by C. C. Gibbs
Concentrate, relax. Not exactly possible, he thought drily. Then he slowly drew Carlos’s custom, miniature version of an all-purpose knife upward over his thigh to his chest and waited for his heart to stop pounding in his ears. Gripping the blade firmly in his fingers, he studied the two wide red nylon straps binding the cargo box, the fabric visible through some of the air holes. Drawing in a slow, calming breath, he forced his arm upward in the confined space and with a hellish twist of his wrist managed to place the knife blade on the edge of the strap.
He wasn’t able to see his watch, so he had no idea how long it took him to saw through the first strap. Pain consumed him, radiating through his body in continuous waves, his brain shutting down occasionally as though offering a moment of respite. He’d eventually regain consciousness and, teeth clenched, drenched in sweat, he’d command his senses to function and go back to cutting the nylon.
When he finally severed the second strap and gently eased back the lid, he lay completely inert, unable to move. The room was dark, although it had to be daylight by now. But the murky black was an advantage. He needed time to become mobile. And he really had to piss.
Not knowing whether a guard was posted outside the door, he half-climbed, half-rolled out of the metal cargo container as quietly as possible and lay in a sprawl on a dirt floor. He managed to move his arm just enough to see his inexpensive sports watch that no one had wanted. Unlike his wallet.
Eleven fifteen.
Gora should be in Thailand by now; Zou should be waiting for his money. In the meantime, he had to bypass the gnawing agony gripping his body and get off the floor. Beginning with his fingers and toes, stifling an urge to groan, he systematically flexed and contracted his muscles until he was able to slowly sit up, then, even more slowly, stand. Fuck, everything hurt. He’d pay a fortune for a couple Oxys right now.
A sliver of light was visible on the side of what appeared to be the door and once his eyes became more accustomed to the darkness, he examined his prison. It must have been a stable at one time; he was in one of two stalls. Moving quietly to the farthest corner, well away from the door, he relieved himself, zipped up again, walked to the other stall, sat down, leaned back against the half wall, and considered his options.
Zou wanted the ransom, but whether he kept his bargain after that was debatable. A man without scruple, he’d abandoned his wife and family, his mistress and child, his country. Surely he’d view a captive’s life as equally disposable once the ransom money had been paid. But, first things first—could he get out?
Coming to his feet, not sure whether a guard was outside, Rafe carefully moved to the door and tugged on it, then waited to see whether the small pull had been noticed. Nothing—no sound, no movement. Zou had left only a skeleton crew behind at the compound when he and his troops had traveled to Bangkok. It was impossible to fly his entire force back. That would explain the lack of guards. It also meant the compound’s security was compromised. Bruised and battered as he was, Rafe felt a sudden surge of elation at the thought.
Oh fuck.
The door suddenly opened and, blinking against the light, Rafe found himself facing Zou and two guards.
“Well, well, well,” Zou murmured. “I thought you were just a pretty boy with more money than brains.”
“I thought you were an asshole and I was right.” Zou was relatively small and the two guards didn’t exactly look like prizefighters…he could take them.
“You have no manners,” Zou said softly.
“I just climbed out of a box you put me in. So fuck manners. All we have to do is agree on a price and I’m out of here.”
“I’ve already talked to one of your people.” A thin smile curled into a malicious sneer and Zou’s voice dropped. “I’ll wait to talk to him.” His eyes drilled into Rafe, then he turned to his guards. “String him up.”
Rafe took out the first guard with a slashing elbow to his throat that crushed his wind pipe. Spinning to his left, he kicked the second guard in the groin and as the man crumpled to the ground, screaming, Rafe turned to Zou and abruptly stopped, his heart spiking hard. Another guard was leading Dao toward them. She looked exhausted, dazed, her hands tied behind her back, her face bruised.
“You’re such good friends,” Zou said, smiling faintly. “I thought she might be useful.”
“She’s a very good friend,” Rafe said, keeping his voice level. “You shouldn’t have done that to her.”
“I disagree. It brought you to heel. ” He waved his hand. “Take her away. Now I suggest you cooperate with my guards or your friend will suffer more.”
