Missions from the Extinction Cycle (Volume 1)

by Mark Tufo

  Her father had been French, a businessman with a questionable pedigree, and her mother a great beauty in Bangkok who’d fallen on hard times after three children had transformed her from an ingénue to a mother whose body hadn’t recovered from Aranya, her youngest. The French father had disappeared one weekend on a trip to Laos and had never been seen again, leaving his Thai family to fend for themselves. Her mother had done what she’d had to do, but in a competitive environment that valued youth, she’d been hard-pressed to make ends meet, and the children had turned to the street for their education and sustenance.

  Aranya had been the only daughter and had benefited from her mother’s beauty and her father’s intelligence. She only had dim memories of him, a male presence who smelled of cologne and had an occasional peck on the cheek for his girl child at bedtime.

  She’d later learned that the Frenchman had returned to his country and the wife and kids he’d left there while pursuing his fortune, and had died in an automobile accident only months after landing in Paris. The news had given Aranya no pleasure –by that time she’d been far beyond blaming her parents for the world’s sins or her place in it.

  Prostitution had been a natural vocation for her as a teenager desperate to survive, and she’d been sucked into the life by a smooth-talking pimp who’d murmured of diamonds and yachts and trips around the world as he’d turned her out. Like all the men in her life, he’d wound up abandoning her, his life ended in an alleyway by a rival with a quicker knife hand.

  Aranya’s brothers had long before disappeared into Bangkok’s seedy underworld, and her mother had overdosed on heroin, leaving her with nobody but herself and her wits. She’d packed her few belongings after ransacking her pimp’s apartment and taken a bus to Pattaya, where she’d hoped to start a new life by the beach, where the days were sunny and the nights festive—a perfect place for a young woman with aspirations and the will to do whatever was necessary.

  That had been six years before, and now, at twenty, she felt double her age, although her body and face showed no trace of the mileage on it. After over four years as a bar girl and an escort, she’d landed a patron who recognized her value. He had put her up in the apartment and furnished it for her on the condition that she be at his disposal whenever he wanted, and allowed the place to be used for meetings with his associates—one of whom had been Kyle, who’d been instantly drawn to her.

  Their clandestine romance had been explosive and wild, and it hadn’t hurt that he’d been as generous with her as she could have wanted. Money, jewelry, gifts—he’d been rolling in cash and hadn’t minded spending it on Aranya, who’d been more than willing to entertain him as long as it didn’t interfere with her patron, who’d had no idea she was two-timing him.

  Thunder roared from the patio and another flurry of rain lashed the glass. She sighed as the drug’s warmth flooded her system, the opium she’d seeded the marijuana with transporting her away from her earthly cares. She was raising the joint to her lips when a rustle sounded from the entryway, and her eyelids popped open in surprise.

  A figure stood dripping water no more than five feet away. His clothes were soaked, and his long hair and wild beard were matted and filthy. He was wearing some sort of tattered uniform jacket and the loose black pants of a Vietnamese peasant, a pair of worn boots without laces on his feet and a heavy survival knife gripped in his hand. Aranya’s gaze met his and her blood froze in her veins at the insanity in his eyes. His face glowed gaunt and spectral, the pupils dilated and frantic, the whites yellowed from jaundice.

  She tried to rise, but he crossed the distance between them in a blink, and then she was screaming in horror at his foul smell and the first blow from the knife butt, which she warded off with her arm. A flash of pain seared along her ulna as the steel hilt ripped her skin, driven by almost unbelievable strength. Her attacker barely seemed to register her as he struck again, this time slamming her across the face with the butt, the vicious blow breaking her jaw in an instant. The room spun as her consciousness receded, and her last thought as awareness faded into nothingness was that this must be the madman who’d killed Kyle.

