“Serves you right, you fat bastard,” John muttered as he watched him climb into the backseat. He twisted the key and started the engine as the driver walked around to the driver’s seat, climbed in, and pulled out on the road. John ducked down as the Lexus moved past him, then straightened his seat up and fastened his seat belt. He looked over his shoulder for oncoming traffic, then pulled out, swinging the Toyota across the road in a three-point turn. A motor-cy skidded to a stop beside him, the rubjang raising his fist in anger. John ignored him, reversed back a little, swung the steering wheel over, and sped off after the Lexus.
John slowed as the Lexus reached the junction with Sukhumvit and waited until the lights turned green before turning onto the main thoroughfare. John followed, taking care to keep a few cars between him and the Lexus. The Lexus was heading in the opposite direction from Hassan’s apartment building, reinforcing John’s belief he wouldn’t be foolish enough to keep the two women in his own apartment. He felt confident he was doing the right thing.
Even at this time of night, the streets were full, the traffic crawling at just above a walking pace—three lanes of cars, buses, and two-wheelers crammed together on the road running under the concrete pillars and railway line of the BTS Skytrain. As the traffic approached the junction at Asok, the Lexus slipped into the extreme left lane and took the free left turn down Ratchadaphisek Road, passing the fifty-two-acre Benjakitti Park on the right.
John followed the Lexus onto Rama IV toward Silom, concentrating hard to keep the Lexus in sight but still remain a sensible distance behind. They passed the Sofitel and the Canadian Embassy on the left before turning onto Silom Rd. After about three kilometers, the Lexus slowed and indicated left before pulling into a side street. John reduced his speed as he neared the street and stopped before making the turn, ensuring he had a view down the street.
The road was narrower, just enough room for two cars. An Indian temple stood on the corner, and the shops on the opposite side, now shuttered, bore both Indian and Thai names. John watched the brake lights of the Lexus brighten as it pulled over to the right-hand side of the road and stopped. John glanced in his rearview mirror to make sure he was clear, then reversed back quickly, so the car wasn’t blocking the street entrance, but he could still see down the street. He doused his lights and wound down the passenger window for a better view. He watched as Hassan, with difficulty, climbed out of the car, walked up to a building, and went inside. John thought quickly.
What was Hassan doing? Was this where he was keeping Adriana and Amira? He had to get a closer look. Flicking on the lights, he turned onto the street, driving slowly toward the Lexus. The car had stopped outside an old, three-story shophouse. A shop occupied the ground floor, a sign announcing, ‘Authorized Money Exchange’ above the shuttered front window. To the right, a narrow alleyway ran past the building, and to the left of the shop, a grilled steel door gave access to the upper floors. John turned his face away as he passed the Lexus and continued down the street before turning left at the end. He pulled up and parked, picked up the baseball cap from the seat, pulling the brim down low over his face, and tucked the Glock into his rear waistband. Opening the door, he climbed out and stepping onto the footpath, turned right, back down the street.
57
Hassan settled into the cream leather seats of the Lexus as it pulled away from Dragon. His mood was foul, his temples throbbing. He raised his hand to the side of his head, probing it gently and winced. That bastard John Hayes. Who the fuck did he think he was? Coming into his restaurant and threatening him? The English fucker would wish he had never been born. He would make him pay once he got his hands on him. He tensed his hands, his fingers digging deep indentations in the soft leather seat. But first, he had to sort out the problem of the women. He had another boatload coming in overnight, and the last thing he needed was the stupid journalist bitch poking her nose into his business.
“Hurry up,” he growled at the driver.
And the slum girl? Ungrateful bitch. He had given her a job and a roof over her head, and this was how she repaid him. What did she expect after all his expenses? They were all the fucking same. They wanted a fancy new life but weren’t prepared to work for it. Fucking parasites. They deserved to stay in the slums. That’s all they were good for.
