by Jason Kasper
I fought the urge to begin pacing the cabin, instead glowering at Sage as she continued, “To avenge Roshan’s death too late would be an outrage to many. To do so too early would leave the Five Heads to continue gaining market share in open defiance. The Handler’s solution allowed your team to eliminate the opposition, punished their transgression at the completion of their final job, and kept his daughter from learning the horrible truth about her lover’s death. What would you have done in his place, David?”
I didn’t answer her, instead looking away with a mounting sense of rage. My thoughts were darkened by her flippant references to Karma and my dead teammates, the cold logic with which she appraised Ian’s captivity.
She stood and placed a soothing hand on my bicep, her voice suddenly compassionate. “I don’t mean to get you worked up about the past. I’ve got some time before I have to go if you want to…unwind.”
I jerked my arm away, stepping back from her. “I think we should keep it professional until the job is done.”
“Impressive restraint considering you’ve been alone in the woods for months on end.”
“Just a matter of priorities,” I said tersely. “Don’t take offense.”
She seemed to have expected my response, her tone undaunted as if she relished the challenge to her proposal. “I don’t. Seduction is like assassination—every target has a vulnerability.”
“Let me know when you find mine.”
“Believe me, David,” she said with a charming smile, “I already have.”
“Bourbon doesn’t count.”
Sage’s smile faded into a wintry glare. “I’m not talking about bourbon. There’s another vulnerability with you, and it reaches far deeper into your psyche than alcohol.”
She turned and walked out before I could respond, and despite the anger that still hammered in my veins, I watched her depart with a mournful sense of dread at being abandoned once again.
7
Six Months in Isolation
August 20, 2009
I’d retired to the cabin as the landscape began assuming the eerie auburn hue of sunset, not wanting to take my chances with the wolves and grizzlies that roamed freely amid the darkness. As I was preparing my headlamp and a well-worn paperback Western for a nighttime reading session, I heard the thin buzz of an all-terrain vehicle approaching.
I stood in the doorway as Sage’s ATV appeared and came to a stop. She killed the engine as I called to her, “Is the item ready?”
“Almost,” she answered. “It’s in transit.”
“To where?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“Yesterday was my two hundredth day here,” I said, walking over to help her with the resupply. “I’m running out of space in the cabin to carve hash marks. You can at least tell me where I’ll be headed when the item arrives.”
She gracefully swung a leg over the ATV to dismount, rising to her full height and flexing her back after the long drive. Her crimson hair assumed an almost fire-like luminosity in the waning sun, her long ponytail flipped sideways as she turned to unstrap a resupply box.
“All right, David. You’ll be headed to Myanmar.”
I took the box from her, our eyes meeting for a fleeting moment. “You mean Burma?”
“Formerly.” She led the way into the cabin, and I set my box atop a stack of field rations and waited for an explanation.
When one didn’t come, I asked, “Why Myanmar, of all places?”
“Of all places? Where did you think your destination would be, David, the French Riviera? A casino in Montenegro?”
“Well, if it’s on the table—”
“Myanmar is a case study in national crime. Their largest business conglomerate was founded as a front for heroin trafficking. By the time Western nations were imposing sanctions, the conglomerate’s reach extended across Southeast Asia via a half dozen otherwise legitimate enterprises growing with billions from foreign investment.”
“So…what? An organization in Myanmar is the Handler’s new competition?”
“Competition?”
“Why else would the item you need to assassinate him be coming from there?”
“How thick can you be?” She cursed under her breath and muttered, “What kind of man did I rescue?”
My shoulders straightened defensively. “You’ve got a lot of balls insulting me,” I began, hearing the raw nerves in my voice, “when I’ve been sitting up here blindly trusting in this brilliant plan of yours—”
“Myanmar isn’t competition; the Handler is going to mint his own money there. Now that China is building oil and gas pipelines through Myanmar, the Organization is acquiring rights to explore for natural resources through shadow companies based in a half-dozen underdeveloped countries in three continents. If the estimates on oil and gas reserves are remotely accurate, the Organization stands to earn 1.2 billion dollars in the next decade. That’s billion with a B, from one compartmentalized project. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were hundreds more that I’m not privy to. That’s the kind of power the Organization deals in, David. Start getting that through your head, if you’re capable.”
I felt my hands flex into fists. “Listen, Sage—”
She cut me off, stepping closer. “What, are you going to hit me now?”
“Believe me, sweetheart, if I hit you, you wouldn’t know whether to—”
Her first punch caught me on the left cheekbone, sending my head snapping back.
She then delivered a sharp uppercut to my stomach, knocking the wind out of me and doubling me over. I launched forward in a rage, spearing her into the ground and straddling her to deliver a downward blow toward her face.
She diverted my fist to the side, trapping my arm and planting one foot while using the opposite leg to effortlessly roll me over. As my back slammed into the ground, I locked my thighs around her waist, momentarily distracted by a glimpse of creamy white cleavage. She rapidly boxed my ear, and the crushing cartilage pain flung me back to my present struggle.
I threw a punch at her face—she dodged, but too late, and my fist glanced off the side of her head. As she recoiled from the partial blow, she swung a jab toward my nose. I blocked it with both forearms, and then cracked my elbow into her stomach.
