by AD Davies
“Not as easy as it looks is it?” the sniper said.
I fired again. Missed.
The sniper laughed. “I’m guessin’ you ain’t fired a gun before Paris. Here.”
A volley of gunfire battered the rock and I covered up with my hands. I managed to peek around and the mini-Goon was already halfway down. I fired blindly again, which was met with more laughter. That made me fire up at the sniper, who mockingly pushed his head and shoulders further into the gap.
He said, “Come on, buddy, you can do it.”
I fired again. Not even close.
Sarah said, “Adam?”
The sniper’s arm came around and a handgun fired. “Like that,” he said.
Sarah said, “Adam.”
“What?”
“Me,” said Kwong.
I turned slowly. Kwong held a snub-nose machinegun on me one-handed, a large handgun on Sarah. He was in arm’s reach. All I had to do was rush him. But his other hand was a problem. A bullet would pop through Sarah’s head at a single flick of that trigger.
I held the machinegun to one side.
The sniper called, “You got him?”
“Yes,” Kwong said.
The mini-Goon landed and his friend also slid down the rope, followed by the sniper. One at a time, they sauntered over. I stood beside Sarah, under Kwong’s gun.
He said, “You bring no money?”
I shook my head. “I have money. I just don’t like to spend it if I don’t have to.”
“He’s bluffing,” the Sniper said. “Our friends in Europe say his accounts are frozen and the boys in the jungle took everything he had. Kill him. Let’s get the girl back to the house.”
“Do not give me orders,” Kwong said.
The greying sniper held up his hands up in a sarcastic surrender.
Kwong said, “Take girl away,” and the two mini-Goons came for her.
One of them went behind Kwong to get to Sarah, but the other passed in front of the gun. In that split-second, I did not think; I somehow assessed the situation, and simply acted.
I shoved the mini-Goon into Kwong himself, bundling them both over. The other mini-Goon swung a gun my way. I redirected the barrel to my left where the sniper was raising his handgun. The gun spat fire and the hammer rattled on full auto, flaying the sniper’s chest into red mush.
The second man I killed in two days.
I rammed my elbow into the mini-Goon’s throat and kicked the side of his head as hard as I could. He was out of it.
Kwong pushed his subordinate off him and I aimed the acquired gun.
I said, “I don’t think I’ll miss from here.”
Kwong relinquished his weapons. Sarah picked them up. The final mini-Goon’s too. Three machineguns and a handgun.
“He came from down there.” I indicated the light Sarah spotted. “Let’s go.” When she didn’t move, I said, “What are you waiting for?”
She said, “To shoot them.”
“We don’t do that. We’re the good guys.”
“But they will kill us,” she said.
“They won’t. That’s the only way out of here, unless they can monkey-climb that rope.”
“What if they do?”
“Then we’ll deal with them.”
“No,” Sarah said. “Kill them now.”
Mission mode.
Logic.
Survival.
Shoot them dead, and we live for certain.
“Why won’t you kill them?” she asked.
“Because they’re unarmed.”
“That doesn’t make sense. I told you what they did. It was wrong to make me have sex. They shouldn’t have told me it was my job. It wasn’t my job. We should kill them, or they will make me do that job again.”
She hadn’t compartmentalized as much as I thought. It was a normal reaction. A victim, yearning to feel safe. Some might call it revenge, but for victims of sex crimes, it was logical; a necessary step in order to be free.
“When I was a lot younger,” I said, “I was in a situation. I was asking questions in Bangkok of men who didn’t want to answer them. When I made trouble for them, I was taken somewhere, and three men beat me. I promised them I’d stop asking questions. I meant it too. Just being in that room. No escape, no choice. But they carried on. Even when I begged.”
“It isn’t the same thing,” she said. “They gave me a job, forced me to—”
I shouted, “It is the same thing.” My voice echoed through the silence, Goon and mini-Goon watching, kneeling, hands on their heads. Quietly, I said, “It was the same thing.”
She shook her head, her lip out. Not stroppy; more confused.
