Contract: Sicko (Sei Assassin Thriller Book 2)

by Ty Hutchinson

  “Would you like something else?” she asked with almost no accent.

  “No, but thank you. Your English is good.”

  “Oh, thank you,” she said with a smile as she cleared the dishes from my table. She had straight black hair that she kept pulled back in a ponytail, wore no makeup, and hadn’t yet worried about grooming her eyebrows. She wore jean shorts, a fashionable T-shirt, and pink and white tennis shoes.

  “Did you learn in school?”

  “A little,” she said as she took the dishes and put them in a sink behind the counter. “There are videos on YouTube that teach for free, and I watch a lot of American TV.”

  Her determination impressed me. “That explains why you speak so conversationally.”

  “Conversationally?” She crinkled her brow as she walked back to my table with a cloth in her hand.

  “It means you can easily carry a conversation.”

  “Oh, I’m so happy to hear that. I try and practice every day.”

  “Keep it up.” I watched her wipe my table. “What’s your name?”

  “My name is Phuong? And you?”

  I stuck my hand out. “Sei.”

  She quickly wiped her hand dry on the oversized apron she wore before grasping mine. “Nice to meet you. Do you have Facebook? We can be friends.”

  I chuckled. “Sorry, I don’t.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  She smiled but she probably thought I was weird not to be tuned into social media.

  “Do you come to Vietnam for holiday or work?”

  “I’m here on business.”

  “I see you looking at the bar across the street. Are you waiting for someone?”

  “Do you know what kind of bar it is?”

  She hesitated and then nodded. “Everyone around here knows what kind of bar it is.”

  “Really?” I hadn’t planned on questioning the girl, but she appeared to be knowledgeable about the bar.

  I pulled up a picture of Akil on my cell phone. “Have you seen this man before?” From the look on her face, I already knew her answer. “It’s okay. You’re not in trouble.”

  She hesitated again, her eyes shifting to the bar before settling on me.

  “I’m not here to hurt you. Sit down.” I pulled the chair out next to me. “I need to find this man. He’s very bad.”

  “Yes, he his.” There wasn’t any hesitation this time. She scooted to the edge of the seat and leaned forward. “I don’t like him.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  She shook her head. “He came into my shop when I was alone. He wanted me to have a drink with him. I kept telling him no, I was too young, but he wouldn’t leave. I was very scared.”

  “What happened?”

  “Some other customers came into the shop and he left. I’ve seen him across the street. He goes into that bar; that’s why I was scared of him.”

  “Do the police know what goes on inside there?”

  “Yes, but they don’t do anything about it. A very bad man owns the bar, and everybody stays away from him. Sei, don’t go inside there. It’s not safe for women.”

  “I appreciate your concern, but he doesn’t frighten me. I’m not afraid of anybody.”

  Chapter 21

  Trang Ngõ sat behind a cluttered desk in a tiny office located on the second floor of Bar 92. He inherited the building and the bar during a dispute that didn’t end well for the previous owner. Ever since then, Trang worked hard to breathe new life into the business. He did so by adding new menu items—girls between the ages of ten and fifteen. He wouldn’t deal with product younger than that age range, even though his customers continually asked for it.

  Girls under ten brought on a slew of problems: law enforcement in Ho Chi Minh City was less tolerant; they were prone to sickness and required more care; and lastly, he just never understood the attraction. His girls were required to have pubic hair.

  Trang was busy stabbing his fat forefinger against the number pad of a large plastic calculator while flipping through a stack of receipts on the desk. A newly lit cigarette dangled from his mouth, and wisps of smoke kept his left eye squinted. A thin mustache sat above his lip, and under his chin, protruding from a mole, was single black hair about three inches in length. He never had cut it, considering it to be an omen for good luck.

