by Sam Powers
The tuk-tuk turned left down a side street, then pulled over half-way up the block in front of a bar blasting AC/DC. There were a dozen American-style choppers out front, mostly Harley Davidsons. The sign on the place, like most in Chiang Mai was in English and Thai. “Bad Boys Pool Hall.”
The kid led them through the wide-open front door. The place was full of smoke, a wide, long room with three or four pool tables and bar filling the narrow far end, two-and three-person tables along one wall, nearly all full. A couple of fans high up on the roof offered scant relief from the sweltering heat.
Everyone was local, and they all stopped talking and playing simultaneously when Brennan followed him in.
One of the pool players yelled something at him in Thai. It sounded aggressive. The vendor said something back, then used his forearm to guide Brennan a step forward.
The player nodded his way. “What you want, farang? We don’t get too many your type in here, huh? Maybe you go in the wrong place, right?”
“Maybe,” Brennan said, making a show of scoping out the room. “But I doubt it.”
A murmur went around the room, a general agreement that the white guy was being lippy in hostile territory. The pool player came over, cue between his two hands. “You don’t like our place, farang?” Then he barked something else hostile at Kittibun. “I tell him he a fool for bringing you here; more than likely you get hurt by someone here, right? We don’t like farang in our bar.”
Brennan leaned over to the guide. “That’s the second time this week someone called me that…”
“It’s like “white person”, though if you don’t like the person so much.
“Yeah… yeah, I got the tone.”
The young vendor said something under his breath to the player. He looked over at Brennan, then nodded. “Okay, yah, K̄heā khæ̀ t̂xngkār yās̄eph tid!” The rest of the room seemed collectively relieved and went back to business.
“What happened?” Brennan asked, puzzled.
His helper smiled. “I just tell them you junkie who need fix.”
The pool player led them to the door behind the bar and through it, into a back office by the rear exit. It had a steel door of the thick, reinforced variety, ideal for keeping out police officers with warrants. He waited until they’d both joined him in the office, then closed the door behind them
When he turned around, he had a forty-caliber Colt pistol in his right hand. “You armed?”
Brennan shook his head. “I’m just here to score, man.”
Kittibun tried to say something but the other man let out a blistering stream of Thai. Then he turned back to Brennan. “I tell him he is an idiot, that no junkie ever had physique like yours. And westerners never go to bikers, always to opium dens. I tell him after I shoot you, he next.”
“He’s just a street vendor I hired…”
“He my cousin! If his judgment this bad, eventually, he get me arrested and throw in jail. Better I shoot him now than him mess up later, right? Who you work for, cops?”
“I’m between gigs right now. Who knows? Maybe I’ll go to Hollywood and be a star.”
“Bad news, farang; your dreams, they are not gonna come true. Bye bye.” He pressed the pistol barrel to Brennan’s forehead; the ex-SEAL moved with fluid speed and precision, immediately snatching it away with his right hand, twisting it with the man’s finger still in the guard, a look of agony contorting his face as it broke, then running through disassembly, trying for a good time, ejecting the magazine, then the breach, removing the slide and the pin…
He dropped the pistol’s pieces on the floor in front of the dealer. The entire step had taken less than four seconds. “Ahhh….ah-ah,” the man exclaimed, trying to be tough and not to cry out in pain, which Brennan filed away automatically as another tactical error. He could’ve used the help.
Brennan pulled his pistol from the back of his waistband and chambered a round. “Now, I’m going to bet that you don’t know how to do that.”
The dealer began to raise his hands, nattering angrily at the vendor in muted Thai.
“He thinks you want to rob him.”
For cryin’ out… “Put your hands down. I just need information.”
The man snorted a little. “I not say anything, farang. Snitches get snitches.”
“It’s ‘snitches get stitches, not snitches get snitches. That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Stitches?”
“When you’re wounded, and the sew you up with thread…”
“Oh. Yeah, well… I guess you got real good Kam Mueang Thai huh? That why you need this guy.” He jerked a thumb in the kid’s direction. The kid babbled something at him and the man snapped back.
“You two lovebirds can fight later,’ Brennan suggested. “I didn’t come here to rob or shoot you. I want to know if you’ve heard of a woman named Amanda Sạkdi̒s̄ithṭhi̒.”
The guy looked blank.
“I think the guy who supplies you, the Colonel, grabbed my friend. He may have hired a couple of Bangkok heavies to bring her here, from Pattaya.”
They spoke rapidly again, both men sounding matter-of-fact as they compared notes on how little they knew. The biker looked a little puzzled. “You stick your neck out for not much, farang. The colonel not my supplier. I buy from The Apsonsi.”
It was a new name. “His competition?”
He shrugged. “One of many. Colonel have most supply business, but still lots of others. Apsonsi biggest and best.” Then he frowned. “Why you want this? You American agent? DEA, like Miami Vice?”
“No, like I said, I’m trying to find my friend. A woman.”
“You think Colonel take her? She probably dead, I hate to tell you…”
Brennan ignored the notion. “Does he do business out of that mansion on the west-side of town? Or is that just…”
“That his home. He guard like a bank, you know? Too many competitors.”
