“Make sure they pay immediately.” The voice was rough, deep, and again too familiar.
Samnang.
One of the most brutal smugglers and the most powerful in Cambodia. Also, one who had been impossible to corner. Despite everything they knew about Samnang they had so far been unable to prove any of it.
“Of course,” the woman replied and then there was silence.
Arun and Simon sucked in a communal breath, fighting to keep their breathing quiet, their movements still as moonlight lit the area. Not five feet away Samnang grasped his side and hunched over while other men who had accompanied him headed toward the beach, each carrying a crate. The woman was nowhere in sight.
The two men who had arrived on their own were now shadowing those carrying the crates from where they were stacked about twenty feet off the water. For a while there was silence and then they could hear voices, sharp and combative and getting louder as they moved along the beach, but still indistinguishable.
“They’re arguing about something,” Arun said as the fickle moonlight disappeared.
The sharp crack of a rifle shot filled the air and cut off his words.
“Get down,” Simon hissed even as he hit the ground. The shot sounded like it had come from midway between them and the water. Between those two points he knew there was only flat ground.
The perfect killing field.
Hidden in the shadow of ancient rock, he could hear their voices, Samnang, the Brit, and at least one other. They were too distant for him to make out what they were saying, though their voices seemed to be getting louder and more agitated. But Samnang was now closer to the water than to them. It was hard to see who was who or where each player might be. Was Samnang in the open? Had he run? He could only guess, not a good option in a situation like this. He swung around, peering into the dark. But he’d heard nothing behind him. Too much distance separated them from the action. His thoughts were broken as the first shot was followed by another that seemed to reverberate in the thick air. The shots were coming from farther down the beach.
Simon drew in a breath. They were close to being caught in the cross fire as shots came back from the shoreline and up toward them, maybe toward Samnang, maybe the Brit. He could only see their dark outlines and the flashes in the darkness, and he was sure of one thing: they were only yards away from the primary targets. There were no other options as they pressed against the ruin and waited. The cloud slipped again, allowing a glimmer of moonlight. He could see a group of people, and farther away two darker figures on the water’s edge.
A man fell under the sound of another shot. There were more shots—one, two, and then a number together. For a second they could see clearly that a second man was down.
He squinted but the light had faded and now he could only see the dark pool of the lake.
And then out of the darkness another shot, near them. Too near.
“Holy shit,” Arun said.
Simon raised his head. “Damn it, that was close. Who the hell were they shooting at?”
Then everything was silent, broken only by deep, hitching breaths. Simon glanced at Arun and then realized he was hearing his own breathing. He took a deep breath and struggled to regain control.
Sounds rustled in front of them, and then from behind there was a sound that could have been wind whispering through the trees.
“Clear,” Arun whispered behind him. “For the moment and then . . .”
“Get the hell out of here!” Simon commanded in a whisper.
Five minutes later they reached their motorbikes.
“I don’t know what the Sam Hill that was about,” Arun grumbled. “Except, of course, the obvious. They were selling some of what they’d robbed from archeological sites, but you’d think those deals would run pretty smooth. Samnang’s been at this a long time.”
“Maybe, but something has changed. I don’t know who the hell was shooting at them, thieves maybe. It was hard to tell. Anyway, we have the proof we need to move forward. Samnang’s back at it and Ella Malone is at his side.”
“They found two bodies at Angkor Wat over the past week. Tourists. Women,” Arun said starkly. “The police claimed both fell from the inner temple. Odds are high that’s a lie in both cases. Makes no sense, in fact . . .”
“It might be unrelated.”
“Maybe. And those shots . . .”
“I know.” Simon pressed his motorbike into life. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for this. He dragged in a breath. “Good chance, considering how close it was, that the last one was meant for us.” He grimaced, shrugging off the disquiet, as he’d learned to do over the last decade. “In the meantime there isn’t a female tourist traveling solo in this country who’s safe.”
“A slight exaggeration, my friend, but still a concern. Not every . . . Just the women they’ve targeted. Any who ask too many questions, are alone or are slightly unsure and have the look of marks.” Arun slapped the palm of his hands on his thighs before starting the bike. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Minutes later only the faint smell of exhaust remained as evidence that they had been there at all.
Books by Ryshia Kennie
Fatal Intent
Intent to Kill
Legacy of Fear
From the Dust
Ring of Desire
About the Author
Ryshia Kennie is the award-winning author of the romantic suspense novels Fatal Intent, Intent to Kill, and Legacy of Fear, and two romance novels, From the Dust and Ring of Desire. When not writing, she loves to hang out in any number of places—usually with a book in hand. She lives on the Canadian prairies with her husband and one opinionated Irish Terrier.
For more, visit her website at www.ryshiakennie.com or her blog at www.ryshia.blogspot.com.
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