A New Beginning

by Mark David Abbott

  He watched Paween paw his young companion’s breasts as she half-heartedly protested. Hassan had to admit she had an incredible body, the skin-tight black minidress leaving little to the imagination. He felt a familiar arousal in his groin and thought about what he had planned for later in the night with the Portuguese woman. He took another swallow of champagne and licked his lips.

  He would keep the handcuffs on her, she was a fiery one, but that’s what made it more interesting. He glanced at the diamond studded Rolex Oyster on his wrist. He should hear from Boon anytime now, confirming the slum whore was taken back to the jungle with the men who had delivered the girls to the brothels. Good riddance to the bitch. He nodded at Paween and raised his glass again.

  “Chiyo, cheers.”

  Paween grinned back, raised his glass, and knocked back the contents in one go. His face was flushed, the whites of his eyes turning pink. He banged the glass down on the table, and Hassan winced, expecting the thin stem of the glass to break, but it held. He refilled his glass while Paween buried his face in the girl’s cleavage. Hassan watched him, his expressionless face hiding his contempt. The man couldn’t handle his drink and was a little too public in his behavior, but Hassan needed him. Without a high-ranking police officer in his pocket, his illegal sideline couldn’t exist.

  Feeling his phone buzz in his pocket, he reached into the pocket of his linen pants and glanced at the caller I.D. He frowned. He was expecting a call from Boon, but the number on the screen wasn’t his. Answering the call, he listened for a moment.

  “I’ll call you back.”

  His men were outside the shophouse in Silom but couldn’t get in. That useless bugger, Boon, he’d probably fallen asleep. He looked over at Paween, but he was too busy to notice what was happening. Hassan stood, walked away from the table, and dialed Boon’s number. It rang and rang with no answer. Hassan cursed and pressed redial. Again it rang and rang. Motherfucker! Hassan approached the bar and waved at the bartender.

  “Water.”

  Taking the glass, he drank it down. He needed his men to get in and take Amira away. They wouldn’t be back this way for a week, and he didn’t want to be stuck with her for that long. He needed to get rid of her. Shit. He looked again at his watch, then called his men back.

  “Wait. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.

  “Shit,” he cursed out loud. He would kick Boon’s ass when he saw him.

  He looked over at his table where Paween had his hands full. At least he wouldn’t be missed. Walking over, he tapped Paween on the shoulder.

  “I have to sort something out, will you be okay?”

  Paween snorted and buried his face in the girl’s neck, setting her off giggling again. When he came up for air, he looked up at Hassan, his eyes unfocused but happy.

  “We’ll be fine,” he slurred. “Just leaving.”

  “Good. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Hassan forced a smile, patted him on the shoulder, then walked toward the exit.

  63

  John stood in the shadows and scanned the street, listening for sirens or any sign someone had heard the gunshot. He was confident it hadn’t. The pillow had muffled the sound, and with the noise of the air conditioner and the windows closed, he was fairly sure not much sound had escaped. He listened for a moment more, then relaxed.

  A message had come in from Adriana while John was questioning Boon. She had found a place and sent John the address. He entered the address into his phone and looked it up on the map. It was only a couple of blocks away. If he jogged, he could be there in ten minutes.

  He checked the time; one a.m. Boon had told him Hassan’s men were expected around two. He needed to hurry. John checked the directions once again on his phone and set off at a run.

  In less than ten minutes, he found the Soi he was looking for and slowed to a walk. He caught his breath as he scanned the neon signs hanging overhead until he found the correct hotel. The white Toyota was parked across the street.

  John pushed open the door of the imaginatively named Peekaboo Hotel and walked up to the counter. An elderly man in a string vest, a cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth, looked up from the television screen he was watching under the counter. He frowned, but when John passed him a five hundred baht note, he went back to watching the serial and paid no more attention to him as he slipped past and climbed the stairs to the third floor. Outside Room 303, John stopped and knocked. He heard a noise from inside and whispered, “It’s me, John.”

  He heard bolts being drawn, and the door opened a crack, still secured by a safety chain. Adriana peered out nervously, her expression changing to relief as she saw John grinning back. Closing the door, she unfastened the chain, and opened it, just wide enough to let John in.

  Amira was sleeping on the oversized bed which filled most of the room. Adriana stood beside it, and John took her in his arms, pulling her in close, kissing her on the temple, the forehead, then on her lips, then pulled his head away so he could look at her.

  “Are you okay?”

  Adriana looked up at him, her eyes misting with tears.

  “Yes, John.” She pulled him close again and buried her head in his shoulder. “Don’t leave me again, John.”

  John stroked her hair, inhaling its soft fragrance. He looked over her shoulder at Amira.

  “How is she doing?”

  Adriana pulled away and looked over at the bed.

  “Not good,” she sighed. “They beat her really bad. I think she needs to see a doctor.”

  John let go of Adriana and went over to sit on the bed next to Amira. He looked at the bruising on her face and how she slept, restless and troubled.