Zou waited for two other guards to arrive and watched while they tied Rafe’s arms behind his back and hung him from a pole in one of the stalls. His shoulders were already damaged and if he hung from that position long, his shoulder joints would separate and tear from their sockets.
“You probably don’t want to move too much.” Zou’s smile was sly, like a well-fed fox’s. “Such a shame you’re not lighter. Your weight is a disadvantage.”
Sweat was streaming down Rafe’s face, relentless waves of pain jackhammering his body; he set his jaw to speak. “If you hurt Dao anymore…” His voice was no more than a rasping whisper; each word took effort. “I’ll see that you die slowly.” He stared at Zou for a moment, a hard glitter in his amber eyes, his breathing rough, panting. “That’s a…fucking promise…you piece of shit.” Then, as if he’d used up all his strength, his gaze went dull and he lost consciousness.
“We’ll see who dies,” Zou murmured, then glanced at the two guards. “Shoot him if anyone comes to his aid.”
Chapter 27
Gora’s helicopter landed in the center of the compound and he stepped down, Carlos and Max behind him. The other nine choppers hovered overhead in a close pattern as a show of force, although the troops had all been offloaded several miles away. They were surrounding the compound now, waiting for Carlos’s signal to attack.
After being checked for weapons, Gora entered Zou’s makeshift office in the main structure that long ago had been a clan chief’s home. Gora could have been any tourist on holiday in Thailand: beige linen jacket, brown slacks, white open-neck shirt, brown leather lace-up shoes.
He sat down without being asked, set a leather trimmed canvas bag on the floor by his feet, and looked up at Zou, who was standing in the center of the windowless room. “I’m Rafe Contini’s father.”
“His father’s dead.”
“That’s not true. But Maso’s dead. I watched him die,” Gora said, his voice and manner relaxed. Did Zou really think he could be intimidated by the juvenile psychology of who was looking up at whom? “How much do you want?”
Zou glanced at the bag on the floor. “More than that.”
“How much?” Two expressionless words.
“Fifty million.”
Gora raised one brow. “I’d have to see Rafe for fifty million.” His smile wasn’t really a smile. “Proof of life. You understand.”
Zou flicked his finger. “Follow me.”
Gora didn’t bother to pick up the canvas bag. He left the room, nodded to Carlos, who was waiting outside in the corridor, and said quietly, “Come with me. We’re going to see Rafe. You okay here?” He glanced at Max. Max and his crew were in charge of clearing out the main house once the signal was given.
Max smiled. “No problem. I’ll go sit with the pilot. Stay out of the way.”
Four of Zou’s guards, stationed at the entrance to the house, fell in behind the small party as they left the house and walked across the compound yard.
“I hope you haven’t harmed Rafe.” Gora’s voice was so mild he could have been remarking on the weather.
“He’s alive.”
Gora’s gaze flicked sideways briefly, the only indication he didn’t like the answer he’d been given. “That’s good.” He turned to Carlos, who was on his right. “Perhaps Alexei should be called.”
“Call anyone you want once I get my f
ifty million,” Zou said acidly. “You’re in my compound. I make the rules here.” He held all the cards with Rafe Contini in his hands.
“Naturally.” No one did neutral like Gora. Although the sudden stillness in his shoulders was a time bomb ticking down. “Once I see that Rafe is well I just need your tracking number and we’ll be on our way.”
“I didn’t say he was well. Your son had to be subdued. He tried to escape.” Zou gave him a mocking smile. “You understand.”
They’d reached a small outbuilding and just before the door was opened, Gora glanced up, surveyed the tree line, then held Carlos’s gaze for a second.
“See for yourself,” Zou said with a little wave of his hand as though showing off a prize tiger in a cage. “Proof of life.”
The door was thrown open by one of the guards; the outside light poured into the shadowed interior and illuminated the single figure within.
Rafe was hanging from a pole strung under his bound arms, his T-shirt soaked with sweat, his jeans-clad legs limp, his booted feet hanging a deliberately cruel quarter inch above the ground. His head was sunk on his chest, his long hair falling in dark, damp tendrils over his face, his breathing barely visible, his pain so intense that even unconscious, he was moaning softly.
