Broken: A Leopold Blake Thriller

by Gordon Hopkins

  I didn’t want to ask the next question but I had to. “What if they don’t pay?”

  “Then we’ll send them a video of you getting your head lopped off.”

  My knees turned to jelly. My head went fuzzy. For a moment, I thought I was going to faint.

  “Oh dear.” Nasrin turned to the Russian. Mr. DiMauro is unwell. Would you get him something to sit on, please, and perhaps some water?”

  The Russian found an old bucket and set it upside down in the floor. I sat down and he handed me a bottled water. My hands shook so hard I could barely get the lid off. When I did, I took a long swallow. My mouth had gone completely dry.

  The Brit laughed. “A bit of a drama queen, isn’t he?”

  “Why don’t we cut your head off and see how stoic you are?” Nasrin sounded annoyed.

  The Brit shut up.

  Nasrin put a hand on my shoulder. “Relax. The good news is, now that I know your employer sent you here on business, it’s far more likely that they’ll pay. After all, if they let you die after sending you here, well, that would be pretty bad publicity, don’t you think?”

  I nodded. “What about the others.”

  “More good news. They get to live because they have to deliver the ransom message. Letting them live shows good faith. Besides, I know how it upsets you when I kill people.” She snapped her fingers and my fellow travelers were forced onto their knees. They were tied up and bags were placed over their heads. The Brit grabbed Binh but Nasrin stopped him. “No. He goes with you. The guide as well. They’re both locals, so the government won’t give a damn what happens to them. It’s only the foreigners they’ll care about, since their deaths would negatively impact tourism.”

  Once the rest of the group were bound, the Russian pulled me to my feet.

  Nasrin said, “Here is what’s going to happen now, Gil. My boys are going to take you and the other two to a safe house, where you’ll stay until the ransom is paid. I know you are a good man, Gil. You wouldn’t do anything to hurt anyone. If you give us any trouble, my boys will kill one of your traveling companions. If you continue to cause trouble. They will kill the other one. You won’t give us any trouble, will you, Gil?”

  I shook my head.

  “Good. Don’t worry about the others. We’ll leave them here. Once we’re away, we’ll call the authorities and have them picked up.” She took a piece of paper out of her pocket and stuffed it into Dad’s shirt pocket. “They can hand over the ransom note.”

  Nasrin clapped her hands together and commanded her underlings, “All right. Let’s move. Take the hostages to the safe house. I’ll join you there as soon as I can.” She put a hand on the Brit’s shoulder and added in a commanding tone, “Remember, I want Mr. DiMauro taken well care of. Nothing is to happen to him. Understood?”

  The Brit nodded vigorously. He obviously knew Nasrin was not someone to be crossed.

  The three of us were loaded back onto the bus with the Brit right behind, pointing his gun at our backs. My bag was in my seat. I picked it up to move it aside and the Brit shouted, “What’s that?” Without waiting for an answer, he snatched it from my hand and threw it to the floor, where it shattered. The scent of rice wine immediately filled the air. The Brit put a hand on my arm and shoved me down into the seat. The other two quickly sat down next to me. The Brit sat down behind us, still pointing the gun. The Russian took his place at the wheel and started the engine. The bus backed out of the hotel and, soon, we were back on the road.

  I looked around and saw no other vehicles on the road except for the two motorbikes, which were ahead of us like a motorcade. I turned to the Brit and said, “Listen. You don’t have to do this.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Can’t we make some kind of deal?”

  “I said shut up.” He screeched. He then raised the gun over his head and, for a moment, I thought he was going to hit me. Apparently he remembered Nasrin’s warning, because he brought the gun down on Binh’s head, instead.

  “Hey! Knock it off back there.” The Russian shouted. Then, under his breath, added, “Mudak.”

  The three of us would never make it to the safe house. I knew that. The Brit was trembling, either with fury or anticipation. I doubted he would cross Nasrin. He wouldn’t hurt me, but he was also obviously a psycho. He would kill one of the other hostages, provocation or not.

  The Aussie turned around in his seat to face the Brit. I silently willed him to keep his mouth shut but it didn’t work. “Listen, mate. That bird is obviously cracked. I know this great little bar in Dalat. Why don’t you, me and your pals take this bus into the city. We’ll have a few drinks, a few laughs, a few pretty Viet girls and we can forget all this shite.”

  “What?” The Brit grabbed the Aussie by the collar and drug him off his seat, throwing him to the floor. He stood over him, pointing the gun at his head.

  His back was now to me. I said, “That woman is a terrorist.”

  The Aussie said, “I bet there’s a reward for her capture. You could turn her in and you wouldn’t even have to share it with her.”

  The Brit was going to kill him now. There was no doubt. “I’ve had it with you, Crocodile Dundee.”

  Down on the floor, I found the soggy remains of my bag. I quickly reached in and, among the shards of broken glass, found the scorpion. The Brit’s back was still towards me. I gently placed the scorpion on his right shoulder. I said, “Please don’t do this.”

  He turned to look at me, his face filled with fury. “I told you to shut up.” He was looking at me over his right shoulder. He saw the scorpion and shrieked. He tried to bat it away with his gun hand. The Aussie reached up and grabbed him. Binh and I grabbed him from behind.

