by Marni Bates
Ignoring both of them, I focused on the emails from my friends.
Hey Chelsea!
School is soo not the same without you! It’s like you’re gone for 5 minutes and the geeks totally start freaking out. And you wouldn’t believe the number of fashion casualties wandering the hallways now! Yesterday I saw a freshman wearing a plaid jacket over a striped shirt and I had to be all, “Um, visually challenged much?” Anyhow, Steffani has been flirting with Spencer! I told her that your ex-boy friend’s best friend is totally off-limits, but she wouldn’t listen to me. She probably thinks he’s going to help her cinch up a Junior Prom Queen nomination or something. Crazy, right?! I was wondering if you still have those photos from her birthday party last year. Do you think I could get a copy? Just in case she needs help remembering her roots.
Kisses!
~Ashley
I knew exactly which photos Ashley wanted me to send—the ones that ensured that Steffani would never speak to me again if they leaked. The ones I had no business taking in the first place . . . or using as insurance in case she ever considered trying to overthrow me as the most popular girl at school. The whole thing twisted my stomach, partly because it was a crappy thing to do . . . but mostly because the pursuit of scandal was the only reason Ashley had bothered writing to me.
I had no qualms about leaving her message unanswered and moving on.
Hey Chelsea,
I thought you might be feeling homesick so . . . here is a very special update from reporter Jane Smith with all the latest news. Our top story tonight: The Fake and Bake Battles. Two girls have turned the fight for the number-one spot on the Smith High School social ladder into an all-out war. Clashes in the cafeteria have put the whole school on edge as the showdown continues. In related news, geek hazing appears to be at an all-time high. This reporter credits some of the tension to the absence of yours truly.
You might want to use your Jedi mind tricks to fix this disturbance in the Force. If you get the chance, I’m sure it would be greatly appreciated. Seriously.
So how are you liking Cambodia? I keep Googling it to make sure you haven’t overthrown the government yet. If any teenager could successfully create a revolution in less than two weeks, it’s you.
~Jane
P.S. Scott does not send his love. He wants to know if you’ve plumbed new depths yet. His words, not mine.
I clicked reply and got down to work.
Hey Jane,
Thanks for the update. Sorry, I can’t help with Fake and Bake right now. I’m dealing with a huge problem of my own. It’s life or death, Jane. Which is why I need you to call in every favor you’ve got for me. Every connection of Mackenzie’s too. If there is a string you can pull, you’ve got to start tugging.
Here’s the situation: I accidentally stole drugs from a Cambodian cartel. No, I’m not kidding. Just trust me when I say that my professor, Neal Hamilton, is innocent of his possession charges. And it’s his life at stake. That’s on the off chance that the really scary guys with guns haven’t killed him already.
I know that right now you’re probably shaking your head and thinking that normal people don’t accidentally create international incidents. And maybe you’re right, but since I’ve also ditched my group, you’re all the help I’ve got.
So I need you to start making some noise while I try to negotiate with drug dealers. How is that for a crazy breaking news report?
~Chelsea
P.S. You can tell Scott I’m definitely not feeling shallow right now.
I sent the email and felt a jolt of satisfaction as it disappeared into cyberspace. Maybe help wouldn’t arrive soon enough to save Neal . . . but at least now I had the smartest person I knew working on it. That had to count for something.
Although I had a feeling the rest of the group wouldn’t see it that way. In fact, I half expected to see Houston barge into the Internet café and drag me outside so he could yell at me. Sure, I had left a note in the hostel, but I doubted that would diminish anyone’s anger over my disappearing act. Obsessing over their reaction wasn’t doing me—or Neal—any good. If Houston caught up with me, I was fairly certain he’d try handcuffing me to a bedpost . . . and not in a sexy way either.
Still, I could worry about that later.
I had researching to do.
Chapter 16
It was probably heroin.
Unfortunately, the un-cited Wikipedia article I found wasn’t exactly overflowing with hard evidence. Apparently, Cambodia had a bit of a reputation for supplying tourists with heroin instead of cocaine. Interesting, but far from a reliable answer. Then again, the article also mentioned how easily drugs could be acquired in Cambodia.
That matched my firsthand experience.
I quickly scanned the article. Drug abuse among street kids was on the rise . . . as were the number of HIV/AIDS cases from shared needles. It twisted my stomach, but I had to stay focused on the problem at hand. Saving thousands of street kids from drugs, diseases, and freaking land mines was much-needed work for an entire organization, not one high school girl who already had a Buddha-shaped target on her back. So I skimmed over the drug transportation part and then . . . I totally hit pay dirt.
Rithisak Sovann.