There was absolute silence for a second, then Gora drew in a breath. “Very well, he’s alive. Now all we have to do is make the bank transfer. Carlos cut him down.”
“Not until I have my money,” Zou snapped.
Gora gave Carlos a nod. “Wait outside, then. I’ll come for you.”
Zou left his four guards with Carlos when he and Gora returned to the house.
The moment Zou and Gora disappeared into the house, Carlos pressed a small electronic device in his pocket twice and the assault began. Waves of armed men rappelled over the walls, dropped to the ground, and quickly and quietly killed Zou’s minimum security force. The attackers used knives when they could get in close; if that wasn’t possible the silencers on their weapons suppressed the sound.
Meanwhile, it was Gora’s job to keep Zou talking while the compound was overrun. Having jettisoned his psychological games now that the transfer was about to take place, Zou sat at a table he was using for a desk and Gora pulled up a chair across from him.
They agreed the ransom amount would be minus the cash Gora had carried in. Gora had opened the zipper, held up the bag, showed Zou the strapped packets of hundreds, and asked whether he wanted to count them. Zou had shaken his head and Gora had moved on to the details of the delivery method for the remaining funds. Gora also requested that their doctor be allowed to land and see to Rafe before they left.
Zou shrugged. “Why not?”
“I prefer using my bank account in Cyprus or Dubai,” Gora explained. “Do you have a preference?”
“Dubai.”
Gora almost smiled. “Dubai it is. Now bear with me. I usually have people who take care of these things for me. But under the circumstances”—a slight grimace—“I’ll do my best.” He handed his satellite phone to Zou. “I have my Dubai bank online. If you’d put in your routing number, I’ll key mine in next and we’ll get this completed. I’d like to get Rafe home as soon as possible.”
Zou tapped in his routing number and handed the phone back.
Gora punched in his numbers, swore, then looked up and gave an eye roll. “Where’s your assistant when you need him, eh? Let me try this again.” He slowly entered one number at a time, then waited. “Ah…finally. I think that did it. Check your account.”
As Zou was bringing up his account on his phone, Gora busied himself with the money in the canvas bag. “Just a quick check that all the packets are there,” he said, looking up with a strapped twenty-grand bundle in his hand, putting it back on top of the ceramic and plastic handgun, designed to beat metal detectors, hidden in the bag.
Zou suddenly smiled. “There. It went through.”
Gora leaned over, quietly eased the gun free, picked up the canvas bag and held it out. “Don’t forget this.” Sliding the custom Glock in his other hand under the table, he squeezed the trigger twice.
While Gora was dealing with Zou and the compound security force was being neutralized, Carlos, Gina, and Webster slit the throats of the four guards at the stable. Quickly entering the small building, they moved to Rafe and, making a seat with their arms, Webster and Carlos lifted him to ease the pressure on his shoulders.
“Oxy,” Rafe whispered, his eyelids flickering. Everyone had a supply. His had been taken.
“Here.” Gina pushed two tablets into his mouth. “Water.” She tipped her canteen to his lips. “Come on,” she urged. “Drink enough. You know the drill.”
Rafe swallowed a few more times, then shook away the canteen and half-opened his eyes. “Dao’s here.” His voice was hoarse. “Find her. She’s been hurt.”
Carlos spoke into the small hearing device in his left ear that gave him audio contact with everyone on their team. He listened for a few seconds. “Dao’s with Reggie. She’s okay. They’re waiting to be choppered out.”
“Good.” Rafe raised his head with visible effort and opened his eyes. “Ganz?” he croaked and steeled himself for the answer.
“Stable. He’s on the medevac plane.”
If it wouldn’t have hurt to breathe a sigh of relief, Rafe would have. But every muscle in his body was damaged, the pain crushing. He visibly rallied to speak. “I’ll likely pass out when you lift me down. Don’t sweat it.”
“Alexei’s on his way,” Carlos said as Gina scrambled up on the half wall. “He’ll give you a shot. Make the pain disappear.”
“Gora okay?”
