At a crouch, avoiding illuminated areas, he cut across the camp to what he had come to know as the parade ground, though it was too small for any real parades. It was an inky pool near the center of the camp. In it, he stopped once more, checked his pistol again, and unsnapped the strap around the knife’s grip. The colonel’s quarters sat dead ahead—or at least Lincoln thought that was where Phan could be found. If he was wrong about this, then the whole mission would be a pointless exercise, probably ending in his death.
But he didn’t think he was. A Pathet Lao colonel—one known to the CIA as a “warlord”—wouldn’t share lodging with his men. He would want his own place, and the smallish, square building was the only one that qualified. The fact that there was a jeep, or the Chinese equivalent thereof, backed up close to the door also testified to the occupant’s importance.
Besides, he saw now, there was a guard outside it. He was huddled under an overhang that probably didn’t keep him very dry. He was smoking, and he appeared to be shivering. Chances were, keeping an eye out for a single intruder was the furthest thing from his mind.
The guard wouldn’t hold still. He was probably trying to stay warm while wearing a uniform every bit as oversaturated as Lincoln’s had become. He was twitchy, turning this way and that, sucking down smoke and hoping for warmth, then lighting another cigarette from the tip of the first. Lincoln moved closer, slowly, staying low. If the man kept up the same pattern, Lincoln knew when his chance would come.
Luckily, the man was true to form. As his cigarette shortened to a stub, he reached under his slicker for another. At that moment, Lincoln charged across the remaining distance. The guard didn’t react until one of Lincoln’s feet hit a puddle and splashed, but his hands were inside his coat and he couldn’t reach his gun. Lincoln leapt, got one hand on the guard’s face and another around his chest, and snapped the man’s neck. When Lincoln released him, he crumpled to the mud with a rustle that was barely audible over the rain pelting the roof.
Inside, there might be another guard and there might not. If the opportunity had presented itself for Lincoln to watch longer, he might have known for sure. But he hadn’t had that opportunity, and at this point, it didn’t matter that much. Guard or not, the man he wanted was inside there, so he was going in.
The door wasn’t locked. It looked like there was light around its edges, which could be a problem; if he opened it and light spilled through, anyone watching in this direction might be alerted. On the other hand, for all he knew people came and went all night long, and no one would give it a second thought. Lincoln had no way to tell and no alternative way inside anyway.
He opened the door as narrowly as he could, slipped inside, and closed it again.
The inside was more luxurious than he had expected. At the front of the room was an ornate desk, with an inkwell and a blotter and a leather desk pad. Two straight-backed chairs for visitors stood close by.
Behind that was an Oriental trifold screen, and behind the screen, Lincoln found Colonel Phan. He was asleep in a bed covered in silken sheets and pillows and protected by mosquito netting bunched at a central point overhead. Not far from the bed, an electric floor lamp burned—the source of the light. Apparently the colonel was afraid of the dark.
As Lincoln crossed toward the bed, a floorboard squeaked under his foot. Phan stirred at the sound, then opened his eyes. After a beat, they flew open wide.
Lincoln almost felt sorry for the man. From what seemed to be a sound sleep, he had awakened and looked up to see a nightmare in black, coated in mud and grease, coming directly toward him with a pistol in his hand. The sight must have been horrifying, Lincoln thought.
Phan certainly found it that way. He pawed at the bed, trying to rise to a sitting position. He had a holstered pistol and a sword Lincoln knew as a dha on a low table next to the bed, and panicked, he flung a hand toward them. Instead of the gun, he found the dha, yanked it toward him, and drew it from its scabbard.
Lincoln didn’t hesitate. He cleared the space in a single bound, landing on the bed and dropping the gun. One knee smashed into Phan’s chest, forcing the wind from him so he couldn’t cry out. Lincoln ripped the dha from the colonel’s hand, spun it around, and drove its point up through Phan’s throat and chin and out the top of his head.