I said, “They cut off my clothes. In between beatings they took turns with me. From behind. I bled. I was forced to … have them in my mouth too. They held my jaw shut and made me swallow. When they were all done with me, they beat me some more. Then they left me on a beach.”
I had never told that part of the story to anyone. Not even Harry or Jayne. And no, I was not blind to the fact that this may have influenced my affinity with those in need of rescue. It started as a personal form of revenge, but mutated slowly into empathy. Okay, occasionally it delved into sanctimonious moralizing, dragging me into that superiority zone that Harry so often cautioned against.
But we are the sum of our experiences.
I came to know victims of rape and violence through my work, and while I thought I was helping them, in reality they were helping me. The reason I eased off my training was partly Harry’s warning about me truly hurting someone one day, but also because I made a choice. I would not let those men in Thailand define me. Because that’s what women did all the time; they found the strength to carry on.
“We’re done with them,” I said.
Sarah said, “Okay,” and wandered off into the dark.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The gap out into daylight would have granted access to a horse. It was angled backwards so it was clear from the outside but not the interior. The path Kwong had taken was obvious, a beaten-out furrow in the shrubs and waist-high grass skirting the side of the gentle rise, over which we saw the inlet where they moored the launch. They had strapped a ladder to a gnarled, old tree branch on the upper section of the island. We were almost to the tree when I heard a sound like a buffalo hurtling through the brush.
Kwong landed a shoulder in my chest and slapped the machinegun from my hand. So monkey-climbing ropes was part of his skillset.
I rolled with it and sprang up. A fist like a hammer slammed into my face. Nothing broke, but stars burst and the world went sideways. He fell on top of me and we grappled like wrestlers until I levered my head back and smashed it into his nose. It crumpled and, for the first time, his sunglasses finally fell off. I pushed him away and rolled up onto my feet. Still dizzy, but just about with it. We exchanged a series of blows, each blocking the other a dozen times. He was tough but slow. I was disorientated, unable to focus properly.
Sarah picked up the gun. Kwong hadn’t seen it yet.
I allowed him in closer. It made him over-confident. I stepped inside, locked his arm for leverage, then spun him over my hip into Sarah’s line of fire.
“Now!” I said.
She didn’t do anything. I looked again, and the mini-Goon had snuck up, grabbed her from behind, and hit her head against a rock. It drew blood. Still conscious, she threw the gun my way. It slid over the side and down toward the sea. The mini-Goon acquired the other firearms Sarah was carrying.
I froze. Released Kwong.
He gave an order, and the guy holding Sarah pointed. She got on the ladder and, without even looking my way, she climbed down it, her precious bag still held in one hand. The mini-Goon followed.
The six-inch knife was already in my hand.
Kwong said, “When we get back to house, she is reward for ending you. Mine. Mr. Dinh is very generous.”
I went for him. He barely flinched. He evaded the blade an
d blocked any misdirection I attempted. His foot glanced against my knee and I stumbled, dropping the knife. He punched me in the jaw and I couldn’t stay upright.
As I lay there, he searched the ground. Found my knife. He grinned. He’d also found his sunglasses and folded them and put them in his pocket. He advanced on me. I crawled to the cliff edge. Below, Sarah climbed into the boat with the mini-Goon.
Then I saw the machinegun knocked from Sarah’s hands. It was six feet below, nestled on a tuft of mud and sticks. A bird’s nest. Too far away.
Kwong reached for me.
I pitched over the side. Landed on a ledge but no closer to the gun.
Kwong saw what I was planning. He swore in Vietnamese.
I crawled further forward and leaned right over.
Kwong slid down the ladder like a fireman.
My fingers touched the gun.
He leapt onto the launch, pushed Sarah to one side and crouched beside a cupboard.
Further still, and I was almost there. Almost.
Kwong took out a rifle and slapped home a magazine.
