Dead Right

by Cate Noble

  Behind him, the sound of the dogs remained steady.

  The animals would have a problem tracking in the rain, but by now there were likely four or five guards searching, too. Guards who were more familiar with the area and who didn’t have to stop to puke every eight feet.

  Unexpectedly, he hit a clearing. Dante stumbled back, chest heaving. One more step and he’d have fallen into the floodwaters.

  The ebony river roared as if hungry. He looked up. The moon, which had moments before seemed a blessing, now worked only in the guards’ favor.

  He scrambled toward a bush and tried to study the crumbling bank.

  Hearing a noise, he glanced back over his shoulder. A flashlight beam stabbed the night. He’d been spotted.

  Dante ducked, half-expecting to be hit with a barrage of bullets. Except the guards would consider that too humane.

  Undoubtedly, they had found the man he’d killed. Which meant the rest of the guards wanted him alive. So they could kill him very slowly.

  Two shots sounded, both fired into the air. A signal to move in.

  Game over.

  The dogs circled in closer, their snarling growls a living, breathing surround sound. Though the beasts still couldn’t pick up his scent, the guards taunted them into a frenzy, keeping them ready for a savage release.

  As Dante edged away, the guard shouted, “Ngót!” Halt!

  “Never.” Dante plunged into the river.

  Rapid-fire shots chased him. Muddy water rushed up his nose. Exhausted muscles locked up in the frigid water. The current claimed him, spinning him in circles.

  He heard shouting, followed by a splash. One of the dogs had jumped in to pursue him. Or had been thrown in. The animal’s howl faded as the water sucked Dante under a second time.

  He kicked, managing to break the surface long enough to gasp air.

  There was no fighting this. His only hope was to remain buoyant until he was downriver and could get to the bank again.

  But could he survive that long? The guards would fan out and—

  Pain exploded in his skull as something—a log? a bullet?—slammed into the back of his head, fracturing awareness into agonizing splinters of reality.

  He expected to see his life flash pathetically before his eyes, but all remained dark.

  Cold.

  Hopeless.

  And his last conscious memory was of a woman laughing.

  Chapter 2

  Western Thailand Jungle

  March 2

  (Four Months Ago)

  As he had every morning for the last year, Ping trudged along one of the jungle paths toward the prison. Despite the recent rains, the paths were less muddy than the road. More private, too.

  His thoughts scurried like the rats his wife’s cat chased from the food bins. This surprised him, considering he’d had no sleep last night.

  He had stayed at his brother’s until late, and afterward, on a liquor-induced whim, he’d returned to the prison grounds, hiding outside the guard shack in the predawn hours. Morbid curiosity—no guilt!—had him eavesdropping on the radio calls.

  He’d crept away after hearing that the guards had the prisoner cornered at the river, that they planned to let the dogs drive him back. The order to take him alive had been chilling.

  That the prisoner had even gotten free as sick as he was astonished Ping. He hadn’t even bothered to hide the gate key, certain the plan wouldn’t work.

  He slogged through a puddle, ignoring the pinches of conscience, something his brother had claimed Ping had a lot of practice at. Hah! Didn’t his brother realize Ping was doing this to appease his guilt? To make right his old mistakes?

  Sure, he’d done so at the prisoner’s expense, but Mr. Dante knew the risks. Okay, maybe not all of them, but enough. Even before Ping’s deceit was factored in, the odds for success were horrid. Like he’d told his brother, he felt no allegiance to the American. If Mr. Dante were even half the criminal they said, he deserved whatever befell him.

  And it was not as if Mr. Dante was—how had he termed it?—at the top of his game. The stupid saying almost made sense. This had been a game to everyone. Except Mr. Dante.

  When Ping had delivered the final evening meal yesterday, he’d been alarmed at just how sick the prisoner was, and had been aghast to learn the man still wanted to proceed with their plan.

  It shouldn’t have surprised him. The prisoner’s incredible stamina provoked the guards, who seemed to delight in abusing him even as they took extreme care that he did not die.

