by B. D. Riehl
Michelle was ashen, her hands covering her mouth in horror. Luke’s face was red; his jaw clenched and unclenched. Lydia was sick to her stomach. And mad.
Lydia hesitated for a heartbeat before she started for the elevator with purpose. Luke, reading her body language reached out to grab her arm.
“Lydia, you can’t do anything. You can’t.”
She shook him off of her arm. “I can’t do nothing!” she cried. “Should we call Kiet? He could wipe the floor with that guy!”
Michelle was visibly shaking and grabbed Lydia’s hand. “I don’t think we can, Lydia. I don’t think Kiet can do anything this way. We cannot go get her.” She lowered her voice. “She is probably being followed to be sure she goes back. We can pray for her.”
“Pray?” Lydia’s voice was high and squeaky with panic. “I cannot go sit comfy cozy on our bed and pray while that little girl is raped all night long.”
Luke shook his head. “Lydia, what do you think you can do? This is the reality of this place. This is why Deliverance is here.” He glanced at the night clerk, an older Thai man, who was busy behind the desk, and lowered his voice. “It takes them hundreds of dollars and sometimes months to rescue these girls. Didn’t you hear Paul talk about the many times they’ve been threatened or shot at? You can’t just stomp up to that room and take her because you want to.”
Lydia knew he was right, and her heart shattered. She looked to Michelle and they shared the same hopeless, haunted look.
“I don’t know if I can pray, Michelle,” she whispered brokenly.
The three shuffled their way to the elevator, arms linked as if to hold each other up, unaware of the urgent instructions spoken in the clerk’s ear from his inconspicuously concealed earpiece.…
“Okay, he confirmed that it’s her. What room is she in?”
The lobby was empty, but the clerk still whispered, “Room two-twenty.”
***
Kiet’s blood coursed through him, hot and ready for a fight. It had been years since he’d punched someone. Because of his specific background and training, he was often sent in to rescue the high-risk girls, ones that were in the most dangerous brothels. He had never once needed to use his skills; he had prayed every time for the Lord to be glorified and to deliver them Himself, by His own power and might, and God had seen fit to keep him from fighting.
Until this night.
When he had seen that gorilla forcing his beer on Lydia, when he had seen the frightened look on her face, it took everything he had to calmly set the man aside. When the fight began, he didn’t have time to think about anything but keeping Lydia safe.
Lord, did I do right?
The memories of his former life rushed at him, a fierce flow of ugly images. The casinos, the traveling, the fights, the back alleys, the money, the women.
He shoved his fingers through his hair. For the first time in years, he craved a drink. A strong one, in a crystal glass. Instead, he reached for his phone and called Paul.
Paul met him at the Deliverance campus, and they took a walk through the soccer field, away from any who might hear.
“I’m sorry, man. Those guys just came out of nowhere. It’s been so long since someone recognized me; I just thought everyone had forgotten.”
Paul had been sleeping when Kiet called. Both were set to escort the team to Chiang Mai the next morning and had to be up in a few hours to make sure the trip went smoothly. Paul had pulled on running pants and a blue T-shirt, but his hair was slightly disheveled, and Kiet regretted waking him.
Paul, the first to tell Kiet of Christ’s redeeming work on the cross, clapped a hand on his shoulder. “No, it’s good you called. No need to apologize; our volunteers are safe, right?”
“Yes, I put them on a tuk tuk for the motel. I told Luke to call me when they made it in their rooms, and he did right before I called you. He did mention that one of the guys that was in that crowd had arrived at their motel with a girl. They were all pretty shook up.”
Paul fell silent as they walked. He remembered the first time he’d traveled to Thailand and been offered a girl in the first shop he entered in a market. His stomach had churned when the proprietor brought a young girl out to him while he looked over wallets, and told him discreetly that she was for sale—that he could take her.
He remembered the way that young woman had stared at her feet, her body trembling violently. Paul had wanted to purchase her then just to let her go free, but knew that wasn’t the solution. He found another mate who’d been as desperate as he was to be part of the solution of child trafficking. They started Deliverance together and never looked back.