His brief bio read like Hollywood’s idea of the perfect übervillain. Rumored to be the biggest drug lord in the area, Mr. Sovann was a card-carrying member of Cambodia’s wealthiest elite. He dined with military officials, vacationed with leading politicians at his luxury hotel in the capital city of Phnom Penh, and just so happened to own the country’s largest daily newspaper.
Oh, and the guy was certifiably insane.
If the rumors were to be believed, Rithisak Sovann had once pulled out a gun on a cruise ship and demanded to be treated with more respect . . . and then a year later he shot the tire of a taxi cab because the driver didn’t want to wait for his friends to show up. His trigger-happy reputation probably would have made me laugh if I had no connection with him whatsoever. But there was nothing funny about a psychopath with the funds to send an army of thugs to hunt me down.
He certainly didn’t seem like the kind of man who would react calmly to the news that half of his shipment had been stolen. Nope, he would make it his mission to destroy the guilty party, if only to send a warning message to his rivals.
If this guy was involved—which admittedly was something of a stretch—I was in a world of trouble.
I peered at the screen, trying to memorize the drug lord’s features so that I would be able to recognize him anywhere. There was nothing particularly remarkable about him. Dark black hair combed back with enough product to look professionally slick. Eyes that were on the border between brown and black, a wide-set nose, and a pair of full lips that were spread in a welcoming smile. I scrolled down and stopped abruptly at a candid photo of him. Rithisak Sovann wasn’t smiling in this one, but he also didn’t look overly concerned about the swarm of journalists around him. Probably because he had a security detail of his own keeping them at bay.
One of whom bore a striking similarity to Boss Man.
I couldn’t be positive since the image was grainy and I hadn’t exactly conversed with the thug during a stress-free afternoon tea. Maybe beating the crap out of someone was business as usual for Boss Man, but it had definitely rattled me. Which meant that it was entirely possible I had confused him with another imposing Cambodian man . . . but I couldn’t shake the feeling that Mr. Sovann’s bodyguard and the Boss Man I had encountered last night were one and the same.
This was my guy.
As if Houston could read my thoughts, a new message popped up in my email inbox with a subject line that left virtually nothing to interpretation: WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?
The contents of the actual email were equally direct.
You need to get back here, Chelsea. Right now.
I hesitated only momentarily before responding.
Sorry, Houston, I can’t do that. You guys can leave anytime,
but I’m staying to help Neal. Deal with it. Hey, at least this way you can tell my dad you tried to talk me out of it!
xoxo!
~Chelsea
All things considered, I thought it was a pretty nice response. Polite. Concise. The x’s and o’s were downright affectionate. My parents would be so proud of the way I was taking the moral high ground.
Actually, they would probably be spitting mad.
Since they were the ones who had insisted I make a new start for myself in Cambodia, I didn’t think they had the right to whine about the way I went about it.
Houston’s quick response took me by surprise though.
We aren’t leaving without you.
I stared at the screen in disbelief. All of their worst thoughts of me should have been confirmed. Neal was in prison because I had stolen a Buddha full of heroin! They should have been thrilled to distance themselves from any association with me. Frankly, an hasta la vista, princess was all that I deserved.
I’m not leaving without Neal. So where does that leave us?
At an impasse, probably. Houston wanted to play it safe in a high-risk/high-reward situation, and I was determined to play the hand we’d been dealt. Maybe I was behaving like the spoiled princess he accused me of being, but this time I wasn’t going to be the first to fold.
Fine.
I blinked in confusion as I searched Houston’s one-word answer for some kind of hidden meaning. Fine, you’re on your own. Try not to get yourself killed, princess. That seemed like something he would write.
I braced myself for the worst as more words appeared on my screen.
Come back and we’ll talk it over.
The authoritative tone made me roll my eyes at the sheer Houston-ness, but it also made a foolish grin spread across my face. He really meant it. They were actually willing to stick around for Neal . . . and oddly enough, for me. Even though they would all be safer leaving me behind to fight a war of my own making.
We just needed to get one thing straight first. . . .
My rescue. My rules.
I leaned back and braced myself for the first round of battle. It wasn’t long in coming.
It’s called teamwork, princess. I realize that might be a foreign concept to you, but the rest of us find it quite effective.
Right. Because I was the only one who didn’t always play well with others.
It’s called leadership, cowboy. And this time I’m in charge.
I drummed my fingers on the scarred table while I waited him out.
Fine. Where are you?
I didn’t need to see my reflection to know that my smile had transformed into an I’ve got you exactly where I want you smirk. An expression that has been known to terrify freshman girls at Smith High School into speechlessness. Sure, I probably had one seriously angry drug trafficker gunning for me, but for the first time since leaving Oregon I finally felt like I was back in control.
I had the drugs, a semi-feasible plan, and now a group of teammates backing me up. My smile only widened as I typed my final email and logged off.