  Someone had a special interest in keeping Mr. Dante alive. Or at least that was the impression Ping had gotten from the warden when approached about this job.

  “Befriend him, but not in an obvious manner,” the warden had suggested. “Show some pity, or perhaps ask about his family, his traditions. Then wait and see if he recruits you. Take care none of the guards notice. This arrangement is strictly between us: boss and esteemed employee.”

  Ping had been flattered at first. “Esteemed employee” meant favors: like being assured a higher-paying position at the prison’s new location.

  Though it was forbidden to discuss their jobs, Ping had heard rumors the prison was closing; had even seen a few signs himself.

  For one, they were executing most of the prisoners. Like the treacherous Burmese soldiers who were rumored to have kidnapped young Thai males and forced them back across the border with bombs strapped to their bodies. Ping would gladly spit on their graves.

  There were other hints of an impending move: boxes, late-night transports of other prisoners.

  Except when Ping had quietly investigated, he’d learned no prisons were being built within a fifty-mile radius. And there were no existing buildings that could be used.

  That’s when he realized he was being manipulated. The warden was using him. Ping had been recruited for this job for one reason: He spoke some English.

  The warden had assumed that Ping’s English skills meant he had enough knowledge of Western ways to trick Mr. Dante into striking a deal. “Think of something clever,” the warden had said. “Let him think you’re unhappy with the guards here. Or sympathetic to the West.”

  In truth, Ping’s knowledge of the West included only one area: blood chits. But he hadn’t told the warden that.

  Growing up, Ping heard about chits from an uncle who’d worked with the Australians during both World Wars. His uncle—who’d also insisted Ping and his brother learn to speak English to land better jobs—hah! if cleaning out shit buckets was better—had told wondrous stories about chits.

  Given in exchange for assisting U.S. military pilots downed or captured in enemy territories, a blood chit could be redeemed for any wish, courtesy of the magic genie, Uncle Sam. The lucky holder of such a chit could ask for anything. An-ee-thing!

  Ping rubbed his hands together. He was going to be a rich man. Because if Mr. Dante was as important as he suspected, the reward would be greater, right?

  While talk of the prisoners was even more strictly forbidden, Ping had already figured out much on his own. Mr. Dante had to be a high-ranking, U.S. military spy, probably working with the dog-faced Burmese militiamen who’d been captured. Why else keep him at a prison “hospital” whispered to be a brainwashing center? Or brain removal center judging by the jars he’d once glimpsed in a lab upstairs.

  Ping suspected Mr. Dante once had a female accomplice, who’d betrayed him. He’d overheard the guards laugh about the pornographic videos that were frequently shown to the prisoner before he was tortured.

  That had to be bad; knowing you were betrayed by your own sorry cock.

  Befriending the prisoner hadn’t been easy. Mr. Dante generally kept quiet, refusing to speak. Until one day Ping asked about chits. That got his attention.

  As Ping had recounted first one, then another of his uncle’s stories, Mr. Dante unexpectedly confirmed their veracity. After that, Ping could scarcely control his excitement and peppered him with hushed quest
ions at every chance: What exactly could one demand as a reward? And how quickly could it be paid?

  From there, their conversations flowed naturally toward the obvious. Yes, Mr. Dante would give Ping a blood chit in exchange for help breaking free. Yes, Ping and his entire family—thank the heavens his wife’s parents were dead—would be whisked out of Thailand and relocated to the United States. Yes, Ping would also be provided with citizenship, a house, and a job.

  Finally Ping had exchanged a homemade knife and shackle key for a handwritten chit, smeared with a drop of Mr. Dante’s blood. The scrap of paper held a name—Travis Franks—and a very long international phone number.

  “Call no matter what,” the prisoner emphasized. “Explain our deal. Even if I do not make it, the blood smear will provide DNA and they will offer a reward.”

  Not that Ping had disclosed any of that to the warden. No, the warden had fully believed the story that Mr. Dante had picked up on Ping’s dislike of one of the guards who had threatened to dunk Ping’s head in a slop bucket.

