“How will you get on board?” Jarin had asked as they waited for the men to gear up.
“The fantail deck. The door is open and unlocked,” Mark had said, hoping it was true. “Send a few of your men to the lower decks—there’s only one of Shawn’s men in the engine room, a kid with a shotgun. The rest of the men should take the bridge and work down from there. Warn them that there’re passengers aboard, so just don’t go spraying everyone.”
Jarin drew on his ever-present cigarette. “These are my best men. They are professionals but they are not mind readers. If they encounter someone in the hallways they will shoot them.”
“That’s not the way it’s done.”
Jarin had raised his head and looked at him, his eyes narrowing before he turned away.
The boat was angling past the Morning Star toward the dark waters far off its stern. They would come at it from the seaward side, an approach that would be less expected and one that didn’t pass them in front of the distant lights of Patong Beach. Mark was watching the water rush by, focusing on his breathing when someone tapped his arm.
“Long bpai,” one of the men said, pointing down the short steps into the ship’s dark interior. Mark started for the steps but the man placed a hand on his chest and withdrew the pistol from Mark’s holster, another man taking the MP5 from his hands. “Okay,” the man said, spreading the word into three syllables, then letting him pass. Mark eased around the man and made his way down the stairs. Black shapes filled the room. He felt a hand on his shoulder guide him forward, that hand dropping off and another taking its place as they moved him through the salon to a door, another unseen hand knocking. The door opened and a sliver of light shot across the salon. Mark brought a hand up to cover his eyes and stepped into the room, the door shutting behind him.
Jarin sat behind a built-in desk of golden-hued wood, two armed men to each side, the muzzles of their assault rifles aimed at his chest. The room was thick with cigarette smoke, and already, there were three butts in the ashtray. “My pilot says we will be in position soon,” Jarin said, and Mark nodded.
“I want the truth, Mr. Rohr.” It was the way he said it, not raising his voice, as if he already knew the answer, that told Mark that his bluff was being called. Mark waited, not offering anything.
“Is Shawn on that boat?”
“Yes,” Mark said, still in the game.
Jarin drew on his cigarette. “What you said about terrorists and the oil spill, is that true?”
Mark nodded. “That’s what Shawn told me.”
“Who are the terrorists? What organization?”
“I told you everything I know,” Mark said, the truth sounding like bullshit now, and Jarin watched him as he smoked. Mark leaned to his right as the boat started a wide arc around the stern of its target, Jarin and the guards leaning too.
“I have fought the terrorists for years,” Jarin said.
“I know. It was in the reports I read about you,” Mark said.
Jarin chuckled, blowing smoke out of his nose. He ground the cigarette out, pulling a replacement from the pack on the table. “You read it in your reports,” he said, and chuckled again as he flicked his lighter to life. “You are American, yes? Tell me, do you love your country?”
He hadn’t expected the question and he paused, but then said, “Yes.”
Jarin drew on the cigarette. “And would you kill to protect your country?”
Mark paused again, this time for other reasons. “I have.”
“And if someone told you that your country was in danger and that you could protect it, would you act?”
“Yes.”
“So tell me, Mr. Mark Rohr,” Jarin said, leaning forward as he spoke, “why would this not be true for a Thai?”
Hands cupped around his cigarette, his eyes just visible through the curl of smoke, Jarin waited, and Mark knew then that his truth no longer mattered.
“We will talk later, Mr. Rohr,” Jarin said, sitting back, dimming the light down. “But now you have a ship to catch.”
***
Mark climbed the short stairs to the back deck of the cabin cruiser just as the pilot cut the main engines. He could hear switches being thrown at the helm and then the low hum of a small electric docking motor and the rolling waves that slapped the sides of the boat. The sheer stern of the Morning Star towered above them, the outline of the superstructure backlit by deck lights that angled every direction but down. The cruiser rode higher than the fantail and through the open grating Mark could see the outline of rubber rafts and wooden long-tails bobbing below.
The fantail hatchway was closed with no light visible around its edge. Mark couldn’t tell if it was simply pushed shut from the outside or secured down from within.
