by James Samuel
“You got a signal for when to jump in?”
“When you start hearing me fire. That’ll be the signal.”
Blake gave him a hard look but moved out into the darkness, into position. James took one last glance at the family behind him and then ventured beyond the safety of the fluorescent lights. He found a spot in a little half-dug ditch. He still had a view between the huts. Nobody could get at the Sambath family without him seeing them.
The long minutes passed. The tension gave his mind time to work, an opportunity to torment himself with all the worst-case scenarios. James let them run, having long given up trying to suppress his fears. His senses heightened, drawn in by the tranquil Cambodian night.
Then it came. A sound that didn’t fit in. Boots snapping the twigs of a dead tree. The crunch of hard-packed soil beneath a leather sole. James drew his weapon and tightened his grip. He wanted someone to come into the light. He willed them to come to him.
James’ breath caught in his throat as a gunshot erupted from the opposite side of the huts. Silhouettes ran madly through the lit area like the dying tendrils of a fire. He stood his ground. Blake couldn’t see him. He fought back every natural instinct to jump in. That’s what made him different. That’s what made him good at his job.
A man ran in his direction. He searched for cover behind the huts. James fired a single shot. The man dropped. A bullet buried in his back. He never saw his killer.
James hauled himself out from his prone position and began his advance. He stepped over the dead man; a bandana of Khmer Rouge orange wrapped around his bicep. Beyond the huts, the world had come alive. Gunshots and Khmer shouts echoed across the fields. James inched around a hut in the opposite direction. His breaths came short and sharp. No more enemies had entered his line of sight. Prahn must know there were two foreigners, and his men must know too.
James found himself on the other side of the buildings. In the distance, he saw the two pinpricks of light from the car. A Khmer Rouge trampled through the fields towards him. Their eyes met, and his adversary seemed shocked to find himself confronting a foreigner. James gunned him down without a second thought.
The gunbattle raged in the fields beyond. He needed to find Blake. He had to save him. James abandoned caution and bounded downwind into the fields. He swept his gaze left and right like a periscope, shooting on the run at anything that resembled a human. Hopping over a trench, he dropped to the ground. A bullet whizzed past him.
James kept his face pressed into the dirt. He saw his assailant’s silhouette in the moonlight. James fired once. The man dove to the right. James fired blindly. The scream told the story. He let out a deep breath. The man in the moon stared, unmoving, without judgement.
The battle grew louder as James crept stealthily, head down, never pausing in his forward movement. Then he saw the Khmer Rouge converging on a single point. Blake had almost reached the road, a thick fence topped with barbed wire halted his retreat. Blake had run out of room.
“Hey, assholes!” James screamed at the night.
James dropped to the ground as his enemies turned away from Blake. The Khmer Rouge strafed where he’d been. He forced his body into the dirt, inhaling the freshly dug earth.
“Shit,” he muttered.
James crawled a few feet to the right. He heard their voices coming closer and closer. James popped up and fired towards the heavy breathing of the men. He kept firing until he heard the sickening click. His gun was empty.
He fumbled for the extra magazine in his pocket. A thick bamboo stick crashed into the front of his chin. James stumbled, dropping the magazine, fingers tight on his weapon.
The man brought the bamboo crashing down again. James just managed to move away to stop it from shattering his skull. It struck his shoulder with a blinding thud. He cried out; his left arm went numb.
More gunshots. More death rattles. James looked up and the bamboo-wielding Khmer came at him again. He dodged and struck out with his Glock. The Khmer groaned from a shattered nose.
The two men sized each other up. In the centre of it all, they had their own personal duel. James tried to shake some feeling into his left arm again. He gritted his teeth, preparing to strike. A bullet sliced through the air and James dove away. The Khmer fell back, his bamboo landing next to him.
The eruption of sound sent a ringing reverberation around his ears. In that brief calm, he blinked to find Blake standing above him. His clothes scuffed and covered in dirt; a small streak of blood leaked beneath his hairline.