It took only seconds for the colonel to die. Lincoln studied the scene, wanting to remember every detail. The sword’s blade tapered away from the grip, then widened again near the end, where bits of gray matter dangled. The cylindrical grip and scabbard were both black lacquer, with rattan strips on the scabbard and a cord baldric to suspend it from a strap. The end of the grip was capped by a coin stamped “Indochine Francaise.”
The colonel was a whip-thin man, the skin of his face so tight every detail of the musculature seemed to show through. His teeth were yellow and in terrible shape, and the thrust of the sword through his mouth had pinned it open to display them to their worst. Blood was running out the corners.
Lincoln hoped that, in his final seconds, Phan had known that it was an American who had come to snuff out his life.
Satisfied that he had accomplished what he came for, he retrieved his pistol and started toward the door.
He had taken two steps when it flew open wide.
29
* * *
Two dripping-wet Pathet soldiers stood in the doorway, as surprised to see Lincoln as he was to see them. He guessed they had spotted the body of the guard outside and come in to investigate. One had an AR in his hands, which he was swiveling around toward Lincoln. The other held his loosely, by the barrel, as if he hadn’t expected to use it any time soon.
Lincoln raised the pistol and fired two shots. The first powered through the forehead of the soldier who was about to fire, before he could take aim. He dropped as if his legs had been knocked out from underneath him. The second shot caught the other man in the jaw, cutting bone and tendon so that his mouth fell open. Lincoln rushed him, snatching up his AR-30 and driving him against the doorjamb.
He stepped outside. Three more soldiers were running toward him, from different directions. One shouted something in Lao.
Lincoln wasn’t getting out of the camp unscathed, it seemed. If he got out at all.
He reversed the borrowed AR, settled it against his shoulder, and fired three quick bursts. All three of the men went down. But the screams and the gunfire would bring more, in a hurry.
Now he had a choice to make and not much time to think it over. He could stick to his original plan and head out through the openings he had left in the fences. That would require him to dive down into the mud and squirm through, though, during which time he could be easily picked off.
The other choice was right outside—the colonel’s jeep. Assuming it would always have its ignition key in place, Lincoln grabbed the second soldier’s AR-30, ran to it, and jumped in behind the wheel, tossing both weapons onto the passenger seat. The key was there. He cranked it, slammed the gearshift into place, and stomped on the accelerator.
The rear tires spun, flinging mud against the colonel’s wall.
Lincoln downshifted, tried again. It budged a little, then slipped back into the trench it was busy digging. Over the din of the racing engine and the spinning wheels, he heard the camp coming to life.
A shot spanged against the jeep. Lincoln hadn’t seen the shooter, but he picked up one of the ARs and fired a burst toward where he thought it had come from. Then he hit the gas again, and the jeep’s tires finally found purchase. The vehicle lurched forward.
Lincoln cranked the wheel, making a quick right. His rear tires fishtailed into the parade ground, but the front ones caught again, and he headed, slipping and sliding, toward the main gate.
As he neared it, he snapped on the headlights. They showed him nine or ten Pathet soldiers in his path, all aiming weapons his way. His path was straight, and he needed momentum to break down the gate—they weren’t likely to open it for him. He couldn’t afford to backtrac
k, and he was being fired on from behind.
He took up both of the ARs he had acquired and held them tight against the wheel to keep the vehicle on a steady course. Smashing the pedal to the floor, he opened fire as he drove, twitching the guns this way and that to hit when the communists tried to dodge.
The plan almost backfired when he slammed into fallen bodies, but the mud was wet enough that the jeep’s wheels pushed them down into it, giving him the traction he needed. His front end crashed into the gate, and it swung wide. He was out of the camp—but on a road that went only one way from here—toward the north.
And behind him, he heard the rumble of trucks in pursuit.
He kept the pedal floored. The road here was slick, just as muddy as it had been in the camp, and at every turn the jeep fishtailed and threatened to flip, or slide sideways off the road. He couldn’t keep going north indefinitely, and he didn’t know how long he could outrun his pursuers. He needed to get off this road, but there didn’t appear to be any others. A few clicks ahead he would hit the intersection of routes 7 and 13—the one he was supposed to take, with his Hmong soldiers—but he didn’t know if he could hold out that long, or where he would go when he got there.
