by Warren Court
“Not a chance. I’ll be fine.”
Temple was about to get in his car when he paused. “Hey, Mendoza. Thanks, sweetie.” He made kissing sounds and Mendoza rolled his eyes.
62
Temple saw signs of violence as he walked up to Aunt Vicky’s front door. There was broken glass on the porch and the front door had been kicked in. A grandfather clock had been tipped over in the living room and its brass works were lying on the carpet. There was movement and noise coming from the kitchen.
“Come out, hands first,” Temple called. He raised his weapon. “Hands! This is the police.”
A pair of hands came out of the kitchen doorway, then arms, then a head and a body. It was the restaurant owner, Kiet Du. The supposedly dead man was very much alive.
“Where the hell have you been?” Temple said.
“He took her.”
“Who? Aunt Vicky?” Temple said.
“No, my daughter.”
“Who took her?”
“That man. I don’t know his name.”
“Ben Curtis. He’s a security guard at City Hall. That’s where you saw him, when you went to file that injunction against them tearing your building down.”
Du lowered his head and nodded.
“He was a Marine in Vietnam, April 1975. He killed your wife,” Temple said.
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’ve been to see your friend General Markinson.”
At the mention of Markinson Du’s head snapped up and his eyes opened wide in astonishment.
“How long ago did the security guard take your daughter?”
“I wasn’t here.”
“Explains why you’re still alive.”
“I found this.” He handed Temple a piece of paper. It was a hastily scrabbled ransom note. You for your daughter. Below it were what looked like GPS coordinates. Curtis was taking this Vietnam vet thing a little too far.
Temple had GPS on his phone but he’d never really used it. Luckily it wasn’t that difficult to work. He just had to punch the long string of coordinates in. He put his gun away, pulled out his phone and tapped them in.
It was a location north of the city. Temple thought it looked familiar. He switched over to his phone’s browser. The Canadian Veterans of Vietnam website was still on his screen and on it was a location for a clubhouse, with the same coordinates.
“I’m going to get your daughter back,” Temple said. “You’re in a lot of trouble. I want you to stay right here.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No way.”
“I’m coming with you.”
Temple sighed.
63
The two men were silent in the car for most of the ride. Only when they were free of the traffic and moving north did Temple finally speak.
“You saw this man kill your wife?”
“I didn’t see him do it. But I saw him leave my house. We lived on the outskirts of Saigon. A place called Duc Phu. He was with other Marines. He came out laughing. The other Marines, they were all drunk. They drove away before I could do anything. I went into the house and found my wife on the floor. She was dead.” Du bowed his head, then turned and looked out the window.
“So you saw this security guard, Curtis, at City Hall when you went to file an injunction against them tearing down your restaurant. What happened?”
Du nodded. “Nothing. I was too afraid. He saw me too.”
“And he knew.”
“Yes. Even after all this time.”
“And you called the general.”
“Yes. How do you know?”
“Phone records. I went to Washington and met with Markinson. He remembers you and what you told him.”
“I liked him very much. He was good to my family.”
“You were one of his agents?”
“Yes. I provided him with intelligence on enemy movement. Viet Cong.”
“Must have been dangerous.”
Du said nothing.
“What happened to you after the Americans pulled out?”
“I was sent to a camp.”
“Camp?”
“Re-education. For ten years. I had to be indoctrinated into communist philosophy. Anyone who worked for the Americans got sent to camps. Their whole families. I told them I worked on helicopters, and they believed me. If they’d known I was a spy, I would have been shot. One day my friend and I, we made a break. Got out of the camp.”
“Same friend who was with you on the boat?”
Du nodded. “We made it to Hong Kong, then Australia.”
“Same friend who got shot in your restaurant?”
Du nodded again. “He would understand.”
“Would he? Why didn’t you stay in Australia?”
“They did not want Vietnamese boat people there. It was bad. There were riots.”
“Your friend was cremated yesterday.”
“Yes, I know. I am ashamed that I could not go. I am ashamed for what happened to him. He did not deserve it. Now I have to kill this man for what he’s done and for my wife.”
“Hold on there. First priority is your daughter’s safety. I‘m going to use you to lure this security guard out, then I’m going to take him down. He’s going to jail. Prick took a shot at me.”
Du said nothing and looked out the window again.
Temple took the exit off Highway 10 and headed west. He was out in farm country now. He saw a sign for the Vietnam Veterans club and took a dirt road off the main one.
64
Temple slowed down and allowed the dust kicking up behind his car to settle. He crept along the road, studying every tree and bush, looking for whatever was missing from Curtis’s gun cabinet to start blasting him. He stopped when he could see the red peak of a building through the trees up ahead and he and Du got out of the car.
“Okay, this is how we’re going to play it. You’re going to drive this car up the road to the clubhouse. I’m going to circle through the bush. I want him out in the open. Don’t let him take you inside, even if you hear your daughter screaming.”
“What if he has already killed her?”