  “I’ll arrange a doctor, but……” he sighed. Looking up at Adriana he continued, “Adriana, I have to leave you again…”

  “But…”

  “I know. I’m sorry, but I need to find out where the traffickers are keeping the people they’re bringing in. The guy who was keeping you, he told me everything.”

  “How did you get him to do that?”

  “I guess he just felt like talking,” John shrugged. “He told me the traffickers are coming tonight. I need to follow them, Adriana. He told me they are based down near the Malaysian border, but I need to find out exactly where. This trade has to stop. Once I find out where they’re based, do you think you can go to press with the information?”

  “I’ll do what I can, John,” Adriana shrugged but looked unhappy. “You’re right, it has to stop.” She came over and sat next to John, taking his hand in hers. “But I’m worried about you.”

  “Don’t worry,” John grinned and kissed her hand. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Stay here until I return.” He looked at his watch. “Rest now. In the morning, I’ll send someone with food and a doctor." John glanced over at Amira.

  “I’ll give them a passcode. Don’t open the door for anyone unless they say… umm… ‘iced coffee.’”

  “Ha.” Adriana gave a half smile. “Okay, John.” Leaning forward she kissed him on the lips. “Be careful.”

  “I will. You’ll be safe here.” He grinned as he noticed the pink walls, the red satin sheets, the mirrored ceiling. “Never say I don’t take you to all the nice places.”

  “The Shitz Carlton,” Adriana quipped

  John laughed and stood up.

  “Where are the car keys?”

  Adriana pointed at the keys lying on the bedside table, and John scooped them up and put them in his pocket. Adriana stood, and he hugged her again. She smelled good. He wished he didn't have to leave, wished he could rewind to all those days ago when they had first met… before they had even heard the name, Hassan Rahman. But… no point in dwelling in the past. He held her at arms’ length.

  “I’ll be back.” He gave her arms a squeeze and walked out the door. He needed to get moving.

  64

  Hassan hauled himself out of the car and nodded at the two men waiting on the pavement. Pulling a set of keys from his pocket, he moved
to unlock the shophouse door, struggling a little to find the lock, but finally, got the correct key in and unlocked it. He stood to one side and waved his men inside. They jogged up the stairs ahead of him. Leaning against the door frame, he blinked his eyes rapidly to wake up. He had dozed off in the car on the way over, and his driver had to call out his name a couple of times to wake him up.

  Hassan looked up the stairs as the men climbed higher. He needed to go up as well and give Boon a piece of his mind for ruining his evening. Lazy fucker. He grunted and started climbing, the two men having long since disappeared from sight.

  Finally reaching the third floor, he walked in the open door and stopped, the buzz from his champagne-fueled evening rapidly dissipating. Fuck. He shook his head to clear the fog and try to make sense of the scene. How the fuck had this happened?

  The two men stood, looking down at… Hassan tilted his head and squinted his eyes… yes, it was Boon, lying on his back but bound to a chair, his head the centerpiece in a pool of pink and red water. Water? What the fuck? A pink stained pillow lay half in the pool with what looked to be a singed hole in the middle. His head started pounding as he looked around the room. Where the fuck were the women?

  Shit. He stood there, stunned, not knowing what to do, while the two men looked back at him, waiting for instructions.

  Both women were gone, and his man Boon, lay dead, on the floor, apparently executed.

  “Moga choder baccha!” He needed to focus, think clearly and was regretting the second bottle of champagne. However, the sight of a dead Boon was sobering him up quickly. Who would have the balls to step onto his turf and execute his man?

  Hassan exhaled loudly and examined the room. No sign of whoever had been there or where the women had gone. The front door was locked, so how the fuck had anyone got in? The windows were closed, and the door had been closed. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Okay, he needed to deal with the immediate problem—the body.

  “Prataporn,” he addressed the older of the two men. “Go. Take the body with you. Bury him in the jungle.”

  “Kup,” the man nodded.

  “I’ll find out who did this, and I’ll cut his fucking heart out.”

  Prataporn nodded and moved over to the chair, standing astride the pool of blood, careful not to get it on his shoes, and lifted the chair upright. Boon’s head rolled forward onto his chest, blood and water dripping from the gaping exit wound in the back of his head. Hassan fought back the urge to vomit and turned away. Who the fuck did this?

  “Sir, the handcuff keys?” asked Prataporn.

  “How the fuck would I know?” barked Hassan, looking around the room. With a dismissive wave, he said, “Take the whole fucking thing!”

  Prataporn nodded.

  “But cover it in a sheet, for fuck’s sake!”

  Prataporn reached down, picked up the wet bedsheet from the floor, and draped it over the body. He indicated to the other man to pick up the chair by the legs, bent down grabbed the chair-back, and together, they lifted Boon up and carried him out the door.

  Hassan was alone in the room, staring at the floor, the pool of blood, the wet floor, the pillow, and a single spent shell casing on the floor.

  He ground his teeth together and clenched his fists. Things had been going so well. But now… ever since that slum bitch had come into his life… she was a curse. She caused all this. When he found her, he would cut her into pieces and feed her to the dogs.

