Gina Takes Bangkok (The Femme Vendettas)

by S. M. Stelmack

  by

  S. M. Stelmack

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  Amazon Edition

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  Gina Takes Bangkok

  The Femme Vendettas

  Copyright © 2013 by S. M. Stelmack

  Editing by Alyssa Palmer

  Cover Art by CrocoDesigns

  ISBN-13: 978-0991869831

  All rights reserved. This e-book is licensed for enjoyment only. Where such permission is applicable, S. M. Stelmack grants the right to detach any DRM which may be applied to this work. This work is free to share. This work is entirely fictional. All references to actual people, places, events and entities is solely intended to create a fictional world, with no ulterior purpose beyond that. Any mistakes belong to the authors, and were unintentional and non-malicious.

  Discover other titles by S. M. Stelmack at Amazon

  A Note from Moira

  Praise for Fox Hunt

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Thank you!

  Preview of Undertow

  About the Authors

  To Carol,

  Your enthusiasm for life is matched only by Gina’s

  (Authors Moira and Serge Stelmack)

  http://www.smstelmackauthor.com

  A Note from Moira:

  Dear Reader,

  This is a story about family, as the tagline states, and within the myriad families that populate the story are two very special father-daughter relationships, each of which involves either Gina or Kannon. Serge can relate to Kannon’s relationship. Both are fathers with precocious daughters. But for me, it was all about Gina and her father, Vincenzo Zaffini. You see, during the writing of this novel, my father died. He was ninety-one, and had lived his days. He tidied up loose ends, got the story of his life straight, said his goodbyes and went on his way. His death was, as he used to say of so much of the serendipitous, the unfortunate and the tragic, “one of those things”.

  Yet, I mourned him and still do. He was my dad, after all. My love for him is lodged in the small memories. In the roll of Lifesavers we shared on the Tuesday drive home from my piano lessons, the razz berries to the back of his neck and later the massages I gave there. It was me playing his favorite waltz on the piano right when he came in from chores. It was the quiet pride in his blue eyes as my baby daughter, his one grand-daughter sat on his knee, his big hand like a chair back to hold her steady.

  He didn’t want a funeral. He wasn’t much concerned what the rest of us did with his remains. As nurses and family fussed around him on his last day, he whispered, “Too much.” It wasn’t but he would see it that way. He’d probably be mortified to have me speak of him this way before strangers. But insofar as it’s possible to teach something without knowing it yourself, what I learned from my father is that you don’t have to be remarkable to be loved or, upon your passing, to be missed.

  And the other thing is to know how to bring your story, including that of your life, to a good conclusion.

  Best,

  Moira

  Action-packed with a dry sense of humor and a few good one-liners that eases the intensity, this story is easy to get caught up in.

  “Crowned Heart” distinction, InD’Tale Magazine.

  A high octane, pedal-to-the-metal, adrenaline-fueled read.

  Jill, GoodReads reviewer

  PRAISE FOR UNDERTOW

  (THE UNDERCITY CHRONICLES #1)

  The writing duo of S. M. Stelmack have mashed their creative talents and imaginative minds together to create this sci-fi, romantic suspense which has the ability to appeal to horror and paranormal fans alike.” -InD’Tale Magazine.

  “...well-written and atmospheric, incorporating a steamy romance between Jack and Lindsay. The underground cultures are interesting and well thought-out. ...a very enjoyable and thoroughly entertaining read with some nice touches of humour to lighten the often dark tone and setting.”

  -Jill, GoodReads reviewer

  GINA THWACKED THROUGH the racks at her favorite store in all of Los Angeles. She came here often, so often that the owner had slipped off to do some banking, leaving her alone to mind the place. Small, simple, and filled with retro clothing, it was her number one hunting ground when she needed A Find.

  Most people, and all men, entered a store with something particular in mind. She preferred to think of shopping as an experience in which she would let the universe guide her purchases, so she only shopped when she felt the urge. Never mind that the urges came with nymphomaniac regularity.

