Jake reached over to pat his friend on the shoulder. “If this pans out, I’ll owe you a big one.”
“It’ll pan out - but you won’t owe me shit. I seem to remember you saving my neck more than once. We’ll talk details on the way down, but I’ve got a couple of Thai Special Branch cops and the Aussie brothers lined up, so we’ve got our team.”
“No offense, but you know I work alone.”
“Not this time, bro. I’m assuming you want this to be up-close and personal, so a sniper assault is out. And his operation may be too big for a single-man insertion. Unless the recon says otherwise, we’re going with a team. I trained the Thais myself, so don’t worry, they’re good-to-go. And you already know the brothers are squared-away.”
Jake bristled at first, but gave in. “Okay, strategy is your specialty, and you’ve never let me down before. But know this – anyone gets in my way, or tries to take the target out themselves, might as well be playing for the other team. And you know what that means.”
“Don’t worry – the point is crystal clear. Dozer and Priest are just as close as you and Shane were. You think they don’t understand the situation? And the Thais are along for the ride, as a courtesy. We might not even need them, but we’ve got to keep the locals happy.”
“What about the Agency? Do the embassy boys know what’s going down? I don’t want any suit-wearing, political-correctness police riding in on white stallions to screw things up. This is a kill mission – pure and simple.”
“I’ve got it under control. Just leave the details to me - and be ready to do your thing when the time comes. Now - I think that calls for a beer or seven, don’t you?”
Jake acquiesced. “Okay, tonight we drink. But tomorrow - strictly business.”
*****
Jake rose at nine-thirty the next morning, thankful he’d interspersed generous quantities of water throughout the night’s drinking. Mike Lee’s news, and the prospect of an opportunity to avenge his brother’s death, had ensured the big man kept his alcohol intake to a manageable level. Residual effects were limited to a mild case of dehydration, which would soon pass. He showered and dressed, then went to knock on Tik’s door across the hall. Before his knuckles could make contact, the heavy door swung open to reveal Tik, fully dressed and waiting. Her preparedness surprised him.
She cocked her head to one side. “You think I not know something wrong? I see you and Mr. Mike talk last night. I know you face. I see you drink water too much. I know something wrong.”
Jake knew that if there was anyone who really understood his disposition, it was the staunch little woman before him. “Sorry, Tik – I should have told you last night, but you were busy with your new friend - and I had a lot on my mind.”
Jake explained Mike Lee’s news. Tik knew Jake’s only remaining family member had been killed during a risky covert operation in the Ukraine. She also knew the brothers’ high-profile parents had been killed years earlier, in a mid-air explosion aboard their private jet. Upon her evacuation to America, Tik had chosen to become Jake’s personal assistant, cook and housekeeper. It was an arrangement which suited them both. She needed something to keep her occupied in her adopted home, and Jake trusted her implicitly. He’d not only given her a new life, but a better life than she could have hoped for in her home country. She, in turn, made the details of his life easier for him. She received a generous salary and rent-free apartment as payment, but they both knew she would happily do it for free. Not long after their mutually beneficial arrangement had begun, Jake told her about his parents’ deaths, and ensuing events.
Shane was fifteen, and Jake thirteen, when the accident had taken their parents. As orphaned minors, the boys had been sent to live with their godparents, a maternal aunt and uncle in Canada, until they came of age. The loss had profoundly affected both boys; Shane in particular. The gifted athlete and former honor student was at an impressionable age, and became sullen and withdrawn. His schoolwork had suffered, and he’d been suspended for fighting with a high school senior, seriously injuring the older boy. Shane’s formidable size and increasingly bad behavior had eventually convinced his guardians to send him to board at a strict military academy in the States. His initial resistance had soon been overcome by the guiding routine of military life, and Shane’s behavior and performance had eventually returned to normal.