  Hah! In truth, he disliked all the guards. They treated the orderlies almost as bad as they treated prisoners.

  The rain picked up just as he stepped clear of the jungle. It dawned on him that this would be his final journey to this place. He should be skipping like a child. Instead he tugged his jacket close and ignored the scolding voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his wife’s nagging. Hah! So what if he collected his reward from the warden before sneaking off to cash in the chit? That didn’t make him evil. No, it proved he was smart.

  This was his chance at a better life. The life he’d dreamed of since childhood. Even his brother—who now held the precious chit—was starting to believe. More, his brother had agreed to try and find Ping’s son, who’d taken off years ago after a terrible argument.

  At thirteen, the boy had fallen in with a bad crowd, then had tried to fight Ping. Ping had been drinking that night, too, had nearly killed his son. This was an opportunity to reach out. His wife claimed money couldn’t buy love—but wouldn’t it make a nice down payment on apologies?

  Having reached the prison, he shoved aside his thoughts. At the front gate, security seemed tighter. A grim-faced guard waved him through. He hurried toward the building that housed both the warden’s office and the infirmary.

  Just ahead would be the mass gravesite. His feet slowed. Had the executions taken place at sunrise as planned? Was Mr. Dante now buried there, too? Or had they kept him alive to torture some more? He shivered.

  Rounding the corner, he tried to avert his eyes, but couldn’t. When he’d left yesterday, that section of ground had been wide open. But now it was covered in mounded soil. He spotted a few guards, heads bowed against the rain, their shovels propped against a tree.

  Holding his stomach, Ping moved on.

  Inside the office building, the air was tense. Charged. Ping’s nerves tingled as he removed his sopping hat and approached the guard sitting rigidly at a front desk.

  Embarrassed by the water dripping from his clothes and conscious of the mud on his shoes, Ping bowed lower than usual. He hesitated, catching himself before blurting his words out in English. He’d been practicing so much lately he’d grown careless.

  “The warden is expecting me,” he said in Thai.

  The guard picked up the phone. “He is here.” Silence. “Yes, I will handle it.” The guard hung up, his face expressionless. “The warden is busy. He asked that you wait.”

  Ping tried to mask his disappointment with a nod, another bow. He did not want to stay, but felt he had no choice.

  The guard stood and motioned him to follow. “He said it is better if no one sees you.”

  Ping gulped and mentally shoved away the tentacles of shame. How much did the guard know about his deal with the warden?

  Probably nothing, he reasoned. After all, the warden had supplied the knife and key, even warned him that a guard might be injured in order to make Mr. Dante’s escape seem realistic. The warden had also promised that Ping would not be implicated in any of it, and would be paid regardless of the outcome. He’d had nothing to lose.

  A short distance down the hall, the guard stopped next to an office. Ping quietly ducked inside.

  Actually it wasn’t an office. More like an examination room, he decided as he took in the single straight-back chair shoved against one wall. The room smelled of disinfectant, and water puddled in a corner near a drain. The guard looked pointedly at Ping’s wet clothes.

  “Will the warden be long?” Ping asked, increasingly uneasy. “I can come back later.”

  “Let me check.” The guard shut the door.

  Alone, Ping paced the room, but the back-and-forth motion didn’t help him escape the growing bad feeling in his abdomen. A feeling he knew was more than his hangover.

  As minutes piled up, his resolve weakened.

  Maybe his brother was right. Maybe Ping was being greedy. The reward the warden had offered was a pittance compared to the chit’s value. Besides, if the United States was willing to pay grandly for information about Mr. Dante, what would they offer in exchange for the other things Ping had heard? The darkest of secrets?

  Hah! If he played his cards just right, maybe he wouldn’t have to work ever again. His brother either. The two of them could open a bar, near the ocean in California. Water and whiskey. That wouldn’t be like work. He brightened, excited by this new angle.

  Footsteps approached as the guard returned.

