by Ty Patterson
It’s his escape route.
He heard them and tried to move fast.
‘Old,’ he panted. ‘It’s old. Traps. It can’t hold all of us. Go back.’
They didn’t.
Does he mean the VC traps are still here? It certainly looks disused.
Meghan stopped for a moment. They didn’t want to be impaled by pungi sticks.
But he’s the only one who knows all that happened. He’s our witness. Besides, he’s in front. We’ll be safe behind him. But we need to slow him down, or else he’ll get away.
She set off, stretched out, and grabbed at his leg, which was within touching distance.
Dang cried out and kicked back. Her hand slipped.
Beth pushed her butt from behind and she sprawled forward.
Got purchase on Dang’s leg and started pulling him back.
‘Slow dow—’
Dang twisted and, in an acrobatic feat, turned around like an eel and attacked her with hands and feet.
She fell back.
He used the opportunity to move ahead.
She followed.
Earth fell, far ahead.
Dang yelled in alarm.
‘It’s falling.’
He started backtracking. Meghan reversed.
‘Back,’ she warned her sister.
Dang lashed out when he got near her. She ducked, but it still connected with her neck, her eyes instinctively closing.
She felt winded, and when someone screamed, a sound that echoed and curdled the blood, she thought for a moment that it had slipped out of her.
He didn’t hit me that hard.
‘God!’ Beth breathed behind her, and when she peered through the dark, she swallowed.
Three bamboo poles stuck out of Dang, from his belly through his back, piercing flesh and bone.
His violent movement had triggered a trap that had survived the war and all the years afterward.
Meghan’s insides twisted. No one, not even Dang, deserved to die like that.
She reached forward to help him, and then the tunnel collapsed just in front of Dang. Mud started raining on them. A small stream that thickened as the old walls and roof started giving way.
‘Back,’ Beth growled and yanked her.
They hadn’t made it far from the lab, but it felt like miles.
Dang howling and pleading, lumps of clay falling steadily on them, around them, her elbows bleeding, and then Beth was pulling her inside the lab, shutting the trapdoor behind.
It wasn’t any better in the lab.
Thick smoke choked them, tore at their eyes and burned through their lungs. Flames danced evilly, spreading heat. They couldn’t see anything.
Meghan reached for Beth, a shapeless form beside her, grabbing her hand and moving to the door.
She had hardly taken a couple of steps when she doubled up, gasping, tears streaming down her face, her lungs forcing her to suck air. Smoke rushed inside them as they breathed, swamping their bodies, smothering her.
We’ll die here. No more Zeb. No more Bwana. No more Rog and his jokes.
She sank to the floor, dragging Beth down, hoping there would be cleaner air at the bottom. There wasn’t.
She started crawling. Each step was an effort. The urge to live was being snuffed out slowly by fire and smoke, which didn’t care who lived or who died.
Something crashed. Must be the wall, she thought dully, the still-functioning part of her brain knowing her systems were shutting down.
Shadows moved.
The guards. She raised a leaden arm, trying to ward off an attack.
Someone grabbed at her easily, lifted her as if she weighed nothing.
‘Your cavalry, ma’am. To your rescue,’ said a cheerful voice, and then she passed out.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Kirilov reached the forest late.
He had been watching the hotel. He had spotted Bwana and Roger, lounging in their vehicles, and had smirked at the thought of easily taking them out.
He let that pass. They weren’t his target. He still hadn’t spotted Carter, but was increasingly certain he too was in Vietnam.
And then he had seen those men come out with two rolled-up carpets.
He knew immediately who was inside those carpets. An upscale hotel such as that one would never allow any maintenance men to leave through its front.
They had gone to a white van and carefully placed the two rolls inside. Further confirmation. Carpets got tossed into vehicles, not handled delicately.
He got an opening when the men were climbing in the front. There was pedestrian traffic around, and using the cover of two gossiping women, he went forward and planted a tracker on the bottom of the van.
He had followed the vehicle out of HCMC, and on the outskirts, his planning had come to nothing.
An accident involving a truck and two cars held him up. It had occurred after the van made it past a traffic light, but before he could do so.
Cruisers arrived and shut down traffic on all sides, until the injured could be recovered.
Kirilov didn’t yell or swear. He sat silently and watched the tracker’s signal move further away.
He rolled forward two hours later, by which time the tracker had disappeared.
He knew where its last position had been, somewhere deep in the jungle.
It took him another hour, after reaching the area, to find the tunnel.
The hidden entrance was partly open, and that helped in locating it.
He observed it from the cover of thick foliage, not moving, not making a sound.
The jungle was as silent as forests were. Birds chirped, water faintly slapped against banks, and animals scurried as they went about their business.
No sign of humans.
He approached the opening cautiously and jumped when the ground rumbled. Earthquake? No, this wasn’t earthquake country.
He opened the door fully and snuck a glance in.
Darkness assailed him.
He thought of going down, when the ground shook again and he thought he smelled smoke.
He retreated to his cover and waited. Whatever was happening was in the tunnels. Someone would come out, and then Kirilov would pounce.
