Emerald Buddha (Drake Ramsey Book 2)

by Russell Blake

  “You got them into this.”

  “I realize that. I’ll call you when I know more.”

  “Where exactly is this facility located? Maybe I can nose around…”

  “That would be a bad idea. If you’re caught, it could jeopardize everything.”

  When Drake hung up, he was angry at the cavalier manner with which the CIA man had dismissed his concerns. He suspected Collins didn’t particularly care whether Spencer and Allie made it – his objective was, and always had been, Christine; and anything else was a distraction.

  Drake strode over to where Uncle Pete and Joe were sitting beneath a tree and relayed the substance of the discussion. When he was finished, Joe frowned. “You never told me you were working with the CIA.”

  “We weren’t working with them so much as keeping our eyes open and tipping them off if we found the plane,” Drake deflected.

  “But you have the private number of someone you can reach at any hour of the day and night,” Joe stated flatly.

  “Joe, it’s not relevant, okay? Who cares who got our permits for us? That’s all it was.”

  “It matters to me. I hate the bastards. They’re responsible for more misery than any other group in history.”

  “It was just a convenience. I’m not with them. I’m a private citizen. So are Spencer and Allie. We just agreed to help them out.” Drake sighed. “But it doesn’t sound like they’re going to be able to do much for the time being.”

  “They’ll be dead by the time they get around to doing something,” Joe said, his voice low.

  “Right. You already said that. But what can we do?”

  “Tell me again about where they think this place in the jungle is?”

  “Near the Mekong. South of us. Why? What can the two of us do? He said there was a small army there.”

  Joe nodded and rose. “Come on. Let’s make tracks. Time’s a-wasting.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m betting that our friend the colonel would love the opportunity to take out his greatest rival in a surprise attack.”

  “The Shan?”

  Joe smiled. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

  “You serious?” Drake asked doubtfully. “You really believe he’d risk it?”

  “Dead serious. He’d have single-handedly eradicated the biggest threat to Shan dominance in the area. I just need to convince him.”

  “And why would you risk it?”

  “You and your girlfriend owe me over a hundred grand. Hard to collect if she’s dead, am I right? And you look like you’re stupid enough to try to find this place on your own, so we can make that you’ll be dead too. So, simple: I want my money.” Joe spit again and glanced up at the sky. “Now we going to sit here jawing all day or get busy? Sooner we make it to the Shan camp, sooner we can come up with a plan.”

  Drake handed the phone back to Uncle Pete, who removed the battery and slipped the phone into his backpack. Uncle Pete hadn’t said a word during the exchange, and now seemed to be having trouble meeting Drake’s eyes. Drake raised an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

  Uncle Pete looked down. “Think they dead soon.”

  Joe nodded and made for the brush. “Come on. Nothing ventured…”

  Three hours later, the first of the Shan outposts spotted them and radioed ahead. Colonel Leng was waiting for them when they entered the camp, his face hard. He growled questions at Joe, who did his best to explain what had happened, and after a tense discussion, he and Joe moved out of earshot, leaving Drake and Uncle Pete to replenish their water stores. Drake helped the Thai guide with his bottle, his injured arm still out of commission, and by the time they were finished, Joe had returned.

  “Well?” Drake asked.

  “He wasn’t happy he lost two men, but he got over it pretty quickly when I told him I had the solution to his Red Moon problem.”

  “What does he propose?”

  “He’ll give us men, armed to the teeth, as well as AKs, RPGs, grenades, the works. In exchange, he takes over the factory and the trade. Simple deal. Oh, and I promised him a cash bonus from you since the temple was a big fat nothing.”

  “Right. But we don’t know exactly where the headquarters is, and they’re likely to have guards posted, aren’t they?”

  “These guys are jungle fighters; they’re not worried about guards. The problem with where the factory’s located is a little bigger, but I think I have a way to narrow that down some. You said it had an airstrip?”

  “Correct.”