  We felt the bus shudder to a halt. The Russian got out of his seat and marched down the aisle, his own gun drawn. All four of us on the floor had a hold of the gun, trying to wrestle it from each other. Then the inevitable happened. I don’t know which of us actually pulled the trigger but the gun went off. The Russian was hit in the chest and knocked off his feet.

  We were all so startled that we all stopped wrestling for a moment and just stared. The Aussie was the first to recover. He grabbed the Brit by the hair and brought his head down hard on the floor with a bang. The Brit lay still.

  Binh dashed to the front of the bus and took his familiar place at the wheel. The motorbike had been ahead of us but, realizing we had stopped, turned around and were headed right for us. Binh gunned the engine and peeled out at top speed, which wasn’t very fast even for a broken down old tour bus. The motorbikes parted, letting us pass, then circled around to pursue.

  “There’s no way we can outrun them in this piece of junk.” I wailed.

  “All we have to do is get back onto a main road.” Binh said. “They can’t take us in the middle of all that traffic.”

  I doubted we’d ever get that far. One of the motorbikes easily pulled up alongside us. The driver pulled out a gun and fired at the front tire. I heard the tire blow out. The bus began fishtailing wildly. The front end of the bus then slammed into the bike, sending it and the driver into a rice paddy.

  The bus shuddered and stopped. Then there was a loud crash and the bus shuddered again. The three of us climbed out and walked round to the back. The second bike had been right behind us and, when the bus stopped, slammed smack into it. The bike lay on its side. The driver lay under it, not moving.

  The Aussie shout, “Look!” The first driver was pushing his bike out of the rice paddy.

  The bus wasn’t going anywhere. Bin righted the motorbike. It was scratched up but, when Binh climbed on, it started. “Get on.” He shouted.

  “But there’s three of us.” I objected.

  The Aussie climbed on behind Binh. “A family of seven could fit on this thing. Lets move”

  I pulled the helmet off the driver on the ground, hoping he wasn’t dead because I really didn’t want to wear a dead man’s helmet. I climbed on behind the Aussie. “But we’ve only go
t one helmet.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Binh gunned the accelerator and we went tearing down the road. I struggled with the helmet, trying to put it on without losing my balance. Once I had it in place. I glanced behind. The second motorbike was right on our tail. The driver was holding the handlebars with only one hand. In the other hand I saw a…”

  “Gun!” I screamed. “Turn right.”

  “Are you bonkers?” The Aussie shouted, trying to be heard over the roar of the engine. There was no road on the right. Just rice paddies. Nevertheless, Binh turned right and we ended up driving on the narrow patch of solid ground dividing two rice paddies, barely as wide as the bike’s tires. It was like riding on a tightrope.

  The second motorbike had followed but the driver no longer aimed his gun at us. He needed both hands to keep his bike stable. The slightest deviation would send him toppling over into a paddy. Still, he was closing in on us. I pulled my helmet off and, with a quick prayer, flung it over my head. I thought sure it would bounce and roll into a paddy but, instead, it landed and stayed put on the narrow path, At least, until the second motorbike’s front wheel struck it. The wheel wobbled and the bike and driver once again toppled into a rice paddy with a splash.

  We finally reached a proper road, with no sign of pursuit. Traffic was heavy and it took us less than five minutes to find a police officer. As we sat by the side of the road, waiting for more police to come, the Aussie slapped me hard on the back and said, “Damn, Gil-Man. I take back everything I said about you not being a good traveler. I haven’t had this much fun in years.”

  “Please stop calling me Gil-Man.”

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Obviously, I would like to thank Nick Stephenson for creating Leopold Blake and his crew and for giving me a chance to play in his sandbox for a while.

  In addition, I would like to thank the following people for help, encouragement and inspiration: Alfred DiMauro (for being a great teacher and for providing Gil with his name, Rose and Justin Graf, Mary and Nolan Fast, Sheryl Hopkins, Shelley Hopkins, Ben Hopkins, Glenn Kalina, Nancy Rich, Wendy Dager and Joe Konrath.

  I would like to thank verious travelling companions, including Sakai Arun Naismith, Derek Earl Baron, Molly Fitzgerald, Catherine and Larry Lichter, Christina and Ron Oldham, Travis Robinson, Kelsey Welsch, Cassidy Sandoval and Jasmine.

  I also want to thank the folks at the Fairbury Journal_News: Tim Linscott, Shaun Friedrichsen, Jennifer Lewis, Susan Bartels, Jim Phelps, Trevor Gill and Fred Arnold.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  Nick Stephenson

  Nick Stephenson was born and raised in Cambridgeshire, England. He writes mysteries, thrillers, and suspense novels, as well as the occasional witty postcard, all of which are designed to get your pulse pounding. His approach to writing is to hit hard, hit fast, and leave as few spelling errors as possible.

  His books are a mixture of mystery, action, and humour and are recommended for anyone who enjoys fast paced writing with plenty of twists and turns.

  For up to date promotions and release dates of upcoming books, sign up for the latest news here:

  Author page: www.nickstephensonbooks.com

  Gordon Hopkins

  Gordon Hopkins is a native of Omaha, Nebraska and a graduate of Creighton University. He is a member of the Association of Certified Fraud Examiners and has worked in the insurance industry and as a professional fraud investigator in San Francisco, Seattle, Hartford and Omaha. He now writes for the Fairbury Journal-News in Jefferson County, Nebraska.

  You can contact Gordon and sign up for the newsletter here:

  Author page: www.gordonhopkins.net

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