The Lexus pulled up in front of the shophouse, and the driver looked up into the rear-view mirror.
“Sir?”
“Wait here,” Hassan snapped and climbed out. He looked up at the light streaming from the third-floor windows in the otherwise darkened building. The shophouse was one of many he owned in the city, bought with the proceeds of his trafficking sideline, a business much more profitable than his restaurant. His ownership was hidden in a complicated structure of nominee companies, ensuring nothing could be traced back to him. Even the money exchange on the ground floor was his, a useful front for laundering funds.
Everything had been going well since he moved to Bangkok. He made more money than he ever had producing garments for the world’s retail chains, but now, he had to step on these two bugs before they became an infestation. Unlocking the front door, he walked inside and looked up the stairs. The only problem with these old shop-houses was they didn’t have lifts. He sighed and began to climb.
By the time he reached the third floor, he was out of breath. He paused, holding onto the handrail with his left hand, sucking in air. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Once his breathing had gained some normality, he knocked twice on the door.
The door opened slightly, and a young Thai man peered out warily before opening it wider once he recognized Hassan.
Hassan walked past him into the room, wrinkling his nose at the smell—stale sweat, fear, and cold Thai food.
“Open the window, Boon. It stinks in here.”
While Boon rushed over to open the window, Hassan examined the room. To the left was a grimy stainless steel sink, its tap dripping slowly, below it a plastic bucket with dirty rags draped over the rim. Beyond that, on a narrow camp bed, lay some half-eaten noodles in a polystyrene takeout container. That explained the smell.
Hassan turned his attention to his prisoners.
Adriana glared at him from a chair at the side of the room, her eyes pouring venom from above the duct tape covering the lower half of her face. Hassan examined her restraints—her legs duct taped to the chair legs and her wrists handcuffed behind the chair. Hassan sneered, then turned his attention to Amira who sat on the floor in the corner, her arms hugging her knees pulled up to her chest.
“Stand up,” he barked.
Amira tucked in her chin and tried to make herself smaller.
Hassan turned to Boon. “Get her up.”
Boon stepped over and dragged Amira to her feet. She struggled to get free, but her strength was no match for the young Thai man. He pushed her in front of Hassan.
“Hold her arms.”
Boon grabbed hold of her arms from behind, and Hassan stepped forward and punched her in the face. Amira cried out, her head whipping around, her legs giving way as she slumped toward the floor.
“Hold her up.”
Boon pulled her upright, and Hassan grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head back. He thrust his face in front of hers.
“You think you can run away from me? I own you. I own your family. Once I’ve finished with you, I’ll gut your mother, your father, and your cute little sister. Understand me?”
“No please, please, leave them alone,” Amira cried. “I will come back to you. I promise I won’t run away. Just leave my family alone.”
“Too late, bitch.” He punched her once, twice in the stomach. Amira cried out in pain and collapsed to the floor. Boon moved to pick her up, but Hassan stopped him with a raised hand.
“Leave her.”
He stepped forward and kicked her in the breasts and the stomach, and as she curled herself into a ball to protect herself, he kicked her repeatedly in the l
egs and arms as Boon watched, grinning, clearly enjoying the show.
Finally, out of breath, Hassan spat on her, then pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face.
“Khanki maagi,” he cursed. Turning to Boon, he said, “I have a new delivery tonight. Send this one back with them. Tell them to bury her in the jungle.”
“Kup.” Boon nodded. “And the Farang?”
Hassan turned to look at Adriana who was staring with concern at Amira lying at her feet.
“Hmmm,” he licked his lips. “I have plans for her.”
Adriana looked up and glared back at him.
“Keep her here. I’ll come back for her once you’ve gotten rid of the Bangla bitch.”
Boon nodded.
“Call me once they make the delivery.”
Hassan patted Boon on the arm and left the room, glancing at his watch as he descended the stairs. He needed to get back to the restaurant. Police General Paween Thawornsiri was coming in for a late drink, and his support was crucial to the smooth running of this operation.