Though the boys weren’t their natural-born children, their aunt and uncle loved them both and did their best to treat them as their own. When Shane’s behavioral problems had improved, his godparents invited him to return to their home. But despite the lure of reuniting with his younger brother, he’d eschewed the offer of a return to freedom in favor of military discipline and training. It seemed he’d found his calling. Shane had later requested his guardians’ permission for early enlistment in the U.S. military and ultimately went on to become a decorated Navy SEAL.
At the doorway of her room, the tough little Laotian stared into Jake’s eyes. He was in battle-mode - she knew the look well. “What we wait for? We go get asshole now!” She bustled back into her room to grab her already packed bag, cursing their prey under her breath. Loyalty meant everything to Tik, and Jake knew she would throw herself into the venture without care for her own safety. In her culture, vengeance was virtually a holy calling, and she’d adopted his vendetta as her own. He would have to keep an eye on her.
After breakfast and checkout, Jake and Tik waited inside the hotel’s front door for Mike and the team to pick them up. The same doormen Jake had tipped the day before glanced furtively at the pair, curious to see what the big generous American might do next. Tik cast them a stern glare, embarrassing them into turning away.
Jake smiled, but admonished her: “They’re not doing any harm.”
“I not like men try to get free money. Not honor.”
Jake knew any attempt to moderate Tik’s opinion was futile, so let it slide. Soon a large silver van with blackened windows entered the driveway, breaking the tension. “That’ll be Mike and the boys.”
The doormen stood well back this time, as the automatic doors slid open to let Jake and Tik out. The van’s side door slid back to reveal Dozer, apparently fast asleep beside his brother. The larger of the pair took up more than his share of the three-person seat, but Priest, deeply absorbed in a book, was oblivious to the invasion of his space. Mike Lee, seated behind them, greeted Jake and Tik as they climbed in beside him. One Thai Special Branch cop was driving and the other dozed in the passenger seat.
“We’ve got about two hours to relax before we can check out the Russians’ setup,” Mike said. “Might as well grab some shuteye - if you need it.”
“I’m good.” Jake said. “Are the boys sharp?”
“Always, mate,” Dozer answered without opening his eyes. “Takes more than a night on the piss, Jakey-boy. We’re right, mate.”
Dozer’s laconic Aussie style amused Jake. Cliché after cliché, he couldn’t help but like the Phillips brothers. Tik, on the other hand, ignored them, calling out, “Bai laew, kha” and the driver steered the van into traffic on Silom Road.
The two-hour trip was abbreviated to an hour-and-a-half thanks to the Thai policeman’s confident eighty miles-an-hour driving. The likelihood of being stopped for speeding was slim at best, and with his credentials, the driver would easily wave off any such stop. Jake studied the skyline ahead. It had been a few years since his last visit to the seaside resort city of Pattaya – things had changed. Massive new condominium towers dominated the horizon; some so tall and slender they seemed to defy the laws of physics. Huge billboards lined the highway, offering the lifestyles of kings lived out in thousand-square-foot sky-boxes. Other signs boasted the best whatever in Pattaya, while still others boasted the best whatever in all of Thailand. The visual cacophony clearly demonstrated the plastic unreality of this massive party town, which had grown beyond all recognition from its humble beginnings as a sleepy fishing village.
During the Vietnam conflict
, entire battalions of U.S. and allied soldiers had been shipped into the area for cheap R&R. As is their way, the locals had quickly adapted to the onslaught, turning it to their financial advantage. They’d hastily erected shanties, beach shacks, eateries, and girly bars for the troops’ sustenance and amusement. The booze and entertainment were ridiculously cheap by U.S. standards, so more troops came, and more venues were built to accommodate them. By the end of the conflict, Pattaya’s bawdy entertainment scene had grown from a cottage industry into a money generating behemoth, directly affecting the country’s GDP. Dives and flop-houses had evolved into trendy boutique hotels and sprawling resorts, and the city drew not only weekend visitors from Bangkok, but big-spending tourists from America, Australia, Canada, and Britain.
