what’s going on.”
Watkins went into the bathroom and returned with a glass of water. He threw the water in Fon’s face. It immediately revived her.
Fon shook her head and hair, blinked, and said, “What you going to do?”
There was no immediate answer. Watkins removed a length of electrical wire from his safari jacket pocket. It had a plug at one end and two trailing leads at the other. There were two metal crocodile clips sheathed in rubber at the end of the two trailing leads. He plugged it in to a wall socket, then brought the two crocodile clips together. There was a bright flash of white light and sparks danced between the two metal protuberances.
Regan shouted, “For God’s sake, no!”
Watkins laughed. “Now let’s see the whore’s titties.”
He grabbed the front of Fon’s bra and pulled hard. The strap at the back sheared in two leaving her naked breasts in full view. The Texan held the two clips in front of her face.
She sobbed, “Please, please. No. Just shoot me.”
“No way, pretty thing,” Watkins said at the same time as reaching down to her skirt waistband. He ripped off the skirt revealing Fon’s panties.
He flung the skirt to the floor and said, “Let’s see this whore’s pussy the Brit loves so much.”
Fon tried to push his hand away but he the Texan was too quick and too strong. The panties made a ripping sound as they gave way. Fon covered her breasts with one hand at the same time clenched her thighs tight. She started muttering some mantra - prayers to the Lord Buddha. She calmed down.
“Shut
up, whore!” yelled Watkins.
Fon ignored him. “Steve, the book for bar lady. Remember, we read it. I get confused difference when to say pussy and when to say cunt. The Texan - he pussy or cunt?” Fon said. She wondered how she had found her resolve not to be intimidated by Watkins and Vitale.
Regan laughed and said, “Definitely cunt, Fon.”
Fon spat out the word with full force and looked Watkins in the eye, “Cunt!”
“Get on with it,” said Vitale, followed by, “now, Steve what you got to tell us?”
“Go fuck yourselves,” Regan said.
“You want your whore to get the treatment?”
“I want you to leave her be.”
“Tell me you’re a cop then.”
“I’m no cop. Go fuck yourselves.” Pangs of guilt shot through Regan’s body.
Watkins started to wave the ‘special tool’ in front of Fon’s face. She flinched every time it passed her eyes. “Curious why two leads, whore?” Fon stayed silent. Watkins coldly ignored her silence and continued, “two leads, two shocks, two nipples, two labia as the text books say, two pussy lips to you.”
Regan started to pray, silently.
12
Doctor Death
Vitale said, “turn up the volume more. She will scream like a stuck pig.”
The Texan, still holding the ‘special tool’ of torture moved across to the radio and turned up the volume knob. The bass beats of a Thai rock band throbbed through the room.
The motorcycling doctor next door could feel the vibrations under his feet. He tapped his feet in time with the beat - Boom! One Mississippi, Boom! Two Mississippi. On three Mississippi, he turned the key in the lock of the door separating the adjoining rooms of 301 and 302. The door opened.
The only person who was in a state of readiness was the man who opened it. Watkins was closest. He turned away from Fon but before he raised his gun the motorcycling doctor fired. The ‘thwack’ of the discharge sounded like a heavy book dropped flat on a table. The ‘whock’ noise was made by the round entering Watkin’s torso just beneath his heart.
Watkins fell to the floor prone but still holding his gun. He jerked three times as in a spasm. Fon was closest. She stamped on Watkin’s gun hand forcing him to loosen his grip. She then kicked the gun away from him.
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