58
John kept to the far side of the street as close to the buildings as he could, avoiding the light from the street lamps where possible. Fortunately, the street was quiet, the shops shuttered, and any residents on the upper floors were glued to their televisions or sleeping. A rat emerged from a downpipe and scurried across the footpath, sending his already rapid pulse racing. He needed to stay calm. He took a series of deep breaths, inhaling and exhaling through his nose, then walked closer to the building. With a couple of quick glances and his peripheral vision, he got a more detailed picture of the building.
A complicated tangle of electrical and telephone wires stretched past the darkened first floor. The second floor was also dark, the condition of the windows giving the impression the lower floors were unused. The only light was coming from the dirty glass windows at the top. That must be where Hassan was. John sneaked a quick glance into the Lexus, but the driver was unaware of his surroundings, concentrating on a movie on the phone propped up on the dashboard.
John looked past him at the door. It looked secure, he wouldn’t be able to get in that way. Perhaps the side alley might afford him access. He continued past the building and about fifty meters further on, crossed the road before doubling back. He kept to the shadows as he slowly approached the Lexus, then slipped down the side alley. It was dark, so he waited until his eyes had adapted to the lower level of light. Behind the property, a door opened through a concrete wall onto a small backyard. John tried the door. Damn, it was locked from the inside. He stepped back and looked up at the building. Light flowed from an open window on the upper floor. He examined the lower floors. If he could get on the top of the wall, he could access the ledge on the first floor that held the compressor units for the air conditioning. From there, it might be possible to climb to the top. Difficult, but he couldn’t see another way in. Shit! He had hoped his climb down Hassan’s building would be the last one he ever did, but now, he would have to act like Spiderman again.
Well, no time for delays. He flexed his shoulders, made sure the Glock was secure, turned the baseball cap backward, so the brim didn’t obscure his vision, and looked closely at the wall. He could reach the top with his fingers, and if he pulled himself up enough, so his toes could gain support on the door handle, he was pretty sure he could pull himself onto the top. He took a couple of breaths and reached for the top of the wall. Gritting his teeth, he pulled his body weight up, the fingers slipping slightly before he curled his knees up and placed the toes of his right foot on the door handle. Not wanting to lose momentum, he pulled with his hands and pushed with his right foot until his elbows were over the wall, then heaved himself up, swinging his leg over until he was astride the wall.
He paused, panting with the effort, waiting until he caught his breath. He listened for any signs someone had heard him, but the alley was quiet, the only sounds the distant hum of traffic and the muffled voices coming from the top floor. John edged himself along the wall until he reached the building, then with the help of the side wall of the building, got to his feet. The ledge wasn’t much higher, and it was an easy task to step up onto it. Looking up, he realized if he stood on the air conditioning compressor, it would give him another couple of feet in height, making access to the next floor easier.
He stepped carefully onto the compressor, mindful of spreading his weight and stood up. He had to stoop, so his head and shoulders fit under the ledge above, but to grab the ledge, he would have to lean out at an angle. He closed his eyes, summoned up some more courage, then opening his eyes, reached out with his right hand until he had a good grip of the topside of the ledge. He turned his body, so he was leaning backward at an angle of forty-five degrees out over the backyard and reached up with his left arm. Standing on his toes, he was able to get his elbow over the ledge.
He inhaled and exhaled quickly through pursed lips, then heaved himself up, his legs swinging out into space. A startled pigeon burst into flight off the ledge, its wings brushing his face, and his hands slipped. He frantically stretched his left hand out and grabbed hold of the copper pipe running from an air-conditioning compressor. It shifted, one of the brackets holding it in place popping out of the wall with a screech. John hung there, praying the pipe would hold as his legs swung in the air. The voices above paused, and he waited, hoping no-one would look out the window. After a moment, the voices resumed, and John counted to three, then hauled himself up onto the second-floor ledge where he sat panting as he leaned against the back wall. His hands shook, and he didn’t think he could stand up. He could feel the muscles in his legs trembling with adrenaline.