“Where else? Does he have offices here somewhere? Any facilities?”
The dealer nodded. “He got a pair of warehouses just north of here. He…”
Without warning, the biker jumped a half-foot backwards and grabbed the pool cue from the table behind him, then swung it like a baseball bat, thick handle first, at Brennan’s head.
But the American was alert, shifting his stance the moment his opponent began moving, turning at the waist, drawing back the punch just enough to deliver maximum force to a single point, then driving that point home, his open-palm technique snapping the swinging cue like a splintered twig.
The biker tried to react by flailing the remaining piece of cue stick with a backhand, but Brennan ducked under it, using a sliding side kick to knock the man’s legs out from under him. His opponent let go of the remaining piece of cue as he went down, and Brennan caught it before he hit the floor.
“Auwghh….” the bruised dealer moaned. The street food vendor was staring sideways at the American like he’d just met Elvis.
“Now why would you go and do that?” Brennan asked. “Don’t try anything like that again. “The warehouses, give me an address.”
“Okay! Okay…” The biker sat upright then pushed himself up off the floor and dusted himself off. “Who are you, white boy?”
“Really: I’m just a guy who wants to be left alone.”
***
The Colonel’s warehouse was an anonymous concrete single-story structure, though quite tall, the roof twenty-five or thirty feet above the ground. After paying off the biker to keep his mouth shut, Brennan had gone scouting, looking for the best anonymous vantage point. A neighboring building’s old iron fire escape had sufficed, and he sat there for most of a day, taking breaks for water, fruit, seaweed and strips of beef jerky, enough protein, good calories and minerals to keep him from having to desert the post for a meal. He watched the three exterior guards patrol, using an empty milk bottle to urinate and giving him hours on target.
When he had the guards’ routines mapped, he climbed down
the fire escape and made his way to a nearby tuk-tuk stand, then caught a ride back to the hotel.
In his room, he got ready, changing into dark clothing, securing the weapons and binoculars in his carry-bag, which he slung across his back. The pistol stayed on his belt in the helpfully provided speed holster, under his shirt. The spare magazines would be stashed in the pockets of the black windbreaker he wore over it all, along with the throwing knives.
Chiang Mai was an interesting town and it impressed him; but he’d had an inescapable sensation since the flight down that his intervention wasn’t going to help, that he wasn’t going to be able to save her. If she even needed saving, though it increasingly looked the case. Even with everything that had happened, his inner voice was telling him to give up, go home and forget about her.
The psych profs at Annapolis could probably use me as course material, he thought grimly. Maybe it was that his old man had insisted on hammering home the importance of fairness, of supporting the right side, not the same side. Of fighting for what you believed in.
***
He waited until just before dawn, when the overnight staff were switching over. One of the guards, on the back side of the building, had to wait slightly longer for his relief, and strolled over to kill the time talking to his associate on the near side.
Brennan crossed the street a block south, quickly and silently, then stayed tight to the wall and out of their line of sight. Instead of just walking through the back door, which could have been locked or even set off an alarm, he used the small roof overhang to pull himself up. From there, he could reach the upper window frame. He edged along it, thirty feet up, until he could reach the drainpipe that extended slightly from the roof’s edge. He grabbed it with his right hand and swung side-to-side until he had enough momentum to grab the lip of the roof proper with his left, the momentum swinging back so that he could snatch it with both hands. He pulled himself up onto the flat surface, then lay there for a few moments recovering.
As he’d suspected, the air vents were just cylinders attached to holes in the roof, long pieces of tin bolted down. He spun his bag around so that it rested on his chest and rifled through it, taking out a magnetic screwdriver and a wrench. It took a bit of jimmying to loosen, but after a few tense minutes, the last bolt popped out and he removed its case.
The hole in the ceiling gave him a perfect view of the inside. The lights were muted while no one was about. There was a row of long tables at one end of the warehouse, probably for packaging, hooks on the wall nearby baring a bunch of white aprons. A row of chemical drums sat in front of the far wall. Next to it, one long table ran nearly the length of the building, like an extended work bench. There were Bunsen burners hooked up to natural gas outlets, what looked like gas range tops.
Manufacturing, packaging; open up the truck bay and you’ve got delivery. Pretty tight setup.
There was an office at the back but the lights were out. He checked his watch; it was just after six-twenty in the morning. It was the only room into which he couldn’t see; if they had guards in early, they probably had others arriving soon. If he lowered himself down into the building to check it out, he could end up in a confrontation with a bunch of lower level workers who didn’t even want to be there.
Maybe it wasn’t in production, maybe the stuff in the barrels was finished product, Brennan considered. Another half-hour. If there’s no movement by seven, I’ll take a look inside.
It didn’t take nearly that long. At six-thirty, he heard the guards calling to each other. He stayed low and crept as close to the front of the roof as he could without being seen from the street, glancing over the lip. A limousine had parked and the driver was opening the back door.