“Until everyone knows and everyone is safe” was the organization’s motto. Deliverance was making a great dent in the industry, but it took time and money. They couldn’t charge into every motel room they knew of and rescue the girls—no matter how much they wanted to.
“You know, Kiet, God works even in dark nights like tonight. How many people have we seen come through here, hearts bothered by what they see, but more interested in having a good time? And how many others have we seen heartsick and changed forever for Kingdom’s work? While we’re committed to keeping our volunteers safe, Deliverance can’t shield them from the dark reality of the world. God wanted them to see. And now you have an opportunity to give your testimony to the group, if you’re comfortable.”
Kiet sighed. “I don’t think I have a choice. I at least owe those three an explanation, especially Lydia.”
Paul’s lips curled up slightly. “Still smitten with that one?”
Kiet looked sidelong at him. “It’s not smitten. At first I just saw a deep longing in her, buried under that hard shell. It reminded me of the rescues when they’re first approached: guarded and unsure, but longing for us to show them another way. I’ve seen her completely unfold this week. It’s amazing how much her heart broke from the minute she saw the kids at Rubbish Mountain to her delight in the restored women at the café. The hand of God on her is so obvious. I just hope the incident in the motel didn’t tarnish her new faith.”
“Kiet, we are all sifted. All of us. Some sooner than others. If her faith is genuine, she will hold tight to Christ—”
Both of their phones buzzed before Paul’s rang. Kiet’s text said “Call Immediately!” It was from one of their trusted police contacts.
Before Kiet could, Paul grabbed his arm to stop him. He spoke urgently into his phone while they sprinted back to the main building. “Have you called the other contacts? Did they say anything? Make any demands? Nothing? Kiet’s with me. We’ll be right there.” He snapped the phone shut and swore.
There had been a few times that a rescue had been intercepted and gone wrong. Kiet assumed this was such a case.
“Is Doug okay?” He asked of the undercover man that had been working a rescue that week.
Paul shook his head. “It’s not Doug.” He glanced at Kiet, but didn’t slow down.
They bolted through the back parking lot, Paul fumbling in his pocket for the keys to Deliverance’s truck. The men hopped in once it was opened and the tires screeched as Paul backed onto the street and thrust it in gear. He chanced a look at Kiet.
“Masked men broke into Michelle and Lydia’s room. They had guns and spoke English.” He looked back to the road and the truck jumped forward as he stepped on the gas.
“They took Lydia.”
Kiet’s head began to pound.
Chapter Thirty-Four
When Paul and Kiet arrived at the motel, they found a crowd in the hall outside of the girls’ room. A few police officers, ones they knew and trusted, and a few curious tourists. The door lay in broken pieces on the threshold.
Michelle sat trembling on her motel bed, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Luke sat beside her, rubbing circles into the small of her back. Kiet walked over splinters of wood and the broken pieces of a lamp, to crouch before her.
“You okay?” he asked.
Michelle s
hook her head, leaned into Luke. She looked like a small child.
Kiet hung his head. “Stupid question. Can you tell me what happened?”
Michelle sniffed loudly, and wiped her eyes under her glasses with a corner of the frayed blanket. “We, uh, we were sitting on the bed, praying for that girl.” She choked up and took a deep breath. “Lydia started pacing while she prayed. I’ve never heard someone pray like that. No fancy words, no pretense. She told God just how she felt. She desperately wanted to go get that child.” She took a shuddering breath.
“Lydia was talking kind of loud, and when I first heard the pounding, I thought that someone had been sent to hush us up. Then I heard a crash and Lydia screamed. They just came in and grabbed her. I screamed, too, and they pointed their guns at me.”
She began to tremble harder and Luke, obviously shaken, pulled her close. “I begged them not to take us, to leave us alone. But one of them put something over her face—like a really big beanie cap—and pulled it over her eyes; he covered her mouth and was out the door. Another followed, and the last one just held me here with his gun. I heard a door bang shut, the one that leads to outside, I think.” She pointed toward the wall, indicating the end of the hallway.
