A Killing to DIE For

by P Gaseaux

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Bruce Lee the hero, the little guy pitted against gangsters. He came to the Kingdom and was up this way just before she was born. ‘The Big Boss’ was one of her favorites as a child, Pakdee remembered how the travelling cinema-man would arrive in an old pickup, he’d erect a screen and play movies in her village. Outdoors in the dry season. A penny to sit in the dust and watch Kung Fu movies all night long…a stationary engine that smoked the villagers out. No TV or electricity in those days. Nobody needed it.

  She still loved Bruce Lee, she’d study the moves sometimes…try her best to copy them…but nobody could be that good, not even Pakdee.

  Pakchong in the hills…Lee was long gone but the real-life gangsters never really left. Traffickers, forestry poachers, the politicians with money and connections; they all had weekend villas up here; they came and went.

  She knew they would search her so she emptied out things like her cell phone and ditched them in the trunk. The last thing to come off was her trusty Walther she had near her ankle. At all times, she had something from Kitti -- she carried it on ‘planes, near schools, even courthouses.

  She parked behind the police station and caught a motorcycle taxi, heading out of town toward an area on the edge of the mountain range. At a junction the sealed road ended reverting to a dusty track and they halted. When she jumped off the cyclist berated her, the area was deserted and some of the villas belonged to entities known euphemistically as the ‘unusually rich and influential’. Considerate of him, he offered to wait and watch but she refused, handing extra to cover the return to town. She didn’t want him anywhere nearby; the syndicate would kill the little guy and burn his Yamaha. Took him a while to unfold change but she shook her head and turned on her heel.

  She stood alone in the deserted place before walking further on; the hot days were returning and dry winds from the northern plains blew dust into the air, all under the shadow of the foothills to the south. She arrived at a gate with a guard house but it was empty like the dirt track; she was well aware of what the gang had been doing there. Alone but she was being watched from two sides.

  “Who-zat! Atta-boy; atta-girl – get ‘em! Ooo-zat…” The Belfast man growled and on command the guard dogs bounded toward the figure outside the distant gate. The male and female Argento mastiffs -- both pure white -- had been taken from the same litter as pups. Over one hundred and twenty pounds each and trained to take down mountain lions, they charged toward the access road, snarling and galloping like thoroughbreds.

  She could see the mansion in the distance, run down and overgrown. The mastiffs roamed free and would attack and kill any intruder who strayed on the grounds, no maintenance staff entered and the place looked like a refuse tip. Straight away she recognized the Ulsterman, the one who bragged of being in the elite Special Air Service but in reality had served as a British marine; three tours. He recognized her and broke into a sprint toward the gate.

  Pakdee crouched and squatted, bowing her head and breathing calmly as the trained dogs drew level with her -- each animal equal to her own body weight -- the canines grew quiet and poked their noses at her legs and licked at her hands. The first one rubbed against her and she cautiously began to tickle the beast under the jaw; she remembered the male loved that but the cautious female was more vigilant, making some grunts and snorting as she eased the gate open.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said as the Ulsterman strode up to her.

  Walker yelled at the dogs but they only wriggled playfully on the ground. He whipped out a heavy revolver, aimed at her head and cocked the hammer. He was shaking his head in disbelief. “How the hell-”

  “Maybe you should talk to your sugar daddy first.”

  He curled his lips, shaking his head, his arm quivering, the Belfast loyalist brogue turning more sinister: “You’re fecking dead meat, sweetheart,” he snarled, raising the black Python once more, aiming a kick at the dog nearest him. It yelped and darted away.

  Hugging the rifle into his cheek, the land unit’s sharpshooter had one particular specialty above all others. He could drop a direct hit on a golf ball at four hundred yards, given the right tools and conditions. Next to him was his assistant who was trained on the scene before him. The sniper raised his eye from a Schmidt and Bender scope mounted upon the rifle, a TRG, designed to split an engine block from half a mile. That’s how far the gate to the estate was from where they lay prone, maybe more.

