Devil's Due: A Thomas Caine Thriller (The Thomas Caine Series Book 0)

by Andrew Warren

Satra was silent for a moment. Then he took a long drink of his whiskey before pulling out his cell phone.

  "Here, look at this." He swiped though a series of photos. They were pictures of Thai girls, bar girls from the looks of them. All the photos appeared to be from some kind of dating site. The site's name, Thai Angels, was written in gold letters at the top of the page. Beneath each girl's photo was a heart symbol, and next to the heart was a number.

  "I was investigating a missing person case. Bar girl, just twenty years old, didn't show up for work one day. Her roommate call the police when landlord complain that missing girl no pay her share of rent."

  Caine leaned back in his chair. "Satra, come on, you're a cop. You know as well as I do these girls take off all the time. Maybe she went back home, or she's on vacation with a boyfriend."

  Satra shook his head. His dark eyes looked earnest and concerned, and he furrowed his brow. "I think that, too, but then our technical investigation turn up this website. These are just screen captures, real website vanish, get taken down weeks ago."

  Caine looked at the pictures on the phone. "Is one of these your missing girl?"

  Satra set the phone on the table. "This her." He swiped to a candid shot of a beautiful Thai girl. She was standing outside a bar, smiling at tourists in the streets. She was dressed in a skin-tight red baby tee and black patent leather hot shorts.

  "Look here," Satra pointed to the heart symbol beneath her picture. The number next to the heart was 150. "On real site, you could vote for how much you like a girl's picture. If you like how she look, you give her hearts."

  "So your girl was popular. She's pretty, no big mystery there."

  Satra nodded. He swiped through more photos. "All these girls on same site. This girl missing." He swiped to another photo. "This girl missing, too. And this one...." He continued swiping through a series of eight pictures. All the girls were beautiful, young, and dressed for work. Caine didn’t recognize any of them, but he noticed that all the photos were candid shots, taken with a telephoto lens.

  "All pretty, all bar girls, all missing. And look at hearts." Caine saw that the heart count beneath each missing girl was high. 155, 129, 140...

  "Every girl with hearts over one-hundred is missing," Satra said. "This no coincidence. Thai Angels is no dating site. These girls are being targeted."

  "Targeted by who?" Caine asked.

  Satra's eyes darted around the bar, and he lowered his voice. "I don't know. Website go down soon after we find it. I start talking to girls, asking around. Putting pressure on dealers, street punks, anyone with links to chao pho families. You pay them off as well, yes?"

  Caine nodded. The chao pho families were a loose collection of patron-run crime cartels. They were the de facto controllers of organized crime in the cities of Thailand, and anyone operating a business, legitimate or otherwise, was almost certainly paying a cut to the family that controlled their territory.

  "You think the chao pho put up this website?" Caine asked. "I know some of the families are involved in human trafficking, but this doesn't really seem their style. Too high profile. Too much risk."

  Satra nodded. "Maybe you right. But soon after I start questioning, the investigation is stopped. I ordered to drop case."

  Caine squinted as he sipped his beer. "Dropped? Why?"

  "You remember the bombing, couple weeks ago?"

  "Yeah. Muslim extremists, according to your National Police Chief. He paid the entire department a reward out of his own pocket, right? I thought you had the suspect in custody."

  "Yes, he pay reward to himself and other officers. Sugar to ease bad taste of medicine. He make big announcement, say case solved, everything OK. But that was all lie."

  Satra took another sip of his whiskey. "The day of explosion, police received a note. Says to lay off the chao pho investigation. Stop searching for girls, or there will be more bombs. More explosions. Note was written in blood of a policeman, man working with me. Man asking questions. Good man. He missing now, too."

  "So, why aren't the Royal Police going after whoever is responsible? You'd think they'd be even more driven to catch these guys now."

  Satra shook his head. "In Thailand, tourist industry is everything. Justice, the law, lives of few bar girls ... these mean nothing compared to the millions of dollars tourism bring here. If more bombs explode in city, more tourists are killed ... tourists go away. Money go away."

