Silent Vengeance

by Jamie Fredric

  "What the hell could he tell me, Mitch?!"

  Banyon got right in Holcomb's face. "You're the one not thinking now, Sonny! That guy's in the midst of Navy personnel! You don't think word's spreading over there?!"

  Holcomb pushed Banyon aside and started walking along Silom. Banyon caught up to him, trying to continue the conversation. "How much do you trust him?"

  Holcomb stopped short. "What the fuck do you mean?! He's been making a shitload of money off me!"

  "Well, maybe he's making money off somebody else, too?! Have you thought about that?!"

  Holcomb got toe-to-toe with Banyon. "No, Mitch! I haven't! Right now there's too much other fuckin' shit to think about! Now, you wanna come with me to the factory? Or maybe you'd rather fly to Subic and do your own investigating!" Without waiting for an answer, Holcomb took off across the street, with Banyon close on his heels.

  Not wasting any time, the two picked up the pace and ran to the side street without any words passing between them, until they reached the vehicle. As Banyon opened the door, he looked over the roof. "Maybe you'd better notify someone, and tell them it wasn't you, unless you want those Navy 'boys' tracking you down -- again."

  Holcomb flung open the door, then pounded a fist against the roof. "Me?! What about you, Mitch?! You think you're an innocent bystander?! You delivered those damn pills, remember?!"

  Banyon blew out a long breath. "So, whadda we do?"

  Holcomb slid behind the steering wheel and slammed the door shut. "We're going to the factory."

  Banyon got in just as the engine started. "You said it closed after dark!"

  "We're gonna wait, Mitch! Somebody's bound to show up, and you can bet your ass it'll be whoever's running the operation now." Tires screeched as Holcomb pulled away.

  Chapter 23

  Bang Rak District

  2345 Hours

  Traveling in the Bang Rak District, Holcomb drove along the main road, then turned left onto Naret Alley. He parked in front of an abandoned, rusted 1968 Toyota Stout pickup truck.

  Banyon looked out the windshield, trying to distinguish buildings in the darkened, rundown neighborhood. On one side of the single lane road were vacant stores with apartments above. Most were abandoned, but an occasional dim light filtered through blinds. Across from them a yellow-colored safety fence blocked off a row of vacant lots. Chunks of concrete, scattered pieces of wood, metal, glass were all that remained of demolished buildings.

  "Where the hell is the place?"

  "We've gotta walk from here." Holcomb pointed ahead, then motioned to the left. "It's about 50 feet down a side driveway." He turned on his flashlight. "C'mon."

  Banyon kept his right hand on his holstered .38 while he aimed the beam of his flashlight from side to side.

  The small beams were all that provided light along a driveway nearly 100 feet long. A ten-foot high, chipped and cracked concrete wall ran its entire length. Green-black mold was spreading in a jagged pattern along its base. On the opposite side of the driveway was a row of apartments, each with a garage, protected by a flimsy, roll-up metal door.

  "This is it," Holcomb pointed, walking to a faded blue door next to the last garage.

  "You followed him here?"

  "Yeah. I waited hours until everyone finally left before I got inside the place. Then it took me a helluva long time to find where they were producing the shit." He reached into his pocket, and removed a small leather lock pick case. "Keep an eye out." Banyon drew his .38 as Holcomb worked the lock. It clicked. Holcomb slid his weapon from the holster, then both men entered quickly.

  Reynaldo Flores had been on his second "trip" around the roof's perimeter, when a slight noise caught his attention. Voices? Gripping the Uzi, he hustled to the south side of the roof, then got down on a knee. As he leaned over the edge, he caught sight of two men with flashlights just as they disappeared inside. It was impossible to tell who they were, but he reasoned it wasn't anyone from the group. No signal had been given. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. How the hell did someone find this place?!

  Being careful where he stepped, and staying quiet, he walked back to the wooden hatch. Getting close to the opening, he aimed the weapon down the ladder, while he listened for any sounds that could indicate someone was climbing the stairs to the second floor. If that happened, the ladder extending up to the roof would surely give away his position. Suddenly, a beam of light glowed in the darkness, moving along the lower staircase. He backed up and held his breath. He waited.