  Boredom…the lot of a specialist rifleman. Sit in a place twenty hours not flinching, the targets show for three seconds, two rounds and two hits with an inner. Just to earn a place on the course…

  He eased off his forefinger. He was dying to try the thing out; he’d used them before but not in his own country. This rifle had been stolen from a private hunter’s chalet in Europe, serial numbers drilled out and then it found its way onto the black market before entering Thailand inside a diplomatic pouch. In a country flooded with concealable firearms of every description, a tactical rifle like the Sako TRG was difficult to obtain. They were decreed ‘weapons of war’. He had some trepidation, it hadn’t been tested but the assurance it had been ‘bedded’ helped. They had clear orders: in the event ‘the Cat’ was in mortal danger they would fire, she would run and they would flee to the south and await pickup on a trail inside the national park. The danger lay in the first few minutes after she had arrived at the villa.

  The sniper chuckled. “You know the chief wanted to send blue-eyes up here instead but decided against it.”

  “Come again?”asked his spotter.

  “I meant Agent Blue! Talk is the Saffer chick wants to tap ‘the Cat’ herself…”

  The range finder eased away from his telescope. “Serious?”

  The sniper smiled. “That ‘baby-sit’ down there knocked Ms. Blue’s lights out back in Manila.”

  “Shittin’ me; I wouldn’t mind knocking her lights out.” He took a long look in the riflescope. The crosshairs were on the one with the revolver; Pakdee to the side.

  “She’s an oddball I’ll say that…wouldn’t kick her out of the bathtub in a hurry.”

  “Sick…maybe kick your ass, Fabio. There’s talk she’s in the industry herself.”

  Something made the spotter check the eyepiece of his equipment once more. A third figure was walking into the frame, had a swagger like he owned the place. Rangefinder clenched his fist. “Looks like the big boss,” he whispered.

  Pakdee stiffened and stared at the Tamil, not sure whether she’d be shot or welcomed in. He spoke first, pretending to make light and act surprised.

  “Anna! Long time no see. I trust all is well, isn’t it?” he continued. He still spoke in the accent of his birthplace mixed with a hint of North American added: “I was hoping we could catch up, isn’t it? We need to talk-“

  “Talk,” she snapped. “Who had the bright idea of trying to kill me then?” She continued the verbal onslaught on the Tamil; he was spineless when confronted.

  “No, you must understand, please,” attempting to placate her. “We must talk.”

  The Ulsterman interrupted: “I can deal with this problem, right here; right now.”

  The Tamil raised his hand. “Leave it, we need her.”

  He started to speak but Pakdee broke in first: “Maybe you should tell him,” jerking her thumb at the marine who was fingering his revolver. “Money problems?” she snapped. “Missing something?”

  Walker stepped forward and pushed her violently with both hands opened; she stumbled back and regained her composure. “Hands up sweetheart.” As he was patting her down as she gritted her teeth; when satisfied he rested the muzzle against her womb. “You’ll keep…”

  It was a good view. They were on a ridge with primary forest further up the saddle that opened out to monsoon scrub where they were, slightly off the razorback with a sharp drop to the side. Perfect. Nobody could trace t
he shot and even if anybody did they could skirt the drop-off and get away fast, into the rainforest behind. The sniper pushed his cheek into the composite stock of the tactical and moved the crosshairs over the tallest one and gently exhaled, resting the lines just under Walker’s ear. His hand tightened and the dual stage trigger, it shifted a fraction under his forefinger.

  “Stand down,” whispered the rangefinder next to him, raising a clenched fist.

  He relaxed. The two villains had turned and were walking behind her toward the building. The sniper eased his finger from the guard and carefully lifted the breech-bolt before facing his buddy. “Nearly,” he said. “Could’ve dropped both of ‘em.”

  “Yep,” replied the range finder, opening a satellite phone. “I’ll check in.” He spoke for a moment and sat up, flexing his fingers and shoulders. Rangefinder spoke to base then shut the Iridium.

  “Looks like we’re here for the duration,” mumbled the sniper. Almost subconsciously he stroked the butt of the weapon. It was green; it matched the jungle and the hills that lay behind.

