“Remind me next time to let the young guys do this.”
Jason nodded. Two of Maison’s men had reached Lawan and Preeda. Beyond them, the Chechen and three of his men approached the exit blocked by Sarathoon. The intense shooting had subsided, evolving into the occasional shot when targets of opportunity showed themselves.
“This is getting ugly fast,” Jason said. The two men holding Lawan and Preeda moved behind some crates to see how this played out. Occasionally, one of them glanced behind them, but Jason and Sugarmann remained undetected.
The Chechen’s men had Sarathoon cornered. Slowly, Sarathoon stepped into the open. The Chechen did the same, saying something Jason could not hear. The Chechen tossed his rifle to the side, shrugged his shoulders, cracked his neck, and took up a fighting stance.
Is he insane? Doesn’t he know what he’s up against?
Sarathoon smiled and dropped his rifle and took a defensive stance. The Chechen relaxed his posture. Sarathoon closed the gap between them, but as he did, the Chechen pulled a pistol from behind his back and fired three quick shots. Two to the chest and one to the head. Sarathoon was dead before he hit the ground.
His men moved in Jason’s direction. Maison’s men fired, hitting two of them. The Chechen and the third turned and ran for the door. Gunfire across the warehouse targeted the exit, and the Chechen and his man fell.
Jason took advantage of the pause and crept closer behind the men who held Lawan and Preeda. Fifteen feet away, the one guarding Lawan turned. Jason let loose a short burst, hitting him in the neck and shoulder. Blood sprayed across Lawan’s stomach, and the man fell to the floor, rapidly bleeding out. Jason swung his rifle toward the second man, who, upon realizing his predicament, dropped his gun and raised his hands.
As he approached, Jason studied the man, and his eyes shot up to his hairline. He recognized this son of a bitch. The scar and patch of missing hair. The cheesy pencil-thin mustache. This was the guy who beat him in the basement of Maison’s mansion. The corners of the man’s mouth turned up slightly when he recognized Jason.
“Ah,” he said, “the man who is not Ben Harris.” He started to laugh. Jason didn’t have time for this. He lowered his weapon at the man’s torso and squeezed the trigger. A torrent of 7.62 x 39mm rounds shredded the sadistic asshole that tortured him.
Jason stood over him, the man’s eyes searched his own. “Don’t worry,” Jason said. “It’s only a flesh wound.”
Sugarmann moved next to him immediately. “Was that necessary?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” Sugarmann grabbed the SKS the first man carried and the Russian-made pistol the second man had. “No extra magazines for the SKS.”
Jason nodded and knelt by Lawan. “Are you alright?”
Lawan, hugging Preeda, nodded vigorously.
“Let’s move,” he said, grabbing her hand and leading them behind the stack of boxes closest to the wall.
The four of them huddled in silence. Jason scanned the area. The exit was about a hundred feet away. Across the warehouse, men positioned themselves to get closer. He was confident they weren’t aware he and Sugarmann were free, but it wouldn’t be long until they figured that out.
TING!
Jason’s head jerked toward Sugarmann, who was looking at his cell phone.
“Five minutes.” Sugarmann tucked the phone into his pocket.
“For what?”
“Backup.”
“You keep saying that. What backup? They gonna get us out of here?”
“Oh, yeah,” Sugarmann said.
Jason turned back to watch the gunmen position themselves ever closer.
“They better hurry,” he said. “We may not have five minutes.”
68
October 18, 2003
Jason watched as one of the men used low crouch to move closer. Sugarmann pulled the SKS to his shoulder and fired, then ducked behind his previous cover. He gave a quick glance at the CIA agent.
“We only have to last another three minutes,” Sugarmann said, looking at his phone.
Jason surveyed the entire warehouse and fired a single round when he saw movement, though he was sure he hit nothing. This continued, the two men alternating their firing at whatever moved, missing their targets.
“Can’t do this much longer,” Jason said. “I’m running out of ammo.”
“These guys are clowns. I don’t think any of them carried extra magazines. They weren’t ready for a firefight. Unfortunately, we’re outnumbered.”
