Devil's Due: A Thomas Caine Thriller (The Thomas Caine Series Book 0)

by Andrew Warren

  Satra sighed and glared at Caine. "Also called TNT, yes? Out forensic lab is not backwards, Mr. Waters. We already investigated that angle. TNT is very common industrial explosive. Many companies use it here in Thailand. Mining companies, chemical companies... could have come from anywhere."

  Caine continued to flip through the pictures. He stopped at one that showed a mangled, twisted scrap of aluminum, with wires and electronics protruding like black, burned tendrils. He held up the picture for Satra to see. "This is the detonator, isn't it?"

  "We think so. Too damaged to say for sure, but it was found near center of blast. Not much left of it to go on."

  Caine nodded. "It's badly damaged, but look at this.... See this scrap of tubing here? That's fiber optic cable. It used a laser pulse to detonate the explosive package. Highly reliable. Whoever set this off probably used a remote signal keyed from a cell phone. The signal triggers the laser, and detonation takes less than a millisecond."

  Satra stood and took the picture from Caine's hand. He examined it closely. "We didn't catch that. How you be so sure? This just a picture of some scrap."

  Caine looked Satra in the eye. "I've seen these devices before. Up close. Trust me, I know."

  "OK, so fancy detonator. Hard to find. Not many people that sell this stuff here in Thailand."

  Caine shook his head. "No, not many at all. In fact, only one that I know of. I'll take the detonator lead. You keep looking for Alexi. I'll need a weapon."

  Satra opened a file box on his desk and removed a few dusty folders and stacks of paper. Underneath was a slim wood case. He lifted the lid and pulled out a battered old pistol, a Colt M1911. He handed the heavy gun to Caine. Caine gripped it and turned it side to side, hefting its weight.

  "This my father's gun. He carrying it when he killed in line of duty."

  Caine tested the magazine eject button and slide. The gun was old and battered, but its mechanisms were smooth and well-maintained. The magazine slid out with a precise, metallic click. He nodded his approval. "You've taken good care of it. Thank you."

  "We need understanding between us, Mr. Waters. I desperate; I come to you for help. I see you have skills. I see in your eyes, you dangerous. That good, we face dangerous men. But we face them, and bring them in for justice. Not for revenge. We good?"

  Caine slapped the magazine back into the pistol. He thumbed the slide release lever, and it slammed closed, readying the gun to fire. He slid the gun into his waistband, and looked back at Satra.

  "I'm not after justice or revenge, Satra. I'm just trying to help a friend. If you want my help, that will have to be good enough. Otherwise, I do this on my own. I'll call you if I find anything."

  Caine walked out of Satra's apartment, shutting the door behind him.

  As he strolled down the dark, quiet corridor outside, he wondered if his words had been true. Finding Naiyana was his priority. But if those who had taken her had hurt her in any way...

  He thought of the devastation he had seen in the pictures, of the innocent lives these men had already taken, and the new lives they about to destroy. Caine knew that, when he found them, he would make them pay a price for the suffering they had caused. The price would be paid in blood and pain. But was that justice? Or revenge? Caine wasn't sure what to call it. He only knew it was a certainty.

  That was good enough for him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Eddy Ashikaga sighed as the beautiful young Thai girl standing above him pressed her fists into the knotted muscles on his back. He grunted as she began to knead the tight, sore flesh. "You know, you're stronger than you look," Eddy said, turning his head to smile at her.

  The room was dark, and he could barely see the girl in the dim light. She was wearing a tight pink T-shirt with an anime cat on the front and skin-tight spandex shorts. The cat on the shirt was winking. "I like your shirt," he said.

  She giggled and stopped the deep, kneading motion. Her fingers began to lightly dance over his tan skin. "Thank you. You strong man. Sexy body," she said in a high-pitched voice.

  Eddy laughed. His scrawny, middle-aged body was not his or anyone else's definition of sexy. At forty-five, his jet black hair had developed a generous dusting of white, and the bald spot in the center of his head grew larger every year. The only other part of him that was growing was his gut.

  But here, in a dark massage room, lying face down with a towel over his ass, he found himself inclined to believe the girl's sweet lies.