He waited for five minutes to get his breath under control and to stop the shaking in his body. Slowly, he raised himself to his feet. He didn’t want to go through it again, but he had to. If the girls were there, only he could rescue them.
Once again, he climbed onto the air conditioning compressor and angled his body until he had a hold on the next ledge. This time, he moved over slightly so he could reach the steel bracket bolting the third-floor compressor unit to the ledge with his left hand. He wrapped his fingers around it, took a deep breath, and swung himself out, lifting his right leg up and over the ledge, and levered himself up. He lay there panting. Much easier this time. Practice makes perfect.
Listening to the sounds from the room, he could hear two voices, one obviously Hassan’s, the other belonging to a Thai-accented male. John couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, so he rolled over and carefully, quietly levered himself up into a sitting position. His head was just below the open window, and he strained to hear what they were saying. It still wasn’t clear, so slowly, he raised his head until he could see into the room.
The room was open-plan and took up most of the floor. At the far end of the room to the left of the door, Adriana sat bound to a chair, a piece of duct tape over her mouth. John’s heart melted as he saw her sitting there, hair askew, defiance still clear in her body language and face. Amira lay beside her, curled on the floor in a fetal position, facing the wall. Adriana glared at Hassan and the other man who John recognized as the plain-clothed man from the security footage in his building. They spoke in low tones, John still unable to make out what they were saying before Hassan patted the Thai man on the upper arm and left the room. The Thai man grinned at Adriana before walking closer to her. He bent over her and ran his hand over her thigh, slipping it between her legs. Adriana struggled and grunted in protest, trying hard to get away from him.
He sneered, “Stupid whore,” then stepped back and slapped her across the face.
John clenched his fists, anger boiling, rising up inside him.
Adriana turned her face back in front and glared at the Thai who laughed and spat on the floor at her feet. As he turned away, he stepped toward Amira and kicked her in the back. Amira didn’t move or make a sound.
“You motherfucker!” John muttered. He would teach this guy a lesson if
it was the last thing he did.
The Thai sat down on a folding chair beside the camp bed, pulled out his phone, plugged in his headphones, and started to watch a movie.
Adriana’s shoulders slumped, the need to show defiance having passed, despair taking over. John slid back down into a seated position under the window, his back against the wall, and considered his options. The window was big enough for him to climb through, but he would need the element of surprise, and the window was too small for him to get through quickly enough. He could shoot the man through the window, but without a silencer, the noise would wake the neighborhood, and the police would come running. He needed to find another way in.
59
John slid forward, rolled over, and with the help of his handhold on the compressor bracket, swung himself down off the ledge until his feet reached the compressor below. Slowly, carefully, he lowered himself until all his weight was on his feet, then angled himself back inside. He stepped down onto the ledge and examined the windows. It was too dark to see them closely. Removing his phone from his pocket, he turned on the flashlight and examined them.
The windows were old and wood framed. They didn’t fit flush with the frames, so with his fingers, he tried to pry one open. The left-hand window was too tight, but the middle window held promise. He could lever it out a little with his fingers, the catch appearing to shift inside. He wiggled it back and forth until it opened a little more, the bottom of the window opening wider than the rest. He studied the gap and had an idea. Reaching behind him for the Glock, he pulled the bottom of the window open as much as he could, then jammed the barrel of the Glock between the window and its frame. Using the barrel as a lever, he pried the window open wider, each time sliding the barrel higher and closer to the latch. The wood split a little more until finally, the wood gave way, and the screws holding the latch pulled free from the wood frame. John waited, hoping the sound hadn’t alerted the man upstairs, before pulling the window open wide. He turned on his phone flashlight again and peered inside.
A New Beginning Page 14
