by J. M. Parker
The Thai said nothing,
“Water,” said Bannon.
This time the Thai seemed to understand and he nodded at the door, keeping the barrel of his gun pointed at Bannon.
“Outside?”
Again the man nodded his head in that direction.
“Okay,” said Bannon, his anger building as his throat continued to burn. He rushed out into the night, the faint wash of moonlight running on to the edge of the jungle and the dark silhouettes of the trees. “Where?” said Bannon, searching for some sign of water.
The Thai waved him on toward the side of the house, the two of them passing by the bug lamp, birds already arriving out of the darkness and feasting on the pile of insects below. They advanced about twenty yards and Bannon spotted the water tank. He sprinted in that direction, finding a tap at its base. He sunk to his knees and turned it; water sprayed erratically from the tap and Bannon lowered himself again, twisting his neck and turning his mouth up to the water. He heard the Thai man laugh, barking like a dog as he watched Bannon lap away.
After a couple of gulps Bannon stood, water splashed in a dark stain across the front of his shirt. The Thai called him over, a big grin spread across his face.
Resentfully, Bannon moved back to the house, pausing as he spotted the familiar figure of the Frenchman treading along the edge of the clearing. A long whistle of wind sounded out into the night and the Frenchman stopped, turning to face the trees and stretching his arms out toward them. Bannon heard the Thai man cough behind him but he didn’t move. He stared at the Frenchman, watching as the silhouette of the forest shifted in the wind, the rustling of leaves punctuated by the sounds of disturbed creatures echoing out into the night. The Frenchman turned his head to the sky, the sounds of the jungle growing louder and louder until the wind suddenly dropped. Bannon felt the Thai man pull at his shirt and he looked once more at the Frenchman, watching as he slowly lowered his arms and the jungle fell still around him.
*
Bannon’s makeshift bed shook as the Frenchman kicked the crates beneath his mattress. “It is time,” said the Frenchman. Bannon dragged himself into a seated position. The room felt like a furnace and his scrawny limbs were covered with sweat.
In the kitchen he found a watery slop of rice ladled into steel bowls. The dark-skinned Thai was nowhere to be seen, but another man stood watching over him as he ate. When he finished he stepped outside. Three jeeps each packed with machine gun-wielding men were parked beside a small pickup truck.
The Frenchman moved to his side. “Our escort,” he said.
Bannon looked over the group, each man scowling in his direction. Some of them wore the ragged military jackets of a force Bannon didn’t recognize, most of them were marked with gruesome patterns of scars. They held their weapons assuredly, the guns polished and well maintained. The Frenchman placed a hand on his shoulder, guiding him to the pickup truck before they climbed into the cab. The vehicles moved out, two jeeps in front of the pickup, the third one trailing behind.
In this fashion they drove through the jungle, the road turning into a slick mud track. Bannon looked nervously out the window, searching the foliage for any sign of an attacker. The Frenchman seemed to notice and he smiled. “Fret not. It does not behoove our enemies to attack us yet, not without any product to steal.”
“Great,” said Bannon, watching as the front jeep skidded, its wheels stuck in a deep puddle of mud.
Troops jumped from the jeep. Some of them hopped onto the wheel arches and others pushed hard at the back. The engine roared as the wheels spun again and mud sprayed across the road. The Frenchman reached for the handle of the door, stopping as dozens of rag-clad children appeared from out of the overgrowth. Little machetes swung from their hips and at least half of them were barefoot.
“Never mind,” said the Frenchman as children hopped onto the side of the truck, their collective weight sinking the tires down through the mud. The remaining children tied a rope through the front girder and began tugging the vehicle forward. The engine roared again and this time the wheels gripped the surface of the road. The jeep lurched forward, the childrens’ machetes bouncing with the force of the movement and slapping against their sides. Bannon watched as more kids rushed to the front of the jeep, pulling the rope in one solid movement as the wheels crept out of the mud and onto the firmer ground of the track.
