by John L. Hart
Praise for There Will Be Killing:
“A riveting journey into the perils of war and the darkness of the human heart – stylish and provocative.”
– Tara Janzen, New York Times bestselling author
“There Will Be Killing is mesmerizing...a chilling and astonishing novel by authors who know their way around a story.”
– Peggy Webb, USA Today bestselling author of The Language of Silence
“A spellbinding adventure into war and the minds of men pulled by the gravity of darkness and the transcendent goodness found through roaming the fields of friendship.”
– Steven V. Smith, co-founder Vipassana Hawaii and The MettaDana Project for educational and medical projects, Burma
“Make sure you have some time to spend because you won’t want to put it down until you turn the last page.”
– Book Bug
MAKING
A
KILLING
A Murder on the Mekong Thriller
John L. Hart
and Olivia Rupprecht
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
The Story Plant
Studio Digital CT, LLC
P.O. Box 4331
Stamford, CT 06907
Copyright © 2016 by John L. Hart and Olivia Rupprecht
Interior illustrations by John L. Hart
Story Plant Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-237-7
Fiction Studio Books E-book ISBN: 978-1-943486-93-9
Visit our website at www.TheStoryPlant.com
All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by U.S. Copyright Law. For information, address The Story Plant.
For all of our teachers and all of our children.
Republic of Vietnam
Central Highlands
Somewhere near Pleiku
December, 1969
Mouse did not like doing this particular kind of dirty work. For one thing it seemed impersonal. Secondly, he hated going out to the bush in the middle of this ever-scarier goddamn war, even if it was for a short, special assignment.
A whole world of explosions shook him as the firebase artillery sent out what sounded like a sonic BOOM! Yeah, Mouse thought, hurrying his paces, let’s move scary second up to first. He needed to get the inside job done and haul ass back to Nha Trang on the big Sikorsky chopper he’d gotten a lift on before the Viet Cong gooks figured out where their targets were hiding—mostly poor grunts barely old enough to shave who didn’t have the same incentive or talent that had landed Mouse in the Nam himself.
Much as he took pride in his work ethic, Mouse knew what set him apart was the way he could work a crowd. This particular job, though, was an exception—no audience allowed—but he did have a knack for this sort of wet work and, as Uncle Louie would say, anything worth doing was worth doing well.
Mouse couldn’t agree more, not when the timing was so perfect he should be calling his bookie to bet big at the Jersey tracks. This was it. Right place, right time, now that some genius up in the tri-border of Burma-Laos-Thailand had brought in those master Hong Kong chemists to cook up a super high-grade No. 4, 90–99 percent pure heroin.
Fuckin’ world-class, thoroughbred horse.
No wonder the GIs were buying it as fast as guys like him could supply it. He wasn’t a user himself but if he had to live in a shithole like this . . .
Mouse shuddered as another blast went off, reminding him what a lucky SOB he was. Not only did he have the right string pullers to keep him off the front lines, that world-class, thoroughbred horse was ready to explode out the gates and onto the US market. Air America and their free-agent fly-for-hires, they were his kind of guys. Sure, sure they had their share of do-gooders making food drops and all that, but it was the rule twisters getting on board to help transport the drugs that lived on his side of the street. It was a high-stakes game, but the higher the stakes, the bigger the payoff, and this one was gonna make him a killing.
All he had to do was play it right and every crazy dream he’d ever had would come true.
Trouble was, everybody else along the way wanted to make their own dreams come true.
Which brought Mouse to his latest assignment: a certain Ranger major inside the firebase tent he was on his way to visit. True, the major was a pleasant enough guy. He’d been cooperative, followed instructions, and anytime they needed to move the opium and heroin he cleared the way so those filthy tribespeople making the runs from the poppy farms near Laos could have safe passage on the trails that ran through the Highlands. Like everybody else in on the operation, the major always got his payoff, right down to the last dime. The major was getting “short” though, short on the days he had left on his tour of duty, and inevitably fools like him got greedy when it was nearing time to go home. Same old story. These guys just couldn’t be happy with what they had, and somehow justified their stealing with the same old bullshit: I’ve done my job, taken the risks and want an extra-big payoff before I go home. You’d think it was a fuckin’ Christmas bonus they were counting on to buy little Timmy that train set and the wife a flashy ring to make up for all the gook poon they’d gotten on the side in the Nam.
Too bad this major had pinched some of the good stuff. Then—so sad—he flapped his lips about it, trying to find somebody interested in a private sale. That made him greedy and stupid. This guy was for certain bad to the bone when it came to combat situations but a total dumbass when it came to figuring out when to back off and shut up, or “stand down,” as they put it around here. Well. The beauty of doing it this way was that it just looked like the major had made himself a bad morale problem with the troops while sending a message to the guy taking the major’s place. Two birds, one stone. Mouse, he could dig it. Made him want to pop his fingers and put that little jivy bebop swagger in his step while he hummed some Bobby Darin or smooth Dean Martin so anybody watching would think he was cool.