One of Jarin’s men leapt onto the fantail and guided in the cruiser’s bow while five others, barrels up, scanned the ship for movement. The vinyl boat-bumpers squeaked as the pilot drew the cruiser alongside, the men scrambling out onto the fantail and shouldering up against the hull of the Morning Star; Mark jumping out with them. The man tossed the rope back onto the cruiser and it pulled away, disappearing into the darkness.
A row of men squatted at the outer edge of the fantail and kept their weapons trained on the superstructure while the others lined up on both sides of the door. A few of the men looked at him, waiting for him to lead them in.
Mark shifted his MP5 to his left side and reached for the door’s handle.
Maybe the alarm bypass had fallen off or failed to work correctly and the hatch had been relocked hours ago.
Or maybe his taser-wielding kidnapper had attracted too much attention in his rush to deliver him to Jarin, bringing someone down to investigate.
Maybe one of the pirates just happened past and pulled it shut, throwing the lock.
The kid could have got it wrong and told Pim and Robin that everything was ready and they told the others, and when they rushed down and it wasn’t ready, somebody panicked. There could be piles of bodies inside with dozens of edgy pirates waiting in ambush.
But if it was locked, it was over.
Mark wrapped his fingers around the handle, nodding once to the man beside him, the man nodding back, slipping inside as Mark pulled the hatch open. Mark felt his breath catch in relief, then stepped through, the others silently pouring in behind them.
Nothing had changed. The passageway was still empty, the bypass was still in place, but Ngern was gone. He was a smart kid and he knew his way around. Mark just hoped he’d stay low till this was all over.
The first man through turned and signaled to the others, a squad of men splitting off toward the engine room, any noise they made lost in the steady hum of the ship’s machinery. The man tapped Mark on the shoulder and pointed to the stairs, his eyes asking the question. Mark nodded and took the lead.
He moved up the stairs one step at a time. So far no one knew they were aboard, and the longer they could keep it that way the better. The open frame of the MP5 stock at his shoulder, Mark came around each bend of the staircase ready to fire. On the fourth flight up, he did, dropping a pair of Shawn’s pirates as they walked down the corridor toward him, the suppressor reducing the shots to airy thumps, the metallic clack of the bolt and the clatter of the six brass casings on the metal deck the loudest noise. Two flights later Mark heard the same rhythmic clatter coming from below. A hand-signaled message worked its way up the line letting him know that there were three fewer pirates onboard.
When they reached the main passenger level, Mark stopped and stepped to the side, gesturing to the man behind him that he was staying here and that they should continue to the bridge. The man looked hard at Mark, his jaw set, his eyes burning, then waved the others on, throwing Mark one last hot glance before heading up. Mark waited for the last man to go by, then cut across the passageway to a sh
adowy alcove near the open bulkhead door that led to the passenger cabins. He went low and popped his head around the corner. The corridor was empty, all the doors shut. He was two steps away from Pim’s cabin when he heard a toilet flush in the communal bathroom at the end of the hall.
Mark moved fast, reaching the end of the hallway and sliding up against the wall just as the bathroom door swung open, the door swinging out, hiding him from view, swinging back shut as Andy, head down, zipping up his fly, walked past. Mark crosschecked Andy into the doorframe of the first cabin, slamming his knee up into Andy’s crotch and shoving the side of the rifle hard against his throat. Bug-eyed and wheezing, Andy fought to catch his breath, bringing both hands up along the side of his face.
“Unarmed,” he managed to gasp, wiggling his fingers as if to prove the point.
“Where is he?” Mark whispered.
Andy tried to shake his head but Mark held the weapon tight, pushing in until Andy said, “Cabin.”
“Here? One of these?”
Andy opened his mouth to speak but only gasped. Mark shoved him against the door again and stepped back, shoving the barrel of his submachine gun into Andy’s gut. “You shout, you die,” Mark said. “Which cabin?”
Andy sucked in a shaky breath. “Fuckin’ bastard,” he said, his voice just audible.
