Emerald Buddha (Drake Ramsey Book 2)

by Russell Blake

  “Problem there is that they can flank us once we’re stationary. It’s what I would do,” Spencer said. “Any advantage would be temporary. I say we keep moving. That’s our only hope. Because come morning, our chances go way, way down when the fog lifts.”

  “There’s another problem,” Joe said. “They probably have radios. So they can call in reinforcements to ambush us.”

  “True. But what options do we have?” Drake asked from behind them.

  Spencer frowned. “Right now? None. But I’d strongly suggest we get off this stream as soon as we can, because if I was them, I’d have some of my colleagues waiting along the water up ahead. The stream’s the easiest way out of the valley, and that’s what they’ll be expecting. So we do the opposite.”

  Joe nodded. “Then let’s recross as soon as it looks shallow enough, and find a game trail leading away from the water.”

  Uncle Pete didn’t wait to hear anything more, and began working his way along the bank, the current rushing beside him.

  Four hundred yards downstream, they found a stretch where they could see the water breaking over shallow rocks. They carefully picked their way across and worked south until they came to a promising gap in the underbrush. Joe and Uncle Pete set off toward it and then plunged headlong into the jungle, mindful that at any moment the shooting could start again.

  The party pushed themselves hard, Joe periodically checking their position on the GPS. Hours later, he slowed and drew the device from his backpack again as the first dim glow of dawn burned through the fog. After studying the small screen and memorizing their coordinates, Joe turned to the rest.

  “There’s a river about a half mile away. From there we can cut inland and be at our old camp within an hour.”

  Allie nodded. “You think it’ll be safe there?”

  “It’s the no-man’s land between the clear boundary of the Shan territory and Red Moon’s,” Joe said. “Even if they pick up our trail, there’s probably a limit to how badly they’ll want to test us. Remember, they lost more than a few at the cave. My hunch is they’ll head back to their base rather than risk being slaughtered. For all they know, there are dozens of us waiting in the trees.”

  Drake glanced down the trail they’d followed and then at Joe. “I hope you’re right, for all our sakes.”

  Joe nodded. “So do I, man, so do I.”

  Chapter 40

  Uncle Pete shifted the AK-47 strap from his left shoulder to his right as he watched the perimeter of the clearing. He and Harry were standing sentry for the first three hours as the rest slept. He’d be relieved in another thirty minutes, and after getting a few hours of rest, they would push on to the Shan encampment.

  Uncle Pete made a gesture to Harry – he had to relieve himself. The Shan nodded and Uncle Pete disappeared into the brush. When he was a hundred yards from the camp, he stopped and waited. He’d made a surreptitious call on the satellite phone an hour into his shift, and his rendezvous should have shown himself by now.

  Jiao stepped out from behind a tree. When he was close enough so they could hear each other’s whispers, he studied the little Thai before speaking.

  “So?”

  “There was no temple. Just a store of weapons and some drugs.”

  “I don’t care about that. What about the plane? What’s their plan?”

  “We’re going back to the Shan base and then probably returning to the crazy American’s village. There’s nothing out here for them, no further reason to stay,” Uncle Pete said.

  “And the CIA has no idea what happened to the girl?”

  “No. But they said they’d get back to us when they had more information.”

  Jiao gave Uncle Pete a dark stare. “You must remain vital to them. If they discover anything, you will tell me immediately. Is that clear?”

  “Of course, but there’s only so much I can do. Now that these fools found the plane, their part in this is over. If the people in Washington don’t want me involved any longer, I can’t force them.”

  Jiao frowned. “I hope you haven’t forgotten that your family’s lives depend on your performance. One word from me, and your beloved granddaughter will meet with a horrible accident. I will not tolerate failure.”

  “How can I forget? It’s all I think about.”

  “That and the money we’re paying you.”

  “I have done my part. I am keeping you informed. If I learn anything, you will be the first to know.” Uncle Pete waved in the direction of the camp. “Now go. I will call when I have more.”

  “Is there any reason to shadow you to the village?”