“I don’t think he has. He will kill both of you, I have no doubt, but he’ll want you nice and close first. Are you armed?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Damn right you’re not, but I am.” Temple popped the trunk and took out the Remington model 870 12-gauge shotgun and a rack of double-aught buck. He closed the lid slowly, then pressed on it to engage the latch. He loaded the shotgun and racked a shell into the chamber. The weapon held four rounds in the tubular magazine and one in the chamber. There was no extra ammo. He put the shotgun on the trunk of the car while he made sure his Glock had one up the spout.
“Wait here five minutes to give me time to move up.”
Du nodded. Temple slunk off into the woods, trying to make as little noise as possible. Every snapped twig sounded like rifle fire to him. He’d been schooled in combat situations, stealthy approach, cover and concealment, but always in an urban environment. This was jungle warfare.
He paused when he could see the building through the trees. Insects buzzed around him and he was already covered in sweat.
The veterans’ clubhouse was one long building with a red peaked roof at the front and a double-door entrance. On the grounds in front was what looked like a howitzer parked in static display.
“I hope he doesn’t open up on me with that,” Temple said softly, and chuckled. Next to the howitzer was a flagpole flying a Canadian flag. Below it flew an American one and a black MIA/POW flag.
Temple heard the crunch of his car tires on the dirt road.
65
Temple inched closer, using the approaching car’s sound to cover his own noise. He kept his eyes on the clubhouse.
He saw Kiet Du get out of the car and move to the front of the clubhouse. The door opened and his daughter, her eyes wide with fear, was shoved out. Her father took steps towards her and t
he daughter emerged fully. Curtis had her by the hair with one hand. He held a gun to the side of her head with the other. He tugged at her to stop moving and she yelped.
“Stop right there,” Curtis said.
The restaurant owner spoke in Vietnamese and the daughter replied, her voice filled with anguish.
“Cut that gook shit out.”
Curtis manoeuvred the girl to put her between himself and her father. The pair descended two steps to the ground. Temple had his shotgun pointed at them but it was a hopeless gesture; he would cut her in half if he fired. He could not take that shot even with his Glock.
He could hear the restaurant owner and the security guard conversing but couldn’t make out their words. Crap, he thought. He should have told Du to speak loudly.
Finally, Du’s voice rose in anguish. “Let her go,” he pleaded.
“Lift up your shirt,” Curtis said.
Du lifted his shirt.
“Turn around.”
Du turned around, showing Curtis he was not armed.
Curtis closed the distance to Du, pushing the girl in front of him. The closer he got to Du the better the angle got for Temple. Closer… That’s it. Temple willed the security guard forward. He was still twenty feet from Du. Temple took a couple of steps to the left but stayed in the brush. The yard in front of the clubhouse was gravel; Curtis would hear Temple’s approach.
He could see now that Curtis had a silver pistol in his hand. It looked like a .45, one of the ones missing from his arsenal. Over his shoulder was slung that AK-47 he’d had in the picture. There was a large sheathed combat knife stuck in his belt. The Ford must be around the back. Curtis was wearing fatigues and had an ammo pouch around his waist. He’s lost it, Temple thought.
Temple saw a puff of exhaust come from his car; it was still running. The driver’s side window was down. Temple took out his phone and saw that it was still connected to the car via Bluetooth. He scanned his playlist, turned up the volume and punched Play.
From the car speakers came the sound of “Run Through the Jungle” by Credence Clearwater Revival. One of the group’s anti-Vietnam songs. Curtis stopped his movement forward. Du spun around to see who was behind him.
“What the hell is that?” Curtis yelled.
Temple took his chance. He charged, the shotgun out in front like a hockey player going in for a cross-check.
The song so mesmerized Curtis that he relaxed his hold on the girl’s hair. She struggled to get free but just fell to her knees. Curtis flinched as he heard Temple on the gravel. He was spinning just as Temple hit his upper arm with the shotgun, throwing him to the side.
Somehow Curtis managed to keep hold of his pistol. Eyes wild, he tried to scramble away. Temple brought the barrel of the shotgun around but stumbled over the girl’s arm as he fired. The load of buck went into the dirt. As Temple reloaded, Curtis ran in a zigzag pattern into the forest. Temple fired but hit the base of a maple tree. Curtis was gone. He racked another round but held off from firing. The leaves swayed where Curtis had disappeared into the woods.
“Motherfucker,” Temple yelled.
Du ran to his daughter. He threw his arms around her and helped her to her feet.
“You two get out of here,” Temple said. He tossed Du his phone. “Call 911. Tell them officer needs assistance. Shots fired. Direct them here.”
Temple racked the shotgun, knowing he had three rounds left. He moved into the woods in pursuit of Curtis.
66
The canopy overhead thickened, cutting out the sunlight. Temple crouched down and let his heart rate and breathing slow. He let his eyes become adjusted and he listened to the forest. A branch snapped somewhere in the distance and he went after it.
The forest floor rose and descended, and the branches of bushes and low trees grabbed at him. Scratched his hands and face. He dropped his sport coat to the ground and moved over a hill.
A rake of bullets crossed his path, turning up leaves and digging into tree trunks. Temple flung himself to the ground. The fire was automatic and sounded just like an AK-47 in the movies. Jesus Christ, he has it on automatic. Must have modified it himself.