  He sighed, then clenched his hand in a fist. "I know you don't trust cops. Many cops here are bad, dirty. They are poor, their salary is very little, not enough to raise a family. So they take money, look the other way. But not me. My father was police officer. And his father before him. I cannot just let this go. This in my blood."

  He leaned across the table. "But I am only one man. Chief Battang refuse to let me use police resources to find these girls. He afraid if I caught, it look like police support investigation again. But you ... you have skills, training. I see you fight that man. You have connections to chao pho. You can help me. You can help these girls."

  Caine was silent. He finished his beer and quietly set the bottle down on the table. He stared at Satra, then looked away. "Satra, I can't get involved in something like this. And believe me, I'd only make it worse if I did."

  Satra stared at Caine. "And what about the missing girls? If they leave Thailand, no one see them again."

  Caine stood up. "Satra, you seem like a good guy, so take my advice. Listen to your chief, drop this case, and stop playing hero."

  "You can give up so easily? You can just walk away?"

  "I heard you out. I gave you an answer. The answer is no. Don't follow me again."

  Caine fished a few crumpled baht notes from his pocket and dropped them on the table.

  "Here. Drinks are on me."

  He turned and walked out of the bar, back into the muggy, hot air, the gray skies, and the falling rain. He walked a few blocks, letting the droplets of water soak through his hair and clothes. He forced himself to forget Satra's words, and the images of the missing girls. He did not look over his shoulder as he walked through the wet, muddy streets. He knew Satra would not follow. It had all been a silly mistake.

  In his heart, he knew he was not the man Satra was looking for. Now, Satra knew it as well.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A few days later, the rain stopped, and Pattaya sprang back to life. That night, the neon lights blazed above the heads of the tourist crowd as they meandered up and down Soi Six and the other walking streets in the area. Each and every soul wandering beneath that explosion of color and light was seeking something in the hot, humid night air: cheap beer, cheap food, cheap sex.

  For those seeking all of the above, Ruby's Club did not disappoint. Now that the rain had stopped, Ruby's was going out of its way to make up for lost time. Beer and drink specials were advertised all night, and the club bussed in girls from other bars to work extra shifts.

  Naiyana smiled as she spun around the chrome pole above the main stage. She was naked, with her neon bikini top and briefs scattered on the stage below her. As twirled around, she saw a kaleidoscope of colorful lights and faces, laughing and cheering in the shadows. The applause and music were deafening. The spinning lights danced across her body, reflecting bursts of color in the sweat, oil, and glitter that covered her skin.

  Sometimes she found herself overcome with the energy and excitement of the crowd. The men, the girls, the lust and decadence in the air ... sometimes she could feed off it, drawing strength from the wild, chaotic currents of energy. Other times, that same chaos seemed to feed off her instead, devouring her piece by piece.

  But tonight was a good night. She felt alive, happy. With so many men in the bar, the odds were good that a few would be young, good-looking farrangs. Men with kind smiles and fat wallets that would be more than satisfied to pay for an hour of her time. The money meant little to them, but for her and her family, it was all that kept them going. It was food for her daughter, a
roof over her mother's head, medicine for her father. Her family never asked her how she provided all these things for them. They already knew, for there was only one possible answer. To speak of it would be rude and shameful.

  Naiyana shimmied to the top of the pole and flipped upside down, hanging on with her strong, tan legs. She closed her eyes, feeling the pulse of bass vibrate over her hot, naked skin. Her thick, dark mane of hair swung through the air below her. She flexed her thighs, allowing her body to slide down the pole, slowly spiraling around it as she fell. When her hands touched the ground, she did a quick flip off the pole. She smiled, bent over, and gathered her clothes and a few crumpled baht notes from the stage. The music skipped to a new song, signaling that another girl's show was about to start.

  Naiyana left the stage and headed for the bar. She slipped back into her bikini as she pushed through the crowd. She felt men touching her, grabbing at her, but she ignored their groping hands and kept a wide smile plastered on her face.