  A slight cosmic shudder passed through her as her hand brushed a hanger. She tugged it out. A mid-thigh creation in red with gold slashes. Wowza. She had shoes, bags, bracelets and boas to accessorize this beauty. Then—whoosh—the feeling vanished.

  What the—? Seemed like she and the universe were out of sync, the second time in as many days. Yesterday, on the other side of the world, her father had celebrated sixty-five years of staying alive, and being a dutiful and loving daughter, she’d phoned to wish him a happy birthday. Her stepmother had answered, saying that he’d gone fishing. Her father had spent nearly a quarter-century in Thai waters and had never fished. The millisecond the call ended she was in the grips of a mega-urge. So today, right after work, she’d hit the store.

  Now, a solid hour later and nothing. She should go but leaving empty-handed was not the way things worked. She wove through the spinners, her wanderings edging her to the front. That’s when the tingles started again, hot and heavy, pulling her to a rack close to the window. The tingles swelled into a near orgasmic sensation of A Truly Amazing Find aimed at one G-spot on a rack. There. She swept it out and held it aloft.

  A black dress with elbow-length sleeves, a hemline at the knee and a neckline at the collar bone. No slits and no buttons.

  The universe wanted her to buy a boardroom basic?

  She looked at the price tag on the destiny dress. One hundred and twenty bucks! That was all her cash. Really?

  Her body thrummed and warmed in a kind of afterglow. Okay, something was seriously out-of-whack.

  Tossing the dress over her shoulder in a fireman’s hold, she slipped her pink bag from her arm, rummaging for her money clip. Where was it? She shouldn’t carry all this crap. After all, it had been months since she’d used the mace. Tucking a shank of her black-and-purple locks behind her ear, she set the purse on the floor to better get at it. Engrossed, she didn’t notice the car hurtling toward the store until it smashed through the front window.

  The explosion of masonry, glass and ceiling tiles threw Gina against a rack, and she fell to the floor in a tangle of clothing. She laid there, stunned. Not five feet away, the mangled hood of the car sizzled and steamed. Whoever was inside had to be hurting. She struggled to her feet, secured her purse and wobbled to the driver’s door, just in time to get smacked hard across the chest as it swung open, knocking her back on her butt.

  A young Asian female, blood zigzagging from a gash on her forehead, staggered out and, eyes full of fear, looked over her shoulder. Picking herself up for a second time, Gina followed the girl’s gaze outside to where an unmarked van had screeched to a stop in the center of the street. The driver, clearly not cop material, drew a powerful handgun from his jacket as he got out.

  This would
be a good time to run.

  Taking the girl’s arm, Gina pointed through the wreckage. “Come on! There’s an exit at the back.”

  The two of them sprinted through the stockroom, rushing out the back door to the alley. The young woman made to continue running, but Gina pivoted her toward a dumpster. “Get in there and hide!” She boosted the girl, forgetting that Asian females were made of bamboo, and with a squeal and windmilling of arms, the girl fell inside with a crunch of cardboard.

  From her bag, Gina pulled out a little piece of insurance she always carried with her. With a flick of her wrist, she extended the pink-handled telescopic truncheon her father had mailed to her three Christmases ago, and positioned herself by the door.

  The gunman burst out, and with a samurai cry, Gina swung her baton at his wrist. There was a snap of bone as the titanium tip scored a direct hit, and the man dropped his weapon, howling in pain. Gina didn’t let up. Whacking away at the thug for all she was worth, Gina struck him across the face and head once, twice, three times, until he dropped to the ground, twitching and bleeding.

  Panting for breath, Gina snagged the man’s gun from the pavement and was about to make a citizen’s arrest when she heard the roar of a motorcycle. Her attacker had backup, and it was headed right for her. With a yelp, she yanked open the door as the bullets started flying, and slamming it shut behind her, clicked the deadbolt into place. She backed up, keeping her gun aimed and ready. The motorcycle squealed to a halt outside, and, a heartbeat later, someone pulled violently at the door.