  Trang was not tall in stature and was not in the greatest physical shape. He had a potbelly, chained-smoked, and had terrible hair. Those physical attributes also made Trang look like anything but a threatening man. No, his menacing reputation was a result of his quick-fuse temper, coupled with his lack of remorse. He solved problems with a machete. When that didn’t work, he used two. Trang stomped twice on the floor with heel of his left shoe.

  On the first floor, standing behind the bar countertop was Trang’s closest confidant, Vu Danh. He was also responsible for ensuring that the machetes were always razor sharp. He had his nose buried in a newspaper spread out in front of him and barely glanced up at the ceiling before shaking his head.

  Sitting at a table across from the bar were two Vietnamese men, early fifties. They were drinking Bia Saigon and playing cards. They too glanced up at the ceiling, but unlike Vu, they laughed, for they knew exactly what the stomping meant. Vu ignored the request for his presence and continued to read his newspaper.

  Vu couldn’t have looked any more the opposite from Trang. He wore thick-framed glasses, had his hair slicked back and kept his face clean-shaven. He was rail thin, always wore a white dress shirt with a black tie, and had a knack for disposing of bodies. His work had earned him a nickname: the Magician.

  The two met when they were only teens. Vu was the odd-looking lanky outsider. Trang was the funny fat boy. It was unlikely that the two would ever become best friends, but a chance crossing made that all possible.

  After a long night of drinking with a few friends, Trang had ridden his motorbike home. The roads in the Phu Nhuan District were desolate during the wee hours of the morning. Not a soul, not even a dog could be seen—just rats scurrying along the sidewalks.

  As fate determined, he had fallen asleep while riding the motorbike and slammed into the back of a parked car. By all accounts, the impact should have killed him but he survived thanks in part to his drunkenness and the fact he was asleep. Had he tensed up before hitting the car, doctors said, the damage would have been much more severe.

  Lying on the side of the road and unable to move, Trang should have bled to death. While the impact was noisy, it didn’t wake anyone, not even the homeless drunk sleeping fifteen feet away. But Trang would survive that night, all because Vu was an awkward teen without a girlfriend.

  At the time, Vu happened to be on the rooftop of his building, gazing at the stars while furiously masturbating for the second time into a pair of panties he stole from his neighbor’s clothesline. The impact of the crash had grabbed his attention, enough to make him stop and look over the low wall at the edge of the roof.

  A man was lying on the road with his leg bent at an abnormal angle. Vu carried on with his masturbation, as he was nearly at that point, but when he finished, he went downstairs to check on the man. From then on, the two had been inseparable.

  Once again, two stomps echoed throughout the first floor and dust fell from the ceiling. Vu exhaled loudly and folded his paper. He looked around the bar. It was just him, the two old-timers, and a bar-back sweeping. He motioned for the young man to take his position behind the bar.

  Before Vu could climb the stairs, the front door to the bar opened, letting in a rush of sunlight. Everyone inside squinted. Seconds later the door closed, revealing a white male in his early fifties.

  He had most of his hair and a slight beer belly. He wore blue jeans and a white polo shirt.

  “Hello,” he said as he walked over to the bar.

  “Freddy, long time no see,” Vu said as he greeted him with a handshake. “The usual?”

  “Yeah, and a Bia Saigon. It’s hot outside.”

 
Vu snapped his fingers, and the bar-back quickly removed a green bottle from the ice chest behind him. He opened it and set it down on the bar.

  Vu picked up a phone on the desk and pressed the number three on the dial pad. “Tell Sheila she’s up. Room four.”

  He turned back to Freddy. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said, pointing at the ceiling. “I have to see the boss. Enjoy.”

  Vu headed toward the stairs and climbed them to the second floor. There were six doors on the second floor. The first one opened into Trang’s office. The other five were rooms for their customers. Each room contained a single bed and a small shower. In a storage space at the end of the hall, a lady in her forties sat on a small stool watching TV. Stacked behind her were mountains of clean towels and bed linens. Vu called out to tell her that a customer had been assigned to room four. She nodded, collected a towel, a sheet, and headed to the room.