The seaside resort had doubled in size every few years, resulting in its current overcrowded state of chaos. Seething masses of Russians, Indians, and Arabs now combined with busloads of herded tour groups from China, Korea, and other Asian countries. The uncontrolled influx had brought perpetual traffic snarls, local resentment, drunken brawls, and the relatively new phenomenon of violent street gangs. These were made up predominantly of school-age thugs, the bored offspring of workers who’d flocked to the lure of a better life than their home provinces could offer. The local press constantly featured headlines of high-speed motorcycle chases and gangland shootings. These incidents brought a blight on the acceptable norms of Thai culture, and traditional Thais blamed tourism.
Many of the property development billboards were now in Russian, a sign of the times for the area. Since some obviously shady deals had been struck between the Russian powers-that-bribe and the Thai hands-that-accept, direct flights from Moscow were landing with alarming frequency at the local Utapao Airport near Rayong. Russian tourists were granted sixty-day visas on arrival, while the rest of the world was lucky to get thirty. It was a bone of contention for many westerners and expats, who resented the sudden influx of ill-mannered, aggressive Ivans taking over their playground. Of course there were good people among the Russian tourists, but their comrades’ notoriously frugal spending habits meant the net effect was a reduction in tourist dollars available to the average Thai, particularly vendors and hawkers. As a result, market-stall vendors were no longer the good-natured negotiators from days-gone-by. The aggression and intolerance imported from the land of Stalin, Stroganoff, and Stoli had rubbed off on the locals.
Petty crime had risen exponentially since the influx. Culturally abhorrent in Thai Buddhist society, muggings, bag-snatching, and street violence had become commonplace. The invasion had also brought a growing Russian criminal element. Their illicit activities were mainly limited to white prostitution, drugs and real estate scams, but they were growing bolder. This was a factor in the Thai Special Branch’s decision to send two of their men with Mike Lee’s team. Aside from any intelligence they might glean, the operation could present other opportunities advantageous to their cause. Jake suspected their overt cooperation with the team covered a hidden agenda, but he wasn’t concerned at this stage. The authority their badges carried could be useful in a pinch, and if they made a wrong move, Jake would be on top of them in a heartbeat, local conventions be damned.
The team eventually passed through the perpetual rot tid or traffic jam of Sukhumvit Road, the main artery running through the town on its way from Bangkok south to the city of Rayong. They drove west along Thepprasit Road until the driver steered them into a side street, leading into some back-blocks of Jomtien.
The smaller and quieter sister town of Pattaya, Jomtien boasted areas of affluence and taste, but remained interspersed with pockets of dereliction and failed dreams. Uncompleted housing developments and failed condominiums bore silent witness to the Asian financial crisis of 1997. Previously gaping purse strings of banks and lending institutions had snapped shut with a suddenness that had left a great many developers high and dry. Archaic, convoluted Thai insolvency laws combined with an overwhelmed court system to ensure many years of delays in sorting out the mess, so a great many projects were left to rot where they stood on prime pieces of real estate.
Outside the elaborate but decaying gateway to one such estate, the driver parked behind some overgrowth and cut the engine. Mike Lee lifted binoculars to his eyes for a moment. “Looks like Special Branch’s intel’s right on the money. There’s a sizable compound about a hundred yards down near the end of the driveway, with a large house in the middle. Eight-foot walls with broken glass along the top – security, Thai-style. I see a couple of big Russians in an upstairs room, and one armed guard at the gate. My guess is there’s at least one more guard inside the front door.” He handed the binoculars to Jake. “It’s your show, big guy.”
Jake examined the scene then got out of the van to look down each side border of the estate. The development spanned about fifty yards of street frontage. When he was satisfied, he got back in the van and pulled the door shut. “Tik, tell the driver to get us behind the estate.”
Tik prattled at the driver in rapid-fire Thai, and they were soon in front of the property adjoining the rear of the Russians’ estate. Another victim of the ’97 crisis, this building, basically a mold-covered concrete skeleton, had been built with a sundeck roof. Jake looked the place over, then climbed the open staircase to the sundeck. Two minutes later he was back in the van. “We’ll come back at dusk and use cell phones with Bluetooth headsets – I don’t want to risk radio squelches or scanners. Mike, you’ll direct traffic from the sundeck up there. The rest of us will enter the estate from the west boundary, track along the north wall, and wait at the corner until the exterior guard is neutralized. Once that happens, we’ll have to move fast in case he’s on a schedule for checking in.”