  Now ‘the Cat’ was inside they would be in for a long and dull afternoon. Their instructions were to watch and wait until the targets had departed, they would go in, and liquidate any remaining personnel with silenced weapons before removing hard-drives and documents. Then blow the place using a remote timer once they had made rendezvous in the national park that stretched beyond into the ranges behind. That could be tonight, tomorrow, next weekend.

  Inside the villa appeared rundown and shabby, nothing like the lifestyles of the rich and famous. The syndicate had its fortune well stashed, then she got to it; not a penny spent here. Pakdee had only dealt with the Tamil in Bangkok -- she was the first female to visit the syndicate’s lair in ages if ever. This place was musty and only served as a bunker.

  In another room she listened as a fierce argument ensued between the Tamil and Walker. Seated on a grubby sofa in the room with her was one of the Gurkhas, unarmed. The stocky Nepali did not even look at her; he sat expressionless. Pakdee touched her hair and crossed her leg but he did not budge. His build and facial features were similar to those of a Laotian tribesman and her eyes fixed upon a talisman he was wearing, similar to her own -- the man also worshipped the Lord Buddha as she did. Very discretely she scratched herself below the neck revealing her own sacred image and this was the only time his eyes moved. Other Nepalese henchmen guarded the perimeter of the compound. Unlike other sentries who lounged in a fixed point these guards alternated between a rapid jog and a march; they seldom stopped and the two white canines would follow. There was a further pool of the Gurkhas down in Bangkok that could be rustled up if needed. They spent their days hawking suits to western tourists, they looked like local Thais but their English was polished after service in Her Majesty’s Armed Forces.

  The guards were Hindu; some were Buddhist and a few Islam. The term ‘Gurkha’ was generic. They were all elite. Mental and physical toughness others only aspired to. The guard stood and moved to the entrance as the Tamil entered the room with an idiotic look on his face, followed by Walker.

  “Okay sweetheart, cast your mind back a few weeks…let’s run through what happened in Manila,” demanded the Ulsterman, Walker.

  “I was hoping you might tell me,” she replied. “I go with Hatfield to collect some paperwork, next thing he’s kidnapped.”

  “Anna,” the Tamil spoke with a comforting tone. “Where did you go after that?”

  “Away,” she answered. The two men exchanged looks. “Wouldn’t you?” Walker began to speak but she cut him off: “You might want to let me know if you had a closing down sale on the Manila franchise…”

  “Shaddap, lady!” roared Walker turning to his boss. “Two of me fellas; blokes I served with -- two of the best operators I know -- go in there to pick her up, she walks out and they get scraped off the street.” He shook his head.

  “You went in there to kill me!” Pakdee shouted. “Think, would you,” she said. “The American was killed first.” She paused. “If you bother to listen to me I’ll tell you who really did kill your guys.”

  The Tamil was thinking of his money: “Our accounts,” he pleaded. “Just return the funds and you can go.” He produced an envelope with a stamp with handwriting on the cover.

  Pakdee took the envelope and removed the note inside. It was a printout identifying the Caribbean accounts, the final of three and the largest. This one was in her name and the other two in William Robert Hatfield’s name, sent by post before that. She turned her to the wall, hoping not to reveal her inner anger; she was seething. They’d gotten their hands on the last one, somehow. Took it off Will. After they murdered him…

  “Come on Raj, the dough’s gone. We’ve been gypped,” snapped the Ulsterman. “We got this off your boyfriend in RP before he managed to post it…”

  “There’s only six million here,” she said, turning and jabbing the printout. She moved closer to the Tamil. Maybe you should tell your boyfriend about the other two accounts…” She waved her thumb at Walker. The Tamil reached and tried to snatch the letter but she held onto it.

  “You-”

  “Don’t know do you?’ she said to the Ulsterman. Pakdee sneered then laughed, catching her breath. The Tamil was on the defensive. “Why don’t you tell him?” She waved the printed sheet at Walker. “The other accounts…”

  “What other accounts?” he bellowed.

