by Barry Eisler
There they were, three of them. All holding pistols. In the dim light, she could make out gear protruding from their faces. Night vision, as she’d feared.
Feared, yes. But prepared for.
She wondered what level. It might have been anything. Cheap surplus. Or state of the art, provided under an export license by the US government, maybe Gen 3 dual sensor—image intensifier and infrared combined. The anti-gang unit had that gear. These guys might, too. And what else? Vests, probably. Something else to work around.
She watched them creep out from the tree line and toward the back of the plane, their heads and torsos sweeping back and forth as they moved, their pistols tracking their gaze. She was in luck: they were all right-handed. She’d be approaching from behind and to their right, meaning they’d be forced to turn clockwise to face her, biomechanically an awkward angle of defense for someone right-handed, and one that offered scant opportunity to engage with the left hand while shooting with the right.
When they reached the back of the fuselage, they did one last 360-degree sweep. She knew that would be it—now they would turn and focus on the interior.
They did. As soon as their backs were to her, she pulled off the neoprene gloves and slid the FLIR from underneath her. Keeping one eye closed to preserve her night vision, she quickly confirmed no other human heat signatures anywhere in the field—just the three of them. The closest and the one in the middle were big. The farthest was small. That was Dirty Beard. He must have felt safer with muscle.
Dirty Beard held up a hand to the other two, then gestured inside the fuselage. He’d seen the heat signature from the chemical packs. They thought they’d spotted her.
She placed the FLIR next to the backpack, brought her knees in, and came smoothly to a sprinter’s starting crouch. With her left hand, she took the wireless strobe remote from the stomach compartment, and with her right eased out the ASP. The pound and a half of steel in her hand felt reassuringly deadly.
She took a deep breath. Blew it out. Inhaled again. Tensed. And pressed the wireless trigger.
The inside of the fuselage was instantly turned into a lightning storm, the hot white light staccato-silhouetting the three men and overwhelming any auto-gating bright-light cutoff their equipment might have had. She burst from her crouch and flew across the distance, her arms pumping, one eye closed to avoid the blinding strobe. All three of them had been jolted back by the flashing bulbs. Their free hands were up to protect their eyes, and they were sweeping the muzzles of their pistols back and forth across the opening of the fuselage interior, trying to acquire a target that they couldn’t see and wasn’t there.
She snapped the ASP to her right as she approached the nearest man, extending it to its full twenty-four inches, planting her left foot just short of his position and whipping the baton around as though she was swinging a war hammer. The strobe cut out and suddenly everything was dark again, but with the eye she’d kept closed she could still see well enough. The man must have sensed movement, because he flinched and began to turn toward her. A mistake. The steel bar caught him just above the teeth and shattered his maxilla. Somehow his night-vision goggles stayed secure even as a shock went through his body and his gun flew from his hand. Then his knees went out and he started to slide downward.
Before he had even hit the ground, she was on to the second. Like the first, he was turning clockwise, at least partially blinded and trying to orient his pistol on whatever the danger was. The ASP was across her body now, not yet retracted from the first strike, and she backhanded it into his forearm, snapping his ulna in two. The gun dropped and he howled, a howl she cut off by bringing the baton around and blasting it into his trachea. His arms flew up and his chin came in so hard she had to jerk the baton to clear it, and she slipped past him, closing on Dirty Beard, closing as he spun clockwise to face her, his feet scrabbling back to create distance and buy time, the gun coming around, the muzzle sweeping in, closer, closer—
The ASP was out of position from the way it had buried itself in the second guy’s neck—it was trailing her body now, and hitting Dirty Beard’s gun arm from this angle would bring the muzzle across her body, not clear of it. Without thinking, she dropped the baton, angled in, and slammed her left shoulder into his right, staying just outside the ambit of the muzzle. Before he could ricochet off her, she caught his gun wrist in her right hand, grabbed the straps of his night-vision gear and a fistful of hair with her left, and took out his right leg with her left in an unorthodox de ashi barai—a judo foot sweep. His legs flew right, his head and torso went left, and as she took him to his back she kept the gun hand, got her legs across his chest and face, and ripped his arm back with a classic juji gatame—the cross-body armlock. He shrieked as his elbow snapped, and she snatched away the gun, donkey-kicked his face, scrambled to her feet, and dove to her left just as the first guy’s gun went off. Between the neoprene balaclava and the adrenaline, it sounded like not much more than a pop, but she saw the muzzle flash and felt the round sizzle past her shoulder. She rolled, brought up Dirty Beard’s pistol, and sighted in the direction the shot had come from. In the dim light she could see him, shaking from his injuries, trying to reacquire her through the goggles—
She pressed the trigger. The gun was a .45, bigger than she was accustomed to, and the round went high. The guy shot again. The bullet blew past her to the left. She adjusted, sighted in, squeezed the grip, and shot three times. His body jerked as the rounds hit home—two in the stomach, one in the chest. He might have been wearing a vest. It didn’t matter. She paused, sighted carefully, and put a fourth round in his face. His head snapped back and his body shuddered and she knew he was done.