  Five minutes later, the killer wiped blood from his mouth, the woman’s throat having posed no challenge to his teeth, and tossed her front door keys that he’d found in Kyle’s pocket onto her chest. The ever-present rage burning behind his eyes softened at least momentarily, his thirst for her life essence slaked. He moved soundlessly to the front door and listened for movement, and hearing nothing, twisted the knob with filth-crusted hands and slipped through the gap. He pulled it shut and ran for the stairwell that led to the roof, where he’d crossed from the building next door, a partially built commercial structure that was deserted at night other than rats and a few desperate hounds seeking shelter from the weather.

  — 12 —

  Sunan and Hal rolled to a stop at the gangster’s restaurant, which was closed at the early hour of morning. They stepped from the truck and skirted large puddles of muddy water, remnants of the previous night’s downpour.

  The Thai inspector had been waiting for Hal at the gate at eight a.m., anxious to get to the restaurant after an early morning call from the gangster’s assistant. The crime boss had located the doctor and wanted his payoff when he gave them the information. Hal had counted out almost all his discretionary cash, pocketed the wad of fifty dollar bills, and joined Sunan at the base entrance after a hurried breakfast in the mess, the gathered airmen checking him out with curiosity as he’d eaten by himself in a far corner.

  Four guards lounged at one of the circular tables at the rear of the restaurant, and Hal recognized two of them as the pair from the day before. Sunan nodded to the men, who were clearly more relaxed today, and one of them called out in Thai and pointed at the office door.

  The gangster was waiting for them and pointed to the chairs in front of the desk. They sat and he gave them a flash of crooked teeth.

  “I find doc. You bring cash?” he asked Hal in English by way of greeting.

  Hal nodded. “Of course. Where is he?”

  “Let’s see green,” the gangster fired back.

  Hal exchanged a look with Sunan and slid the small wad of dollars to the gangster. The man counted it with the speed of a bank teller and grinned again.

  “He in bad way. Over at Monkey Bar.”

  Sunan frowned. “The opium den,” he said. “I thought that had been closed down.”

  “Right people pay, open again.”

  “What’s his name?” Hal asked.

  “Doc.”

  “Of course,” Hal muttered.

  Sunan and the gangster had a lengthy exchange in Thai while Hal studied his shoes, and then the inspector stood. “Let’s get over there while he’s still there. Our man here has someone outside the place with a radio, but the information you bought is where he is now, not where he went after you were told.”

  Hal nodded as he rose. “Sounds like that could be expensive.”

  “You need woman, boy, girl, whatever, you know who to call,” the gangster offered to their backs. Sunan stiffened, but Hal continued to the door, hoping the inspector would let it slide. They retraced their steps to the truck, frowns in place as they navigated the mud.

  “Tell me about the Monkey Bar,” Hal said once they were in the vehicle.

  “It’s been open on and off for years. A pair of old mama-sans run it. They sell opium, not heroin, so it’s not a shooting gallery. Users smoke it, and they rent cots to them in addition to selling the drug. Also liquor and some food.”

  “And the police don’t stop it?”

  Sunan shrugged. “If someone wants to smoke opium, they’ll do it one way or another. Some feel it’s preferable to heroin since you avoid the needles and overdoses. Either way, as with so much in our country, flexibility is prized, and allowing a few dens to operate under the radar is considered the best solution. Tolerance of them comes and goes in waves. Right now, with so many Americans, heroin is a bigger pr
oblem. Mostly it’s locals and occasional curious tourists who smoke opium. The police in the area are paid to look the other way, so everyone wins.”

  “Except the addicts,” Hal observed. “Heroin’s a big problem in the U.S.”

  “I’m not surprised. Any night in Bangkok you can find hundreds of GIs on leave who are smoking or shooting it.”

  “You sound ambivalent about it.”

  Sunan shrugged again. “I’ve spent my career chasing murderers. I’ve seen enough dead to fill a warehouse. There are worse things than drugs. I’m not saying they’re not bad, but compared with what I deal with, they’re a minor problem.”

  The drive took them to a seedy neighborhood on the outskirts of Pattaya, the poverty palpable in the ramshackle hovels that lined the dirt streets. Sunan parked a block from their destination and they walked along the road, a few chickens racing ahead of them for company. The stench of raw sewage and wood smoke from makeshift stoves was strong in the humid air.