  The girls who worked for Trang lived on the fourth floor. The entire floor had been converted into a large open space. There were ten beds, two bathrooms, one with a shower, and a kitchen. There was also a large flat-screen TV and a couple of couches and chairs.

  There was a small apartment on the third floor where the mama-san who watched over the girls lived. The only way to or from the fourth floor was to pass through her apartment. She would make sure Sheila was ready for the customer.

  Vu entered Trang’s office, closed the door behind him, and took a seat in the chair opposite his desk.

  “Business is down this month,” Trang grunted.

  “Business is down everywhere. It’s slow season,” Vu responded. “But a customer just came now—Freddy.”

  “There is no slow season with fucking. I think we need new product.”

  “These girls haven’t served out their six-month stay. They still have value and can make us money. If we refresh our inventory now, we will lose more money.”

  Trang leaned back in his swivel chair, folded his hands on top of his belly, and took a pull on his cigarette. “The customers are tired of fucking them. Even Freddy is tired. When was the last time he was here?”

  Vu thought for a moment. “Maybe two, three weeks ago.”

  “You see? He used to come here two times a week, sometimes three. We need fresh pussy. Where is Akil? I haven’t seen him in a week.”

  “I don’t know. He hasn’t returned any of my phone calls. Hiring this foreigner was a bad decision. He doesn’t work hard. And he smells.”

  Trang laughed. “You should give him deodorant.”

  “That won’t help. You know his kind. They only shower a few times a week.”

  “Yes, but he is good at getting girls I like. Find him. I want him to do another run right away.”

  Vu nodded and stood up.

  “And I want a virgin, Vu. Make sure he brings me one. I want to start a bidding war.”

  Chapter 22

  It was nearing nine at night. I was halfway through my Banh mi dac biet, which was essentially a choice of two meats packed inside a French baguette. I chose crispy roast pork and pork belly. It also came stuffed with generous slathering of liver pâté and the usual toppings: pickled carrots and radish, sliced cucumber, and fresh cilantro. Phuong offered to buy me one from a vendor outside, as she was purchasing one for herself. The shop only had muffins and pastries available. I thanked her and gave her enough money to pay for both sandwiches.

  It was perfectly delicious. The baguette had the right amount of flake to its crust, while the inside remained soft and chewy. The last meal I’d eaten was the microwave-heated box served to me on my flight. I had no problem shoving an overly stuffed six-incher into my mouth. Phuong called it quits after eating half of her sandwich.

  “I think I’ll save the rest for later,” she said as she patted her flat stomach.

  “Not me,” I said through a mouthful.

  Throughout my time in the shop, very few people came inside. Some stayed, maybe thirty minutes at the most; the rest opted to take their iced coffee with them. For most of the evening, it was only two of us. “Is business always this slow?”

  “No.” Phuong said. “Usually we have customers all day. I don’t know why today there is not too many.”

  “Phuong, if you don’t mind me asking, why aren’t you in school?”

  “Oh, we have a break now. Usually I only work a few hours at night and on the weekends, but now I work all day.”

  “And where are your parents?”

  “My father has another shop selling fabric. My mother died two years ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Is it just you and your father, or do you have brothers and sisters?”

  “I have an older sister; she is studying at the university. When she has free time, she tries to help out with the shop too. But now she has exams, so she can’t be here.”

  “With your father busy with the other store, who takes over here when you and your sister are busy with school?”

  “Oh, sometimes my aunt can help out. If she is busy, there is another girl we hire to work here, but my father doesn’t like to do that. He says it’s expensive.”

  This was a quintessential family-run business: long hours to eke out meager profits. I felt sorry for Phuong and wondered how much free time she actually had for herself.

  “Do you have a boyfriend, Phuong?”

  She giggled and looked away. “I’m too young to have one.”