  The girl's fingers brushed over his right arm, tracing the intricate lines of the dragon tattoo that curled around his bicep. "Nice tattoo. Very sexy. You gangsta man?" she asked.

  "Sure," he yawned. "Yakuza, you know? Japanese gangster. I'm a bad man."

  The girl began pushing down the towel. Her fingers drifted lower and lower. The soft, brushing touch moved down between his legs. "You want special massage? 500 baht only."

  "Ah, kimuchi," Eddy said in Japanese. "I like. Why else would I be here?"

  The girl giggled again and removed the towel. "OK, please turn over."

  A man's voice called out from the darkness. "For the love of God, please don't. Stay where you are, Eddy."

  The girl gasped. Eddy looked up, but the room was cloaked in shadows. "What the...? Who the hell is that?"

  With a click, light bathed the room. Caine sat on top of a stool next to the small table that held the girl's massage oil and other supplies. His back was against the wall, next to a curtain that led into a back room.

  He was pointing a gun at Eddy's head.

  "Ehhhh, wait, I know you," Eddy said, pulling the towel back around his waist. "Waters-san. Mark Waters, the Yoshizawa family's gaijin pet."

  The massage girl looked confused. Caine smiled at her, but his eyes were cold and focused on Eddy. "He told you he was Yakuza, right? That's only part of the story. Show her, Eddy."

  "Look, what is this--?" Eddy was cut off by the metallic click of Caine cocking his pistol.

  "Show her," Caine repeated.

  Eddy sighed and pulled his right arm from under the towel. The girl gasped. Both his pinky and ring fingers were missing, severed at the first joint.

  "You see," Caine continued, "it's true that Eddy here used to be a member of the Yakuza. But they kicked him out years ago. He moved here and set up a nice little arms smuggling business for himself. Now, I've heard two conflicting stories about the missing fingers."

  "Come on, man. What the fu--"

  "Version one is, Eddy sold the Yoshizawa family some explosives for a bank vault job, back in Japan. But the detonator was faulty, and the charges didn't go off. The cops showed up, and Isato Yoshizawa's handpicked group of thieves, including his brother-in-law, got arrested and did hard time. Isato was so furious that he demanded two of poor Eddy's fingers as compensation, rather than just one."

  The girl began inching towards the door. "I not know him. Please, I go now."

  "No," Caine said in a loud, sharp voice. The girl froze. Caine's eyes softened, and he lowered his voice. "I'm sorry. I promise I won't hurt you. But I need a few more minutes here undisturbed. Just sit tight, and this will all be over soon."

  The girl hesitated, then nodded. Caine looked back at Eddy.

  "Now, the other version of the story, and I'm partial to this one, is that Eddy was building the bomb for Isato himself. But he got cheap, and took some shortcuts. He used a home brew detonator, and he rushed the wiring. And wouldn't you know it? The damn thing blew up in his hand."

  Caine shook his head, his cold, green eyes glaring at Eddy. "Doesn't really matter which version is true. Either way, you are one unlucky bastard, Eddy. And it doesn't look like your luck is going to improve today."

  Eddy glowered at him, but did not move. "Just tell me what you want," he said.

  Caine stood up, and walked to the edge of the table. He kept the gun trained on Eddy as he grabbed the man's left arm. Eddy tried to yank it back, but Caine's grip was like iron. "No sudden moves, Eddy. Just tell me wh
at I want to know. You sourced components for a bomb that was used in the Pattaya floating market. I want to know who you were working for."

  "I don't know what you're talking about, man. I run guns, sure, but I don't work with explosives anymore. Never had much luck with them."

  Caine twisted Eddy's hand over, so the palm faced up towards the light. The tips of his fingers were stained a yellowish orange.

  "In World War Two, women who worked with TNT in munitions factories were called canaries. Do you know why?" Caine asked.

  Eddy was silent.

  "It's because TNT is toxic. Prolonged exposure to its chemicals affects skin pigmentation. Turns it yellow. Even short-term exposure can discolor the skin on your fingers. Takes a week or two to work through your system. So, you see, I already know you're lying. Last chance, Eddy."