“Only some of them had guns. The rest just had bats and other useless crap,” Blake informed him. “Bunch of hick trash.”
James stumbled back to his feet again and recovered his pistol. He reloaded it with a new magazine, his shoulder throbbing.
“I cleared them out,” said Blake. “Get back to the house. I didn’t see Sambath.”
James nodded and together they picked their way across the fields towards the fluorescent lights bobbing in the distance.
When they returned, they found nothing. Nobody. Prahn’s family remained motionless in their hut. They huddled close to Rith, who still had the gag in his mouth.
James and Blake entered the hut. The faces of the family fell away. The Khmer Rouge had failed. They were still captives.
Blake tore the gag from the boy’s mouth. “Where’s Uncle Prahn?” he growled.
“He come. He come. You see him?”
“He’s lying,” James intervened.
Blake gave Rith a little slap. “Call him.”
James untied Rith’s hands. The young Khmer flexed his arms and shoulders. His bindings had left cuts on his wrists. The dried blood left red splotches around two circular trenches.
Blake levelled his gun at Rith’s head. “Call him. Now.”
Rith, once again, retrieved the phone from his pocket and called. They heard the dial tone. It rang and rang until Rith’s eyes emitted pure fear as he looked into the cavernous barrel of Blake’s gun.
“He no answer. He no answer. I try but he no answer.”
James exchanged a look with Blake. Had Prahn sent his men to save his family without risking his own neck? He licked his dried lips. If they couldn’t flush Prahn out that way, how could they make him come out into the open?
He opened his mouth to speak when a spindly arm flew around his neck and gripped him in a chokehold.
“Uncle Prahn!”
Prahn wrenched James’ neck back, making him stand on his toes. James tried to breathe but nothing could make it past Prahn’s grip. He croaked and struggled but Prahn’s body tensed.
Prahn pointed a pistol at James’ head and spoke rapid Khmer.
“He kill your friend,” Rith translated. “He shoot him. Let us go.”
Prahn released his hard grip, giving James the chance to breathe. He gulped in the oxygen like a starving man in front of a feast.
Blake smiled in amusement. “You tell Uncle Prahn that he’s not my friend and I’m going to shoot him, and you, the moment he fires that gun.”
“Fuck you!” James forced from the depths of his throat.
Rith duly translated what the two foreigners said. James felt Prahn’s body tighten against him. He couldn’t tell whether Prahn was bluffing or not. He didn’t want to find out.
“Rith, Rith, Rith, it’s a shame it had to come to this.”
Blake fired the gun at point-blank range into the outstretched leg of Rith. The Khmer screamed and Prahn jumped in surprise.
Rith writhed on the ground, gripping his stricken leg.
“Did you think I was messing around?” Blake raised his voice. “Get your ass up, Rith. You gotta translate or your uncle won’t understand a damn thing.”
Through tears and moans, Rith translated to his uncle.
Prahn didn’t react.
James took in another deep gasp, not knowing when he might get another.
“You see, the only reason I shot him in the leg is that I need him to translate.” Bl
ake threw a glare at the family. “I don’t need them.”
Rith translated again and Prahn spoke back.
“Then your friend die. He kill your friend.”
Blake had a good chuckle at that. “Kill him, you’ll die afterwards. Look at your leg. You’ve already been shot once. You wouldn’t stand a chance against me. And what are they going to do when Uncle Prahn is gone?”
Rith translated but Prahn didn’t respond. A long silence settled between them until Blake pointed his gun at one of the young children. The Khmer cried out like wounded animals.
Blake paused. “Something to say?”
James’ shallow breaths came quicker and sharper. Blake wasn’t going to save him. He would let him die. Blake didn’t care either way. James tried to twist away from Prahn’s loosened grip. He managed to drag Prahn to the side.
Blake fired. Prahn fell away from him. He hit the ground. Dead.
Above the anguished screams of the family and the tears, James felt numb. The shock plastered on Prahn’s face for eternity revealed one pertinent fact. They had failed their mission.