The colonel was stocky, with a square face and broad nose, his hair still thick well into his later years, but dotted with grey. He wore a stylish suit, and was flanked by a pair of bodyguards, both Caucasians, heavy looking guys, maybe Europeans or Russians. They both had bulk under the jackets suggesting holsters. A second vehicle pulled up just ahead of the first, a black SUV. Four more men climbed out, each scanning the street in each direction as they joined the Colonel’s retinue and led him inside.
Once they were inside, Brennan crept back to the ceiling vent. One of the first men in switched on the main lights. The office was illuminated, and, through its side window, Brennan could see it was empty. They’re not holding her here, if they’ve got her.
He’d checked the news reports before heading out, hoping that a girl who had a powerful father and had disappeared might have begun to make headlines. But there had been nothing. Whatever was going on, the man who’d just walked in had tried to have him killed, which meant he was probably the nearest person with answers the American would find.
But questioning the man would probably mean snatching him. He had no grounds to start a firefight and was badly outgunned anyway. If the Colonel was going to provide those answers, Brennan knew he had to separate him from…
Another yell from out front. Another car pulling up. What was going on?
He kept his eyes on the Colonel. The old man buttoned his suit jacket and his bodyguards stood to either side, as they waited for the new arrival.
The front door swung open.
Mandy.
She was being led in by a pair of gun-toting goons. She crossed her arms defiantly. The Colonel said something in Thai and his men laughed as if he were Richard Pryor funny. Then she said something back, her arms still crossed. He didn’t like whatever it was. He said something angrily, spitting mad at her, pointing with one index finger. Then he took a single finger and slid it across his own throat, as if motioning her fate.
Brennan wished he could hear the conversation. But he was getting the general idea; if he didn’t intervene, she probably didn’t have long to live. The numbers, however, weren’t promising. Untrained guys, possibly, but still eight of them, plus the Colonel, plus the three guards outside.
He reached into the bag and took out the nylon rope he’d picked up along with the binoculars. He tied it through the bolt hole, fastening it with a shank knot guaranteed to hold as he lowered himself down. It was going to be difficult, he knew, to get in without being noticed. Even though the open vent was nearer the back of the roof, the rope could be spotted as soon as it dropped through. He’d then have to slide the length, as a controlled descent would make him cannon fodder. If he was lucky, he knew, they’d be paying attention to Mandy, not looking up and back.
The two behind her, however, were going to see him. They’d have to go down first. The four gunmen were wisely staying wide, so that anyone who interrupted proceedings could be caught in a crossfire. That would also make them harder to take out.
But he didn’t have a choice. The colonel and his men drew their weapons.
The crash caught everyone by surprise, the sound of the front and back doors being knocked in simultaneously by battering rams. Men in tactical gear began streaming into the warehouse and the gunmen took aim, automatic weapons spitting fire, the old man himself being hustled toward the side door. Brennan’s gaze flitted back to Mandy, just in time to see her stomp on the foot of one of the guards and begin running for the door.
He didn’t see who fired the shot that caught her. She’d taken about six steps when she went down, a spray of blood preceding her. He felt panic, a need to help. He swung one foot over the vent.
A bullet pinged off the roof near the opening and he looked back down. The Colonel’s guards had spotted him, probably assuming he was one of the police. A few more shots followed, and he backed away from the hole to assess.
Was she dead? She’d gone down hard, as if shot from behind. It hadn’t looked good. He needed to get out before he got caught up in the sweep. Brennan jogged to the back of the roof and looked over the edge. The curb was flush with black SUVs and a man spotted him almost immediately, yelling for help in Thai.
He ran to the front of the building. The street had been blocked by SUVs in bo
th directions, in a bid to prevent the Colonel’s escape. But he was already nowhere in sight.
At the back of the building he heard a scraping noise. He turned to see the top of a metal ladder leaning up against the wall.
They’re coming up. They think his men are up here. He needed egress, he knew, but he hadn’t planned properly; he’d been sloppy, caught up in a romantic obsession. He hadn’t even thought about what he’d have done if he’d found her.
Now he was trapped.
Brennan heard another sound and looked back. It was the ringing of boot heels on the metal ladder’s rungs.
CHAPTER 6
He didn’t pause. He couldn’t take the chance of being spotted, at all. There weren’t enough six-foot-tall white guys with his general appearance in the small city, and he’d have zero chance of avoiding arrest if police tied him to the Colonel somehow.
Instead, he sprinted for the long side of the roof, looking for something to break his fall. The semi-truck and its container had just begun to rumble forward once more from the corner ahead, the light green. The sidewalk below wasn’t wide but the truck top was a solid six or seven feet off the roof’s edge and another fifteen feet down. He pumped his legs as hard and fast as he could, pushing off the lip of the edge with his trailing foot at the last second.
Brennan hit the vehicle’s roof hard, the thin metal crumpling slightly, the give not enough to prevent him sliding, his momentum carrying him over the truck’s other side. He reached back in desperation, his hand finding the thick chain used to hold in the rear door’s safety lock. The truck accelerated and the American held on for dear life, keeping his grasp long enough to get a second hold with his left, his body swinging back and slamming into the far side of the moving truck.
It slowed for another intersection and he let go, tucking and rolling on the hard asphalt, coming up a block from the warehouse, the sounds of sirens and gunshots behind him.