“Screw it.” I shoved myself forward. My stomach lurched as I dropped. I grabbed the gun. Scrabbled at the limestone cliff as I plummeted toward the sea. I bounced off the side. Somersaulted involuntarily. I landed hard on the flat rock they used to steady their ladder. The pain in my ribs forbade instant movement, but it was close enough as I found my feet.
Everything hurt: my finger, my hand, my ear, my face, my ribs, my knee.
The Goon’s rifle was bolt action and he’d only just slid it back. He clicked it home.
I opened fire. Full-auto. So close a blind man could not have missed.
Kwong crumpled in a bloody heap. I turned it on the mini-Goon and he dropped as soon as the first volley hit him. Then back to Kwong for the final time, filling him with holes. I felt nothing but the recoil of the ratatatatat as death spewed forth, concentrating only on controlling the vibrating weapon, until the magazine clicked empty and my ears rang in the silence.
The two men lay there. Two corpses. Nothing but bloodied slabs of meat, tenderized and slaughtered out of necessity.
I stepped onto the boat, and without even noticing my ribs, I rolled Kwong’s corpse and tipped him over the side. I did the same with the other guy. It was only when Sarah came and hugged me in a rather mechanical way—another learned reaction—that I felt the damage inflicted upon my bones and muscle.
I started up the motor. I was tempted for a moment to head back to find the yacht, but I didn’t chance it.
Keep yer eye on the prize.
I headed on a bearing that I assumed was shore, and accelerated towards dry land as fast as I dared.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Dry land was a beach. My orientation was way off and, without the GPS, we had no sense of location. I estimated we kept going for two hours. Peopled littered the beach, a couple of kayaks topping the waves, so I guessed civilization was close by. Besides, fuel was low. Vietnamese families stared in wonder as we hobbled and lurched out of the swish, blood-smeared motor launch. My knee wasn’t badly hurt, but my ribs and my hand gave me real trouble. I looked like a hunchback as I hobbled up the sand and onto a rural road that led into a town about a mile away. It took us another hour to get there on foot.
As we traipsed along, I told Sarah all of it. Start to finish. Well, most of it. Caroline hiring me. Curtis Benson hijacking my case. Lily and her escape. Vila Fanuco and Henrietta Dupree and Pierre Bertrand. I told her how I found the slave sale in the jungle, and I did not sugarcoat what Gareth had done.
“That makes sense,” she said. “I’m very upset with him.” She then told me in detail how every step I’d taken mimicked her and Gareth.
He persuaded her to open the safe as a sort of game. When she objected to stealing the money, Gareth proposed on one knee and convinced her to come with him to Paris. He spent a lot of time away from her, and told Sarah to make friends, look “normal.” Gareth introduced her to Kwong on their fifth night and he took photos of her and sent them somewhere. Gareth told her they were for the IDs, but it seemed to me they were also for evaluation purposes. Kwong paid for their flights and they travelled first class to Saigon where they had to find their own hotel but still had a lovely time. Until Giang took them to the strange men in The Rex. She woke up in a hot cell full of other people. She was allowed to draw and paint, but she didn’t stay there long, as Kwong showed up and took her away, and delivered her to Vuong Dinh who told her about her new job. She still didn’t understand why Gareth ran out on her.
When I revealed he had been killed in a dispute over money, she simply asked me what we were going to do about Vuong Dinh. We would do nothing except tell the British consulate, and they would work with the Vietnamese, although if we knew the nationality of the other people in that jungle prison, we could advise those countries to add their weight. There were two Russians, but beyond that I wasn’t sure.
She said her suitcase was on board the yacht, so I entertained the possibility that they believed there was a chance I’d deliver the million dollars, but the sniper’s presence indicated the likelihood was slim. If non-existent is “slim.”
Eventually, she let me have her bag.
I fished out one of the USB sticks. “They’re all the same?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Gareth bought them in the airport before we left for Paris.”
“And you held onto them?”
“Yes. He asked me to.”
I took out all the drives and gave her back the shoes. She tossed them in the first bin we came to.