A few guards jumped from the second jeep, rushing over to the bed of the pickup and removing long, wooden boards. They laid them over the mud and returned to their vehicle, waiting as the children untied the rope and hopped back off the jeep.
*
Two hours later they were at the site, the cars rising out of the jungle and stopping on a small plateau. Empty huts were dotted around the space and Bannon looked them over. The houses were set on small wooden frames with wheels attached to the bottom. He watched as the armed guard moved from the jeeps, working in pairs to push the houses into two neat rows, the grassy ground beneath them quickly taking the shape of a landing strip. Their work done, the guards spread into a perimeter, their guns pointed out across the surrounding jungle. Bannon looked to the sky, searching for a plane and seeing nothing coming. He took a long, deep breath and began to pace the landing strip, stopping when he reached the end and staring into a deep pit cut into the trees below him. “What the hell?” said Bannon, inching closer to the edge of the pit and spotting a pile of human bones at the bottom. Animal tracks lined the sides and an empty rib cage lay half concealed in the dirt.
“Junkies,” said the Frenchmen, his voice turning Bannon away from the pit.
“What?”
The Frenchman smiled, pointing to where a small skull lay embedded in the bank. “The bones in the pit. They were soldiers who got hooked on the opium. This is the boss’s answer—how do you say?—cold turkey treatment.”
“The boss?”
“Yes, the boss. The Tiger. The ones you see now are the ones who went delirious, the ones couldn’t break the addiction.”
“You’re a bunch of goddamn barbarians.”
The Frenchman smiled again. “Perhaps, but a powerful example nonetheless.”
“What is this place?”
“It was a port, a garrison, one of a number of drop-off spots.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Bannon, peering back into the pit. “I wish I’d just turned myself in. That’s the honest truth…I wish I’d never met you.”
The Frenchman laughed. “Come now, mon ami. This is your grand adventure. This is your odyssey.”
Bannon spat into the ground beside him, about to answer, when a small plane swept overhead in a rush of warm air. The wheels of the plane bounced noisily on the landing strip and the two of them looked that way, the propellers slowing as the little craft rolled to a stop. The pilot opened the side door and half the guards moved over to the craft, forming an organized line from the plane to the pickup truck. Bannon watched as wrapped block after wrapped block passed from hand to hand and began filling the bed of the pickup. Within ten minutes the truck was full, the jeeps too, their trunks stuffed with piles of the packaged drugs.
The pilot turned to the Frenchman, bowing before he hurried back to the plane and guided it back along the runway, the propellers whirring to life as it shot across the grass. Within seconds the guards were moving houses back across the plateau, concealing the secret runway before they loaded back into their jeeps. The remaining guards joined them a moment later and the convoy pulled out again, descending back into the jungle as Bannon looked anxiously at the surrounding trees.
*
It took almost three hours to get back to the concrete shelter. Twice the Frenchman had ordered the convoy to stop, sending the guards out to search the area. When they reached the sunlight of the clearing, Bannon let out a long sigh as the Frenchman killed the engine and exited the cab. Bannon stayed a moment longer, waiting for his nerves to steady before he stepped out into the open air. He watched as the Frenchman gave som
e orders and the guards began moving the packages from the pickup to the camper, filling every secret inch of it within a frantic fifteen minutes. When they finished the Frenchman turned to Bannon, pulling an envelope from his pocket and handing it across. “Here are your papers. They will get you across the border. Once you cross follow the map to the marked destination, I will meet you there.”
“Alina too?”
“You have my word.”
Bannon looked once more at the jeeps, the wrapped blocks of drugs still sitting in their trunks. “Alright,” he said. “What about the rest of it?”
“That is someone else’s concern. We will follow you to within a mile of the border. The papers will help you cross. I believe the camper will serve as an adequate disguise from there. By nightfall we will rendezvous.”