She collapsed on top of me, breasts smothering my face, and slid her arms around my neck. I took a sharp breath and held it as she delivered a crushing squeeze against my larynx—the smart thing to do would have been to break her choke. Instead, I grabbed a fistful of her ponytail and jerked her head backward so hard that she yelped in pain. Using my opposite hand, I slapped her across the face as hard as anyone had ever slapped another human being, and she rolled off to the side.
I scrambled to my feet, intending on rearranging her facial structure with my boot, but by the time I was half-upright she was already in a fighting stance, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet before delivering a roundhouse kick to my head.
Flying backwards, I crashed into the stack of field rations. Grabbing the plastic ties of the top cardboard box, I heaved it sideways in a wide, curving arc and flung it toward Sage.
She easily sidestepped the flying box, which crashed into the shaky wood wall as we charged into each other. I went low, tackling her around the waist and flinging us both to the ground. She landed on all fours, and I used the opportunity to slap her ass.
Scrambling away, she kicked me hard in the shoulder. I grabbed her leg before she could withdraw it, and for reasons unknown to me even to this day, I bit her calf like a determined terrier.
“Bastard!” she cried in a girlish yell, twisting away and kicking me in the eyebrow with her other leg.
I scrambled backward and yelled back, “Fuckin’ harlot!”
She was atop me in a flash, mounting my chest with her knees in my armpits, restricting my ability to punch. Her hands were around my throat, choking me forcefully—but her face was flushed, lips parted, eyes ablaze with an almost irrational desire.
<
br /> Releasing her wrists, I grabbed her flannel shirtfront and ripped it open, buttons scattering to the floor. She thrust her face into mine and kissed me. Her hands released my neck and I grabbed hers, rolling her over as she fumbled with my belt.
We stripped our clothes off and tumbled into lovemaking like falling down a mountain, the momentum of our fight seamlessly transitioning into an equal fury of lust. She was passionate and experienced, matching my enthusiasm as we crashed around the darkening cabin.
We fell into a synchronized rhythm, adapting to each other’s bodies as if we’d been lovers for months instead of minutes. Her eyes were fixed on mine until the sun set completely, when I was left with only the feel of her body, the hotness of her breath on my neck, her velvet lips panting against my mouth. Her thumb grazed the tender skin over my left cheekbone, and seeing me flinch, she applied more pressure—pain interlaced with ecstasy.
“Sage,” I whispered breathlessly, all other words escaping me as her lips met mine. I tensed and shuddered, every ounce of energy expended as I collapsed at the finish. My entire body felt tingling and numb as she kissed me softly, caressing the side of my head, running her fingers down my face.
We fell into a deep sleep in each other’s arms, our limbs intertwined within my sleeping bag.
I burst awake with a sense of imminent disaster. A hand clamped against my mouth, forcing my head to the ground as I felt the curved, paper-thin edge of a blade pressed beneath my jaw.
Sage was fully clothed, her powerful thighs straddling me as she hunched over my face like a jungle cat landing from a pounce. I could barely make out her features in the darkness but felt her hot breath upon my face as she whispered, “Seduction is like assassination—every target has a vulnerability. And yours, David Rivers, is violence.” The pulse in my jugular throbbed against the pressure from the blade, which was tight enough to break skin at any second. “I can do this to every politician, mob boss, and business titan in the world. You want to know who is more brutal than the Handler—who is going to assume the throne?”
Her voice lowered to a rasping howl. “I am.”
She raised the knife and brought it back down in a swift overhand stabbing motion, spearing the blade into the wooden plank beside my head.
Her weight was off me in a flash, and I caught a glimpse of her shadow slipping out the doorway.
I sat up, gasping, as the ATV fired up and raced away down the trail. Taking a few panting breaths, I looked from the open door to the knife impaled beside me, then pressed two fingers to my jugular and pulled them away to feel a fine line of hot blood.
With a final breath, I collapsed back down to the floor and gasped three words to the ceiling:
“What. The. Hell.”
After sunrise I took the rusty ax and went behind the cabin to use it.
It wasn’t that I needed more firewood—instead, each heaving chop of the ax, each pop of the log sections into neatly split wedges, each thunk of my ax blade into the surface of the stump forced my mind into the present moment. I swung the ax with an easy violence that represented an outlet I so desperately craved.
There would be no placidly staring off into the hilltop lake this morning, no wistfully glimpsing the snow-covered mountains in the distance. My thoughts were a mob of frantic people crushing one another in a bid to escape. Almost seven months in isolation spent passing from depression to near inner peace, and now I felt on the brink of a nervous breakdown.
I brought the ax downward, splitting the log apart and wedging my blade firmly into the stump. Wrenching the ax head free, I reached for another log and chopped it in two.
As the wood exploded, I heard the ATV approaching once more. Great, I thought—what would she want now? We have sex and she virtually threatens to kill me, ending her monologue with the fact that she’s going to be the next Handler, as if I gave a shit—once Ian was free, my only concern was rejoining the Outfit and shipping off to war in South America. And now, here she was, back the next day as if none of that had happened.