Michelle shrugged and wiped her nose again. “And then he gave me that bag and told me not to open it. ‘It’s for Kiet’ he said.” She nodded to a small black duffle bag beside her on the bed.
Kiet rose slowly, the blood rushing in his ears as he made his way to the bag. Paul, who had been talking with the officers, looked up when Kiet called to him and gestured to the bag. An officer handed Kiet plastic gloves. He fumbled with them before he was able to pull them on. He reached for the bag and slowly pulled at the zipper and reached inside. He didn’t have to look at what he held in his hand. He felt the braided rope, the circular shape that ended in a long piece. He knew that the braided pieces were three cords of red, white, and blue carefully woven together.
Luke gasped when Kiet pulled it out of the bag. “Is that supposed to be a noose?” he asked.
Michelle’s breaths came hard and fast as fresh panic came upon her.
“No,” Kiet quickly assured them, although the meaning might as well have been the same. “It’s a Mongkol. A headband worn in the ceremony before a Thai boxing match.” His former self quivered slightly, when Paul reached to take it, and Kiet pulled away, held the Mongkol out of reach. Kiet, realizing what he’d done, flattened his mouth and handed it to Paul.
“Sorry, man. Tradition says no one but the teacher and student can touch it. My Kru gave it to me years ago. I haven’t seen it since the night I forfeited and gave this as a sign of surrender.”
He turned to Luke and Michelle. “I know who has Lydia, and I know what they want.” He turned a steely gaze to Paul and left the room.
Michelle stood and turned to Paul. “Well, that’s good news, right? You can go get her, can’t you?” When Paul didn’t answer, she turned to Luke, imploringly. “Luke, if they know who has her, why aren’t they going to get her now?”
Luke, eyes on Paul, didn’t answer her, but looked instead at the woven headband in the older man’s hands. “It’s all connected, isn’t it? The guys from earlier, Kiet’s past? Lydia is in great danger, isn’t she, Paul?”
The room fell silent, and Paul finally made eye contact with the young friends. “Yes, Luke, she is. We need to wake the rest of the group and talk about what’s next.” He held up the Mongkol. “We all need to be on our knees before the Lord on both Lydia and Kiet’s behalf. Both are being sifted.”
***
“Lord, I gave it all up. I walked away. Why do you torment me with this now? Why put her in the middle?”
Kiet strode out of the motel. He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t care. He knew the streets were dangerous this time of night. He didn’t care. His past had taunted him earlier, now it threatened to ruin his heart: his ministry, the girl he was beginning to care for, everything. Why now? Why did they push him now?
Kiet walked for miles before he realized he had come to Walking Street. Memories fell fresh upon him as he walked in the place his life had ended—the place that eventually led him to rebirth in Christ.
Had it only been three years? It seemed a lifetime he had walked these streets, an American Muay Thai boxer on the verge of world championship.
Kiet’s mother had been the one to encourage him in the ancient boxing traditions. They lived in Colorado near a world famous training gym, and his parents sacrificed much to move him through the ranks of competitive boxing.
By the time he graduated high school, Kiet was champion in America and embarked with his trainer and team on an international tour. He defeated all opponents and had come to fight in Thailand. Only one challenger stood between him and world championship for his age group.
Chanarong.
A beast of a man, he was just one year older than Kiet and had also been fighting his entire life. He trained throughout Asia with the most experienced fighters worldwide. Kiet had beaten the last opponent standing between himself and Chanarong.
The night before they were set to fight, followers of Muay Thai boxing rallied in the streets of Pattaya, exuberantly celebrating the promise of a good match. In America, not many were interested in Thai boxing, nor were his fights followed by a great number of people. In Thailand, he was recognized everywhere and experienced publicity on an entirely different level. The attention invigorated him.
Kiet’s team and fans wanted to treat him to a night of partying and celebration. Kiet, puffed up on fame and confident of his skills, willingly went along. When they told him of Walking Street, his flesh responded. He was a young warm-blooded male. Why wouldn’t he want to see beautiful women and enjoy their company with a drink or two?