“Which cabin?”
“Not here. Up on the other deck, four flights up. First cabin on the right,” Andy said, and Mark remembered the ship’s diagram taped up on the back of his cabin door. Then Andy smiled and added, “Shagging that whore.”
It was a quick move and Andy never saw it coming, Mark jerking the barrel up, the heavy suppressor catching him on the chin, Andy’s mouth snapping shut on his tongue, a string of blood streaking up into his face, Mark jabbing the barrel back into his gut before he could move.
“Bastard,” Andy spat out, his hands coming up to cover his bloody mouth. Mark let him, wondering now what to do with his prisoner. It was one thing to shoot an armed man and he had done it minutes ago without hesitation, another thing to gut shoot a guy with his hands in the air. It had only been seconds since he had first slammed him against the cabin door, but Mark knew that he didn’t have time to waste on Andy Cooper, didn’t have time for honor. He thought of Pim and Robin and the boy and was drawing in a halting breath, his finger moving for the trigger, when the door behind Andy swung open and Andy fell backward into the cabin, landing at the feet of Mr. Singh. The remnants of the original crew climbed off bunk beds and moved to the door to stand behind their officer, the low murmur in Thai stopping when Singh raised his bandaged hand.
“You need to keep your men inside until this is over,” Mark said, looking into the man’s dark brown eyes, Singh giving the slightest nod to show that he understood. Then both men looked down to Andy.
“We will take care of this one,” Singh said as his men dragged Andy, screaming, into the cabin, Singh keeping his eyes fixed on Mark as he slowly shut the door.
Mark listened as the lock turned in place, then stepped away from the door and started back to the stairs.
There were shots now, choppy machine gun bursts and booming shotgun blasts coming from above and isolated pops from handguns below. The suppressors on Jarin’s men’s weapons kept the sounds of the battle one-sided. Mark took the steps three at a time, leaping over the crumpled body of a pirate on one landing and the black-clad body of one of Jarin’s men on another. He was rounding the last set of stairs when the shots came, a line of sparks and deadly ricochets passing inches over his head. He pushed on, springing out low, hitting the deck on his side, his MP5 firing off a dozen silent shots, catching the two pirates as they brought their Chinese assault rifles around, the men seeming to dance in place as the rounds ripped through them. Instinctively, Mark rolled the other way, dropping a third man before he could raise his shotgun. He stood up and put his back to the bulkhead and scanned the hall, looking for movement or odd-shaped shadows, a lifetime of skills taking over.
Mark slid along the bulkhead, stopping at the edge of the second hall of passenger cabins. He risked a quick look around the open doorway. There were four doors on both sides of the short hall with no communal bath at the far end, just a spiral staircase that led up somewhere in the direction of the bridge. According to Andy, Shawn and Pim were in the first cabin on the right. But was it the first cabin from this end of the hall—the door he stood in front of now—or was it the first cabin from the spiral staircase end, making it the last door on the left? He could blow off the lock and kick in this door, a fifty-fifty chance he’d have the right room, catching Shawn off guard and ending it quick. The same odds that he’d be warning Shawn and dooming Pim.
Keeping his eyes trained down the hall, he leaned in and pressed an ear against the door. He could hear muffled noises but those could be ambient sounds resonating through the ship.
Fifty-fifty.
The same odds that the door would be unlocked.
Mark slung his MP5 across his back and drew the Beretta from his shoulder holster. He pushed down on the door handle and he felt it turn, pulling the door toward him to keep it from creaking open before he was ready, inching the door open until the latch was clear. He took a deep, silent breath and in one move, swung the door open and swept the barrel across the empty room just as a scream echoed down the hall behind him.
Shawn was stepping backwards out of the far cabin, his left hand coming up to the four deep scratches that raked his face, his right arm aiming a pistol back into the cabin. “You fucking bitch,” he shouted, firing once before Mark emptied the automatic, the first two shots slamming into the side of Shawn’s head, Shawn’s lifeless body crumpling sideways as Mark sprinted down the hall. Mark dropped the Beretta and swung the MP5 down into his hands as he ran, the gun hip-level as he came in the room. Pim was on the floor, leaning up on one hand, staring down at the blood that flowed from the hole in Robin’s shoulder.