  “Then it would have to be a relatively flat area, and the terrain on this side of the river’s mostly hills.” Joe withdrew his GPS and powered it on. Once he had a lock on a signal, he zoomed in, starting at the disputed zone, and studied the imagery.

  Drake checked the time and exhaled in frustration. “They could be getting tortured while we stand around here, Joe.”

  “Remember what I said about positive vibes, dude.”

  “Didn’t do Allie and Spencer much good, did it?”

  “Remains to be seen, my man. Now let me concentrate on this.”

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Elevations. A flat area. It would probably be camouflaged to avoid detection from the air, and these images are probably so old it hadn’t even been built yet, but you can’t change the lay of the land. We find a decent-sized clearing that could handle an airstrip that’s no more than a day’s march from the temple, and that’s our spot.”

  Ten minutes later, Joe was huddled with the colonel and his second-in-command, going over a paper map. Joe had identified a likely spot, and they were discussing how to best approach it without being detected. When they were done, Joe moved to where Drake and Uncle Pete were sitting. “He’s going to give us twenty men. He wanted to bring everyone, but I argued for stealth – so he’ll get into position, and his scouts will radio when we’ve taken the factory.” He eyed Drake. “Time to saddle up. Leng thinks it’s a five-hour march. That’ll put us there around dusk, which would work in our favor.”

  “How do we avoid Red Moon killing the hostages?” Drake asked.

  “We’ve got five hours to figure that part out. Now grab as many magazines as you can carry, and let’s hit the trail.”

  “I should call the agency…”

  “No way, dude. They’ll just tell you not to do this. They’re pencil pushers. By the time they get anyone in, your girl will be worm food.”

  Drake looked over to where the men were collecting their weapons and filling satchels with grenades. “How many night vision goggles do they have?”

  Joe smiled. “Enough.”

  “You really think we can pull this off?”

  “Positive vibes, dude. You really have to lose the cynicism.”

  Joe turned and called out to Leng, who grinned and gave him a thumbs-up. Drake asked what he’d said, and Joe shrugged. “I told him that you’d double his bonus if we got everyone out alive.”

  Drake’s faith in the aging hippie increased as he watched him slide magazines into his cargo pants. There was a palpable sense of both excitement and purpose among the Shan soldiers, and whatever Joe had said had clearly lit a fire under them, whether it was the lure of financial gain or the prospect of eradicating their hated adversaries once and for all. The men packed their kits with efficiency, their expressions serious, and for the first time since Drake had seen the blood in the elephant grass by Allie’s bandana, he felt a stirring of optimism.

  He just hoped they’d make it in time.

  Chapter 45

  Joe took careful steps along the trail. Uncle Pete beside him brandished a pistol, a rifle out of the question given his infirmity. The Shan gunmen moved soundlessly behind them, all obviously on high alert. Drake brought up the rear, his feet blistering from the hiking of the last few days in wet conditions, his face drawn as he labored forward, refusing to submit to the urge to quit. Visions of Allie being tortured, or worse, raced through his imagination during t
he silent march, and his abdomen was a rock-hard knot of tension as the afternoon light slowly began to fade.

  His watch told him they’d been on the move for almost six hours. If they didn’t reach the suspect site soon, they’d be further handicapped by nightfall. Only half the men had night vision equipment, Joe’s assurance that there was an adequate supply as optimistic as his take on the duration of their trek, and Drake was afraid that the Red Moon guards might be better equipped. If they were, any element of surprise would be overwhelmed by superior firepower, and then it would become a bloodbath whose outcome couldn’t be predicted.

  Drake did his best to think optimistic thoughts, but what kept repeating through his mind was silent cursing at their predicament. He’d been suckered into a game that he was unprepared for, and now his love and his friend might pay for his poor judgment with their lives. It wasn’t lost on him how quickly things could turn from good to bad, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were headed toward disaster.