  They reached the building that housed the Monkey Bar—what to Hal’s eye looked to be an abandoned warehouse overtaken by squatters. A skeleton of a man who could have been a hundred years old was sitting on a plastic chair in front of the main entrance, and he eyed them suspiciously before challenging Sunan in Thai.

  Sunan responded with a harsh tone, and the man seemed chastened. Sunan mounted the steps and Hal hurried to join him.

  “What was that about?”

  “He said we can’t raid him. He’s paid in full for the month. I told him we were looking for someone—a white man. He said there’s only one inside.”

  “That will make our job easy.”

  “Maybe. Go around the back and make sure nobody ducks out. I’ll call for you when I find him.”

  Hal did as asked and waited by the rear door. Three minutes later Sunan’s head popped from it.

  “He’s in here. Out of it.”

  Hal approached, and Sunan retreated into the gloomy interior. Hal squeezed inside and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. He looked around and spotted rows of beds, half unoccupied, with prone forms lying on dirty mattresses in narcotic slumber. Sunan walked over to one of the cots and gestured at a thin man with gray hair—obviously Caucasian and just as obviously unconscious. Beside him were a bamboo pipe and a smoldering oil lamp, and next to that a small brown bar with chunks broken off the edges.

  Sunan angled his head at the bar. “That’s opium,” Sunan said. “They use the lamp to heat it and breathe the vapor.”

  “Think we can rouse him?”

  “Depends on when he had his last pipe and how many he’s smoked.”

  Hal knelt beside the man and shook his shoulder. He received an uncomprehending stare through half-open eyes for his effort. Hal stood and glowered down at him, waiting to see whether he would pass out or could respond to questions.

  “What?” the man growled.

  “You Doc?” Hal asked.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m an investigator helping the local police.”

  The man blinked several times and inhaled heavily. “Got to arrest the whole place, then. Hope you brought a big van.”

  “Not interested in arresting anyone.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Are you Doc?”

  The man closed his eyes again. “Tell me I’m hallucinating.”

  “Would it count if your hallucination told you so?”

  His eyes snapped open, this time not as foggy. “This is real, isn’t it?”

  “I have some questions I need answers to.”

  Doc groaned and sat up. He stared at Sunan for a few beats and then turned back to Hal. “What are you investigating?”

  “Murder.”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  That drew a smile from Hal. “You’re not a suspect.”

  “Then leave me alone.”

  Hal shook his head. “Not today. You want to find someplace we can talk? Sooner you cooperate, sooner you can get back to whatever this is.”

  “Killing the pain.”

  Sunan took a step closer. “There’s another room in the front. Sort of a bar. Nobody’s there. We can do this at one of the tables and be gone in no time. Or I can cuff you and you can go through hell at the station. Your choice.”

  Doc grimaced and pushed himself to his feet, his bare toes filthy in ratty flip-flops. He stumbled on the way to the bar area and Hal had to steady him, masking his disgust at touching the derelict.

  They took seats opposite Doc, who began nodding off. Hal prodded him, and he snapped back to full consciousness.

  “Ow.”

  “I’m investigating a series of murders, and your name came up.”

  “Me? Who’s dead?”

  “Sergeant Kyle Walkins, Cody Simmons Nicholas Crosby. Barry Fletcher. Tom Reed.”

  Doc processed the information and his eyes widened. “Shit.”

  Hal nodded. “Exactly.”

  “Why do you want to talk to me?”

  “We know you were involved in drugs with some of them.”

  “What?”

  Hal’s eyes narrowed. “We know about the heroin.”

  Doc’s expression changed. “Oh. That. It wasn’t for me, if that’s what you were thinking. I stick to opium. Besides, I didn’t kill anyone. I’ve been on the pipe here for…three months, at least. Not a lot of motivation to murder.”

  “We’re trying to figure out who killed these men. We think it might be related to the drugs.”