“Just make sure Alina’s alright,” said Bannon, turning back to the camper, when the Frenchman spoke again. “For a moment we were friends, were we not?”
Bannon shrugged.
“I am sorry it had to end this way,” said the Frenchman.
Bannon looked from him to the camper, his skinny reflection stretching up its side, his once handsome face now gaunt and tired. “Yeah,” he said, “me too.”
*
Bannon watched as the other vehicles slowed to a stop. He glanced at the odometer, craving a joint or a drink. When he reached the border a soldier waved him to the side of the road, signaling for him to roll down his window. Bannon took a deep breath as he reached for the envelope and held it out to the advancing soldier. The man took it and pulled out a small stack of papers, scanning them quickly before he turned away.
He returned a few minutes later with a senior-looking officer, and Bannon felt sweat leak from his pores as the officer raised the papers to him. “From who?” said the officer.
“Saint Jean.”
“He no here,” said the officer, staring at the Adderall-filled duck on the dashboard.
“He’s not here.”
The officer frowned as he practiced the correction. “Not here. Not here.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean any offense,” said Bannon, waiting for the officer to continue.
The officer practiced the words once more before the frown disappeared. He slapped the letter against his hand and smiled at Bannon. “Give him my best,” he said, sounding the words out deliberately.
“Sure thing.”
The officer pointed back to the border and Bannon gripped the wheel, about to pull away when the officer called out again. “Remember,” said the officer, “my best.”
“I’ll remember.”
The officer bowed his head and turned away. “Holy shit,” said Bannon, dabbing the sweat from his brow before he eased the car back out onto the road.
*
He’d followed the map for another five miles when he saw a car pull out of a rest area and follow him along the road. He looked in his mirrors, trying to see the faces of the passengers, but the car was too far back. At the next bend he sped up, spotting a little turn off and driving down it. He waited, his heart thumping inside of him, when he heard a car zip by and then the road fell silent. He exited the camper, creeping back to the main road and peering up and down it.
The coast clear, he returned to the vehicle, sitting quietly and waiting for his nerves to steady. His backpack sat beside him and he reached instinctively for a joint, stopping as he saw something flash beneath the passenger seat. Bannon reached for it, picking up a small, colored piece of foil. Slowly he turned it in his hands. He felt the last traces of the drug stuck to its surface. “Fuck this,” he said, tossing the foil aside before he pulled the camper out onto the road and drove back the way he came.
*
Bannon arrived at the house to find the gates wide open and an empty car parked in front. He pulled the camper out of sight and stepped out, pausing at the pillars of the gate and staring at the dark windows of the building. He took a deep breath and sneaked along the driveway to the back of the house. When he reached the garage he crossed to the back door, gently turning the handle and recoiling as it creaked open. He took another deep breath and edged into the house, the place soundless except for his footsteps on the floor. He searched the kitchen first, finding the room empty, their plates still stacked in the sink. From a kitchen drawer he removed a steak knife and headed to the living room, the knife slipping from his hand as the door swung back and he saw the half-naked body stretched out across the floor.
“Shit,” said Bannon, staring at the corpse, its pants stripped free and thrown across the back of the couch, its arms and legs jutting from its swollen body. He reached back for the knife and inched toward it, placing a foot on its bloated belly and rolling it over. He cursed again as the bloodied face of the man flopped into view. His nose had been broken, the bone driven back into his brain. Dried blood stuck to his nostrils and Bannon felt a fresh wave of panic. “Alina,” said Bannon, waiting desperately for an answer and hearing nothing. “Alina,” he said, racing through the house before he returned to the living room, glaring at the stranger’s face beneath him, his dead eyes rolled back toward his mangled brain. “Goddammit,” said Bannon, slamming a fist into the wall, the plaster cracking beneath the blow. “Alina,” he said, his hands shaking at his sides as he took one final look at the body and sprinted back out of the house.