  “None I can think of. Unless you’re enjoying Myanmar’s charms.”

  “Very well. See to it that you call. Remember your granddaughter. She’s a little miracle. It would be a shame if misfortune befell her.”

  Uncle Pete’s face was a cold mask. Only his eyes betrayed the hatred that simmered behind them. Jiao nodded in satisfaction at the man’s glare. “I see you understand. Good,” he said, and then turned and strode back into the tangle of plants, his boots silent on the moist soil.

  Uncle Pete relieved himself quickly and returned to the camp, barely containing his fury at the Chinese intelligence officer’s threat. He shouldn’t have been surprised when his seemingly harmless subterfuge turned on him and the gloves came off, the promises of more cash replaced by threats he knew the Chinese were fully prepared to carry out – but it still shocked him how callously Jiao discussed murdering his granddaughter, who was only four years old.

  His sideline, working all ends against the middle, had seemed savvy when he’d first been introduced to the Chinese through a mutual acquaintance in Thailand. Uncle Pete didn’t mind that his friend was employed by the enemy – the truth was that anyone whose desires ran counter to what was best for the corporations that ran America was their enemy. It wasn’t his fight, and he viewed his allegiance as that of a player on a sports team, who might be traded the following season and be wearing a different jersey.

  The U.S. was the largest exporter of weapons in the world, so it was obviously in its best interests for the planet to be at constant war or fearful of imminent war; otherwise, there would be no demand for its wares. Uncle Pete completely understood the logic. It had been that way for generations and would likely continue long after he’d passed on. And the Americans paid well, and asked for little – that is, until this foray, when they’d become reliant on him. Which was largely due to the Chinese taking out Alex so that Uncle Pete’s star could ascend in his absence.

  No part of Uncle Pete had been troubled by that act. It was business. The Chinese had wanted him joined at the hip with the search party, with a minimum of outside interference – and had been banking on there being something salvageable in the wreckage. If Alex had been part of the group and there had been a surviving data storage device, Uncle Pete wouldn’t have been able to snatch it and turn it over to Jiao. Plus, Alex had treated Uncle Pete like an underling, inferior, which made it easy to betray the arrogant CIA agent. Uncle Pete hadn’t wished ill on the man beyond that, and had actually been surprised at how extreme the Chinese agents had been in dispatching him. He’d believe they might mug him and bonk him on the head, not run him down.

  And now the same savages were threatening his family.

  He shook his head to clear it; the fatigue from being awake for thirty hours settled on him like a heavy weight as he made his way back to where the Shan waited.

  Upon his reappearance, Harry eyed him disapprovingly. Uncle Pete gave the frowning Shan a pained half smile and a shrug. “Stomach not what it used to be.”

  Harry nodded; and then the jungle exploded with gunfire, and the top of his skull blew apart.

  Chapter 41

  Tachileik, Myanmar

  Reggie wiped a thin coating of beige dust from the window of the café where he’d arranged to meet his newest best friend, and squinted as he peered inside. There were three women sitting at a circular wooden tabl
e, and that was it. Reggie straightened and checked his watch. The man was ten minutes late. Annoying, but not necessarily indicative of anything, he told himself, other than that flakey characters tended to fit certain stereotypes.

  He’d made it to the border town, whose two-lane bridge spanned the Mae Sai River that delineated Thailand from Myanmar, and had spent most of the prior evening spreading money around and letting it be known that he was a willing buyer for information on a white woman who’d gone missing in the jungle. Of course, he’d been offered a plethora of Thai or Burmese girls, and been assured that they were vastly superior to anything a farang could muster in the way of sexual skill, but once it became obvious that he was only interested in the lost woman, his audience in the squalid watering holes moved on.

  At close to midnight he’d hit pay dirt when a slight man named Tam had offered that there might be such a woman. Tam had the disposition of a chronic yaba abuser, most of his teeth rotted away, his eyes darting constantly like a frightened rat, his frame whippet-thin with lean muscles that resembled knotted rope beneath his rawhide skin. A chain-smoker as well, he sidled up as Reggie was preparing to leave the bar, and held up an empty bottle of the local cheap beer.

