Emerald Buddha (Drake Ramsey Book 2)

by Russell Blake

On the table beside him the satellite phone’s display pulsed, indicating an inbound call. There was only one person who knew the number, and Jack moved swiftly to answer.

  “Honey Badger,” he answered softly. The line hissed like a cobra, and then his superior’s unmistakable voice rang from the speaker.

  “Abort. Repeat, abort.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “You’ve been blown.”

  “Blown? How?”

  “Just get out of there. It’s over. Someone leaked the details on the web an hour ago – we just heard. Clock’s ticking. Expect the Pakistanis to be serious about nailing you. Do whatever it takes to get away clean.”

  “Are you running interference?”

  “Yes. That’s why you’re still alive. But we can only stall them so long. Move. Now.”

  “Roger that. I’ll call when clear.”

  Jack hung up and thought for a moment, and then tapped his earbud again and relayed the news. At the far end of the block a car started its engine and pulled away. Jack didn’t wait to see anything more. His crew were all big boys. They had their crisis-contingency plan down pat, and would each make their way out of the country using different routes.

  Thank God he overthought every mission and was hyper-paranoid. Many would have just stuck with the default protocol rather than take the time and money to set up an alternative known only to them. But Jack wasn’t one of the many. The shrapnel and bullet scars were a reminder of that every time he showered.

  He quickly dismantled the .50-caliber Barrett that he’d modified for easy disassembly and packed it into a black nylon duffle with the AKM and the magazines. Last to go in were the goggles and the balaclava.

  Jack was down the stairs and out the door in twenty seconds, and he rushed to the iron front gate as he heard the steady beat of helicopters approaching. So much for stalling. It would be close.

  He pushed the gate open and moved hurriedly down the crumbling sidewalk, all subterfuge abandoned. He needed to get out of the area before some bright Pakistani officer established a cordon around the perimeter of the neighborhood to stop anyone from leaving.

  At the corner he turned down a gloomy street, the streetlights long ago burned out, and jogged to a Toyota Hilux truck. He slid behind the wheel and tossed the bag onto the passenger side. The cab was dark, its interior bulb removed as a precaution.

  It was the little things that could mean the difference between life and death, he knew.

  The motor started with a cough, and he dropped the transmission in gear. He was two blocks away when he saw the aircraft in his rearview mirror: two helos, their spotlights blinding, beams sweeping over the rooftops of the area he’d just left.

  “Damn,” he muttered under his breath, and fought the urge to floor the gas. If it was his lucky night, he’d make it. If not, well, he couldn’t allow himself to be captured. His hand brushed the grip of the pistol in his belt and he scowled. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but there were worse things than death.

  Sirens blared in the distance, and he tried to estimate where they were coming from. If the local cops were in on this, his odds dropped precipitously. Jack’s mind raced over the abbreviated discussion with his control. Someone had posted the details of a top-secret black op nobody knew about. What did it mean?

  That they had a leak was obvious.

  But how could their network have been compromised?

  It was impossible.

  The howl of a nearby siren insisted it was all too real.

  A police truck rounded the corner and accelerated toward him. Jack debated his options as he watched the vehicle draw near in his side mirror, and he was about to stomp on the brakes and put the Hilux into a controlled skid when the police truck screeched onto a side street, its tires howling in protest.

  “Easy, Jack,” he whispered. He suddenly wanted a drink more than anything in the world, despite having been dry for a decade. In his mind’s eye he could see the warm amber of the bourbon, smell the tang of the sour mash, taste the searing pleasure as it slid down his throat and warmed him with well-being. “Old habits die hard,” he said under his breath, and continued at a moderate pace, ears straining for any indication of pursuit.

  On the outskirts of the town he eyed the fuel tank. It was half full, which would easily get him to Peshawar, where he’d lie low for a few days before crossing into Afghanistan. Driving at night in the region was borderline suicidal at the best of times, but he didn’t have much choice.