No, he had to take decisive action sooner than that.
He rounded a curve. Now he had put at least three turns between him and those chasing him. Not much distance, but for the moment, at least, he couldn’t see them, which meant they couldn’t see him.
He slowed and turned the wheel, swerving left and then intentionally skidding the jeep off the right side of the road and letting it come to rest up against the trees, with the rear as far out into the road as he could get it. Then he jumped out, taking the ARs, careful to cross the road in the tire tracks he had left. He dashed into the trees on the left side, then hurried as fast as the brush would allow, back in the direction he had come. After a few paces, he crouched and waited.
He didn’t have to wait long. The trucks came barreling around the last turn and hit the brakes when they saw the empty jeep partly blocking the way. The front truck shimmied all over the road, shuddering and threatening to spill over.
Lincoln helped the process along with one of his two hand grenades. He tugged the pin and tossed the grenade out to where the truck was about to wind up when it finished its slide, just feet behind the end of the jeep. The grenade exploded behind the left front tire, blowing the wheel off and throwing engine parts through the hood. The truck lurched sideways and came to a halt half off the road, leaning precariously.
Two more trucks had been roaring along behind it, too close to stop suddenly. The nearest slammed into the first truck, and the next driver, trying to avoid a pileup, cranked his wheel to the left. Bad idea. The truck’s wheels locked and it slid toward the others, then tipped over and skidded into the first two, ramming them with its tires. Lincoln threw the second grenade into the mess of buckled steel and dizzy, disoriented Pathet Lao. The explosion touched off spilled gasoline, magnifying its effect.
Lincoln didn’t stick around to enjoy the fruits of his labors. He stayed in the shelter of the trees until he had passed the third turn, then took to the muddy road. Progress was difficult there, but not quite as slow as it was in the jungle. He cut back into the trees to give the fort a wide berth, then circled around to where he had left his clothes and pack.
He was shivering uncontrollably, possibly close to hypothermic from the rain and mud and grease coating him. His eyes stung from the gun smoke, and his ears were ringing from the noise. But he had killed Colonel Phan and delivered a blow to the camp that would take a long time to recover from—if they ever could. He considered the mission a success. All he wanted now was to get home to Vang Khom, to shower, and to sit near a fire while Sho tended to his wounds.
He felt like he deserved a little TLC.
30
* * *
They were driving through River Row in Lincoln’s Samson Drifter at night, following a van packed with furs and three men—a driver and two others on the bench seat beside him—who they had to assume were armed, given the value of their cargo.
“Not so close! They’ll get suspicious!”
“Jesus, Giorgi, this isn’t my first job!” Ellis snapped. “I know how to tail a mark!”
He wasn’t happy about being here, in Lincoln’s car, on Vito Scaletta’s turf, about to rob a man who funneled a lot of money into his girlfriend’s organization. But he had no choice. And he fucking hated not having choices.
“I’ll follow just long enough to make sure they’re taking the same route your guys say they always take, then we’ll break off and get ahead of them so we can lie in wait at the ambush point.” The van mostly stuck to well-traveled roads, but River Row was an industrial area, and the warehouse it was headed for was on the other side of a section full of vacant buildings; going around would have been safer but would also make the trip that much longer, and the driver apparently thought what he made up for in time was worth any associated risk.
Giorgi’s scouts had identified a spot where they could cut off the van in between two of those vacant buildings, and a couple of guys already in position could push some dumpsters into place behind it to keep the driver from backing up. Then they could pick the truck’s crew off at their leisure and take the van to one of Sal’s warehouses. Fastoche.
It was a good plan, really; all the better for its simplicity. No one would get hurt, and the donor would never know what—or who—hit him.
But Ellis had pulled jobs with Giorgi and Danny before. He knew there would be some kind of hitch, no matter how good the plan. There was always a hitch.
“Okay, okay. I’ll back off and let you do your thing. No need to be so damned touchy about it. We’ll be done and back in time for Danny to get it on with Boobs McFarland.”