Zeb was way behind Kirilov and had experienced the same holdups, but magnified manyfold.
He hadn’t seen the carpet rolls because of pedestrian traffic, but he had observed the Russian following the van.
He’d followed and then gotten sucked into slow-moving single-lane traffic and detours. By the time he got back on the road the Russian had been following, several hours had passed.
Something nagged at him. Why would the Russian leave the hotel?
He turned on his screen, and then he knew.
The sisters were on the move, in the jungle. Bwana and Roger were on the move too.
And then the signals disappeared.
He raced through HCMC, flouting all traffic rules. He ran red lights, passed other cars on the wrong side, his foot firmly stamped on the accelerator.
In the jungle, he slowed.
He ghosted from tree to tree, crawled where needed, and when he reached the area of last signal, he stopped.
A clearing in front of him. In shadow, sunlight reaching only in thin rays and streaks.
Something uneven about the ground.
He raised his binos carefully. Something straight-edged jutting from the ground. A door. Broken soil around it as if it had recently been forcibly widened. Significantly enlarged.
A tunnel entrance!
He made to rise. Something held him back.
He scanned the forest, made sure the whites of his eyes didn’t show.
Spotted nothing. But that feeling didn’t return.
He felt the ground shake. Fear gripped him. He recognized it immediately for what it was.
He had been in a cartel tunnel in Mexico a few missions ago. That tunnel had collapsed. He knew how that sounded.
He wanted to rise, rus
h to the opening and drop down.
But his inner radar held him back. There was someone or something in the jungle. Definitely not a friend.
If Bwana and Rog are down, Beth and Meg will be safe. Those two will stop a nuclear war to save the twins. Or start one.
He waited. He suspected Kirilov was watching too. If he moved, if he showed himself, the Russian would act.
Let him make the first move.
He quelled his anxiety, willing his body to remain motionless, drawing his chi inwards.
The ground shook several times. Smoke emerged from the hole.
And then he heard voices. A black hand emerged. Bwana’s head followed. His friend got out with difficulty, leaned inside, and hauled Meghan out. Unconscious, but breathing. He laid her on the ground, turned back to the tunnel and pulled Beth out.
Roger climbed out last.
The two men picked up the sisters as if they weighed nothing and set off at a run.
The earth groaned, loose mud trembled and got sucked into the hole.
And still, Zeb didn’t move.
Sweat beaded down his face, his heart beat slowly. The sisters were alive. He showed no trace of emotion, however. He felt cold, empty.
He was waiting for Kirilov.
Minutes felt like hours.
Birds chattered. A snake slithered a few feet in front of him.
Still no sign of the Russian. No trace of anyone.
He was turning his head a fraction when he felt it. Something approaching fast.
Something struck him hard on his left temple, so hard that it left him stunned.
He was rolling even as he had sensed the motion, and that saved him.
He rose to his feet swiftly.
Kirilov! He was there, in front of him, in a black shirt, dark trousers. His hands were empty, his eyes were dark holes.
‘I don’t need guns to take you out,’ he said, reading Zeb’s mind.
‘No. You’re scared my friends will hear any shots and come back to investigate,’ Zeb taunted in Russian.
‘Your friends. I could have taken them out just then. I didn’t. I knew you were here somewhere. I can always find them.’
He attacked without warning. Coming in fast, hands whirling.
Zeb knew several fighting styles. He had learned various arts in the East and the West. If he had to pick the deadliest form of combat, it would be Krav Maga, used by the Israeli Defense Forces. There was no spirituality to be attained in that style, no harmony to be reached.
It was designed to inflict maximum damage on an opponent.
The Russian turned out to be an expert in that school of fighting.
Zeb was on the backfoot, evading Kirilov’s blows and thrusts.
He used his elbows and feet to block and parry, no time to go on the offense.
And still his assailant came, as if having an endless supply of breath.
Each punch felt like a hammer, numbing Zeb’s body.
He tripped on a root, fell, and turned swiftly to escape the incoming knee.
Kirilov laughed and held back.
Zeb didn’t rise.
He spun on his back and kicked the Russian’s legs from under him.
That was the intent. It didn’t go down like he wanted.
His attacker’s limbs felt like concrete, and when Zeb gasped and stopped moving for a fractional second, he was hauled up, and the trip-hammers rained down on him.
On his ribs. On his face. On his eyes.
His hands came up defensively, ineffectively. The Russian’s thumb searched his face to gouge his eyes.
And then Zeb snapped.
He headbutted the Russian. Cold heat raced through him. He used Cham’s broken body and sobbing to fuel his anger.
The memory of the unconscious sisters to channel it.
Zeb wasn’t going to die that day. Not in the forest. Not while his friends were alive.
Kirilov was pounding him, one hand around his tee to hold him, the other to punch him.
Zeb soaked it in. Detached mind from body. Pain was nothing. It could be boxed. Like those memories of his.
Once it was dealt with, the body was nothing but flesh, bones, and sinew. What was the worst that could happen?