  He walked down the stairs, and when he reached the second-floor landing, a thought struck him. He opened the door leading into the second-floor room, fumbled along the wall for the light switch, and turned on the lights. The window was open. Weaving his way between the stacked boxes and discarded broken office furniture, he examined the window closely. The frame was split, the window catch ripped out of the timber. He leaned out the window and looked down. This is how the fucker got in. He straightened up, his eyes narrowing.

  “That English bastard,” he announced to the room. “John fucking Hayes! I will kill you, motherfucker!”

  65

  From the far end of the street, John watched the white Isuzu D-Max pickup pull up outside the shophouse. Two men got out, one surveying the street while the other stepped onto the pavement and tried to open the shophouse door. He rattled the handle twice, then stepped back to look up at the third floor where the lights were shining through the closed windows. He turned and said something to the taller man who pulled a phone from his pocket and made a call, pacing up and down beside the pickup as he waited for someone to answer.

  The iPhone on the seat beside John vibrated, and John realized they were trying to contact Boon. The name Prataporn flashed on his screen. John let it ring and watched as the man frowned, looked at the screen, and dialed again. The iPhone with John vibrated again, and this time, John flipped it face down, so the light wouldn’t show in the car.

  The call ended, and Prataporn said something to his colleague, and they both craned their heads looking up at the building. Prataporn shook his head and made another call, but this time, John’s phone didn't ring.

  John watched him have a short conversation, hang up, then say something to his partner. They returned to the pickup and sat inside. John sat up and reached for the ignition key, ready to follow after them. He waited, but the pickup didn’t move, and John relaxed, settling back in his seat. They were waiting. The phone buzzed again on the seat beside him. John picked it up, cupping it in his hands to hide the light and looked at the caller I.D. ‘Boss.’ John dropped the phone back on the seat, ignoring it as it buzzed a second time.

  Thirty minutes later, John saw lights entering the street behind him. He sank lower in the seat as Hassan’s black Lexus cruised slowly past, pulling up behind the Isuzu. John watched as Hassan climbed out and nodded at the two men who got out of the pickup. He walked over unsteadily to the door and fumbled with a set of keys.

  “Ha, the bastard is drunk,” John muttered as Hassan finally opened the door and stood to one side to let the two men walk past.

  John gave a wry grin. “This will be interesting.”

  It was only ten minutes later when John saw the door open. One of the men poked his head out, looked both ways, then stepped out, carrying one end of a sheet-covered object while Prataporn followed, carrying the other end, setting it down behind the pickup. John realized under the sheet was Boon, still fixed to the chair. He frowned, felt his pants pocket, then grinned when he found the telltale shape of the handcuff keys. He watched while they opened the tailgate and peeled back the canvas cover on the load tray. Bending down, the two men lifted the chair and slid Boon into the tray on his side, then pulled the canvas cover over the top, securing it before closing the tailgate. Both men climbed into the Isuzu, and John watched the tail lights flash as the engine started up.

  Shit.

  John needed to follow them, but what if Hassan walked out as he drove past?

  The Isuzu moved off.

  Shit.

  Think John.

  The Isuzu reached the end of the street and turned left.

  Fuck it. He had to follow them. He started the engine and pulled out onto the road, praying Hassan wouldn’t spot him. He drove past the Lexus, angling his head away, and as he turned left at the end of the street, he glanced back—no sign of Hassan. John breathed a sigh of relief and followed the pickup.

  66

  It would be a long drive south. John glanced at the fuel gauge, grateful the tank had been full when he picked up the car.

  He followed the pickup onto the Si Rat expressway and drove across the Chao Praya River before joining Route 35, taking them southwest, out of the city. Traffic was light, and the expressway well lit, so it wasn’t difficult to keep the Isuzu in sight. John made sure not to enter the same toll booths, hanging back to avoid being spotted.

  Route 35 joined Route 4 and started the journey south toward the Malaysian Border. The road was straight, smooth, and monotonous, lined most of the way b
y buildings and commercial units. As they headed further south and the sun started to come up, the space between buildings increased, giving way to tropical vegetation, banana plantations, rice fields, and flowering frangipanis and bougainvillea. Traffic started to build as people began their day, farmers in Japanese pickups and lorries laden with steel or agricultural produce.

  The Isuzu maintained a steady pace, just under the speed limit and made good time. After four hours, the Isuzu pulled into a service station. John followed cautiously, parked beside a row of restaurants and shops, and watched as Prataporn’s partner refueled the vehicle. Once full, the Isuzu pulled forward and parked outside a restaurant, the two men climbed out and went inside.

  John got out of his car and made a quick toilet stop before buying provisions at one of the shops, always keeping an eye on the parked Isuzu. He had been awake for over twenty-four hours now and was tired and hungry. After refueling the Toyota, he sat and sipped on a can of Red Bull while he waited for the men to finish their breakfast.

  Twenty minutes later, the two men emerged, climbed into the Isuzu, and resumed their journey. John waited for a moment before pulling out after them. He glanced at his watch. Time to make a call.

  He dialed a number and put the phone on speaker.

  “Sawasdee kup,”

  “William?”

  “Yes,” came the cautious reply.

  “It’s John.”