“Fuck you, man, her name is Wanda. And we’d better be. She doesn’t like it when I’m late, and it’s not like a girl like her doesn’t have other options.”
“Hell, Danny, she’s not the only one with options—you need to remember that. Besides, maybe you grab one of the furs out of the van to give her as a little present. She’ll forgive you for being late then. Probably do you right then and there and not care who’s watching.”
As Giorgi and Danny tried to imagine exactly what lewd form Wanda’s gratitude might take, Ellis peeled off down a side street and headed for the ambush spot. He was almost there when red lights flashed in front of him and a long, low whistle sounded.
“What the fuck?” Giorgi spluttered, taking notice of their surroundings for the first time in a while. “A fucking train? Why didn’t we know there was going to be one at this time? Didn’t you check the schedule once you saw our route was crossing railroad tracks?”
Ellis hadn’t, but he wasn’t about to admit that to Giorgi.
“These damn things are never on time; you should know that. Maybe it will be a short one.”
It wasn’t. Ellis counted 212 cars plus a caboose before the arm went up and they were able to cross the tracks.
“Well, hell. Now what?”
“Now we have to do this the hard way,” Giorgi replied. “We go to the warehouse.”
• • •
Ellis hadn’t memorized the route to the warehouse, since he was never supposed to have to drive that far, so Giorgi guided him there. This area was better lit than where they’d planned to hit the van, but the warehouses on either side appeared to be closed up tight; apparently they didn’t get shipments at night.
The van was sitting in the loading bay in front of an open roll-up door. One man stood sentry beside it; there was no sign of the others.
“That’s a huge building,” Danny said, “Is the whole thing full of furs? Maybe we’re thinking too small.”
Giorgi shrugged. “Fucker owns a whole chain of stores across the southeast, so maybe it is all his. You’ve probably seen his ads—calls himself the King of Furs, wears a half-assed crown. But if he just rents space here, then the rest of
the place will be locked up, maybe have its own guards. That’s why I didn’t want to come here.” He glared at Ellis when he said it; Ellis took the glare and gave it right back. No way was Giorgi laying this one at his feet. He hadn’t wanted to do the job at all.
“Well, come on. Let’s get this over with.”
Giorgi led the way toward the open bay, keeping to the shadows along the side of the building. They approached from the side of the van opposite from where the guard was. It meant he couldn’t see them coming, but they also couldn’t see what he was doing; he could appear from either the front or the back of the van at any moment. And they still didn’t know where the other guy was. Or the driver, for that matter.
They reached the van without incident. Giorgi motioned for Danny to go around to the far side and take care of the man there while he and Ellis crept into the warehouse through the open roll-up door.
As Giorgi had predicted, the place was sectioned off with chain link fencing, behind which were a myriad of different goods: furniture, bicycles, elaborate lace-and-pearl wedding dresses in plastic. Some partitions held boxes stacked almost to the ceiling with no hint of what might be inside them. Ellis thought there must be millions of dollars worth of merchandise in here. Maybe Danny was right; maybe they were thinking too small.
Then they heard footsteps, and he and Giorgi had to hurry and duck around a corner of the dress-filled partition as the other man came strolling into view.
“Yo, Jimmy! I did something to my back—it’s killing me. Why don’t you take this next load?” There was a pause. “Jimmy?”
Ellis and Giorgi looked at each other. Ellis nodded, and they moved out from behind their white frilly cover. As they crept up on the man, he drew his gun, his attention focused on the open bay door and the nonresponsive Jimmy.
Giorgi had his own gun out, pointed straight at the guy’s aching back, but Ellis drew his own gun, reversed it, and, moving in before Giorgi could take the shot, he slammed the butt of the weapon down against the base of the man’s skull. The man dropped to the concrete with a grunt and a clatter, his own gun falling from his hand. Ellis knelt and picked it up, stuffing it into the waistband of his pants as he stood. When he straightened, Giorgi was glaring at him again.
Mafia III Page 18