  She probably was. “Well, there must be a boy you like? You haven’t stopped tapping away on your phone since I arrived. Don’t tell me those are just your girlfriends you’re talking to.”

  Her face grew red. “Yes, mostly it’s my friends, but there is this one boy I talk with. His name is Dao.”

  “And is Dao handsome?”

  She clasped a hand over her mouth and giggled more. “Why do you ask? Do you have a boyfriend?” Her eyes were wide with curiosity.

  “No, I don’t,” I said, laughing. It had been a long time since I laughed like that but something about Phuong made me comfortable enough to lower my guard. She saw a rare part of me that almost no one ever saw. I wondered if it was because I longed to have similar chats about boys with Mui when she was older.

  “With that bar across the street, it doesn’t seem like it’s safe for you to work alone. How old are you? Fourteen? Fifteen?”

  “I’m thirteen,” she said with a smile and a dose of sass before crinkling her brow. “But I don’t like working by myself. I’m always asking my friends to come and visit me.”

  “Does it scare you?”

  “Sometimes, but we have cameras now.” She pointed to the two inside the shop and the one outside. “Plus you are here tonight, so I feel okay.” She smiled and then looked at her watch. “We will be closing in a half hour.”

  I popped the last bite of my sandwich into my mouth and brushed my hands before looking back across the street. As I chewed, a man walking toward the bar caught my eye. I watched him carefully, willing him to look my way. Come on. Turn your head. And then he did, and I recognized Akil Badash instantly.

  “Phuong, I think I see him.” I said, motioning with my head.

  She looked across the street. “Yes, that’s him,” she blurted without hesitation.

  While his skin color looked noticeably darker, his build matched the one in the photo. He was thin and not very tall, perhaps five feet seven inches. He wore jeans and a simple black T-shirt with a fanny pack strapped around his waist.

  He didn’t appear to be concerned about anyone looking for him. I figured he was unaware of the contract on his head. Most marks never knew. One minute they were living their lives; the next minute, their skull was shattered by a thirty-caliber bullet. On occasion, a client would demand that the target know they are about to die. Some assassins thrive on this, seeing the fear in the person’s eyes before they end his life. I was not one of those types, but I would do it if the job required it.

  I had no be
longings to grab since I had left my knapsack in my hotel room. The knife I had purchased earlier, a six-inch, fixed-blade hunting knife, was tucked under my shirt into the rear of my jeans, out of sight from prying eyes.

  I stood. “Phuong, it’s been nice talking with you.”

  “Oh, I think I’ll leave too. Would you mind waiting?”

  I nodded.

  She locked the back door and then switched off all the lights. After we exited the shop, she pulled down a metal gate and secured it to the pavement with a padded lock.

  “Are you going to the bar?” she asked as she put on her helmet and slipped on a pair of gloves.

  “No, I’ll wait for him to come out.”

  Phuong straddled the seat on her motorbike and revved the engine. “Be careful, Sei,” she said before driving off.

  Chapter 23

  I waited under the shadows of the coffee shop’s awning for Akil to exit the bar. My plan was pretty straightforward—intercept and question, preferably at his apartment. There was still a fair amount of foot traffic on either side of the street, and while the number of motorbikes on the road had diminished, they hadn’t disappeared.

  It didn’t take very long for Akil to show his face again, maybe thirty minutes or so, and he wasn’t alone. A young girl exited the bar with him. She couldn’t have been older than twelve or thirteen. Bastard!

  Either Akil had special privileges or he was working for the bar because I saw no other man leave with a girl. Whatever the reason, I wasn’t about to let him have his way with her. I waited until he was about thirty feet from the bar before crossing over to his side of the street.

  Akil looked to be in his mid-thirties, theoretically old enough to be the girl’s father. She walked about two steps behind him with her head down, and he never bothered to look back to see if she was following. Was it trust or fear that kept her from running? Surely she wasn’t a willing participant.