  The light from Banyon's flashlight settled on a narrow staircase directly opposite the door. "What's up there?" he whispered, shining the light toward the top.

  "Empty space." Holcomb walked behind the stairwell and pushed open a panel. "C'mon, and watch your step. It's blacker than hell down there. Close that panel."

  "No lights?"

  "There's a generator out back, used only when they're working."

  Banyon stood on the bottom step, aiming his flashlight toward the middle of the room. The light glinted off a stainless steel pill-making machine, one of five placed on a long wooden table made of rough planks. The machines were all electric, 21"x12"x9", and could produce more than 5,000 pills each, per hour.

  As Banyon went to get an up close look, Holcomb shined the flashlight around the perimeter of the room. Five rows of dilapidated shelving held ingredients. Along one wall empty boxes had already been assembled and piled one on top of the other. On the opposite wall, the side where the machines "punched" out the pills, cardboard boxes were taped shut, ready for delivery.

  "Sonny," Banyon whispered. "Look."

  Holcomb walked toward the table, as Banyon shined the light on several orange pills scattered in a stainless steel tray. Holcomb was nearing the table, when a noise overhead made him freeze. They hurried across the room, shut off the flashlights, then took up positions under the stairs.

  Flores cautiously walked to the front door, then reached for the doorknob. Unlocked! Was it possible the intruders left while he waited on the roof -- or were they still in the basement? He slowly opened the door, then looked both ways along the alley. All he heard were vehicles along the main road. Overhead was the sound of a commercial jet making its approach to Bangkok airport. He closed the door.

  With boxes already packed, it would've been easy for someone to make off with a few. If that happened, and knowing Mendoza's accuracy with inventory records, would Mendoza accuse him of stealing? He pictured Quibin's body when they were through with him. Would that be his fate? What he found in the basement -- or didn't find -- would determine his next move.

  Shifting the Uzi around to his back, he drew his pistol, then went to the staircase and lifted a flashlight from a hook. He opened the panel then listened. Nothing. Gripping his pistol, he took slow, careful steps.

  Stepping onto the concrete floor, he stayed on alert, as his eyes followed the light. The only place for someone to hide, was. . .

  Holcomb's voice boomed. "Hands up! Hands up!" Within an instant, a light was shining on Flores, casting his shadow on the opposite wall. Holcomb finally saw the Uzi and pistol. "Drop those fuckin' weapons!"

  Flores froze, but he continued gripping his pistol and flashlight. A decision. He had to make a decision. He dropped the flashlight.

  Holcomb ordered again, "Lose the goddamn guns!"

  Flores refused, thinking that if he fired at the light, he might not hit it, but he'd more than likely hit the aggressor, and possibly give him a chance to escape.

  Banyon was tired of screwing around. He crept up behind Flores, and hit him in the back of the head with his revolver, just enough to stun him. As Flores started to fall, Banyon spun him around, and punched him hard in the solar plexus, taking his breath away. Flores fell to his knees in pain. Banyon jerked the pistol from his hand.

  Holcomb knelt down, and yanked the Uzi strap over his head, handing it to Banyon. He grabbed Flores by the shirt. "Tell me who's in charge of this operation! It can't be you!"
Flores squinted in pain, trying to regain his breath. But he remained defiant.

  Banyon dropped to a knee, then jammed his .38 against Flores' temple. "Unless you wanna die right now, answer the fuckin' question!" Flores refused again.

  Holcomb was about to reveal his knowledge of the dead Quibin, hoping his assumption was correct. He lowered his voice. "We can do to you what you and your friends did to Quibin."

  Flores' eyes went wide. What he feared Mendoza would do to him, these men were threatening. "Mendoza! Rodel Mendoza!"

  That didn't mean a damn thing to Holcomb. "Do you know where he is?!"

  "Yes."

  Banyon pressed his gun harder against the temple. "You're not fucking with us, are you?!"

  "No!"

  "Find something to tie him with, then get the car." Holcomb kept a grip on Flores, as he waited.

  Ten minutes later, the three men were in the Daihatsu. Holcomb switched on the ignition then made a K-turn in the narrow roadway.