“By a longshot.”
Another goon popped up and Sugarmann fired a round, his receiver locking back with a distinct click, indicating his magazine was empty. Sugarmann shrugged his shoulders and set the rifle to the side. He pulled out the pistol, ejected the magazine to check the rounds, and re-inserted it.
“I recommend you surrender, Monsieur Conrad,” Maison yelled from his hiding place. “Give me the girl. You can keep the mother.”
“I don’t think so,” Jason responded. “You’ll be too busy tracking down your gold to play father figure.”
Maison screamed and hurled a burst of machine-gun fire in their direction.
Jason glanced at Sugarmann. “Sensitive, huh?”
“Yep. You hit a sore spot.”
Jason shot an occasional round; Maison’s men gradually closed in on their position. He pulled out his magazine and checked. Two rounds left. He lowered his head, shaking it as he stared at the floor.
Bullets impacted the edge of the boxes near Jason, sending splinters flying. Preeda screamed at the intensity of the barrage. Lawan clasped her hand over the little girl’s mouth. Jason turned to both of them and tried to give them a reassuring smile. He knew that was meant to scare them. At this point, he was confident Maison would not do anything to hurt Preeda.
Sugarmann poked his head around the corner, looking for a target to shoot. His side was also riddled with bullets.
“Well damn,” Sugarmann said. “I guess we’re Butch and Sundance in Bolivia.” The reference wasn’t lost on Jason. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid died in Bolivia.
Maison yelled at his men to close in. One made the tragic mistake of exposing himself on Sugarmann’s side. The CIA man dropped him with three rounds to the chest. The four of them huddled close while Maison’s men hurled another barrage of bullets at them, splinters showering in all directions.
When the firing stopped, Sugarmann stuck his hand around the corner and emptied his magazine blindly. Jason gave him an angry look of disapproval.
“What the hell—?” Jason was interrupted by the sound of helicopters flying over the warehouse—low and fast. He checked the approaching men, and they too looked toward the ceiling as if they could see the helicopters overhead. It sounded like one or more hovered directly above them.
Suddenly, the lights cut off, and the warehouse was overcome by blackness.
“Now’s our chance,” Sugarmann said. “Grab the girls, and let’s go.”
Jason grabbed Lawan’s free hand, her other held Preeda’s tightly, and the four ran toward the door.
“Don’t let them escape,” Maison shouted. He fired his AK-47 in the darkness toward the exit, and his men also did. The warehouse flickered with glints of light spitting from the end of their rifles. He and his men broke toward the door, leaving their places of concealment.
The interior of the warehouse lit up in a flash, followed by a large concussion and boom behind the row of armored cars. Maison and his men fell to the ground. Another explosion occurred to their right, in the middle of the wall, just behind where Conrad and the old man had been handcuffed.
Maison squinted as the smoke and dust billowed toward him. Through the haze, he detected several armed men—no soldiers—jump through the new hole in the wall, sliding both left and right.
“We’ve got to move. We’re exposed out here.” Maison jumped up, grabbing one of his men by the shirt collar. A third man, carrying an RPG, trailed him; the remaining me
n fired from where they lay at the soldiers breaching the side of the building.
Maison raced toward the open exit door, the ambient light from outside beaconing like a lighthouse in the smoky, dark confines of this warehouse. When Maison and his men rushed through the exit, their eyes immediately fixated on the aerial circus overhead. Blacked-out helicopters zipped back and forth above the warehouse.
One of the helicopters sped downward, the nose pulled up slightly, it stabilized in a hover, before lowering itself to the ground. That is when he located them.
When Jason and his friends burst outside, he realized it was more chaotic than inside. Only without the gunfire.
“Where do we go?”
“Far side of the parking lot,” Sugarmann replied. “They’ll come to get us.”
The small group started running, Sugarmann in the lead, then Lawan and Preeda. Jason followed, continually checking their six. He counted four helicopters zipping across the sky. Halfway across the parking lot, one of them broke out of its pattern and made a move toward them.