Jake outlined the rest of his plan. He’d devised an elaborate maneuver to deal with the man outside the front gate, but if a single variable didn’t play out as planned, they risked alerting the guard at the front door. Tik protested. She knew her boss was trying to keep her safe, but by doing so, she realized, he was reducing his chances of success. She pointed this out and demanded a different role in the game. Despite his protective instinct, Jake knew she was right. He also knew any protestations would fall on deaf ears - the woman’s fearlessness and steely resolve would not tolerate special consideration for her gender or size. The plan was set, but Jake knew they were missing one vital ingredient for success.
Chapter 5
For the second time that day, the little bungalow in Poughkeepsie was besieged by police and emergency services vehicles. A small army of local uniformed cops kept media personnel outside the yellow and black demarcation tape, while crime scene investigators worked like ants under their blinding floodlights.
What had once been the happy home of a hopeful young family would forever live in notoriety. Media attention would eventually fade, but the local rumor mill, overflowing with fresh grist, would never let the story die. Generations of neighborhood children would trade horrific tales requiring none of the usual ghoulish embellishment. Urban legends would branch off, and spread like tendrils of a choking vine, dooming the sturdy little house to demolition in order to attract any interest in the land on which it sat. The scene was set, the rot had begun.
Alan watched a paramedic irrigating drywall and attic dust from his partner’s eyes while Dr. Charlotte Chetland, an FBI consultant forensic pathologist, examined the fallen corpse. Kneeling on a surgical mat, the middle-aged medical examiner scanned every detail of the muscular body before her. She inspected what was left of the corpse’s face, carefully taking samples with her tweezers before moving on. Carefully lifting the dead man’s left hand, she turned it palm up. After staring intently for a moment, she raised the magnifying headgear from her eyes and turned to Beach. “Got a minute, Agent?”
Alan joined the consultant on her surgical pad. “Found something, Doc?”
“I found nothing – but that’s something.” She handed Alan her headgear. “Look at the fingertips and palm w
horls.”
Beach donned the instrument, pulling the magnifying lens over his eyes. “What the hell?”
“My thoughts exactly. I’ve seen fingerprints ablated with acid or abrasives, but this is much more professional. I’m betting that if we roll him over, we’ll find an area of tissue removed from his buttocks to make these grafts. This is the work of a skilled micro-surgeon.”
Amazed, Beach rolled the man’s hand to get a better look. “I’ve seen missing fingerprints before, but I’ve never seen it done with grafts. This guy definitely didn’t want to be known. One thing for sure, there’s more to this than meets the eye.”
“You got that right, Agent!” A local detective had just entered the house, and overheard the last snippet of conversation between Beach and the medical examiner. “We just found an unmarked van with stolen plates parked a block away. There’s another body in it – just like the one you’re looking at now.”
Foxx brushed the medic aside. “Another body, same outfit as this guy?”
“Yup, big, fit-looking guy like this one – face all bashed in too. We’ve cordoned off the area for you, but the reporters are getting rowdy.”
Beach was dumbfounded. “What’s going on here? This is starting to look like a damned battleground!” He glanced at Dr. Chetland.
She waved him off without looking up from the corpse. “You go ahead and do your preliminary examination of the other scene. Just don’t move the body. I’ll be along as soon as this one’s tagged and bagged.”
At the van, six local police officers were physically struggling to keep news crews and reporters behind the tape. The entire scene was getting too big to contain. Freelance news stringers were drooling over the potential scoop money, and local reporters could sense possible promotion or national syndication. Tempers were running high as the crowd jostled for a better view, demanding comments from the authorities.
The Killing Chase (Beach & Riley Book 2) Page 4