  As reluctant as he was to do it, he stopped by a dumpster and jettisoned his weapons. They would incriminate him, and there was no point in making it easy for those after him. That there would be a manhunt was a given, but nobody would report the guns, instead selling them on the thriving black market and pocketing several months’ living expenses.

  With a final look at the road behind him, he climbed behind the wheel and pointed the truck west, toward the Khyber Pass – and hopefully, escape.

  Chapter 2

  24 hours later, Xishuangbanna, Yunnan Province, China

  Christine Whitfield glanced up as the front door of her boyfriend’s apartment opened. She could immediately see that he was agitated, and something else. His normally placid expression had been replaced by one of fear – an emotion that was out of place on his unlined, twenty-something face.

  “What’s wrong, Liu?” she asked. “I thought you were in Guandu till tomorrow.”

  “We have to leave,” he snapped, moving to his laptop computer. “Now.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I got a tip from a friend. Something went wrong. Grab your computer. Leave nothing behind. I’ve got a taxi waiting downstairs.”

  “But where are we going?”

  “Thailand. We can disappear there. At least long enough to figure out how bad this is. But assume it’s the worst.”

  “At this hour?”

  “I called my brother before I got on the road. He’s arranged for a private plane.”

  Another look at Liu’s face convinced her. He was dead serious, his eyes wide with alarm. She leapt to her feet. “Who’s after you?” she asked.

  “MSS – Ministry of State Security. Or somebody else. Could be anyone. Doesn’t really matter what the initials are, does it?”

  “But how?”

  “I have no idea.” He paused as he finished stowing his computer, and fixed her with a steady gaze. “We can figure that out later. What I know is that if they get us, we’ll never be seen again.”

  “But you haven’t done anything wrong to the Chinese. Why would MSS cooperate?”

  “That never stopped them. They’ll invent something. You know how the country works. Anything’s for sale for the right price.”

  She shook her head. “Have you told me everything?”

  “We can talk about it on the plane. Pack whatever you can, and don’t forget your passport.”

  Five minutes later they were on their way to the airport, the taxi driver uninterested in the odd pair – a tall blonde and a local. They watched the buildings fly by as he navigated the empty streets, the radio playing a popular Chinese pop song that had caused a sensation due to its risqué lyrics. Christine was sorely tempted to interrogate Liu, but a glance at him convinced her to wait. She trusted him implicitly, and if he felt they were in danger, right or wrong, she’d follow his lead.

  The main section of the airport was closed and the huge glass terminal dark. Only a few security guards prowled the grounds. They pulled onto a side access road and through a gate that stood open, and drove to where a half-dozen small prop planes sat on the tarmac. At the far end an ancient Cessna 172 waited with its running lights glowing. As they drew near, they spotted a slight Chinese man standing by the fuselage – the pilot.

  The taxi coasted to a stop, and Liu and Christine got out. The driver stepped from the car and moved to the trunk, lighting a cigarette as he did so. Smoking was the national pastime in China, and despite the health consequence
s, the population had one of the highest rates in the world. He opened the trunk and they retrieved their bags. Liu handed him a few bills, and he smiled and offered a small bow before heading back to his vehicle and driving off.

  “Wasn’t it a risk to take a cab?” Christine whispered as they approached the plane.

  “We had no choice. I couldn’t use my car. They may be looking for it by now.”

  “And you have no idea why the MSS would be after you?”

  “I do. But there’s nothing I can change at this point.”

  She stopped in her tracks. “What have you done, Liu? Is this related to our thing?”

  “Only tangentially. I think I underestimated the sophistication of their tech people.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He explained in a few terse sentences. By the time he was done, the blood had drained from her face.

  “Liu…”

  “Too late now, Christine. But do you see why we need to get out of here?”

  “That’s the understatement of the year. You really think we’ll be safe in Thailand?”

  “We can disappear, Christine. There are thousands of places off the beaten path.”

  “What about money? After you run out?”

  “Least of our problems. We could survive for a year on that in rural Thailand. Even cheaper in Cambodia.”

  She gave him a skeptical look.

  “Don’t worry. I have ways of getting more.”