  The Tamil was flustered now and his partner was turning against him; this was exactly as she loved it -- her way. Their days were numbered.

  “Maybe you might just consider this: your two guys in Manila…who got them?” She faced Walker. “Maybe you should ask your boss exactly who he’s been doing business with…” She kept on and the Tamil kept trying to hush her.

  “He was shipping the Chinaman’s handiworks out to the Middle East! Egypt! I can get an airway bill and show you…” She caught her breath. “Your boss was selling the electronics to militants who used it to shoot down two Apache helicopters over Gaza City!”

  She shook her head and stole a look at the guard; the hired muscle had understood alright, his eyes had widened. It was the first time he had changed expression. Walker cursed; he seized the Tamil by the shirt, forcing him against the wall.

  “Raj, you maniac…what have you done? This was not the deal!”

  “Listen to me!” she cried out. “These guys will hunt you down; they will come after me and they will wipe everybody out, just as they did in Manila,” indicating the guard standing there. “The only chance is to stick with me, I’ll transfer the accounts, we split and we may just have a chance.”

  Pakdee slowly moved between the armed Ulsterman and the Tamil who was pinned, the black muzzle of the Python under his chin. “I can take you there. We must take great care but we go to neutral territory.”

  They looked at her and Walker lowered the gun.

  “Rayong,” she said. “My moneymen are there.” She moved slightly. “I can start the process, takes two hours and usage of a fixed-line ‘phone as well as a secure server. I have to Skype my broker in Panama City, so he knows it’s me for sure. Otherwise I’d do it right now…”

  As she turned it was the guard who blocked her way, not like she could run anywhere. They stared. The man blinked. Only her mouth moved. The Gurkha looked away. Something he didn’t like -- he also was a Buddhist, he also came from Asia and he believed in the supernatural. She had something like some old people did back in the Himalayas. But he was meant to serve the foul-mouthed Walker -- his boss -- to the bitter end.

  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” the Belfast accent growled.

  “Up to you,” said Pakdee. “You want your money back that’s how things get done. You will collect me in exactly three days’ time opposite the bus terminal. We head to Rayong.”

  “And the funds?” The Tamil spoke.

  “Returned
in full. I can arrange safe passage from here into Cambodia by taxi; if you disagree I can order transport in a covered lorry to Sadao on the southern border and a boat from there to Penang.”

  “Raj, we let her out of our sight and we’ll be stuck high and dry,” pleaded Walker.

  “Sunday the fourteenth at the terminal,” said Pakdee.

  “Anna,” said the Tamil. “Why first thing Sunday?”

  “Simple,” she said. “The merchant banks in Panama do business late on Saturdays and we’re about fourteen hours ahead of their time zone. They’ll still be trading.”

  Pakdee held out the envelope to the Tamil but it was Walker who snatched it and stuffed it in his pocket. “Don’t forget to bring it with you and I’ll have the other two papers with me,” she said.

  The Tamil, Walker and the guards stared at her as she moved slowly to the timber door and stood on the deck before walking to the unsealed road. Anytime she was expecting a bullet in the back but it never came. Nearly dark, she needed to get out. The whole time the Arcana shooters in the jungle were covering her every move. The tactical rifle had a box-clip full of AP rounds. The ammo could penetrate the stucco walls killing anyone inside the dwelling, even if the bad guys took cover.

  She turned and called out: “Three days’ time, seven a.m. outside the eastern bus station!” Pakdee wondered where the Nigerian had gotten to; he wasn’t there and she wasn’t game to ask. She felt like she’d taken something from a department store without paying, she waited a minute to see if they’d chase after her.

  The first time she met the syndicate, nearly two years ago. She’d been put in there to keep an eye on them. The Tamil was attending some kind of fundraising high-society gala event in the city and Kitti had dragged her down there. The army elite were becoming concerned at the syndicate’s involvement in local politics and wanted them shut down. If anything the general and his associates were too late. The syndicate had become influential, buying political favors and greasing more palms than a breadline after an earthquake.