She rolled to her feet and quickly closed the distance to the second guy. He was writhing and twitching, his hands clutching at his throat, trying to draw air through his ruined windpipe, the night-vision goggles flopping around his mouth. She shot him twice in the head.
She looked back at Dirty Beard. He had gotten to his knees. His right arm dangled uselessly, but he was trying to access something in his right pants pocket with his other hand. Probably a knife. She strode forward and kicked him in the balls, the impact hard enough to almost lift him from the ground. He made a retching sound and fell to his side.
She undid the drawstring and peeled the balaclava back off her head. The feel of the night air on her wet neck was delicious. Then she circled behind Dirty Beard, ripped the goggles off his face, and secured them over her own. The tubes were functioning, apparently undamaged by the strobe. And the unit was indeed top quality—dual night vision and infrared. But now the advantage was hers.
She scanned the ground, every detail clear now and beautifully illuminated, and immediately saw where the first two guns had fallen. Too far for Dirty Beard to access, even if he’d been uninjured. The other men lay still, the ground around them glowing with white pools of hot blood.
She retrieved the guns and placed them inside the fuselage, then turned to Dirty Beard. It took her only a moment to reach into the right pocket of his cargo pants and retrieve the folding knife he’d been trying to access. She placed it alongside the guns and grabbed the handcuffs and duct tape. He’d managed to squirm to his knees again. She kicked him onto his stomach, knelt on his back, and cuffed him the way she had scores of suspects when she’d been a patrol officer. He screamed at the manipulation of his broken elbow, and though she was focused on the plan and was trying to be as tactical and dispassionate as possible, she couldn’t help but find the sound profoundly satisfying.
As soon as he was cuffed, she wrapped his mouth with duct tape, taking care not to close off his nostrils in the process. Then she wrapped tape around the cuffs. She didn’t have time to search him for a handcuff key, and even if he had one, the chances he’d be able to manipulate it with a broken arm were slim. But now the chances were none. And then, though it was almost certainly unnecessary, she taped his ankles together, too.
She ran back to her hiding s
pot and retrieved the pack, the gloves, and the FLIR, then returned to the fuselage, where she gathered the hot packs, the spare burner, the strobe assembly, and the knife and guns. She realized the dog was barking. She scanned the field and saw no one. The animal must have been reacting to the noise, the violence. Maybe the smell of blood.
She was desperate to get out of the neoprene, but couldn’t risk the time. She sprinted back to the truck, threw the pack in the passenger’s seat, fired up the engine, and drove down the narrow dirt road, leaving the headlights off and using the goggles to navigate. The ride was bouncy and the suspension bottomed out repeatedly over the deep ruts. It didn’t matter. If all went well, tonight would be the truck’s last ride.
She pulled up next to the fuselage. The inside of the wetsuit was sloshing with sweat, and she felt light-headed.
Almost there, girl. Almost there.