  “We’re about to take a secret night flight over the Golden Triangle, and you’re telling me not to worry? Are you serious?”

  Liu stepped nearer. “Keep your voice down. For all we know, the pilot speaks English, too. A byproduct of your capitalist-run dog-lackey television shows.”

  She couldn’t help but smile, reminded why she’d fallen so hard for him. He was blindingly smart, loyal, handsome, and charming in a roguish way. Tall for a Chinese, due to his family’s northern blood, he stood six feet, with a slacker mop of longish hair and stylish Western clothes. At twenty-nine he still looked like he was barely out of his teens, and she marveled again at how brilliant he was, as well as how unassuming – a powerfully attractive combination, Christine thought.

  They neared the plane and Liu greeted the pilot. After a brief discussion about discreet destinations in Thailand and the route they’d fly, they agreed on Chiang Rai, near the Laos and Myanmar border, in northern Thailand – well away from the madding crowds. The pilot loaded their things into the small hold and they climbed aboard, Liu taking the copilot’s seat and Christine in the rear. After a few moments, the starter groaned and the engine burbled to life.

  The pilot requested clearance from the tower and then taxied to the runway and accelerated along the smooth strip, rising into the sky before they were halfway down its length. They bounced from turbulence as the plane gained altitude, and eventually settled into a droning cruise at eight thousand feet.

  The mountains and jungle beneath them were pitch black, no trace of humanity to be seen to the horizon. The pilot altered course to skirt pendulous clouds to the east, heavy with rain, and Christine leaned forward and yelled to Liu over the engine noise.

  “How long will it take to get there?” she asked.

  Liu translated and the pilot shrugged, tapping the air speed indicator. “Maybe two hours, maybe a little longer. There’s a headwind, so probably more.”

  Liu relayed the information to Christine and turned back to the pilot. “Do you fly this area often?”

  The pilot’s expression turned cagey. “From time to time.”

  “No problem with Chinese or Myanmar airspace?”

  The pilot shook his head. “No. At this altitude we’re unlikely to raise any alarms. The locals are used to unidentified flights around here. There are many dirt airstrips due to the drug trade. The governments destroy them periodically, and within a week new ones are cut from the jungle. It’s been going on forever.”

  “Sounds like you know what you’re doing,” Liu said.

  “As much as anyone. What we’ll do is drop to no more than a thousand feet off the canopy as we near the border. Safest bet if you don’t want to announce your arrival. Laos is largely unpatrolled, but occasionally Myanmar will have choppers around. Although I’ve heard lately that they’re so broke they can’t get parts, so who knows? And the section in our flight path is controlled by rebel forces, so the chances of anything but us flying around there at night are nil.”

  “What about Thailand?”

  “Oh, they’ll have us on radar, more than likely, but a few baht handed out to the right people on the ground will ensure no questions are asked. Thailand is sort of a live-and-let-live place. I filed a flight plan for Chiang Kham, but will claim that I had engine issues so had to land in Chiang Rai. Nobody will care as long as palms are greased.”

  “And customs?”

  “That can also be a matter of money. Depends on how badly you want to stay out of the system.”

  Liu stared into the dark night. “Perhaps it would be best if we did.”

  “Then get your wallet out. Anything’s possible, but nothing’s free.” The pilot paused. “We’re just crossing the mountain range that runs along the border. We’ll be out of Chinese airspace in a few more minutes, and then we’ll begin tapering off our altitude. Highest point along this course is six thousand feet, so we’re actually still pretty close even at this height.”

  The plane bucked when it hit some rough air, and the pilot peered through the windshield at a line of thunderheads ahead. Their outlines stretched high into the heavens, blocking the stars from view. He eyed his compass and banked to the right while dropping. Flashes of lightning pulsed in the clouds, and he stabbed a finger in their direction.

  “We’re better off giving those a wide berth. It can get ugly quickly.”

  “There’s no problem going off course?” Liu asked.

  “Adds a little time, but are you in a particular hurry?”

  “Better safe than sorry, right?”