  Caine gripped one of Eddy's yellow-stained fingers in his fist.

  "Give me a name."

  Eddy looked up at him, and his eyes were wide with a mix of anger and fear. "Orokana baka," he hissed, calling Caine a stupid idiot. "We can't talk about this here. Let's go somewh--"

  CRACK!

  Caine jerked the finger down and back, snapping the bone.

  "ARRRRGHGHH!" Eddy's scream of pain was loud and high-pitched. Caine grabbed the next finger on his hand and pressed the butt of his pistol into Eddy's spine.

  "Give me name," he repeated, his voice low and calm.

  "Please, just listen. I can't--"

  CRACK!

  Again Eddy cried out, this time a guttural, primal shriek of pain and suffering.

  “Stop wasting my time. Name. Now."

  He grabbed the next finger.

  "Chotto, chotto, OK," Eddy screamed. "Look, he didn't give me his name, and I didn't ask. But I met them at a house, by the beach."

  Caine paused. "What beach?"

  "Na Jomtien. I can write down the address."

  Caine looked up at the girl. "Can I borrow a pen?" he asked. She opened a small drawer in the supply table, and rummaged around for a second. She pulled out a crumpled old business card and a pen. Caine took them, and set them on the table, next to Eddy's right hand.

  "Do it," Caine ordered Eddy.

  Eddy grabbed the pen and scribbled down an address. His hand was missing two fingers, and his handwriting was almost illegible. Caine eyed the small scrap of cardboard for a second, then slid it into his shirt pocket.

  "Thank you, Eddy. See how easy that was? Now, I highly recommend you leave Thailand for a while. At least a month or two. For your own safety."

  Eddy eyed him suspiciously. "Why? What are you planning to do?"

  "Let's just say, if you stay here, I doubt your luck will get better anytime soon. If these people are who I think they are, and they find out you talked, losing a couple fingers will be the least of your worries. Leave. Tonight."

  Caine made his way to the door. "Enjoy the rest of your massage."

  He slid out the door. A few seconds later, the girl scurried out of the room. Eddy wrapped the towel around his waist, sat up, and frantically began to throw on his clothes.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sitting alone at an outdoor table at the Glass House restaurant, Caine watched as the sun sank towards the ocean. Crimson and gold reflected across the rippling water as it slipped behind the horizon.

  The Glass House was a beautiful, romantic spot, with a glass-enclosed gazebo for indoor dining. The outdoor patio was perched on a tree-lined cliff and looked out over the water, giving diners an unparalleled view of the ocean.

  Caine once again felt the pangs of loneliness. He realized it was foolish of him to have chosen this spot for dinner. This was a place for couples. And Caine was, as usual, alone.

  A pretty waitress came and took his check and payment with a bow. Caine sipped the remains of his beer, then stood up and walked towards the edge of the patio. He peered through the trees at the ocean and the sandy beach that lay below.

  To his left, a fair distance down the beach, he could just make out the gleaming white house at the address Eddy had given him. Satra had not managed to track down the Russian's whereabouts yet, but he was able to run a title search on the address. The house was owned by a local entertainment company, and used for so-called "corporate housing" purposes. But, as Caine had suspected, that was only the first link in the chain. Like a spider working in reverse, Satra untangled a web of holding companies and dummy corporations until he was left with a single thread. The final link in the chain led to a family with known chao pho ties, based out of the Chonburi province.

  Caine had done surveillance runs of the house earlier in the day, posing as a jogger or a tourist walking along the beach. He had spotted several men patrolling the grounds. They dressed in muscle shirts and shorts, and looked like low-level thugs. An older man with a round, pock-marked face and thinning black hair had paced outside more than once, yelling into a cell phone. Caine took him to be middle management.

  Caine had seen men like these before. He noted their watchful eyes, the bulges under their armpits, the flashes of a pistol butt hanging above their waistbands. Everything he saw confirmed his suspicious. Whoever owned this house, they were definitely connected to organized crime of some sort.

  Caine considered several ways to approach the house, including swimming in from the ocean. But with so little intel to go on, he felt the risk was too great. He had no idea how many men might be in the house. If a guard or sniper spotted him before he made it to shore, he would be an easy target.