She left the engine running—the starter relay was sound now, but she wasn’t going to take a chance, either. She popped the hatch, yanked Dirty Beard to his feet, and shoved him sprawling inside. Then she dragged in the two bodies. They were heavy, as bodies always are, but the hatch was low to the ground and she managed. She scanned the field and saw two people looking in from Ramkhamhaeng Road. They must have heard the gunshots, or the screams. Or maybe they saw the strobe lights. But they wouldn’t be able to make out anything.
She slammed the hatch and took one last look around, ensuring she hadn’t overlooked anything. She could see some of the spent casings from the gunfight, still hot, but even if they were found, they’d be irrelevant. Other than the cooling blood soaking into the earth, she saw no evidence that anything at all had happened here, nothing important left behind.
She drove out along the dirt road again, using only the goggles to navigate, smiling grimly at the sound of Dirty Beard screaming behind the duct tape as the suspension repeatedly bottomed out in the deep ruts. The wedding party was going full force—a young Thai woman in a white gown dancing on the stage, surrounded by merrymakers. If they’d heard anything, they hadn’t been inclined to investigate. It was easy to rationalize away the sound of gunshots. People did it all the time in Seattle.
When she hit the street, she turned on the headlights and pulled off the goggles. Traffic was moderate, and she made no attempts to get around it lest she draw attention from a passing patrol. Besides, she was in no hurry now. She could take all night, if she wanted to. And she thought maybe she did.
She uncapped a liter bottle of water and took two big swallows, then forced herself to set it aside. She’d learned in competition that small sips were better.
I have him, little bird. I have him. He’s finally going to pay.
In the lightless corner of an after-hours shopping-mall parking lot, she peeled off the neoprene. She’d gotten somewhat used to the feel of it, but the moment it was off, it was like being able to breathe again. God, she was drenched. She should have thought to bring a towel. She threw the wetsuit in the passenger’s footwell and got back into her street clothes. While she changed, she heard Dirty Beard, trying to talk through the duct tape, the cadences of the muffled words urgent and terrified. She nodded in satisfaction.
Oh, you’re going to talk, she thought. I promise you that.
15
About five miles west of the airplane graveyard, she turned onto a dirt road, cut the truck lights, and pulled on the goggles. A half mile up the road was a small quarry she had scouted out earlier. It was empty now, as she’d expected, some perimeter security lights illuminating the machinery on the other side of a chain-link fence, but otherwise devoid of signs of life.
Opposite the main plant, on the other side of the dirt road, was an empty gravel field, fenced in on all sides by barbed wire. Maybe overflow parking for the plant. Maybe a future excavation site. Maybe both. The field was deserted, just as it had been during the day.
She turned right and gave the truck a little gas. There was a moment of resistance from the barbed wire, and then it snapped and she was through. She drove to the middle of the field, parked so the hatch was facing the tree line rather than the road, cut the engine, grabbed the daypack, and got out. There was a slightly acrid smell carried on the night breeze—stone dust and metal filings and machine oil. She heard insects buzzing and the muted sounds of distant traffic. Other than that, silence. She finished her water, tossed the plastic bottle back onto the seat, took off the goggles, put them in the daypack, and waited while her eyes adjusted to the dark. Then she went around to the back of the truck and popped the hatch.
Dirty Beard was lying on his stomach to one side, the bodies of his partners jammed against him. He was still trying to talk from behind the duct tape, but the tone was past panic now, tinged more with exhaustion than terror. The interior, which earlier had smelled faintly and pleasantly of produce, now reeked of blood and piss and sweat.
She dialed the SureFire down to fifteen lumens and placed it on the truck bed. Reflected off the roof and walls, it provided enough light to see by, but would only be minimally noticeable from a distance through the open hatch. Although she doubted anyone would be able to see anything at all through the faraway tree line.