  She took a seat at the corner of the bar, and the bartender set a glass of club soda down in front of her. She sipped the cool liquid as she surveyed the crowd. After weeks of slow nights, she was anxious to book some short time. A handsome, young farrang would be nice, but right now anyone would do.

  "You breaking my heart," a deep voice shouted into her ear. "Beautiful woman like you should not sit alone."

  She glanced back and found herself staring into a pair of large blue eyes, set in a harsh, angular face. It took her a moment to recognize the man. It was the Russian, the one from the other day. Her friend had beaten the man's hired thug to a bloody pulp. She smiled, but her eyes darted around the bar, searching the crowd for the two large bouncers that were working that night.

  The Russian saw her anxious eyes, and smiled. "Please, let me buy you drink. I wish to apologize. My behavior the other night ... I was not exactly the gentleman, yes? Too much cheap vodka, I'm afraid."

  Naiyana looked sideways at the Russian as she sipped her club soda. He seemed calmer than before, but something in his gaze still set her nerves on edge. It's not the lazy eye, she thought. It was the intensity of his stare, the hunger behind those bright blue orbs set in such a dark, hard face. They reminded her of a wild dog in the street, eyeing a hunk of meat.

  Alexi snapped his fingers and held up a thick wad of baht notes. Naiyana eyed the stack of cash with an equally hungry gaze. The bartender took notice; within a few minutes, a vodka on ice and another lady drink for Naiyana were set down in front of them.

  Drink in hand, Naiyana spun on her stool to meet Alexi's intense stare head on.

  "Your friend OK?" she asked.

  Alexi laughed as he nodded. "Gregor, yes, yes, he's fine. He has a few new scars, but he deserved it, no? He's a bit over-protective of me, I'm afraid. His father and mine are old friends, so we are like brothers."

  She sipped her drink again, turning everything over in her mind. The bar was full; there were plenty of potential customers. But this man had money. And he desired her. He seemed to think himself important, and in her experience self-important men tended not to last long in bed. She would be back downstairs in twenty minutes or less, with plenty of time to approach more men.

  She smiled and drank, pretending to listen to Alexi as he boasted of his family's heritage back in Russia. Her mind was far away, doing a series of mental calculations. And the final equation was the same as it always was. She didn't like this man--but that didn't matter in the slightest.

  She leaned over and let her hair graze the side of Alexi's face. She rested her hand lightly on his thigh, curling her fingers between his legs. "You handsome man. I like you. You want go upstairs, short time?"

  Alexi blinked. His eyes no longer looked hungry. They looked cold and distant. But he stood up and wrapped his thick, muscular arm around her waist. He looked down at her and smiled. "Da. I thought you'd never ask."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Caine pounded on the apartment door. Chips of red paint cracked and flaked off from the force of his blows. "Satra, it's me. Get up!"

  Caine looked left and right as he knocked on the door again. The dark, narrow hallway of the apartment complex was silent and empty. If anyone was awake, they didn't seem inclined to poke their head out to investigate the noise he was making. In this part of town, that's probably a smart call, Caine thought.

  He raised his hand to knock again but stopped when he heard footsteps from inside. The sound of creaking wood grew louder as they approached the door. He heard the rattle of a deadbolt turning, then the door cracked open. A chain kept the door from swinging open all the way. Satra's face hovered into view behind the door. His eyes were half-closed, and his hair was mussed and disheveled.

  "Waters? What the hell, man? You know what time it is?"

  Caine slid his foot into the doorframe. "We need to talk. Let me in."

  Satra blinked, rubbing his eyes. He squinted at Caine. "Why? Thought you not interested in helping?"

  "It's Naiyana. She's missing."

  "Who?"

  "The girl at the bar. My friend. She's missing. She cooks me dinner every week, but this time she didn't show. The bartender where she works saw her go off with that Russian again, Alexi. No one's seen her since."

  Satra sighed. He slid aside the security chain on the door and opened it wide enough for Caine to enter.