The town boasted a small medical center rather than a hospital. It was quiet, hot and stuffy, and the triage unit resembled a worn-out council office. There were three people with large but seemingly non-urgent cuts and a young boy cradling his elbow, his mother fretting on a mobile. Body odor and disinfectant mingled without quite masking each other. When it was our turn, the doctor—a sixty-ish woman with grey hair who spoke passable English—saw that I was the most hurt, but I insisted she see Sarah first. While the examination took place, I noticed an ancient-looking computer through the door of an unmanned office. Nobody saw me hobble in.
The computer was active, with no password lock. Windows 95.
I logged-on to the super-slow internet and brought up the British consulate in Hanoi. I spent ten minutes trying to get through on the office phone and eventually spoke to a low-level administrator. I gave a brief outline, that Sarah Stiles, missing from the UK for over a month, was kidnapped and that I had freed her. I gave my real name and told the skeptical chap to look both of us up, then come get us.
“Do not use the local police,” I said.
After I hung up, I placed the pen drives—six of them—on the desk and found the PC’s USB slot and inserted the first stick. The windows explorer box popped up but the drive was gobbledygook. Although the operating system was ancient, I didn’t think it was hampering the file. I took it out and tried the next one. Nothing. The fourth yielded a result. It asked for a password. I tried “Benson” and “Curtis” and “Blazing” and “Seas” and even “Password,” but I suppose it would be more creative than that.
Instead, I felt in my pockets and was pleasantly surprised to find the only thing that survived the journey was my international phone card. I called Jess. While the phone rang, I logged onto a server only Jess and I knew of, and clicked-and-dragged the USB icon across. It wouldn’t decrypt but it would copy everything verbatim. The slow connection didn’t even register one percent by the time Jess picked up.
I told her not to speak, just check out “the server.” Then I asked her for Curtis Benson’s number. I lost my phone, I said, but didn’t elaborate. Her own voice caught as she spoke. She clearly wanted to ask why I sounded like death, but it must have been close to Benson’s deadline. Perhaps a little past it. I was so disorientated I couldn’t even think about that. It was two p.m. now, so it would be seven a.m. there. I’d either mis
sed it by a margin or killed it by a whole day. When Jess relayed the number, I disconnected and called the man himself.
He said, “You got good news for me?”
“Yes. I have your drive.”
“You got my money? You got my employees?”
“You don’t need any of that,” I said. “You know it and I know it. I have the USB drive with whatever data you lost. That’s the real endgame here, isn’t it?”
“You so smart, Mr. Detective. Listen.” Silence. Then a scrabbling noise. Then a man groaned. “Speak.”
“Adam?” It was Harry. Voice hoarse. “Adam, is that you?”
Five percent.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Benson said, “He’s fine. Where you at? I’ll send someone.”
I almost laughed. “I’m still out of the country.”
“You got about sixteen hours to get back here, then. With my money. With my burglar-girl, and her dumb-ass boyfriend.”
“And the USB drive?”
“Yeah, and anythin’ else they took.”
Eight percent.
“Can we stop pretending?” I said. “This is what you need, why you were so desperate to get them back. Let Harry go. I’ll be there as soon as I can. I might have to Fed-Ex this, but you’ll get it. Besides, Gareth is dead. You can verify it, I’m sure. The Saigon police—”
I heard a metallic click-clack on the other end.
Benson said, “That was a Beretta. Nine millimeter. You know what that does?”
“I know what it does.”
“It’s aimed at the old bastard’s head. ’Less you can give me some guarantee you’ll be back by midnight with everythin’ I asked for, I’m killin’ him now and takin’ that blonde computer geek a’ yours. And she dies tomorrow. Same time. You ain’t back then, I take someone else.”
“Please, give me one more day. Don’t kill him. It won’t change anything.”
“It’ll make you understand when I give you a deadline, you meet that fuckin’ deadline.”
Harry grunted. Muffled, Benson told him to kneel and stop mewlin’. I yelled at him to stop, but he wouldn’t answer. It was the end for Harry. I had nothing, except twelve percent of an encrypted file.