She picked up the daypack and checked the guns. They were Glock 21s—the .45 ACP. She’d keep all the magazines and chambered rounds, but would keep only one of the weapons. She could clean it with oxygen bleach later to at least make sure no blood was on it, though if things got to the point where she was explaining how she came into possession of a murdered cop’s gun, some blood traces would be the least of her worries. She’d buy a change of clothes and shoes, too, and lose the ones she was wearing. Probably they were fine—the wetsuit would have shielded her from any blood that sprayed when she hit the first guy in the face with the baton, and any she might have picked up while moving the bodies. But it was better to be sure.
She unclipped the Infidel, popped the blade, and knelt alongside Dirty Beard. “Don’t move,” she said, showing him the knife. “I’m going to cut the tape, and I wouldn’t want to miss and slice the wrong thing.”
She cut through the tape under one of his ears. He held very still, and she managed not to slip. He whimpered as she tore the tape loose. She saw his skin color was bad—green, as though he’d been fighting the urge to vomit. She realized she should have thought of that. If he’d puked behind the duct tape and she hadn’t been able to get to him in time, he would have aspirated it and died. Well, sometimes you just get lucky.
“I can get you money,” he said, panting. “I . . .”
Before he could finish, he turned his head and threw up. She felt a weirdly detached satisfaction at the poetic justice of it. She had repeatedly thrown up on the deck of the ship after finishing what he and the other two made her do to them.
“My arm,” he moaned. “My arm.”
“You were supposed to bring the money. Did you forget it?”
“I can get money.”
“It’s not that I wouldn’t like the money. I would have given it to Saint Clare Hospice.”
His sickly color worsened.
“I didn’t make him suffer,” she said, feeling the dragon stir. “He gave you up without that. But if you don’t tell me what I want to know, and if what you tell me doesn’t track with what I already know, you’re going to think what I did to your partner Vivavapit and the senator was nothing.” She pressed the tip of the Infidel against the skin just under his left eye. He yelped and tried to jerk away, but his head was pressed against the wheel well and there was nowhere for him to go.
“I tell you,” he said, panting now. “Whatever you want. Just . . . please. My arm. I cannot think right. Because of pain.”
He had a point. The broken elbow, exacerbated by the handcuffs and the bumps in the ride, must have been excruciating. And severe pain didn’t just cause people to pretend things. It caused them to imagine them, too. And yet.
“But that’s the thing,” she said. “I want you to be in pain. Because no matter what I
do to you, it’ll be nothing to what you did to me. What you did to my sister, Nason.”
“I’m sorry.”
No you’re not, she thought. But you will be.
“I have three questions. All very simple. And I already know most of the answers. So if you lie, I’ll know it. Do you understand?”
“I tell the truth. And you let me go.”
She wondered how he could believe an exchange like that was remotely possible. Desperation, she supposed. Whatever. What mattered was that she would exploit it.
“If you tell the truth,” she said, trying to let a little reluctance creep into her tone.
He shook his head, as though knowing she didn’t mean it. “Think,” he said. “I can’t tell anyone. You have Sakda confession. How could I explain, explain any of this?”
“All I want is information.”
He shook his head again, obviously not buying it. “I’m sorry,” he said. “For what we did. It was Vivavapit. We all afraid of him.”
Square Head had claimed the same. And who could say? It might even have been true.
“Who told you to take Nason and me?” she said. “Who gave you the photograph? Who told you where to find us? Where to take us? Who?”
“Vivavapit,” he said quickly.
“Bullshit,” she said, feeling the dragon unfold inside her, hot and impatient and enraged. “You’re not going to blame it all on the dead. Maybe the order went through Vivavapit, but don’t even try to tell me you didn’t know where it came from. The two of you went all the way back to the RTP Border Patrol, then Narcotics Suppression, then the Central Investigation Bureau. You shared secrets. You shared sisters. You shared everything. Don’t you fucking tell me you didn’t know where the information came from.”
She breathed deeply, trying to calm herself. Part of what made her such an effective interrogator, she knew, was her ability to wall off her feelings and approach the subject dispassionately. But finally having Dirty Beard in her power, after so many years of fantasizing about what she would do to him if this moment ever came . . . it was too much. It was distorting her perspective, eroding her tactics.