  Chapter 24

  Along Bangkok's Southern Coastline

  Bay of Bangkok

  0145 Hours

  Day 3

  Change in engine noise, increased vibrations, meant deceleration. "Sir, ramp lowering in two!" Milton announced, holding up two fingers. "Confirm signal for extraction is flare!"

  "Affirmative!" Grant turned to the men, held up two fingers, then pointed to the ramp. Throat mikes were adjusted, earpieces inserted. A.T. was ready for departure.

  Grant took off the helmet, put on his watch cap, then the NVGs. He looked toward the ramp, waiting. But in the back of his mind was another worry. They might be too late. The chopper, and possibly the barge, could've left for parts unknown since the last satellite overfly.

  The motor started whining. A rush of humid, warm air and increased noise circulated inside the cargo bay. Team A.T. popped open seat belts, grabbed rucksacks and MP5s. They were used to the same routine from so many previous ops. Yet, stomachs tightened with anticipation. Pulses would race until they were out the door.

  Gore maneuvered the chopper until the nose pointed west. The ramp was fully open, offering a view of total blackness toward the east. Perfect. Wheels settled on earth, as rotor wash flattened grass, kicked up dirt, swirled a cloud of dust.

  Grant turned briefly toward the cockpit, offering a quick, smart salute to the crew. Then, he and the Team were gone. Within a matter of seconds, the chopper lifted off, quickly moving from hover to flight, banking to port, heading back over water, on a course for the island of Ko Sichang.

  Varieties of mangrove, and thick, coastal strand vegetation covered the coastline along the Bay of Bangkok. Pointman Ken Slade kept the men moving east at a steady pace, staying close to the low-growing mangrove, and following meandering dirt trails. A distinct sound of congregating frogs broke the otherwise silent evening. On the north side of the water were acres and acres of rice paddies. Nearly at their full height of three feet, the plants fluttered in a slight breeze. Rice harvesting wasn't until November when the rice plants would be bound into sheaves.

  Grant pressed the PTT. "Break." Moving off the trail, the men mustered alongside, raising their NVGs. They drank from canteens, while Grant checked the GPS.

  "We getting close?" Adler asked, whispering.

  "Less than half a klick." He stashed the GPS then took a quick drink. "Okay. Let's move."

  *

  Holcomb turned the Daihatsu off the main road, after traveling nearly south 15 miles. He drove slowly for another five miles following paths alongside rice paddies. The car rocked back and forth, running over chunks of dirt and ruts carved out from the constant passing of oxen-drawn carts.

  Flores was in the front passenger seat. Banyon reached around him, and pulled down the cloth gag. "How much farther?" Flores didn't respond. Banyon tapped him on the side of his head with the .38. "I asked you a fuckin' question!"

  "I don't know kilometers! I never did the driving! But there's a landmark, a sugar factory, along the river. The docks aren't far from it, where the river meets the bay."

  Banyon replaced the gag. "Just keep in mind, that you'll be leading the way. So, I'd advise you not to draw any attention to us."

  Ten minutes later, a three-tiered building, with smoke billowing from a stack, appeared as a black shadow on the horizon. Holcomb pointed toward the windshield. "There. Is that the sugar factory?"

  "Yes.

  Holcomb turned off the path, and onto a one-lane road, then he switched off the low beams. "This is close enough." He pulled off the road. "We walk from here."

  Once they were out of the car, Banyon got alongside Flores, keeping the gun pressed against his ribs. The three started walking, staying close to the edge of the road. With their eyes becoming more accustomed to the dark, they were finally able to distinguish shapes of buildings in the distance, but the barge remained out of sight.

  "What are those buildings?" Holcomb asked, smacking his fist against Flores' arm.

  "I don't know what they were before. They're vacant, mostly in ruins."

  Holcomb figured the odds were in their favor -- so far. With only three men on board the barge, the element of surprise might be all they needed to finish the hunt for the man who headed up the destruction of his operation.

  *

  Bangkok's city lights were on the horizon when Slade pressed the PTT. "Clearing ahead." The men caught up to him, except for James and Stalley who remained vigilant, watching their teammates' backs.