He threw the gun on a bed and lifted Robin off Pim’s lap. She was unconscious but her breathing was steady, her shirt already soaked in blood. He propped her up on her side and ran a hand along her back. “Good. The round went straight through.”
Pim stripped off a pair of pillowcases and knelt down beside Robin. “Hold this tight please,” she said, wadding up the white cotton cover and placing it over the exit wound, high on Robin shoulder; placing the other over the hole in the front of Robin’s shirt. “If it did not cut an artery,” she said, hitting every syllable, “she will be all right. When I worked in my father’s pharmacy on Phi Phi, we saw many stab wounds, much worse than this. Now hold here as well.”
“I got it,” Mark said, shifting his position so he could press the bandages between his hands. He looked at Pim and saw her glance out the door to where Shawn’s body lay, the pistol still in his hand, his head blown open. “What happened?”
“Shawn made Miss Robin and me come to this cabin. He heard the shots. Then he…he was going to…” she stopped—her breath coming in short gulps—then looked into Mark’s eyes, and through clenched teeth she said, “I scratched his face.”
“Why did he shoot her?”
Pim shook her head. “No. He was going to shoot me. Miss Robin, she jumped in the way and knocked me over. Then Shawn fell and you were here.”
She stood and pulled a sheet from a bed, tearing it in half then rolling it lengthwise into a long bandage. Together they wrapped the sheet tight around Robin’s chest, a mix of Marine Corp first aid and makeshift clinic practicality.
“Where’s Ngern?” Mark said, looking around the room.
Pim’s eyes widened. “He is not with you?”
“No. But I think I know where he is,” Mark lied. Robin stirred and gave a low moan. “We need to get moving. She going to be able to get out of here soon?”
“Yes. She needs to be taken to a real doctor, before she is infec
ted.”
“Don’t worry,” Robin said, blinking her eyes open. “I’ve had my shots.”
“Miss Robin,” Pim said, the tears coming now, bending down and hugging her neck. “You are so brave. You should not have saved me.”
“Tell me about it.” Robin winced as they helped her sit up. She looked at Mark. “Did you kill Shawn?”
Mark nodded and Robin looked past him, out the door and into the hall. She breathed a long sigh. “Oh shit no.”
“Robin, he killed Pim’s grandfather, he tried to kill Pim, and he almost killed you. If I didn’t shoot him he would have killed me, too. I’m not sorry I shot him.”
“I’m not sorry either,” she said, tilting her head to the door, “but they look kind of pissed.”
Five men in black tee shirts and matching black pants stood at the open door, their weapons all pointed at Mark.
Chapter Thirty four
Jarin grunted and flipped his phone shut. “Bring us in,” he said, and the pilot spun the wheel, maneuvering the cabin cruiser back to the empty fantail deck.
It had only taken ten minutes for his men to secure the ship. Pirates, he knew from experience, were not disciplined fighters and they lacked even the basic organizational skills. According to Laang, the operation had gone as planned, just one man killed and two wounded. They had done well and he was proud of them, but he certainly wouldn’t tell them that—that’s what he paid them for. He also paid them to get information and they were doing that, too. The few pirates still alive were eager to talk, assuming foolishly that it would matter. And apparently they had something interesting to tell.
The boat crept alongside the fantail and two men jumped out, this time tying the ropes off, locking the cruiser’s gangplank in place before signaling to Jarin that it was ready. Jarin took the pilot’s nine millimeter from the man’s holster. In the old days he would have tucked the gun into the front of his pants but his overhanging gut made that impossible now. Instead he used it as a pointer, directing the three remaining gunmen off the cruiser and through the fantail door. A moment later, one of the men gave the all clear and Jarin stepped down the gangplank, across the open grating and into the Morning Star.
Noble Lies Page 24