The ATV stopped opposite the cabin, and I raised the ax over my head one more time. My vision was fixed on the concentric circles of the weathered stump before me, its flat surface scarred with a hundred ax strikes. I swung a mighty blow downward to elicit the hollow thunk of the blade wedging firmly into the wood.
Then, leaving it there, I strode angrily around the cabin, equal parts eager for and dreading the confrontation with Sage. Before I rounded the corner I heard her calling my name, sounding anxious and almost fearful—what an act. She’d already stashed me in the cabin and played her mind games to prove I’d sleep with her. Was this her next manipulation?
I rounded the corner to see her still seated on the ATV and looking around frantically. Her eyes found mine and she nearly shouted at me, “Get on! The item has almost reached Myanmar. You have to fly today.”
8
Three Days Later
August 24, 2009
Lashio, Myanmar
“Wait here. He will arrive soon.”
My contact closed the door, encapsulating me in a solitary room whose windows had been covered with newspaper from the inside. The temporary safe house was an ostensibly derelict business, a central location easily accessible from the Lashio airport, where I’d just arrived on a cargo flight.
I strolled to the patchwork of newspaper sections, the sheets forming a mosaic of spindly, ornate Burmese and Chinese script. Finding a gap in the paper, I peered through the rain-streaked window, gaining my first real glimpse of Myanmar after being transported aboard a delivery truck to the safe house.
The view revealed storefronts, balconies, and walkways teeming with palm trees and bushes. Between the brightly colored signs and heavily planted infrastructure, the center of Lashio looked like an urban rainforest. Whereas the people in the Rio favela I’d visited seemed to be surviving in the most densely packed of slums, the population in Myanmar was thriving. Despite a steady downpour of rain, the streets bustled with peaceful activity, the people walking lightly beneath their umbrellas without a care in the world, their clothes as colorful as any Westerner on a tropical vacation. While nothing about my surroundings spoke to wealth or luxury, the town was bright and happy despite the rain, not a scrap of trash to be seen. Sure, I’d sweated through all my clothes already in the Southeast Asian humidity, but I appreciated the bizarrely resort-like ambiance.
My calm fascination at the sight surprised me.
Like many who have experienced combat, I harbored an inherent discomfort around large crowds. In war the civilian populace represents a sea of possible enemy informants and hidden fighters, any group of people outside your team intrinsically tied with decreased control and increased danger. Once that correlation becomes etched in the fabric of your psyche—a mere handful of ambushes or explosions will do the trick—you tend to carry that perception forward across the rest of your life.
Yet after spending so long in isolation in the remote wilderness of British Columbia, the sheer number and density of people in Lashio was more bewildering to me than fear-inducing. After all, I’d just spent half a year speaking to no human but Sage, and neither her nor I were normal in any sense of the word.
So why was I in Myanmar?
Sage wouldn’t say. The item was about to arrive, but I didn’t need to know what it was or why it was in this corner of the world. Get the item, David. Ian’s freedom depends upon it, and so does yours. Don’t give me that shit, Sage. I’ll get your item, but you owe me some answers.
But she provided none.
I heard the door open behind me and turned, expecting to see the man who’d dropped me off.
Instead an Asian boy of perhaps fifteen years old entered, carrying a black canvas bag in one hand.
He made fleeting eye contact and then looked at the floor, beginning to speak and then falling silent as if he found me intimidating.
“How’s it going, buddy?” I asked.
He nodded and sheepishly lowered h
is eyes.
“English?”
“Hello.” He nodded again.
“You lost?”
He shook his head.
“Is my contact here yet?”
“I…I am your contact, Mr. David.” He handed me the black satchel, and I took it by a canvas grip—it weighed close to twenty pounds.
“Is this my item?”
“It is her refund. In full. 640,000 US. My grandfather sends his deepest regrets.”
I threw the bag down at his feet. “I didn’t come here for a refund. I came here for my item.”
“It happened while you were on the flight.”
“What happened?”
He sheepishly rubbed a slender bicep. “The government invaded Laukkai.”
“Laukkai?”
“In the Kokang region. Near China border.”
“And?”
“They seized the facility with your item. Most of the population has fled to China. Laukkai is occupied by government troops. Shops are closed, internet cut off. Laukkai has become a town of ghosts.”
“You mean ghost town.”
“Even the Kokang leader has fled, and it is unclear if he will attack the Myanmarese.”
“Aren’t you all Myanmarese?”
“Kokang is Han Chinese. In fifty years, the junta cannot control the border region—we do. With our armies. The junta is trying to—”
“Junta?”
“Myanmar Army. They try and disarm our forces and turn us into a border guard.”
“If you’ve been independent so long, why the sudden change?”
“Next year. The national election…”
“I get it,” I interjected, cutting him off with a wave of my hand. “Same story every time a regime subjugates the rebellious part of its population. Not a lot of political legitimacy to be claimed when an entire region refuses to participate, right?”
He squinted at me, struggling to comprehend one or more of my words. I simplified, “Kokang has always ruled Kokang, and now the government wants to control you? Ethnic Burmese versus ethnic Chinese?”