“Where did these guys come from?”
“POTUS support,” Sugarmann said, gasping.
The helicopter raced toward them, pitched its nose up to establish hover, and descended quickly, the landing gear flexed and the MH-60 settled on the pavement. The gunner in the window behind the M134 mini-gun hopped outside, motioning them to hurry.
Then he heard the shots.
He turned as a small group of men spread out, shooting at them. Dropping to one knee, he lined one up in his sights and squeezed the trigger, his target falling backward. Then he noticed the one in the middle, wearing all white.
Maison.
Jason loosed another round, and the receiver locked aft, his magazine empty. He dropped the rifle and ran to the waiting helicopter. Lawan and Preeda were onboard, Sugarmann struggled to get in. The gunner grabbed him by the waistband, shoved him inside, and started to climb in. Sparks flew from the side of the Blackhawk, and the gunner twisted and fell to the ground.
69
October 18, 2003
Maison had fallen to the ground when Jason spun around and shot at him. The immense rage caused his heart to pump faster than ever before. He felt . . . alive. He’d been in shootouts, usually heavily favored to his side. But this was different. It was real. The rush was something he could never duplicate.
Time slowed. He became acutely aware of what happened around him. The bastard was getting away. Maison knew the end was near. He wasn’t going to prison. How did it reach this point? A few hours ago, he was on top of the world. Now, in addition to his personal fortune gone, the crime of the century turned out to be a total bust. He had nothing. And Jason Conrad was escaping with his daughter. No one was going to take his daughter from him again. If he couldn’t have her, no one would.
To his left, the man holding the RPG fell to the ground. Maison crawled to him and grabbed the weapon. The man to his right started firing at the helicopter. On his knees, Maison checked the launch tube. He shot the same model in the jungle with Arthit and his men. His mind raced as he tried to remember the steps to prep and fire the weapon. He pulled out the projectile and reset it. When he looked back at the helicopter, the soldier outside fell to the ground.
The rotor wash stirred up every speck of dirt, dust, and debris in the immediate vicinity. Jason squinted his eyes and picked the gunner up from the ground in a fireman’s carry. He leaned him over the edge of the helicopter door, laying him on the floor. Sugarmann and Lawan grabbed him and pulled him inside as Jason climbed aboard.
“Go! Go! Go!” Sugarmann yelled over his shoulder, his voice nearly drowned out by the loud engines and blades beating the ground into submission. The left seat pilot nodded and tapped the aircraft commander in the right seat, and the helicopter rose.
“RPG, right side,” Jason heard one of them yell. Instinctively, he leaped up behind the M134 mini-gun. It appeared to be the same gun he shot several times on the Pave Lows in Korea. Jason swung the mini-gun toward Maison, whose white suit illuminated in the darkness.
Jason pressed the trigger, and the mini-gun spit blinding fire and lead toward the ground. Tracers every third round let him track where his rounds went. The bullets hit short and to the left and he adjusted his aim. Maison hefted the RPG to his shoulder. Jason saw a huge flash as the grenade launched from the tube.
The helicopter shooting at him was an easy target, exposed in the open. Maison surprised himself by not running for cover or at least hiding behind one of his dead men. The scenario, too surreal. Maison swore he could see the bullets leaving the mini-gun on the helicopter. He watched them travel through the air, impacting the ground far to the right.
This was no Army gunner. Conrad. He must be shooting at him. For a moment, Maison felt invincible—a general engaged in a fierce campaign, standing tall while his men fell around him. He grinned as the firing stopped, and he placed the helicopter in his sights.
The firing started again, closer this time, as Conrad walked the rounds toward him. The surreal feeling was not there this time. The bullets would soon be on target, giving him a sense of urgency. He pulled the trigger.
Jason watched the RPG fly high and aft, corkscrewing through the air. He leaned out the window over the gun and saw Maison limping toward one of his fallen men.
“He’s reloading,” one of the pilots hollered upfront.