  Doc licked his lips. “I could use a beer or something.”

  Sunan rose and walked over to where an old woman sat by a cooler. When he returned, he set a frosted bottle on the table in front of Doc, who took it with a shaking hand and drank half in a couple of swallows. He set it down and nodded at the Thai.

  “Thanks.” He paused. “How were they killed?”

  Sunan glared at him. “It’s been all over the news.”

  “Humor me. Like I said, I’ve been here most of the time. You see any televisions or newspapers?”

  “They were all killed violently. Defensive wounds on their arms. Throats brutalized,” Hal said.

  “Brutalized how?”

  Hal looked to Sunan for permission, and Sunan nodded. Hal sat forward. “They were ripped out.”

  Doc’s face blanched. “Sweet Jesus…” He swallowed hard. “It’s him…”

  “Who?” Hal demanded.

  The older man finished the beer and burped. “That’s classified.”

  “I’ve got a clearance to top secret.” Hal eyed him. “Besides, you aren’t in the service, are you?”

  “I…I was a civilian adjunct. Medical. Brought in for a special project.” He glanced at Sunan. “Maybe your friend here can take a walk?”

  Hal looked to the inspector with raised eyebrows. Sunan nodded and rose. “I’m going to see what else they have besides beer. You want anything?”

  “Coke, if it’s cold,” said Hal.

  “Another beer for me, Captain,” Doc replied, earning a glare.

  Sunan stalked away and Hal faced off with Doc. “Okay. Talk.”

  Doc rubbed his face with a dirty hand, his nails ragged with half-moons of grime in the beds, and when he looked Hal in the eyes, he appeared to deflate.

  “I was brought in for a classified project. A prisoner. I was in charge of evaluation and stabilizing him while military intelligence figured out what to do with him.”

  “Why didn’t they bring in a military physician?”

  “My area of specialty isn’t common in the army.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you don’t need to know. Anyway, I was caring for a prisoner with a violent history. The heroin was to keep him sedated. We tried other agents, but that worked best to keep him calm.”

  Realization played across Hal’s features. “VX-99…” he whispered.

  Doc’s eyes widened. “How could you know that?”

  It was Hal’s tu
rn to stonewall. “You don’t need to know.”

  Doc nodded with a grim smile. “Touché.”

  Hal frowned. “But I don’t understand. The base isn’t a prison. Why not fly the prisoner to the States?”

  “It was decided to keep him here for the time being. I didn’t make the decision. But we all thought we had him under control.” Doc shook his head. “That was a mistake.”

  “What happened?”

  “We got complacent. He must have built up a tolerance to the heroin over time and faked being out. One morning we came in, and he’d managed to kill his guard and escape.”

  “Wait. He killed a guard?”

  “Correct.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then my contract was terminated, and I decided to hang around and enjoy Thailand. Too much, as it turned out.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Maybe…five, six months? It’s a little hazy. What’s the date?”

  Hal told him. Doc nodded. “Five months.”

  “Tell me as much about him as you know.”

  “You know about the VX-99. What else is there to tell? He’s barely more than an animal. A murderous one.”

  “Where was he captured and by whom?”

  “I don’t know. That wasn’t important for my job. All I know is he’s survived by killing animals, livestock and dogs, that sort of thing, and sometimes, people. I pieced that together from snatches of conversation. He’d been out in the wild for years.” Doc paused. “He’s a cannibal. Or more accurately, he kills anything he can, and he’s not above eating human victims. But he’s clever, too. He knows how to hide, obviously, if it took years to find him. The heroin calmed him to the point where he almost seemed normal—as long as the doses were right.”

  “You think he’s doing heroin now?”

  “Not if he’s on a killing spree.”

  Hal digested that. “Why is he after Americans?”

  “One of the men you mentioned was an orderly who cared for him. The other was a military policeman. The sergeant was in charge of sourcing the drugs, so he had some interactions with him as well. The others…I don’t know. Don’t recognize the names.”