  He stumbled over a vine and a flash of pain flared from his ankle, adding to his sour mood. He’d need to be more careful – preoccupation could get him killed. All he’d need to do was miss one telltale warning sign, and it would be over. His rifle felt heavier than it had when they’d started this jaunt, and he tried not to think about the gunmen he’d killed. Drake might have fancied himself an adventurer, but the truth was he knew he’d be haunted by the vision of his victims for a long time to come. That they were trying to kill him, so it had been self-defense, didn’t mitigate his guilt at having taken human life. He wondered how men like the ones he’d surrounded himself with could eagerly go in pursuit of death, and he shook his head. They were almost a different species, Joe included. The aging hippie showed no remorse at having shot more than his share, and Drake was willing to bet he’d sleep well tonight even if he killed a dozen more.

  The procession slowed as Joe held up a hand, his focus on the area ahead absolute. Drake filed past the waiting Shan and drew near. Joe turned to him and whispered, his voice so low Drake could barely make out his words.

  “There’s a booby trap just ahead. A trip wire. So we’re getting close.” Joe pointed to an almost invisible length of monofilament strung across the trail. One of the Shan nodded and pushed past them and, after a brief study of the device, snipped the line. Drake realized he’d been holding his breath and exhaled in relief. The rest of the men seemed unfazed.

  Their progress slowed to a crawl as they picked their way along the trail. Joe spied one more trap, which the same Shan rendered safe. The gloaming’s light was fading as they arrived at the edge of the clearing, and Joe nodded in satisfaction at the sight of the building in front of them. At one end hummed a generator providing power for the interior, but only a few lights illuminated the exterior, which made sense given the illegal nature of the operation. Still, it was easy to make out dozens of armed men in the shadows; at least five times as many as in the Shan force.

  Drake murmured to Joe, “We need some kind of diversion. There are way too many to take on. Looks like the CIA underestimated their strength.”

  “Yup. More like a hundred men, easily. Idiots.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Joe gestured at a shack well away from the main building. “See that? My bet is that’s where they keep all the flammable material they use to manufacture the meth. If we can get to it, that would create a hell of a distraction.”

  “Yeah, but it’s got at least twenty men guarding it. What are you thinking? Fire an RPG into it?”

  “Problem is, those aren’t very accurate at this distance, so it’s just as likely to miss as hit.” Joe shook his head and then gave Drake a small smile. “Maybe something more dramatic to get their attention?”

  “Like what?”

  “See the airfield over on the far side?”

  Drake nodded. “Yes. And?”

  “Is that a plane sitting at the edge?”

  “Looks like it.”

  Joe nodded. “Then here’s what we’re going to do…”

  Darkness now enveloped the jungle around the manufacturing plant. Drake, Joe, Uncle Pete, and two of the Shan fighters crept through the brush, skirting the clearing as they made their way to the plane – a Cessna 208 Caravan with pontoons for water landings. When he’d first seen the floats, Joe had theorized that the Red Moon traffickers were flying payloads of drugs offshore, where they could be smuggled onto boats for shipment to different locales, evading the customs inspections that were routine in Thai ports.

  Although the buildings were heavily guarded, the dirt strip only had two men watching it, neither particularly vigilant, judging from their postures. Both were slouched on a log, chatting in low tones, with their guns resting beside them.

  The two Shans moved like phantoms on soundless feet toward the guards as Joe edged toward the plane, keeping to the brush. Drake watched with Uncle Pete as the Shans reached the sitting men at the same time, muffled their cries with their hands, and plunged knives into the bases of their necks, instantly severing the guards’ spines and ending their lives. Drake winced as the bodies slumped to the ground, and then his attention was drawn by Joe running to the plane, a satchel of grenades around his neck.

  “Come on…come on…,” Drake whispered impatiently to himself as Joe fumbled with the plane door. Drake glanced back at the factory, where the guards milled around, and then to the aircraft. Joe had disappeared into the ungainly fuselage and pulled the door closed behind him.