  The syndicate had been supplying the Tamil Liberation Tigers, and they’d been doing so for years. As the war raged on in Sri Lanka the syndicate grew; it started with the Tamil and his Nigerian partner who went by the title, the Very Reverend Samuel Ojukowne.

  The Tamil, otherwise known as Raj or ‘Reggie’ had little in common with his birthplace Sri Lanka apart from childhood memories. His family arrived with the wave of immigrants who’d poured into British Columbia and settled in Vancouver…other provinces of Canada disparagingly referred to BC as ‘Van-Kong’. The sole child of academic parents he’d attended the army officer training school in Ontario with average grades until arrested by the Mounties in connection with the theft of three Minimi light machine guns that had found their way into the storage shed of a Quebec-based outlaw club. After serving a prison sentence of six years he was handed a down-payment on his inheritance and from that point disowned. Setting up shop in Thailand was easy with his connections once he’d left North America; he certainly wasn’t the biggest crook in Asia but he had his ambitions.

  The Tamil had a ready supply of war-toys that could be sourced in Cambodia and moved to eager customers. The weapons were declared as motorcycle parts, exorbitant duties paid and the contraband shipped in twenty-foot sea containers via Bangkok Port. At worst the authorities in Madras, India would snip the bolt-seals on the containers where they would be greeted by a pile of dismantled and greasy motorcycle wrecks…not the kind of cargo any customs official would wish to ruin their smart uniforms by attempting to search through. Especially considering all duties and other payoffs went through on time, every time -- why interrupt the free flow of trade? A Kalashnikov rifle purchased in Sihounoukville for fifty dollars would fetch many times that amount if successfully delivered to a trawler crew in the south of India. Like most international traders the Tamil never went near his produce; it was the farmers who did all the work and the middlemen who kept all the profit…

  Reverend Ojukowne had served as a minister, preaching to a Christian minority in the northern city of Kano, Nigeria. He found himself on a blacklist after multiple rape offenses; he’d fled, stealing all the church assets which were enough to pay for a bad new start in the Orient. Not only the local authorities had him in their crosshairs; so did local Islamic militants. Running streetwalkers in Bangkok and even squeaky-clean Singapore, he rose to the upper echelons of the so-called African Mafia. He could get anything, anywhere -- the exception being guns. That was the Tamil’s forte. Anything else such as documents, money transfers and fake passports, he pulled them out of thin air.

  The last and worst of the trio was Mister Walker, a legacy of the Afghan war. A castoff who joined thousands of others like him, he milled around places like Phuket and Phnom Penh, hoping he’d snag one of the lucrative ‘contractors’ jobs in Baghdad but they were all long gone. He did get lucky when groups of criminals from the UK started using his talents for terrorizing fellow Europeans; one especially bad tantrum he threw resulted in the hospitalization of three foreigners -- two Irishman and one Belgian who later succumbed to injuries. The ‘Irish Pub’ or what was left of it was subsequently closed by the authorities. This was noticed by a very appreciative rival bar owner and that’s where his career began. He started bringing in his other pals from Afghanistan…the Gurkhas to bolster his gang.

  Before long the Tamil picked up on the Ulsterman’s talents. The syndicate needed military skills. Gone were the days of petty bullying; he was in the big league once the Tamil and the de-frocked Nigerian took him on board. The syndicate was a genuinely cross-cultural gang of undesirables…they represented the very best, or very worst of internationalism. Being a low-life need not be restricted to any one group or culture. They sought each other out and stuck together -- like plastic explosives.

  Nearly two years gone. So it was, at a lavish function by the river in the first City of Angels. High society rubbed shoulders and Pakdee of Phayao embarked on her career with the syndicate. She sipped a non-alcoholic drink and charmed her way into the gang with her credentials and an introduction from the general. That same evening a thousand miles to the west, the Sri Lankan Army was surrounding the Jaffna Peninsula; the government was wheeling in Swedish-made howitzers and burying the last pockets of resistance. The civil war there was drawing to a bloody end and as that conflict was in its final throes, her own private war was just beginning.

  If you fight, sometimes you lose. When you don’t fight, you always lose.