Performer that he was, that was the fuel that usually got him going, but instead he took a quick glance in all directions to make sure nobody was around for the show.
Enter the Zippo. His one inheritance from his father.
Mouse pulled his good luck charm from his pocket, palmed it. Thumb to flint: Flick.
And just like that: Zap.
He’d never been able to explain it, exactly, but it felt like he split off, like part of him left his body but hung around to direct the other part that stayed stuck inside his skin—like he was starring in the same movie he was directing. Yeah, it was a lot like that, and usually it was a pretty cool feeling. Unless he screwed up. And he really hated that because it just made him want to slap himself stupid and call “Cut!” but by then it was too late.
Wouldn’t happen this time, though. Not only was Uncle Louie counting on The Mouse, there was too much riding on getting this right so Corporal Mike “Mouse” Gallini could move up and into the big time. Big, BIG time, not some non-commissioned officer crapola with those NCO guys thinking they could make the army a career and work their way up through the ranks.
Mouse flicked the Zippo once more for good measure, and then put it back into his pocket in exchange for the baseball he’d brought along. He cheerfully tossed the ball up and caught it as he entered the Ranger major’s tent, flaps parting like curtains against the dimly lit interior on
an overcast day, revealing a convincing stage with all the right army props: lantern, table, chair, cot, bottle of Jack. The major in his custom-made, tiger-stripe fatigues.
“Mouse, my man, how’s it hanging?”
Same dumb greeting every time he saw him; the guy really needed some new lines. Mouse grinned, flashing his “What’s up, doc?” teeth.
“Good to see you, Major,” he said, pleased with the casual sound of his delivery. “Getting short, I hear. None too soon either, since word has it there’s been some fraggings up this way. Bad shit but good timing for you to get your ass back to the world safe and sound.”
“Absolutely, Mouse, two weeks and a wake up. What can I do for you?”
“Remember you told me you pitched in the Sally League down South? I got a ball for you to sign for my uncle and another for the nephew, ’zat okay?”
“No problem, Mouse, my man, happy to oblige.”
With a director’s detachment Mouse watched the ball leave his hand.
The major snatched the baseball out of the air, showing off. He signed it, tossed it back. “And the other?”
“This one here’s a real hard ball, Major,” Mouse warned, both watching and feeling his smile widen with anticipation. “Could you just sign it with . . . Thief?”
As the grenade soared high into the air, the major reflexively reached up—only to realize what was coming at him, and the last words he would ever hear.
The observer in Mouse couldn’t resist a last, fleeting look at the major’s bulging eyeballs before instinct kicked in and Mouse dove from the tent. He landed behind some sandbags, legs pulled up tight, hands over his ears.
Perfect timing: the next round of firebase artillery exploded just as the fragmentation grenade did its job.
More perfect timing: no sooner was the fragging job done than his splitting off sensation happened again, only in reverse. The whole thing had become familiar by now, but he hadn’t talked about it to nobody, not ever, because he knew they’d think he was crazy. And maybe he was. But at least he was a successful, hard-working looney tunes. And that counted for something. After all, he had just made Uncle Louie proud, and that wasn’t easy to do.
Still, the part of him that wanted to watch could have cost him, big time, which made him almost as stupid as the Ranger major.
Almost.
The grenade had turned the major into jelly. Mouse’s legs were of the same substance as he wobbled to the latrine, able to pass for any other front-line grunt in his soiled army fatigues. His were just splattered with random pieces of the major instead of gook juice, not that anybody here could tell the difference. He wanted to get back to his regular quarters near Nha Trang, bad, take a three-hour shower; but for now he was stuck. Scrub, scrub. Frantically scrubbing at the stink with cold water so he could change into the extra fatigues he’d brought along. Now that his trumped-up transport assignment was done he had to hurry to catch that Sikorsky chopper he rode in on.
Mouse abruptly stopped in mid-scrub. He had company. Sort of. In the background he could hear that goddam Janis Joplin again, wailing like a couple of cats going at it to Take another little piece of my heart . . .
“Shut up, bitch,” Mouse muttered and clamped his hands over his ears. Only that made the singing louder, louder, LOUDER until he thought a rocket attack or a swarm of gooks coming under the wire had to be better than listening to Janis screech.
The singing suddenly stopped.
His brain flipped back to normal. Just like changing a radio station.
Mouse waited . . . waited a little more.
Once he figured it was safe, he blew out the breath he’d been holding.
He didn’t know for sure because it hadn’t happened yet, but if he had one honest-to-god fear worse than death, it was that once there wasn’t another little piece of his heart to still take, the music in his head would never turn off. He’d be stuck on KRZY, and that’s when he’d go absofuckinlutely bat-shit PSYCHO.