  “You buy me ’nother, we talk-talk, yeah?” Tam said in halting English.

  “What do we have to talk about?” Reggie asked, trying not to recoil from the sour tang of dried sweat and tobacco that seeped from Tam’s clothes.

  “You look for someone. I know lotsa people.”

  “Yeah? So what?”

  “You buy beer, we make talk.”

  Reggie signaled the bartender by pointing to Tam’s bottle and held up two fingers. The only redeeming quality of the dive was that the beer was ice cold, although it had to be drunk quickly or it warmed in minutes.

  The drinks arrived, and Reggie eyed the sweating bottles without comment. Tam lifted the nearest to his lips and gulped half the contents in a couple of swallows. He burped loudly and lit a cigarette, and Reggie reluctantly took a sip of his own beer while he waited to hear what Tam had to say.

  “Up there, one man run everything. If girl there, he know,” Tam began.

  Reggie nodded. “Okay. What’s his name?”

  “He have many name. But General Lee now.”

  “General, huh? Is he Myanmar military? Or Shan Army?”

  Tam laughed, and Reggie’s eyes watered from the stench of rot that emanated from the man’s mouth. “He general of own army.”

  “I see. Do they have a name?”

  “They Red Moon. Bigtime now. Serious.”

  Reggie digested the information before continuing. “And what makes you think he’d know anything about the girl?”

  “His business know everything.”

  Reggie stared at Tam. He was dog tired and in no mood for a protracted courtship. Tam seemed to sense he was losing Reggie and picked up his pace.

  “I talk-talk to Lee people. They know something, you pay.”

  Reggie shook his head. “You introduce me. I don’t pay unless I meet them.”

  “You no trust me?” Tam asked, aping indignation, and then brayed another laugh and finished his beer. “Okay. I talk-talk. Bring man. You pay then, right?”

  “How much?”

  “I want tousand dollar.”

  It was Reggie’s turn to laugh. “And I want to live forever.”

  Tam’s gaze combed the bar, and he rubbed a callused hand over his dry lips. “You pay…hunred dollar.”

  Reggie nodded slowly. “I pay when I meet someone who can help me. Find me someone, and I’ll give you a hundred dollars.”

  “You give some now,” Tam tried, his tone emphatic.

  Reggie shook his head again. “I pay when you deliver, not before.” Reggie fixed him with a deadpan stare. “So get busy. Chop-chop.”

  “How I reach you?”

  Reggie drew one of several dozen cards he’d filched from his hotel and handed it to Tam. “Ask for Rick. If I’m not there, leave a message. I’ll call you back.”

  “You no bullshit, right? You pay?”

  “Tam, there’s nothing I’d rather do than give you a hundred bucks. But you have to perform. Got it?”

  “I call tomorrow. You wait, yes?”

  “Better hurry up before somebody else earns the money.”

  “One more?” Tam asked, pushing his beer toward the bartender with a raised eyebrow.

  “Nope.”

  Tam patted his chest. “I Tam.”

  “Good luck, Itam.”

  Tam shook his head vigorously. “No. Tam. Jus’ Tam.”

  The hotel told Reggie that he had a message when he emerged from his room the next morning, and handed him a slip with a local cell number on it and ‘Tam’ scrawled in barely decipherable script. Reggie phoned the barfly and they agreed to a meeting at noon at the café.

  Five more minutes crawled by. Reggie was preparing to leave when Tam rounded the corner with another local in tow. Reggie took in the newcomer at a glance – expensive clothes, shoes, and sunglasses; well-groomed; and as friendly-looking as a barracuda.

  Maybe Tam had delivered after all.

  Tam neared and gave a slight bow. His companion inclined his head, Reggie did the same, and the man said something in Laotian. Tam coughed and nodded.

  “We go in,” he translated.

  Reggie nodded and followed the pair inside. They ordered drinks, and Tam’s associate waited until they were served before speaking. He went on for a full minute, and when he was finished, Tam took over.