  Gina fired, putting a bullet hole neatly through the center of it, and waited. Hopefully that ought to be enough of a deterrent. The seconds ticked by and all was silent, then the girl cried out.

  “Ah, dammit.” What part of ‘hide’ didn’t she understand? Tiptoeing to the door, Gina peeked out the bullet hole, but could see squat. She snapped back the deadbolt and opened up, gun at the ready.

  The girl stood in the dumpster, apparently unharmed. Her two attackers weren’t so lucky. The clubbed one was lying very still, dark blood pooling around his head, and the other was spread-eagled, her shot having pierced the door and struck him straight through the heart.

  She’d killed. Again. And well. Like she was meant for the life. Everything tilted and blurred around her. No. She couldn’t lose it. Not this time.

  Gina looked at the gun, shaking in her hand, then at the teenager. “Don’t worry, you’re safe. We’ve done nothing wrong. The cops will be here any minute.”

  The girl shook her head, her straight black hair whipping about as she climbed out of the dumpster. “No! I need to find Gina Zaffini. Please, do you know her?”

  Gina blinked in surprise. “I’m Gina, how did you—?”

  “Yes! I’m Tasanee. Your father and mine are friends, and they’re both in big danger! I have to get back to Bangkok.”

  “Tasanee?” Alak Montri’s daughter. She hadn’t seen her god-sister in ten years, and given the kind of business their fathers were in, the last thing she could afford to do was get the police involved. She steered the girl over to the motorcycle. “Get on and let’s get out of here. You can fill me in when we get somewhere safe.”

  “Oh thank you, Ms. Zaffini! Thank you.”

  “Don’t sweat it. Just hold on tight, and call me Gina. We’re sisters after all.”

  With Tasanee perched behind her, Gina took off down the alley. They were a mile away when she remembered the god-awful dress. It’d been a narrow escape in more ways than one.

  John Wakai resisted racing for the phone the second it rang. There was nothing he wanted more than to return to the serenity of order, to have his inner state reflect his Bangkok penthouse—clean, simple and of unimpeachable quality. This call would determine if the control that had slipped from his grasp was his once again. If his plans, as rushed as they’d been, had worked.

  Rolling his wheelchair to the coffee table, he picked up his smartphone. He breathed out, and with the voice of a Zen master, answered, “Is it done?”

  “No. We’re in trouble,” his sister squeaked, her tone somewhere between rage and panic.

  “How bad?”

  She wavered close to hysteria. “The men I had working for me...they weren’t able to finish the job.”

  “She got away?”

  “Yes. No. I mean they won’t be able to finish the job. Ever.”

  This could not be happening. “I thought you said they were right on her tail.”

  “They were. I don’t know what happened. One minute they had her, the next they were both dead. I can’t believe they came recommended.”

  Wakai bit back a curse. He hadn’t been privy to all of Montri’s secrets; his former boss had kept an ace up his sleeve. Someone to watch over his daughter. Someone dangerous enough to protect her from even his sister’s vicious associates.

  “I have no idea where she went to. How do I find her now?”

  “You can’t,” he answered with forced calm. “Whatever happened, I’m sure she’ll be back in Bangkok soon enough, and that means we have a challenge. A very serious challenge.”

  “So the plan failed?” she asked.

  “No,” he assured her. “And I’ll make sure it doesn’t. I’m not going to let anyone harm you.” And of course he wouldn’t, even as disturbed as she was. How could he, with all she meant to him? After everything and everyone he’d sacrificed to protect her. “You did the best you could. Come home, Victoria. Catch the first flight you can, and meanwhile I’ll sort this out.”

  He ended the call. As suddenly as the threat to her had developed, he’d masterminded a plan tight with checks, balances and contingencies to keep her safe. Now thanks to the incompetence of a pair of mercenaries, it was unraveling.