  They watched as the pilot took them down before settling at a thousand feet above the mountainous terrain below. From that distance they could make out the tops of the trees in the faint moonlight, punctuated by barren patches and the occasional peak of a rocky outcropping.

  The pilot was adjusting a knob when a loud explosion shook the plane. The windshield cracked from metal shards and the engine alarm sounded as the prop pinwheeled away into the night. The pilot’s eyes widened in shock, and he battled with the flaps as the plane pitched downward.

  Liu’s hand flew to his face, where blood seeped from a laceration in his forehead. His voice was a strangled cry when he managed words. “Oh, my God! What happened?”

  The pilot gritted his teeth and yelled, “Something on the engine blew. We’re going down.”

  “No…,” Liu said as flames licked from the engine compartment and smoke poured from the ruined fuselage.

  “We can glide, but it’s going to be a hard landing,” the pilot warned, eyeing the altimeter, which was unwinding as the plane dropped toward the earth. Christine gripped the seat, her face frozen in speechless fear.

  “Do you see anyplace we can set down safely?” Liu asked, and then a second explosion rocked the aircraft, and it pitched toward the rapidly rising landscape.

  “Hang on,” the pilot screamed, and twisted the yoke at the last minute when he spotted a stream below.

  The last thing Christine heard was Liu’s alarmed yell as they crashed into the rocky riverbed, the impact instantly destroying most of the cockpit.

  Water flooded the cabin.

  Chapter 3

  Two days later, Malibu, California

  Drake sat atop his longboard in the gentle swell off Malibu, basking in the warm morning sun as he waited for the next set of promising waves to push their way toward shore. He brushed a lock of unruly hair from his brow and glanced to his left, where three other locals bobbed, their spring wetsuits lending them the appearance of ove
rfed seals. Off in the distance several fishing boats worked the outer rim of the kelp line, and hopeful seagulls wheeled overhead in anticipation of lost bait or human charity.

  Drake had been living on the beach for two and a half months, ever since taking the suggestion to look at the area; he’d fallen instantly in love from his first encounter with Malibu. Unlike Northern California, where it rained a substantial chunk of the year, the weather in Southern California since he’d moved had been cool mornings with a marine layer that burned off by nine, followed by idyllic days of warmth and limitless sunshine.

  He’d leased a two-bedroom beach home on the sand, largely because it was small and unassuming amidst neighboring houses that looked to him like monuments to garish opulence. That wasn’t his style, and in spite of the massive wealth he’d come into overnight, he still felt out of place among the Hollywood directors and famous actors who called the stretch of beach home.

  His days consisted of surfing in the morning for two to three hours, from dawn until he’d worn himself out, followed by a breakfast of four scrambled eggs and a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice he got every evening at the local market, and then a slow three-mile run along the waterline before lunch. Afternoons were spent in front of the computer, answering emails and researching promising accounts of lost civilizations or tenuous rumors of hidden treasure.

  Drake had developed a taste for the game on his trek through the Amazon, and now that he was a celebrity adventure hunter, he figured he might as well do something constructive with his life – and with the money. He’d always loathed the TV reality stars whose only talent seemed to be whining over broken nails or the difficulty of dealing with the paparazzi, and he had resolved not to add himself to the clutter of human flotsam. He would work at carrying on his father’s legacy, and earn the respect that he still felt he’d gotten purely by accident.

  His current project was another Inca site in Peru, hinted at on the document he’d discovered in Paititi, and he was actively debating mounting an expedition to look for it. Part of the reason for his sense of urgency was boredom and a sense of days rushing by wasted, but another was to see Allie again. Their rendezvous in Texas hadn’t gone as he’d hoped; she’d been visibly frazzled by dealing with her father’s estate and the funeral arrangements. It hadn’t helped that within days of returning to the world, several suits had been filed by strangers claiming to have had handshake deals with Jack, and therefore felt entitled to a portion of his estate, which turned out to be considerable – not by Drake’s new standards, but the property the old man had quietly accumulated around Texas and California was worth almost ten million dollars, which along with the breathless media accounts of Allie’s newfound super wealth was enough to bring out the parasites.