  “This Jun. He say maybe general have girl. How much you pay for her?”

  Reggie absorbed the news. Christine was alive. Or might be, if the slickster wasn’t lying. “I would pay a fair price. But I would need proof she’s alive, and that she’s unharmed.”

  More translation, and the gang member spat out a few sentences. Tam blanched and was obviously considering how to phrase things when Reggie leaned forward.

  “Just tell me what he said,” Reggie said, his voice low.

  Tam swallowed hard. “He say girl alive, worth half-million dollar. You no like, they sell her twenty dollar a time.”

  Reggie kept his expression neutral. “Prove it.”

  Tam told the man, who smiled. He spoke so rapidly even Tam looked like he had a problem keeping up, and then sat back, watching Reggie.

  “He say can video on phone. How you prove you got price?”

  “Tell him to get the film, and I’ll worry about the money.”

  Five minutes later their discussion was over, and Reggie had given the gangster the number of the burner cell phone he’d acquired that morning. Reggie waited until the pair left, and then called his control officer to report his progress. His control told him to keep his phone on and he’d ring him when he had further orders.

  Reggie debated another cup of tea but decided against it. Maybe a few more hours of sleep instead.

  After the grueling jungle ride and the eight beers last night, he’d more than earned it.

  Chapter 42

  Uncle Pete hit the ground hard as he fired into the brush. The attackers’ orange muzzle flashes winked like a carnival come-on from the jungle across from him, and bullets whistled through the air above his head. His third burst was rewarded by a tortured scream as his rounds found home.

  Spencer rolled from his tent, his AK already in play, and then Joe and the Shan they called Dick joined the fray. Drake and Allie were the last to emerge from their tent, struggling into their backpacks as slugs shredded the plants around them. They swung their guns up, and then the clearing was a cacophony of gunfire as they emptied their weapons at the attackers.

  After several long seconds, Joe ejected his spent magazine, slammed another home, and called out to them, “Fall back to the trail. I’ll hold them off with Dick.”

  Spencer nodded and Drake nudged Allie. “Go with him. Get out of here.”

  “Drake…”

  “Move!”

  More gunfi
re erupted from the underbrush, and fountains of dirt sprayed into the air around them. Spencer grabbed Allie’s arm and pulled as he dog-crawled toward the tree line. “Come on.”

  They vanished into the foliage as Joe and the Shan gunman laid down covering fire. Joe rose from his position and ran in a crouch past Drake, making for the trail. Drake caught a glimpse of movement from his right and blasted at it, and a heavy form fell in the brush with a strangled cry.

  Uncle Pete was the next to retreat as the Shan continued shooting, and was passing Drake when Dick gurgled as three rounds pounded into him. Uncle Pete whirled and let loose another salvo, buying Drake his chance to dash for the jungle.

  Then they were running, side by side, branches swatting at them as they sprinted along the track. Drake pulled away slowly as he poured on the speed. The gunfire receded behind them and then stopped, and the pounding of his boots on the moist ground gave the only sound. Drake rounded a bend and pushed himself even harder; Joe’s back was just visible fifty yards ahead of him.

  Uncle Pete cried out as he misstepped and slid off the edge of the slick trail, flailing for balance before tumbling down the steep slope. He slammed into a boulder at the base and groaned in pain as his shoulder dislocated. He tried to roll over onto his back, but his pack hampered him. His arm jutted from his torso at an impossible angle, and his AK lay useless halfway down the drop. He struggled and this time managed to right himself, but almost blacked out from the agony of the effort.

  The air was still, and Uncle Pete blinked away mud and sweat as he evaluated his condition. He needed to get to the rifle. He reached over with his right hand and tried to pull his left arm so it would pop back into the socket, but froze when he heard a rustle from above.

  “Drake?” he called softly.

  A face appeared at the top of the trail, the features those of a hill tribesman. Uncle Pete’s eyes met his as the man raised his rifle, a malevolent grin on his face. Uncle Pete flinched and closed his eyes, and jerked instinctively when a shot rang out from above.