  Two years ago a man named Erawan Boontan—not an especially smart individual, but a very feared and dangerous one—had attempted a similar power play against Montri. The coup might have succeeded had his boss not retained the legendary assassin, Kannon Takahama, to punish the usurper’s audacity. At first, Erawan hadn’t worried—after all, he had many friends and supporters, and was no stranger to violence. Two months later he, and all who had collaborated with him, were dead. Kannon wasn’t a man. He was a force of nature.

  Still, nature could be tamed. All he needed to do was find the girl and capture her, as he’d done with her father. With her prisoner, he’d easily control Montri, and even an enemy as relentless as the assassin would be brought to heel.

  Resting the phone on the arm of his wheelchair, he closed his eyes. His meditation was short-lived. Though the number was blocked, Wakai knew who it was. His plan would never have worked without so formidable an ally, yet such pacts were a double-edged sword. Displeased friends could be far more dangerous than enemies. Especially friends such as these.

  “Get her?” said a deep, cold voice, thick with a rural Cambodian accent.

  “No. She had some security I didn’t know about,” replied Wakai, with studied firmness. “Killed the useless gunmen Victoria hired. Apparently they came recommended by some idiot.”

  “I recommended them.”

  Wakai had insulted him. Worse, he’d made it sound as if Victoria had insulted him, too.

  The man was angry now, the kind of anger that got people brutally murdered. Or much, much worse. “We couldn’t have made this any easier for you! With the girl, we could have taken the city in one stroke!”

  Arrogant psychopath. How convenient to forget that it had been his knowledge and strategy that had afforded them such a quick and decisive victory, albeit an incomplete one. “I said I’d take care of her and I will. Unfortunately, it’s going to take a little more time.”

  “You’re so smart you’re stupid,” came the scathing reply. “Kannon’s tracking you down right now, him and his boss’s friends. He’ll come knocking, and you’ll get tossed off your fancy penthouse, just like Erawan.”

  Wakai grimaced. Back then, he’d still had use of his legs. Had been there when the assassi
n had thrown Erawan to his death—with one hand.

  “You have one week to solve this problem. After that, there’s no word for the kind of punishment you’ll receive.”

  Punishment? After all he’d done for them? His new partner’s inability to reason made him as volatile as his former boss. He’d have to find some way to muzzle the mad dog. Until then, he gave the only answer he could. “Consider it dealt with.”

  The line went dead, and Wakai released a loud curse. No way to zen his way back to peace now. Seven days was all he had to put out the fire his sister’s vices had started. Fail, and it would explode into an inferno.

  Kannon was running out of time, but not as fast as Jarun who he had tied to a chair in the stockroom of the man’s own grocery store. Taking the cigarette from his mouth, Kannon stubbed it out on the prisoner’s forehead, eliciting a shrill cry of pain as it hissed against flesh. He re-lit the cigarette and took a puff. “I’m starting to get annoyed with you. Tell me where my boss is.”

  “For the last time, I don’t know,” Jarun spat, blood trickling down his sweat-slicked face. “And even if I did, you’d kill me the second I told you.”

  There was every reason for his prisoner to believe that. After all, Jarun had never shown any mercy to those who he’d brought to the back of his shop. The man was an enforcer. A fighter. A torturer. One look at his hands, knuckles enlarged and calloused, told that story.

  “You helped Wakai kidnap Mr. Montri, murder his lieutenants and hunt his daughter. The question is not whether you’re going to die. It’s how unpleasant I’m going to make that process. Now tell me what I want to know.”

  The man gritted his teeth in stubborn determination. “Fuck you.”

  Behind Kannon, a door opened to admit his apprentice, Ryota. The tall, wiry man nodded to his boss, his expression a mask of cold indifference. He held up a phone. “I have a few numbers that might be leads, and he has a message on his voicemail. Other than that, the place is empty. No sign of where they’re keeping the boss.”