“What the fuck have you done?” James’ words slid out like ice as he stepped over the family now crowding around their beloved uncle. “You stupid Yankee Doodle shit.”
Blake looked hurt. “I just saved your life. He was going to kill you.”
“I thought you were going to shoot him in the leg,” James roared. “Not the neck.”
“You shouldn’t have started fighting and given me the shot then.”
Blake’s reserved reaction infuriated James. How could he not realise what he’d done? They would never find the leader of the Khmer Rouge now. Prak would hunker down in the mountains he knew so well and that would be the end of it.
“Don’t you understand what you’ve done?” James gestured at the body. “We were supposed to take him alive. Didn’t anyone tell you that or were you too busy combing your hair?”
“Shit happens. There’s always another option. It’s not like we weren’t gonna kill him anyway, sooner or later.”
James threw his hands on his head and walked out of the hut. He had to get away from Blake before he lost his temper. He had to think. James felt like his soul had departed the world leaving only an emotionless husk. Even his shoulder no longer bothered him.
He kept moving away from the light until he re-entered the darkness. Away from the visible trappings of humanity, James dwelled on just how badly they had messed this up.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The sun rose over the Sambath farm, kissing the trampled crops and the dead men with a warm sunflower yellow. Long shadows threw themselves from the Palmyras. The scene left Dylan speechless.
They’d heard the gunshots during the night. As he inspected the farm with Adam, he crept softly, like he might rouse the dead.
“Oh my gosh,” said Dylan. “That’s what it was about. They were here. Blackwind was here. Look at these guys.”
The corpses pockmarked the fields. Vermin hadn’t yet come to claim their meal. Each husk served as a grizzly waypoint as they made their way to the collection of ramshackle dwellings.
“We should have done something. We should have gone in there and helped.”
“Dylan, will you stop with the bellyaching for five minutes? It’s not doing us any good. It wasn’t our place to go in there. We don’t even know how things played out.”
“It must have been Blackwind.”
“No, really?” Adam’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “That’s obvious now, but we didn’t know that before.”
“Maybe the Khmer Rouge won,” Dylan ventured.
Adam threw a bewildered look at him.
“No, no, you’re right. Sorry.”
Dylan cursed himself for even considering the idea that a bunch of farmers could have slain a cohort of highly trained mercenaries with the latest equipment. Clearly, Blackwind had massacred everyone.
“Let’s hope Sambath managed to get away,” said Adam as they reached the bottom of the little hill. “Fen wants Prak and we can’t get to him if we can’t put a tail on Sambath.”
“Why doesn’t Fen just ask? Surely he would want to work with someone like that, based on his plans?”
“Fen probably is doing business with the Khmer Rouge in the mountains, but you have to understand their ideology. Pol Pot’s Khmer Rouge was isolationist. When they took over in the 1970s they effectively sealed the country off. If they’re working with Fen – and I assume they are – it’s an alliance of convenience.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
“Neither side will trust the other. That’s just the way it is. Sambath won’t have said anything about Prak’s location. That’s the Khmer Rouge’s greatest strength. Its ability to hide in the shadows. Fen will turn on them when it’s convenient. Why do you think he asked us to find Prak in the first place?”
Dylan marvelled at Adam’s knowledge and his ability to map out a situation. Even if it turned out to be false, it was something to go on.
They started to climb towards the hill. Another body greeted them on the way up. Neither man diverted their gaze.
When they crested the hill, they found the Sambath family crowded around a body. Dylan didn’t require Adam to explain. Prahn Sambath was dead.
As they approached, the family turned fearful gazes upon them. A man, barely more than a boy, with spindly limbs, crawled towards them to bar their path. He dragged his leg behind him. Dylan spotted the undressed gunshot wound.
“No, you leave,” said Rith.
Adam took point. “We only wanted to know what happened here then we’ll go.”