  No, he thought, I need a different plan. Something unexpected.

  Caine pulled out his burner cell phone and dialed the number of a local escort service. "Devil's Den," a woman's voice said on the other end. She spoke English, but with a heavy accent.

  "Yes, I'd like to order some girls for the evening. I'll need six. No preferences, whomever you have available."

  "What hotel you at, honey?" the voice asked.

  "No hotel," Caine answered. "Send them in a limo, with a driver, please. You can pick me up at the Glass House."

  "Six girls plus limo, very expensive date, sir. I give you special deal. Twenty-thousand baht for night. You pay advance?"

  Caine smiled. "But of course."

  Caine sat in uncomfortable silence as the limo drove down the winding beach road. Surrounding him were the six escorts he had ordered. They were all wearing tight dresses, miniskirts, and a variety of other provocative outfits. One of the girls, a young minx with a short bob haircut dyed bright pink, leaned against him. "Why you so stiff, huh?" she murmured into his ear. "This a party!" She pulled out a small glass vial from her purse, and offered it to Caine. "You want?"

  "No, thank you," Caine said, removing her hand from his chest. He leaned forward past a pair of giggling girls who were locked in a sensual embrace. They were most likely high on a combination of ecstasy and speed. These girls were all sourced from the local bars, and would have to go back to work, or entertain clients like he was pretending to be, for the rest of the night. They used a combination drugs and alcohol to stay awake.

  He knocked on the smoked glass divider that cut off the back of the limo from the driver's section. With a mechanical hiss, the glass slid down. The driver looked back at him.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "When we get there, just let me do the talking. My friend is a heavy sleeper, so lean on the horn. And turn up the music, OK?"

  The driver smiled. "Sure, boss, anything you say." He turned a knob on the stereo, and Caine felt his eardrums pulse as the heavy bass of electronic dance music thumped through the cabin.

  Caine smiled and gave the driver a thumbs up, which he enthusiastically returned. With a hiss, the glass divider raised back up.

  The limo pulled up to the gates of the white beach house. Caine opened the door. "We're here! Everybody out."

  As the girls piled out of the limo, laughing and chattering, the limo driver began pressing the horn. Its bleating honk filled the night air, cutting through the thum
ping bass of the stereo speakers. The girl with the pink hair bent over the trunk of the limo, and began setting up a line of white powder on a small mirror. One of the other girls squealed with excitement and ran over to join her.

  Another girl wearing a skin-tight black dress and six-inch heels slinked over to Caine and grabbed his arm. "Wow, this your house, mister? You big shot, huh?"

  "No, this isn't my house. My friend lives here. He's the one paying for the party."

  "You must have important friends, huh?"

  "Let's find out," Caine said. He walked up to the gate. Its iron bars were gleaming white, like the rest of the house, and a small intercom box was mounted on a pole a few feet away. Caine pressed the intercom button. "Hey!" he shouted into the microphone. "I'm here with the girls."

  The intercom crackled to life. A stream of rapid-fire Thai spat out of the speaker.

  The girl raised her hand to cover her mouth. "Your friend, he is very angry!”

  "Well, he's about to get angrier," Caine said. He pressed the button again. "Hey, come on, the boss ordered six girls and a limo. I'm here with six girls and a limo. Let's do this."

  The intercom crackled to life again. This time the voice spoke in English. "We no order girls. Wrong house. You go away now!"

  Caine turned back to the driver and gave him the thumbs up. The driver smiled and turned the music up louder. The windows of the limo rattled as deep beats pumped through the air.

  Caine pressed the talk button again. "Look, man, we got drugs, we got booze, and we're not going anywhere till I get paid. So get that short, pudgy little guy down here, and let's take care of business!"

  The girl leaned over Caine's shoulder and shouted into the intercom. "Yeah, we bring the party bitches!"

  "You tell him," Caine said.

  He looked back at the limo and smiled. Whatever was going on in the house, he was sure the last thing the occupants wanted was to draw attention to themselves. And a limo full of hookers, drugs, and blasting loud music tended to draw exactly the wrong kind of attention.