  Grant tapped Novak's shoulder, then whispered. "Mike, find that barge."

  Novak got down on a knee. Aiming his rifle, he looked through the powerful scope. "Three flat top barges, partially submerged, then . . . Oh, you're gonna love it, boss! Barge and chopper in sight."

  "Yes!" Adler gruffly whispered, punching Grant's shoulder.

  Grant blew out a breath of relief. "Any movement?"

  "Can't see forward of the chopper; otherwise, nothing." Novak scanned the dockyard. "Don't see signs of life anywhere. Looks like a rough place; too nasty for 'peeps' to hang out."

  "What about the barge?"

  Novak refocused the scope. "Port side's moored to the dock. Wheelhouse at stern, possibly made of steel. Antenna's attached to its starboard side. Chopper's ass end facing stern. I can see two winches aft. Don't see a window in the wheelhouse, so can't tell if there are lights inside. All running lights are out."

  "What about access?"

  "Gangplank midships."

  "What's opposite docks?"

  "A chain link fence, west side, is blocking access at the docks; stretches all the way across." As Novak focused on the west end of the buildings, he spotted something. "Vehicle. Maybe a Rover." More possible proof UFs were on board.

  "What else, Mike?"

  "Old buildings, a couple of vacant lots stretching for maybe 150 to 200 feet. Looks like alleys between buildings, running east-west. A narrow road's leading north out of the dockyards. Streetlights busted."

  "Would we have any cover alongside the docks?"

  "Couple of small shacks of some type, but won't be much help if anyone shows. Might be better approaching from the opposite side. Just have to cross that road. It'll be quick."

  "Okay, Mike." Grant processed the information gleaned from Novak. Cutting through the wire was too risky. They'd have to get to the other side.

  "Think that antenna means a short wave on board?" Adler asked, pointing a thumb over his shoulder.

  "Let's hope so. We can use it."

  "Now what?"

  Grant turned to Slade and James. "Ken, DJ, do a recon on the north side, then report. We'll wait for your all clear. Mike, keep an eye on them . . . and then the barge, just in case." Novak remained on one knee, prepared for any scenario.

  Flipping their rucksacks onto their backs, then the MP5s straps over their heads, Slade and James headed out. They hustled to within 25 yards of the fence. Slade contacted Novak. "Seven-Three, are we clear?"

  "Clear."

  Crouch
ing low, both men ran parallel to the fence, and toward a derelict building that could have been a warehouse at one time. Standing alongside the wooden structure, they paused, trying to detect any unusual sounds, besides frogs. Slade moved toward the corner, then paused again. Taking a breath, he leaned enough to see a second row of ramshackle buildings, smaller in size, lining a wide alley. Doors and windows were either boarded or missing. Broken glass was scattered along the alley. He turned to James, motioning for him to investigate the Rover. Within a couple of minutes, James came back shaking his head.

  The two stayed close to whatever structures lined the alley, walking cautiously, avoiding broken glass, checking inside any buildings that allowed access.

  One third the way down the alley, there was a space between buildings, barely five feet wide, that led to the docks. The target still wasn't in sight.

  Slade motioned for James to head north to the second alley. "Zero-Niner. Six-Eight proceeding to back alley."

  "Copy that," Grant answered.

  Slade continued forward. A vacant lot, with remnants of broken pieces of wood, window glass, bent metal, finally allowed a view of the target. He took a step back, getting into the shadows, while keeping his eyes on the barge. "Zero-Niner. Four-One. Eyes on target; no movement."

  "Roger," Grant responded, while silently wondering: No guard?

  Approaching the end of the alley James stopped, then leaned his head around the corner. No lights or cars were along the one-lane road leading north away from the docks. Less than 100 yards east of his position was the mouth of the Chao Phraya River. The opposite shore was nearly two miles away.

  "Zero-Niner. Six-Eight. Road going north is clear."

  "Copy that. A.T. moving in one."

  As the four men were preparing to take off, Slade pressed the PTT again. "Hold positions. UF on deck."

  Novak quickly raised his rifle, trying to zero in on the man. "Got him! Near chopper!"