The wide avenue reminded him of the bars in America: just a bunch of harmless partiers enjoying the night and living life out loud while they could.
His friends on the boxing team, there for lesser matches, treated him to a few beers, and they all cheered when a beautiful barmaid scooted into the booth next to him. Kiet certainly didn’t mind the company and had thrown an arm around her bare shoulders.
But when she began to stroke his leg, he looked into her eyes. He sensed a sadness there that she tried desperately to cover up. Her face was painted over dramatically, but he could see the scared girl beneath. She reminded him of his mother.
Disturbed, he had inconspicuously disentangled himself and talked the crowd he was with into going to another bar. Another drink. Another girl thrown his way. Again, he couldn’t look past the fear and sadness in her eyes, no matter how she purred. He had faced enough amateur fighters in his life to recognize fear. He could smell it. It was spicy, musky, metallic. In a boxing ring it spread like fire through his veins; here it was as if ice had been crushed into them instead.
His stomach had churned, and suddenly he hadn’t felt like celebrating. He left the bar and stumbled into the street—right into the crowd surrounding Chanarong. Chanarong was having his own pre-fight party. The crowds pulsated around both Kiet and Chanarong, calling out encouragement to fight then and there. Instead, the men, trained in tradition as well as physical combat, shook hands. For the night, they were friends.
Chanarong gestured for Kiet to follow him into another club. Here the matches from previous weeks were played on large flat screen TVs. A busy crowd of men with small notebooks in their hands went from table to table, taking bets.
Kiet sat at a small table in a dark corner of the room with Chanarong, who shook his head at a pair of barmaids that approached the two fighters. He leaned in close to talk in one’s ear and she nodded at his instructions.
Kiet had been relieved at the absence of women. This is how to prepare for a fight, he had thought, just two men and some drinks.
But from the corner of his eye, he saw two young girls—no older than fourteen—being led their way. He had wondered what kids were doing in a place like this, but figured it was a c
ulture thing and turned away—until they stopped at their table. He looked at their tiny bodies, barely covered in bikini tops and booty skirts, and felt sick.
When Chanarong leered at one and pulled her onto his lap, indicating Kiet should take the other, Kiet bolted from his seat as if electrocuted. Kiet shoved the girl out of his way, shook his hands to be free of her oiled skin on his. He ran into the street and vomited. A group of onlookers called out, darting around him, tossing comments at him in Thai about too much partying.
Kiet ran away from it all then. Ran from the crowds calling after him, ran from the smell of coconut oil on adolescent skin. He had seen the underbelly of boxing, a small sliver of it, and knew he could have no part in it.
The next morning, instead of preparing for his match, he sought his teacher, the one that had trained him since he was a young teen—the man that knew more about him than his own father—the one who had talked to him about women and given him his first beer. Who had taken him after every match, whether he had won or lost, and pointed out every wrong move he had made. The man who had sharpened him, beat him down, built him up only, when necessary, to beat him down again. He found his trainer on the balcony of his plush hotel room, enjoying breakfast. Kiet declined the offer of food.
“Ah, too much partying last night, eh?” Wally had chuckled at him. “I don’t want to know how many girls you were with last night. You know my rules of no women before matches, but we are in Pattaya, so I didn’t expect that one to be followed.”
Kiet watched the large retired wrestler break open a patongo and dip the delicate fried dough into a sweet custard sauce. When Wally offered him some, Kiet shook his head.
“Wally, I didn’t party last night. Well, I mean, I did, but…” Kiet had struggled to explain what had happened, sick to his stomach over it, unsure of how to cleanse the images from his system. Kiet rambled on about what he had seen. How he had wrestled with his thoughts all night as he walked. He had deduced that this dark side of boxing must only happen in Thailand, and that he would rather not fight in that country anymore. He could still train for the Olympics, couldn’t he? And have nothing to do with the girls or gambling or prostitution he had witnessed?