I’ll see you guys at the Siem Reap bus station in an hour. Please bring my suitcase.
The rest is for me to know and you to find out.
Oh yeah. My luck was definitely about to change.
Chapter 17
I hadn’t expected them to greet me with open arms. Considering that I’d rummaged through their suitcases for makeover supplies before ditching them—and that I’d do it all over again, if forced, without hesitation or apology—yeah, I could understand their anger. Still, I had hoped for a tight-lipped smile or a halfhearted wave or two when I met them at the bus station.
Instead, I found myself on the receiving end of four furious death glares.
“So I take it the thugs caught up with you,” Ben said easily. “That explains the hair, right? It’s some new kind of torture technique.”
I fingered one of the strands defensively. “It’s not that bad!”
“Liar, liar, head on fire.” His mouth tilted upward, and I knew at least one member of the group wasn’t going to stay mad at me forever.
“Okay, maybe not my best look. I can accept that. But it’s still got a high score on the disguise-o-meter, right?”
Even before the words were out of my mouth, I knew it was quite possibly the geekiest thing I had ever said. I mean, disguise-o-meter? Not even Mackenzie Wellesley would go that far.
I tensed as I waited for them to mock me.
Nothing happened.
It probably shouldn’t have surprised me. They might be furious with me for sneaking out of the hostel, but that didn’t mean it was open season on all things Chelsea Halloway. They weren’t going to leap at the chance to ridicule me the way Ashley or Steffani would if I were still back at Smith High School.
Now I just needed Amy to stop acting like I’d personally killed Bambi’s mother. Liz rolled her eyes. “You know the red looks good, Chelsea. Stop fishing for compliments.”
I shrugged and pointedly studied the chalkboard bus schedule. The first bus for Phnom Penh would be departing in fifteen minutes, and I had every intention of being on board.
Whether or not anyone else still wanted to join me.
“So where do you think we’re going?” Houston’s tone was mild but there was an undertone of anger. He may have agreed that it was my mission, my rules, but that didn’t mean he would back down without a fight. His eyes looked extra green as he struggled to keep himself tightly under control.
I held up my twelve-dollar bus ticket. “I’m going to Phnom Penh to see a guy about a Buddha. Feel free to join me . . . or not. Totally up to you.”
Liz eyed me warily. “Who is the guy, Chelsea?”
“Right now? He’s my first solid lead.”
“You seem to have thought this out.” Houston’s words came out clipped and measured, as if he was forcing himself to spit out only those specific words.
“That’s right.”
Amy nodded stiffly before marching right over to the counter. “One ticket for Phnom Penh, please.”
The others followed behind her, and I felt a surge of relief that we were finally doing something instead of just complaining about the situation. The terrifying sense of paralysis eased even further as I climbed aboard the bus and took my first breath of recycled air-conditioned freedom.
Amy wordlessly claimed the seat next to mine, and after trading shrugs and nervous glances, everyone else settled two or three rows behind us. Probably because they knew what was coming when she finally spoke in an unnaturally low voice.
“I thought you were dead.”
And just like that, the biggest dork at Lewis & Clark College stunned me into absolute silence.
“You want to know what happened, Chelsea?” Amy didn’t wait for a response. “At first we thought you weren’t coming out of the bathroom because you wanted some privacy to cry. But then we started getting worried and—” Her voice faltered as tears welled up in her eyes. “Strands of your hair were all over the place. All that red dye looks a lot like blood, so . . . I thought you were dead. I actually thought that if you’d gone with us to find the Internet café you might still be okay. But you hadn’t. We left you and you were dead and there was nothing I could do to fix it.”
Amy began full-on weeping, and I had no idea how to comfort her. Apologies didn’t come in a large enough size for what I had accidentally done.
“I, uh . . . left a note,” I pointed out. “I never thought that—c’mon, Amy. Don’t do this. I’m sorry, okay?”
“Yeah, well, now I want to kill you myself.”
“That seems . . . counterproductive,” I said wryly. “Any chance we could focus on saving Neal instead?”
“You scare me like that again and I won’t forgive you.”
I grimaced. “I promise I will never intentionally scare you again, Amy. Does that work?”
Amy shook her head in disbelief. “How can you be so calm about all of this? You’r
e just—” She pitched her voice an octave higher. “Let’s go rescue Neal from almost certain death! Ready? O-kay!” The last part came out sounding like a bad cheerleading routine.
“I’ve just had plenty of practice faking confidence under pressure. It sort of comes with the territory when everyone thinks you’re stupid.”
The truth slipped out so easily, it wasn’t until Amy rolled her eyes that I realized just how much I had revealed. I tensed instinctively as I waited for her to go right for the jugular.
Maybe if you studied harder you wouldn’t have to fake anything, princess. Did that ever occur to you?