Temple peeked over the top of the rise in the forest floor and saw nothing but a blanket of green. He took a stone near him and tossed it to his right. He saw a blaze of fire come from a clump of bushes, raking the ground where the stone had fallen. Temple let loose all three rounds from the shotgun in a quick reply. Then he slunk back down below the line of sight and listened. There was no sound. The shotgun was now useless, and he tossed it aside.
Armed with his Glock, Temple went back down the hill and moved to the left to go around it. There was an open space he had to cross to get to the line of bushes where Curtis’s last volley had come from.
If Temple had hit his guy good, he would be on the ground bleeding, like that shooter in the trailer at the cement plant. Maybe I should wait, let him bleed out. But if he hadn’t hit him, the man might be moving deeper into the woods. Temple would never find him. Or worse, he would walk right into another ambush.
Temple took a couple of deep breaths and ran across the clearing, sweeping his weapon over the area. There was no response from the AK. He made it across and took refuge behind the thick trunk of a white pine. Sweat ran in thick rivers down his face, stinging his eyes. He tried to wipe them clear.
He moved out, down the line of dense brush Curtis had last fired from, stopping every couple of feet and listening. There was no moaning of a wounded man, nothing.
When he got to the approximate spot where the shotgun rounds hat hit, he found chewed-up wood and bark. No blood. He hadn’t hit anything.
Temple pushed into the thick bush. Emerging on the other side, he was surrounded by fir trees; their low, sweeping branches blocked his path. He’d never been a real outdoors man; he hated the woods, hated bugs. But here he was. Worse, he might die in this shitty environment, surrounded by insects and mud and probably poison ivy. To hell with that.
Temple pressed on. The only sounds were the call of birds and the scrambling of squirrels up tree trunks as he passed by.
He stopped to rest and collect his thoughts. Let him go. Get Tactical out here, maybe even the army. If this guy wants to play John Rambo, let him die doing it.
Temple heard something off to the left. Larger than a squirrel or coyote. Curtis was circling around, trying to get behind him. Or get back to the lodge. He’s trying to get away. Last Man Out. Temple started moving fast now. To hell with noise discipline. He headed back the way he had come and caught Curtis in the clearing, moving across it, AK-47 held at his hip. Temple fired, two quick rounds. Curtis went down screaming.
Temple moved in slowly, his gun up. The grass was waist high in the clearing. He reached the spot where Curtis had gone down. The AK-47 was on the ground; one of Temple’s rounds had smashed through the magazine. There was blood on the ground. A blood trail leading back up to the lodge.
Temple tracked him slowly. He rounded a large tree and felt the cold muzzle of a weapon placed up against his neck.
“Drop it.”
“Dude,” Temple said.
“I said drop it or I’ll blow your head off.”
Temple dropped his weapon. He still had the KA-BAR knife he always carried, but he could only get to that with a struggle. Curtis had the drop on him.
“Move,” the security guard said.
“You’re hurt. We need to get you an ambulance. And I’m a cop. You can’t do this.”
“Shut up, you gook lover.”
“Gook? Listen to you. The war is over, man. Has been for forty years.”
Curtis butted Temple on the head with his pistol to get him to move. They went back through the stand of trees they had first come through. There was the clearing in the distance and the clubhouse. Temple’s car was still there.
67
“I’ve filed a report of all my actions. I radioed this in before I came out here,” Temple said to Curtis.
; “I don’t care.”
“Let me ask you, did you kill that guy’s wife in Saigon?”
“Is that what he told you?”
“Yes.”
“You raped her first.”
“It was war.”
“He was working for the Americans.”
“Yeah, but she was working for the other side. She was Viet Cong. We were sent there.”
“By who? Markinson?”
“Who?”
“I talked to Markinson.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“I went down to see him in Washington. He’s a general now. He never said anything about sending you there.” This guy is still back there, Temple thought.
“Who is Markinson?”
Temple changed tacks. “You have to get back to the embassy, Curtis. You don’t want to get left behind.”
“I don’t want to get left behind. No, sir.”
“Listen—you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“It’s Charlie. He’s moving in. We’re going to get overrun.”
Curtis started laughing, but he kept the pistol firmly pressed to Temple’s head.
“You think I’m some sort of wigged-out vet?”
“It was worth a shot. So what’s it with you and the Russians? You have enough favours in the bank with them you can get two of their killers on loan?”
Curtis said nothing.
“Were you in the car?”
“You expecting a confession?”
“No, you’re too smart for that. Don’t worry. It’s clear what went down. You’re a funnel for information to Kumarin, to Taylor, anyone who pays.”
Curtis pushed Temple further into the clearing. Du and his daughter were nowhere to be seen. The car was no longer running. The driver’s side door was still open.
“Did you like my music selection? Little CCR—brings you back, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, I loved that song,” Curtis said.
“It’s almost like you never left, isn’t it? You can get help.”
“I don’t need help. I’m doing just fine all on my own. Got the drop on you, didn’t I?”