“I’m sure. He’s in with Zou.” Rafe’s voice was getting weaker, his breathing more difficult. “We’re going to get you down. On three, Gina’s going to pull out the pole, okay? You hear me?”
Rafe gritted his teeth and nodded.
Carlos kept his eyes on Gina. “One. Two. Three.”
Rafe bit back his scream but he was gasping like a landed fish as he was gently lowered to the ground and his arms were untied. Fighting back the darkness trying to smother him, his pain insupportable, he looked up at Gina kneeling beside him. “One bump,” he whispered, his breath wheezing in and out, his fingers clenched against the relentless agony.
She hesitated. Rafe had given up blow a few years ago when he’d begun to chase it too much. No rehab, nothing; he just quit.
Rafe’s gaze didn’t waver. “Come on.” Cocaine was Gina’s last-resort painkiller; she always carried it on missions.
“Give it to him,” Carlos said.
Taking a vial from her pocket, Gina shook out most of the contents into her palm, raised the white powder to Rafe’s face, clamped her hand over his nose and mouth, and rubbed it in hard.
The numbing sensation was instant; the person sitting on his chest got up and left. He could breathe. Nothing hurt. The world snapped back in full color and a wild, sweeping energy uncoiled in his body, brain—and viewed through the Technicolor prism of a powerful rush—his formerly unrecognizable soul. Lifting Gina’s hand away, he grinned, then wiped his nose, mouth, and chin stubble with his palm. “Angel of mercy, babe. I’m back.” And he came to his feet in a stunning display of coked-up energy.
Alexei arrived with Henny, Basil, and Sasha as they were leaving the stable. “Looks like you don’t need me,” Alexei said. “Unless you want that arm looked at.” He indicated the raw wound where the skin had been rubbed off Rafe’s right arm.
“It’ll wait. Gina saved the day. You can give me a shot later when the coke wears off. Right now I could climb a fucking mountain. Everyone okay?” Rafe quickly scanned his friends for wounds.
“Way too easy,” Henny said, a smile creasing his blood-splattered face. “We blew ’em away.”
“That’s the way we want it. Nobody hurt. Or were they?” Rafe glanced at Alexei.
“Nothing major. Gora’s waiting for you.” Alexei pointed to the main house.
&nbs
p; “He’s giving me the honor?”
“Something like that.”
Rafe had never looked for a fight in his life. He actually preferred avoiding them. But that hadn’t always been possible; the years of boarding school, for instance, had been a constant battleground. And Maso had always chosen to incite. But by and large, he saw himself as a peaceful man. He wasn’t sure he wanted the honor.
That was Gora’s business, not his.
The compound was silent as they walked to the main house, while the corridor outside Zou’s office was crowded. Gora’s four colleagues were off to one side, quietly relaxed, looking no different than when they’d stepped off Gora’s jet, their tailoring undisturbed, their expressions calm, every hair in place. Leo, Max, and several other men were standing around, comparing notes, and waiting for further instructions.
Rafe thanked everyone, shaking their hands with only an occasional flinch. Coke aside, the pain in his shoulders was clawing its way to the surface. The bloody laceration on his right arm where the skin had been torn away was visible; the damage to his shoulders was not.
When Rafe entered Zou’s office, Gora pointed to the table and held out a conventional Glock someone had brought in. “If you want him, he’s yours.”
Rafe walked over. Zou was lying on his back, gut shot, blood frothing from his mouth, a red puddle widening on the floor, his eyes wide with fear. Gora could have targeted his head with a kill shot but he hadn’t.
“Fuck it, leave him,” Rafe said. “He’ll bleed out.” He’d promised Zou a slow death. Maybe that was why he didn’t take a shot, or maybe he’d have trouble sleeping at night if he shot a man in cold blood. “Let’s get out of here.” Turning, he moved toward the door.
Gora leaned over and picked up the canvas bag. As he passed the dying man, he looked down at him, raised the handgun hanging loose at his side, and put a burst of rounds through Zou’s head. “I like to be certain,” he said.
Chapter 28
Max called Dominic as soon as they landed in Bangkok. “We’re done. No casualties on our side. We got there before Zou’s troops returned and went in huge. Makes for an easy win.”