He jumped back into the car, tossing the knife into the passenger seat. Sweat poured across his body as he stared at the map, remembering the final words of the Frenchman: “I’m sorry it had to end this way.”
“You son of bitch,” said Bannon, whipping the camper back onto the road, the engine revving furiously as he pressed the accelerator flat against the floor and sped on toward the rendezvous.
*
He never saw the Defender coming, the car tracking straight at him as he hurtled along the road. It came straight out of a side road, smacking into the rear of his vehicle and sending the camper spinning across the concrete. His head slapped against the side window, spraying glass out into the afternoon air. His head rang and spots formed across his vision as the camper skidded to a halt. The engine spluttered for a moment and died. Bannon lay limply in his seat belt, his ears still ringing. He gasped for air, not sure what had happened, not sure where he was. He squinted out of the broken window and saw a car stop in front. A group of men hopped out, guns held in front as they approached the wreck. Bannon reached for the passenger seat, slapping the surface as he searched for the knife. “Please,” he said, watching as the door ripped away and the men dragged him from the vehicle, the ringing building in his ears as his head ricocheted off the road. A gun pressed against his cheek and he heard words over the ringing. “Drugs,” said a voice.
Bannon open his eyes and found himself blinking at a pair of black boots. “Inside,” he said.
“Where?”
“In the camper. Hidden.”
Bannon heard the man call out and footsteps move over to the camper. He heard the crack of wood, heard doors ripping from their hinges. Another man yelled something back from inside the camper before he heard the hammer of the gun click back. “Oh God,” said Bannon, waiting for a sudden explosion of heat against his cheek. A second passed and the man inside yelled something else.
He heard the hammer click back into place and footsteps move back in his direction. A knife tore into the paper packaging of the drugs and he felt a fine powder drift onto his face. Frenzied conversation rang out above him. A powerful kick rolled him over and he squinted at the faces above him, his vision still littered with flickering black spots. He saw one of the men gather a fistful of beige powder and hold it out to him. “Drugs,” said the man.
“Inside,” said Bannon, his vision fading.
“Where?” said the voice.
“Inside,” repeated Bannon, his face rocking sideways as the man slapped him hard across the cheek. Bannon felt his skin split, the scene darkening as blood poured into his eye. He heard more footsteps rush toward the camper. A hand
reached down and jammed a gag into his mouth. Bannon choked, trying desperately to breathe through his nose as a bag slipped over his head and the whole scene disappeared from sight.
15
Bannon’s naked body stuck to the chair, his balls pressed to the steel seat and his arms tied behind him. He felt shackles bite into his wrists as he tried to rise. Light snuck in tiny specks through the hood and he heard voices somewhere nearby. He tried to speak, the gag muffling his words, before someone lifted the hood. Bannon blinked furiously in the rush of light, his head throbbing. He wretched as a hand pulled the gag away. “The drugs,” said a voice, the room steadily coming into focus, a corrugated roof slanting down to bare concrete walls. On the floor lay countless packages, their torn paper leaving piles of beige powder scattered across the floor. Bannon looked up, four men stood in front of him. The largest of the group wore a gruesome set of overalls, a big print of crusted blood stuck to their white front.
“You have them,” said Bannon. “All of them.”
A wiry Thai man broke from the group and moved over to him. He pressed a hand to Bannon’s mouth, smearing it with the fine beige powder. Bannon coughed as the sawdust caught in his throat. “No,” he said. “That’s not it. It’s…” A fist caught him hard on the cheek and he felt a tooth pop from its socket.
“Where are the drugs?” said the Thai.
Bannon spat, the tooth landing in a mess of blood and spit. “You have it…You must.”
The hand caught him once again, a vicious backhand that rocked the chair sideways. “No drugs,” said the Thai. “Tell me where they are.”
Bannon gasped for air, his face stinging. He saw the big man step forward, the dried blood on his overalls shining in the light of the room. “I don’t know,” said Bannon.