Jason grabbed the mini-gun again and swung it forward. He lined up Maison in the sight, then offset slightly. When he pressed the trigger, bullets leaped out of the fiery end of the rotating barrels.
Another squeeze and the shot was high and right. Jason moved the mini-gun to adjust his shot, the trigger still depressed. Using the tracers as his guide, he walked his shot straight into Maison. The tracers reached him and danced around, but he kept the trigger engaged. The familiar flash of the RPG launcher got his attention, but he kept the trigger depressed and firing.
The smoky trail twisted its way through the air heading straight toward them.
Jason stumbled when the helicopter pivoted ninety degrees, the pilot kicking the rudder, shifting the helicopter on its axis. He stopped firing, dropped to one knee, and squeezed the handle of the mini-gun, bracing for impact. The helicopter rolled left and climbed abruptly, the momentum causing Jason to lose his balance, his back hitting the inside wall of the chopper.
The RPG flew by the side of the helicopter, the smoke from the projectile, billowing by his window.
The helicopter banked left, the nose lowered, and it accelerated away, climbing from the ground. Jason tried to look for more threats, but the MH-60 egressed rapidly. He found the headset flopping against the wall next to the gunner’s station and pulled it over his ears.
“Thanks for coming to get us, guys,” he said into the microphone.
“Thank you. That was some nice shooting, dude,” the pilot said upfront. “How’s my gunner?”
Jason checked on the gunner. Sugarmann had grabbed a first aid kit attached to the wall and gone to work on the kid right away, with Lawan assisting attentively. Sugarmann saw him looking over and gave Jason a “thumbs up.”
“I think he’s going to be okay. We’ve got pressure on the wound, and it looks like the bleeding has stopped.” Jason paused. “Did I hit him?” It was a valid question. The flash from the mini-gun washed out his target in the darkness. He hoped his offset worked.
The pilot laughed. “Did you hit him? Hell, you got him over and over again. That last volley was center mass, and you just kept the rounds going. I’m not sure there is anything left of the guy.”
Jason leaned forward into the cockpit, shook hands with the pilot not flying, and patted the one who was, on the back. He turned back to his friends. Lawan helped the gunner sip water, his head nestled in her lap. Sugarmann wiped his hands off with a towel, then leaned forward and slid the door shut.
Jason looked at Preeda. She stared at him, her eyes big. Scared. Grateful. Then she smiled. That cute, preci
ous, toothless smile.
Epilogue
November 8, 2003
The two friends rode in silence as Jason steered his way through the concrete jungle of Okinawa. Three weeks had passed since the episode in Bangkok. One week since Ben's court-martial hearing. He pleaded no contest to get fast-tracked out of the Air Force with a dishonorable discharge. Jason picked Ben up from his solitary confinement following his court-martial. He had been allowed no visitors other than his attorney before today. Jason was given permission to drive him to the airport since Ben was now a civilian leaving the island. His commander tried to convince him otherwise, but despite Ben's personal flaws, he was still his friend.
Jason had plenty of time to sort through everything on the long flight from Bangkok to Okinawa. He thought through it repeatedly, but it always seemed too simple. Maison wanted Ben to pay him in gold. Why gold? Perhaps because of his plan with the IMF. No, that amount would be inconsequential. Ben got most of the gold but ended up at Suttirat's. Why Suttirat's? Coincidence? Maybe. Surely Maison didn't send him there.
Jason had been tortured by Maison's men until they realized he wasn't Ben. Why would they want to beat Ben? They needed to know how much of the 'fake gold' was in circulation. If the fake gold was discovered before the IMF shipment arrived, it might have foiled their plan.
For the past three weeks, Jason racked his brain, trying to tie all the puzzle pieces together. Nothing changed.
He was sure he'd never forget the woman who saved his life. Lawan was back in her home, fortunate that, when the news of the attack was broadcast on television, her mother, father, and two brothers came right away, from Phitsanulok, to help her. The evening she had been kidnapped by Maison's men, they guarded her home and store ever since. She told Jason she was going to reopen the store. Eventually. Preeda, Lawan said, was finally enrolled in the temple school.
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