Rith’s eyes blazed with fire. “Barang killed him. They kill everyone.” He showed them his slashed wrists. “They do this. Go, barang, we don’t want you here.”
Adam looked at Dylan and nodded. “Thank you for your time.”
“Sorry for your loss,” Dylan mumbled.
Dylan and Adam descended back towards the disturbed fields. He felt the eyes of the family boring into his back. Despite the idyllic weather, a cloud of sadness hung over the farm.
“So, it was them,” said Dylan.
“This really makes it difficult for us now. Fen will want to know that Sambath is dead. I don’t know how we’re going to find Prak now.”
“Or maybe they have the same goal.”
Adam stopped. “What?”
“I mean we know Blackwind came here to get to Prahn. It must mean they’ve got business with the Khmer Rouge as well. Maybe they want Prak dead too. I’m sure they didn’t want to kill only his second-in-command.”
Adam nodded slowly. “Go on.”
“Why don’t we make contact with Blackwind? Maybe we can work together to find Prak. That way we can all get what we want.”
Adam’s throat appeared to tighten at the thought of working with their rivals. If they swallowed their pride, it might save them a lot of trouble later. It was obvious they couldn’t track down Prak in the endless forests and jungles of Cambodia alone.
“It’s worth a shot, Adam.”
“You might be right. I’ll report in when we get to Kampot and see what Sir Richard has to say. If he gives us the green light, I’ll do it. Good idea, Dylan.”
Dylan's heart fluttered with joy. Finally, he felt like he had some value to Adam after all. This would be the sort of operation where he could prove himself. Sir Richard would believe in him at last.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Phnom Penh, Phnom Penh Province, Cambodia
Sinclair bore a grimace that hadn’t faded since James returned to Phnom Penh two hours ago. James thought about beating seven bells out of Blake all the way home. Blake didn’t seem to care as he spent most of his time fiddling with the radio.
“It was my fault.” Sinclair shook his head as they sat at one of the plastic tables outside their guesthouse. “I should have never had Gallagher send in help. This wouldn’t have happened if you had managed this alone.”
&nbs
p; James kept his mouth shut. Blake had saved him, but it didn’t make up for their failure. It unnerved him that Blake had shown his hand, his willingness to kill him to get the job done. Not that it surprised him. He knew what sort of man Blake was.
“Thom is going to be furious when he finds out. I don’t know what I can do to make this up to him.”
“What about Gallagher? He might pull us out.” James sipped on his beer. “After Mexico, he doesn’t have a lot of patience left for us.”
Sinclair clicked his teeth together and stretched his hands out in front of him. He traced circles with his fingers on the stained plastic.
The aftermath of Mexico hadn’t been a happy one for James and Sinclair. For disobeying orders and murdering the client, Gallagher had warned them that another failure might mean their last. Cambodia was supposed to be their redemption. Of course, Blake was still the apple of Gallagher’s eye. The man who could do no wrong.
“What’s going to happen to us?” Sinclair asked the table. “What happens when you get fired from a business like this?”
“Best case scenario you never work again. Worst case scenario...” James trailed off. He couldn’t say the words, not to Sinclair.
Sinclair ran his hands down his face. “Shit.”
Occasionally, Blackwind did jettison field agents. Their fate depended on how much they knew. Mercenaries lived a nomadic existence, largely hidden from the world. Their disappearance never raised any eyebrows. James and Sinclair knew too much. Gallagher wouldn’t permit them to walk away. Maybe he deserved it. Sinclair deserved nothing. He had only served him loyally, as his friend.
The two men sat in silence contemplating their fates. They didn’t speak a word until their beers went dry and the bottles wobbled on the uneven table.
“We still have time,” said James.
Sinclair grunted.
“Thom won’t know for a while. We can’t just sit here and wait for the inevitable. At the very least, let’s try to find Prak ourselves. We’ve got options.”
Sinclair scoffed at that. “Options? What options? We don’t even know where he is. He could be anywhere. Let’s just be honest and hope Gallagher gives us another chance.”