  Ping now hoped the warden was still tied up. He’d act disappointed and promise to come back in the afternoon. Then he’d race home, get his wife, and leave to find his brother.

  He slid onto the edge of the chair, in a hurry for the door to open.

  When it did, all he saw was the barrel of a handgun. He stood, started to speak. Too late, he noted the guard’s stance, feet spread.

  Two shots were fired, the sound oddly muffled.

  Heat seared Ping’s chest as he dropped to one knee. It took a moment for the pain to register. Denial was short-lived.

  He blinked, realized he was on the floor, that the guard watched. The pain was wracking now; breathing difficult. He thought of his wife; he missed her already. And he regretted that his last words to his son had been bitter with renouncement. And his brother. Their dreams…California.

  Ping coughed, his vision dimming. He tried to focus, but the white wall, the white floors were now indistinct.

  He spotted something black on the floor and concentrated on it, as if by clinging to something here in this room he could stave off death.

  His sight cleared momentarily, and he started weeping as he realized what he saw.

  The drain.

  Now he understood what it was for.

  Chapter 3

  Western Thailand Jungle

  Uncertain Date

  (Four Months Ago)

  The wheels on the bus go round and round.

  Dante opened his eyes. Closed them. Who the hell was singing? Round and round.

  Nobody…the voice was in his head.

  Wheels.

  Cart.

  Potholes.

  “Oh fuck!” His face slammed against wood, busting his cheekbone, the pain sharp enough to jar him completely awake. He was lying in the back of a wooden cart. Facedown in a pool of vomit and worse. The smells gagged him, but he couldn’t move.

  Too weak.

  Too…sick.

  A tired-sounding man chattered in Thai. It was familiar. Why?

  A woman’s voice interrupted. They were arguing. About him?

  Think.

  The old man had hauled him out of the river. His wife had disapproved. The couple had argued then. Dante promised money. Thai bhats. Gold. Anything.

  When had that been? Today? Yesterday? Last week?

  Dizziness had him closing his eyes. Everything ached. His skull. His leg. His arms. What had happened to him?

  He groaned as full recall mowed over him.

  The pri
son.

  He had escaped, had made it to the river and been swept away. He had a blotchy memory of scrambling onto a log. Of clinging to it until daylight and beyond. But for how long? Exactly how far had he made it?

  Jesus—he had killed a man. The guards would be searching, they wouldn’t give up or give in. He needed to get away. Could he really trust this old man?

  Dante tried to raise his head to speak, but couldn’t. He heard laughter again, a woman’s voice.

  Then blackness swallowed him.

  “Trust me?” The woman’s tongue swirled against his erection. Her teeth nipped, scraped maddeningly against his hard shaft. Her lips parted with a moan as she tried to take his entire length into her mouth, down her throat.

  Dante couldn’t—didn’t—move. Afraid that if he exhaled, he’d come. And he wanted this to last and last. Cat going down on him was supreme ecstasy.

  Her hot, greedy mouth tried to take him in fully. Failing, she sucked harder, her fist milking him at the same time.

  “I won’t stop until I get it all,” she purred. Her tongue flicked at the sensitive spot just beneath the head. Then she gently, playfully nipped again. “How do you eat an elephant?”

  He groaned. One bite at a time.

  The cart hit another hole.

  Dante came up from the nightmare, spitting mad. He hated that after all this time, he still remembered exactly how it ended, knew exactly how it felt. How she’d drive him to the brink and deny him release over and over. Until he was practically mad with the need to fuck her.

  In the end, she’d fucked him. Royally.

  Traitorous bitch. Harry had warned him.

  Harry.

  Max.

  Their memories spilled into consciousness. Christ, he had to get up, get moving. Had to save his friends.

  Dante rolled onto his back. The fire-bright sun seared his retinas, hammering nails into his skull. He turned his head to the side and threw up yet again. His vision grew dim and he fought to stay conscious.

  Harry. Max. He was their only hope. If they were alive…

  Your friends are dead.

  “No.” He remembered Max clearly. Super Max. He’d been invincible.