1
The Mekong River
Republic of Vietnam
March, 1970
If the Mississippi is “Ol’ Man River,” then the Mekong is the elder grandmother of rivers, flowing from her birth on the high Tibetan plateau down through China, Burma, Laos, Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam. She has carried for millennia the commerce, dreams, and blood of histories and civilizations. Truly a marvel. Almost as marvelous as you.
That was Katherine Lynn Morningside’s very personal explanation of where she was now, provided by the lover she was with. J. D. Mikel kissed her soundly as they lay entwined on a hammock stretched across the private deck of a Chinese-style sampan. A boat expertly crafted of the finest teak and finely outfitted with a low, throbbing diesel engine, muffled for quiet running. So quiet their intimate sighs startled an answering call from a night bird gliding across the warm waters.
The teak wood of the boat glowed in the light of many, many candles all around the decks. The boat appeared more like a moving temple to a river goddess. Kate felt like a goddess. One that had been consumed by the man who lay naked beside her, their bodies still slick and wet from their lovemaking.
“You love this river, don’t you?” Kate stretched her arm toward the smooth-flowing waves. They glistened beneath the light of a bright quarter moon, silver as the glint of the bracelet on her left wrist. A special gift from JD. He had given it to her long before procuring the sampan to take them someplace up north for a “time to meet the family” first visit.
“You, I love.”
The words were spoken so softly she wondered if stardust made her imagine that the elusive J. D. Mikel had actually said them.
“Did you just say . . .?”
He silenced her question with a kiss that left no doubt.
There was no one and nothing to hear or see them beyond a faint carpet of stars overhead, raw jungle on either side, and two mostly invisible hands on deck—the boat pilot and an exceptionally talented cook. It was like sailing on a private yacht in the Mediterranean, except they were going up one of the most exotic rivers in the world in the middle of a war zone, which only served to spike the giddy kind of high Kate was riding, inducing a secretive smile.
Pulling away, he asked, “What?”
Smart girls did not give up their secrets and she was a very smart girl.
“The boat has stopped. Care for a swim?”
They rolled out of the hammock and, holding hands, dropped into the water. It was like being wrapped in cool, flowing silk all over her skin, then his skin all over and inside hers. She thought his eyes looked different—still the striking green of a 7 Up bottle, but they had turned childlike with delight as he brought his finger up to his lips. Silence. Then he turned her by the waist and there, looking at her, was a river dolphin. It rose up higher in the water until it arced over them, its skin ghostly white and glowing.
JD made a clicking sound, whistled, only for the dolphin to click and whistle back. It spun, leaped completely out of the water, creating a moon rainbow. Then down it dropped without a splash, and was gone.
“We have been blessed with a visit and a song from the River Goddess.” His tone of reverence, soft against Kate’s ear, slid darkly to a bitter, low pitch. “The American river patrol boats chase them and shoot them for fun now. You rarely see them anymore. She could even be one of the last of her kind.”
There was still so much she did not know about JD, but his conflicted feelings about being employed by the country of his citizenship, by virtue of his American father, and his deep kinship with Vietnam, where he had been raised, were no mystery.
“I hope not,” was all she could say, and she meant it.
“Come on. We’d better get back on the boat before it leaves without us.”
Rather than return to the hammock on deck, they went to their private quarters and immediately fell into bed to
pick up where they had left off. And then, later, after a sumptuous picnic of quail eggs and shrimp, a scented yellow melon and French macarons with a chilled rosé on the mattress, she propped her head on his chest. It was impossible to stop looking at him. He was a ridiculously gorgeous man. Even the slightly raised birthmark behind his right earlobe—what she recognized as a strawberry hemangioma, which could be hereditary and demanded a full, body-skin exam from his personal nurse—was like an intimate secret that only added to his allure. But Kate knew that what made him so irresistible was not on the surface; it came from the unknowns underneath that made him tick. Like the dolphin and the many other things of nature that JD had shared with her, things that went beyond his nearly obsessive fascination with Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book.
He had once recited the entirety of it to her by memory.
“How do you know so much about the sea and the jungle and all the wild creatures you like so much, even those snakes that make my skin crawl?” She gave a little shiver. “Did you learn about them in school?”
He smiled. Cryptically, of course. “School can only teach so much. One’s real education is mostly derived outside the classroom.”
“But you did go to school?” she persisted.
“Certainly. An excellent school. Just not the kind you went to in California.”
Indeed, she had come a long way from Del Mar. Not that her education had ended there. “Don’t forget Paris,” she whispered, and immediately wished back the reminder.
It was because of Paris and a mutual friend, an older man she had met there as an exchange student in college over ten years ago, that they were together now. The mutual friend was also the reason she had no concerns about getting pregnant. JD knew she had been told she couldn’t conceive. He did not know a botched abortion arranged by their mutual friend was the reason for it.
“I never forget Paris.” He paused and then asked, “Should we talk about it? About Phillip?”