  Caine scanned the hall one more time to make sure they were alone. A nagging voice inside his head screamed at him that this was a mistake. Cops, secret investigations, some kind of half-assed rescue ... all of this was madness. He was in Thailand to lay low, not to court more death and violence.

  Then he remembered Naiyana, smiling at him in the rain. "You good friend to me," she had said.

  Caine bit his lip to silence the voices in his head. He made his decision.

  He was operational now. There was no more room for doubt. He stepped across the threshold into Satra's tiny apartment.

  The Thai cop rubbed the sleep from his eyes and shut the door behind him. "Welcome to my office, partner."

  A couple hours later, Caine paced back and forth inside the tiny apartment, sipping coffee from a stained yellow mug. There wasn't much room to walk, as the apartment was only a single room, with a small adjoining kitchen. The windows were open, but no breeze stirred the threadbare curtains that hung over the sink. The place smelled like old take-out food and sweat.

  Satra sat in front of a sagging table that he had converted into a makeshift desk. Its surface was covered with cardboard boxes and manila folders, all containing files related to the case. He had told Caine that he had "borrowed" them from HQ, without Chief Battang's knowledge.

  Satra spoke a rapid stream of Thai into his cell phone. He listened for a second, nodding, then stood up and paced along with Caine. When he ended the call, dropped down to a sitting position on the futon mattress that served as a bed in the tiny room.

  "Anything?" Caine asked.

  Satra rubbed his face briskly with his hands, then ran them through his hair. "Word on street is new Russian Mafia family in town, looking to build pipeline to smuggle girls to the West. I believe you know one of them.”

  “Alexi Rudov,” Caine snarled.

  Satra nodded. “If he buy these girls, they will leave Thailand in few days. No one has seen Alexi or Russians since they leave Ruby Club.”

  “We have to find him.”

  “I just talk to my contacts. Street people, hustlers, they tell me the truth. They see Rudov leave bar alone. No girl, no men."

  Caine nodded. "Same story at the Hilton. He checked out a couple hours before he was spotted at Ruby's. None of my sources place him or the other men he was with at any new hotels in the last twenty-four hours."

  "Maybe she left club on her own? Like you said. Bar girls disappear all the time."

  Caine shook his head. "Not this one. She and I ... we're close."

  Satra looked at Caine and raised an eyebrow. Caine shot him an angry glare.


  "Not like that," he said. "We're friends. I helped her out once. That's all."

  "But you risk your life in bar fights, and now you help me in illegal investigation? All for this friend? Battang was right. You are strange."

  Caine set down the cup of coffee on Satra's desk and picked up a file folder. "I was betrayed once. Betrayed by someone I trusted. Took me a long time to trust someone again."

  "And you trust her?"

  Caine looked up, and his green eyes glittered in the dim light. "I said she's my friend. Now drop it."

  Satra nodded. "OK, well, I thank you for helping. But it look like our lead goes cold."

  Caine flipped open the folder. It contained a series of photographs taken at the bombed floating market. Incinerated wood beams, black with soot, had collapsed into the muddy canal. The beautiful long tail boats that once darted across the canal's surface like dragonflies were now torn, mangled shreds of flotsam and jetsam. The river water was stained black by ash.

  And the bodies ... they were burned and mangled almost beyond recognition. But to one who had seen such horrors before, their twisted, charred forms were instantly recognizable.

  One by one, he flipped through the images of death and destruction. He coldly processed the information each picture contained.

  "The lead may be cold, but not the case. If we can't find the Russians, then we work the other side. You said the Russians are here to take delivery of human cargo. So, who is the trafficker?"

  Satra looked up at him thoughtfully. "We've never seen anything like this website before. But the most likely culprit would be a chao pho crime family."

  "Then it stands to reason they were behind the bombings."

  “Makes sense, sure. But which family? And where are they holding girls?"

  Caine held up a picture. "When you investigate a crime scene, you dust for fingerprints, right? Well, explosives leave their own kind of fingerprints. See all these black burn marks on the wood? That's excess carbon that didn't burn up in the explosion. Characteristic of trinitrotoluene."