Zeb’s right fist curled and bunched.
His knuckles jutted out.
Even as he trembled under the force of the attack, he counterpunched.
Hard, between Kirilov’s ribs.
He traded blow for blow. The two men breathing harshly, standing close, as if embracing, their hands moving robotically, bodies shuddering under the impact.
Zeb didn’t exist. The forest was a bleak darkness. All that mattered was repeatedly landing his knuckles in the same spot, in between Kirilov’s ribs.
He didn’t know how long he kept hitting. How long he kept punching. The beast had taken over.
And then he felt the grip around him loosen.
Still, he persisted. Felt ribs crack beneath his punches. Felt groans escape the Russian.
He didn’t let up. He would die, but he wouldn’t give in.
Kirilov fell. Zeb fell on top. His right hand kept punching until liquid poured out and his fingers scraped bone.
Zeb was beyond hearing. Beyond reasoning.
And when his body gave up, no energy left, he turned his head slowly and discovered the Russian was beyond breathing.
Zeb fell back, staring at the canopy above him. He closed his eyes, and he must have passed out, because when he opened them, it was dark.
He got to his feet slowly.
Dragged Kirilov’s body to the tunnel.
Shoved it with difficulty inside the hole.
Fumbled at his backpack, removed two detonators, and tossed them in behind the body.
He took off at a stumbling run towards the river.
The shock of the water brought everything back. The world started turning on its axis again. And with it came pain, searing fire that burned through him.
He lay on his back, floating in the water, gasping in agony.
Pain was good. It meant he was alive.
And when he thought of Beth and Meghan’s smiles, his body started warming.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Roger was driving the next day, Meghan beside him, Bwana and Beth at the rear.
They were heading back to the airport. Back to their country.
They had been through the wringer the previous evening.
They had rushed the sisters to a private hospital, where the twins had been thoroughly examined.
They had spent hours in the lobby, pacing, not conversing. People had given them a wide berth, as if sensing the darkness within them. Zeb didn’t return their calls, but that wasn’t concerning. Their friend frequently dropped off the radar.
They cracked smiles only when the white-coated medics told them the twins would be fine. There wasn’t anything permanently damaged. Their lungs and airways were fine. Sure, they had inhaled smoke, lots of it, but the hospital had given them oxygen.
Were they awake?
See for yourself, the medics had said.
They barged into the Petersens’ room and when they saw their smiles, it was sunlight.
‘What happened?’ Bwana asked, concealing his delight.
‘Dang’s dead. Josh Patten is alive.’ Beth told them everything.
Neither she nor Meghan put up any fight when Roger declared they were returning to the US.
There was nothing more to be done in Vietnam. They called Colonel General Lanh, explained everything, and waited for him to explode at them.
Lanh didn’t. He was delighted. Dang was dead? That was one less criminal. It didn’t matter that there was no proof. He believed the sisters. The tunnels had collapsed? Even better. He would check out that area of the jungle. Close it off to the public and seal it.
‘I’ll handle everything,’ he told them. He had conducted his own discreet investigation ever since the ads had run. He had discovered there was more
than sufficient reason to believe that the man posing as Nang Quy Dang was indeed a master criminal. There was the small matter of proof, but now, that was no longer required.
‘You never told us how you both happened to be there. In the jungle.’ Beth leaned sideways so that she could watch Roger.
‘Coincidence.’ The Texan grinned as he overtook a car that was defying Vietnam’s unwritten traffic rules. It was going slow. ‘Sheer, dumb luck. Bwana and I were on one of our camping trips. Just happened that we were right there. We heard this ground shaking. Decided to investigate. Our jaws dropped when we came across the two of you.’
‘You expect us to believe that?’
‘My mama raised me never to tell lies,’ Roger replied, straight-faced.
‘You don’t know who your mama is.’ Beth snorted. ‘You’re forgetting we know your story. You were raised in a foster home. Not the best folks, from what I recall.’
‘Ungrateful,’ Bwana came to his friend’s rescue. ‘That’s the word, isn’t it, Rog?’
‘It sure is,’ Roger replied in an injured tone. ‘We risked life and limb to save these two. We even ended our vacation. And what do we get in return?’
‘The third degree.’ Bwana nodded in agreement. ‘You hear those magic words, Rog? Thank you?’
‘Nope. It must be my hearing, ’cause surely these nice sweet women would have said them words a million times.’
He swerved suddenly, to a chorus of horns from behind.
He straightened, raised a hand in apology, and wiped his cheek where Beth had kissed him.
He didn’t stop smiling all the way to the airport.
Beth and Meghan met Cole Patten in his office in New York a week later.
Ken Farrell was in attendance, both men dressed in suits, seated comfortably in leather chairs.
‘You returned from Vietnam sometime back. You didn’t return my calls or emails. You’re meeting us only now?’ Patten questioned them.
‘There were a few matters we had to attend to.’ Beth dropped into a chair and crossed her legs while Meghan went to a picture window and leaned against it.
‘Something more important than briefing us?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Like—’