  Moments later the groan of the plane’s starter sounded from the runway, but the racket from the heavy generator powering the factory drowned it out. When the Cessna’s motor roared to life, the guards at the large building froze at the unexpected sound. It was clear from their confused yells that nobody knew whether it was an unscheduled flight or a problem, and by the time someone had sounded the alarm, Joe was accelerating down the runway, whose beige dirt was barely distinguishable from the grass that framed it.

  The seaplane lifted into the sky and climbed. A tall man emerged from the factory door and screamed an order, pointing at the departing aircraft. The guards began firing at it, but the plane was well out of range of the rifles, and their bullets missed by a wide mark.

  Confusion reigned on the ground as the Cessna banked in the dark sky and returned, its lights extinguished so it was almost invisible against the partial overcast. Drake watched in fascination as the plane reappeared at almost stall speed, no more than a hundred feet above the trees, and a half-dozen orbs dropped toward the storage shack.

  Four of the grenades detonated wide of the mark, but two exploded just above the roof. The shack blew in a massive fireball as the flammable agents inside ignited, throwing debris and a scorching wave for fifty yards.

  The tall man, obviously the leader, roared commands as he ran toward the shack, and most of the surviving men accompanied him. The chatter of automatic rifles was constant from the building; and this time, due to the plane’s elevation, some of the rounds found home. The tone of the engine changed when Joe attempted to climb to safety as he jettisoned the remainder of his grenades at the men below, but as the Cessna moved over the tree line, the motor coughed several times…and then quit.

  Flames licked from the engine cowling as the aircraft disappeared over a rise, and twenty seconds later, another explosion shattered the night where it had vanished.

  “Oh no…Joe,” Drake murmured, and then his focus was drawn back to the building as Uncle Pete and the two Shan rose beside him. Gunfire encircled the Red Moon guards as the Shan force opened up on them, and what might have been a pitched battle became a massacre. Most of the gunmen were caught out in the open with no cover, led by their leader, who dove for a rocky outcropping as plumes of earth geysered around him.

  A Shan soldier sprinted toward the generator housing and almost made it when two rounds stitched into his chest. He dropped face forward, and the grenade in his hand rolled the final yards before detonating by the power
plant. The lights blinked off as the electricity died, and the grounds and structure were plunged into darkness.

  “Let’s go,” Drake said. He flipped his night vision goggles down and activated the power switch, and the stygian landscape blinked neon green, the muzzle flashes from the defending Red Moon shooters bright flares. The Shans and Uncle Pete did the same, and he ran toward the manufacturing building as the gun battle played out around him. Drake was firing at the now-blind Red Moon gunmen as he zigzagged to the main door, and heard the Shans’ guns barking behind him as they followed, picking off obvious threats with disciplined shots as they conserved ammunition.

  Drake threw the steel door open and stopped shooting – the chemical smell was almost overpowering, and Joe had warned everyone that a spark could easily blow the entire place. He stepped inside of the empty production area and spotted two doors at the far end. Uncle Pete entered behind him, trailed by the Shans, who ducked into the entrance before slamming the door shut. Rounds pummeled the steel slab, but none penetrated. Drake led Uncle Pete to the pair of doors and pointed to the one that had a bolt on the outside. Uncle Pete nodded and moved to it, and Drake raised his rifle as Uncle Pete slid the bolt free.

  “Allie? Spencer?” Drake called as the door creaked open.

  “Drake!” Allie’s voice rang out from inside. Relief flooded through him as he approached the entry.

  “Are you hurt?” Drake asked as he peered into the room. He stopped when he realized that they couldn’t see him. “Can you walk?”

  “I’ve got an arm wound, but Allie and I can walk. What about you, Christine?” Spencer’s voice answered.

  “Maybe with some help,” she said.

  “I’m here at the door. I’m coming into the room with Uncle Pete. We’ll lead you out – we have night vision gear,” Drake warned. “Stand still until I reach you.”

  “Okay,” Allie said, the intensity of the gunfire outside easing as the Shan men mopped up the Red Moon survivors.