by Meg Gardiner
Looking down the dock, I saw two female figures skittering this way, one Thai, one fair, faces blank and eerie.
I beckoned the driver. “Go. Ga ru na.” Please.
Why hadn’t I memorized the phrase for right goddamned now, before those freaks get me? He tossed his cigarette into the water and climbed aboard, moving without hurry.
Combine a covered wagon with a top-fuel dragster, and that would approximate the look of the longtail boat. At the front it rose to a curving prow bedecked with garlands and orchids. At the stern was the biggest fricking engine I had ever seen.
I put the phone to my ear. “Jesse, you there?”
“Here. Are you gone?”
“Will be.” Come on, man, light this sucker up. “The engine on this thing, it looks like a V-eight.”
“Probably a truck engine pulled out of a big rig. I don’t hear it.”
The motor was mounted on the deck and rigged to swivel. Hooked to the front of it was a metal tiller. Running out the back was an extended drive train leading to the propeller: the boat’s longtail.
The goblins came speeding along the dock. The first one called out in Thai, pointing, clearly indicating that they wanted to get aboard my boat.
“Come on,” I shouted. “Go!”
The driver started the engine. My world turned to noise. Hot fumes bellowed into the air, shaking the exhaust pipe, and we eased away from the dock.
In my ear, Jesse said, “Talk, Delaney.”
“We’re going too slow.” The goblins were now dickering with the other boat driver. “Come on, bro, let’s haul.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Jesse’s words were nearly swallowed by the roar of the engine, but his pitch came through clear enough. Any clearer, he would have turned the river to ice.
“The stuff I need to help Dad is here in Bangkok. But if we don’t get going, I’m hosed.”
The driver edged the boat past a hotel shuttle, bobbing up and down. He swiveled the engine on its pivot, throwing his shoulder into it, and drove the longtail out into the river.
The goblins were scuttling aboard the first boat, moving among the German tourists as though weightless. They shouted and pointed at us, plainly telling the driver to skip the scenic tour and give chase. He seemed unmoved. Then one of them flashed what, even from this distance, I could tell was a platinum card. He took it. Shit. Plastic beats wads of baht.
“Fast,” I shouted at the driver, aiming my arm downriver. “Please. Now.”
He gave me a look, mostly indecipherable, and opened it up.
The roar of the engine went from loud to overwhelming, and the longtail accelerated with a huge rush of power. I whiplashed backward, gripping the edge of the seat. The bow rose, garlands and orchids flying. Behind us in the ferocious wake of the engine, a rooster tail of water curved white into the air. He powered into a sharp turn and we screamed downriver.
I glanced back. The second boat was pulling out and following us.
We roared through spangled sunlight, skipping on the green chop like a stone flung across the water. Along the riverbank, trees and shining restaurants and crumbling nineteenth-century warehouses streaked by. The wind, the speed, and the power of the engine felt exhilarating. But to get away, I had to get off this boat without Rio’s trolls spotting it, which meant getting around a curve and out of their sight. And now when I looked back I saw a second rooster tail. Bigger than ours, if possible, and gaining on us.
How could they be gaining on us? They were carrying an oompah band. Damn, I needed one of those platinum cards—they truly had no limit. We slewed past traffic. Spray flew across my face like mist.
I needed cover. A bend, a ship, something. Ahead in the distance, an enormous barge was lumbering our way. It was bigger than three buildings and could hide my flight, but I didn’t know if we could get around it before the other boat caught us. We roared toward it, flinging up spray.
Vaguely, from my cell phone I heard Jesse shouting at me.
I put it to my ear. “What did you say?”
“You’ve got to be careful, Ev.”
We closed the gap to the barge. It was dirty black and four times as tall as the longtail. The driver hauled on the tiller to angle around it. We banked, the back end sliding out, and sliced toward midriver. The barge rose ahead, huge engines droning, tires nailed to its flanks, bow wave spreading out in a V.
The second boat edged up behind us. The goblins were perched at the bow. With the wind batting through their hair and flattening their clothing against their bodies, they looked wasted and ropy. The Thai waved her driver to close on us. And . . . I didn’t believe it. The second one, the blonde—it was the woman who had jumped Tim outside the Century Plaza Hotel.
They swung to our inside, between us and the barge, and pulled ahead. They were preparing to board us. The barge began droning past.
The goblins crouched, eyes on us. And their boat slammed into the bow wave of the barge. The longtail pitched up and, with a shriek, one of the German tourists tumbled overboard. The driver decelerated and broke off, circling to retrieve her.
I laughed out loud, seeing the German break the surface. The goblins shouted at their driver but we sped away. I turned my face into the wind.
Hell.
“Can you hear me?” Jesse shouted. “Bangkok isn’t Santa Barbara. No matter what, remember—”
We hit the bow wave. In a confusion of water we skipped from the surface and slammed down in a trough. I saw the sheet of green river coming at us. The wave hit me full in the face.
Jesse shouted in my ear, “Don’t drink the water.”
16
The people under the awning at the restaurant glanced up from their cool drinks as I walked by. The fish stacked on ice in the display case glared blindly. My hiking shoes were squishing, my clothes sodden, my hair dripping. I gestured that I’d like a table for one. The waitress showed me to a hot corner by the kitchen, and I headed down an airless hallway to the bathrooms.
The toilet was dim and pungent, but no matter; I needed a door I could lock. My cell phone had drowned, I smelled like river, and my backpack was wet. Our Lady of Christian Help, grant that my computer be dry.
I ran my hands under the air-dryer, set the laptop on the sink, and pressed the power button. Ripping open the package I’d been given at Wat Po, I found a smaller parcel inside, wrapped in newsprint. When I unfolded it I mentally scratched my head. It was a map, of the Battle of Jonesborough. Fought in 1864, part of Sherman’s Civil War campaign through the south. The flash drive was inside.
Lovely as a lullaby, my laptop chimed. I waited for it to boot.
I leaned back against the wall. Rio’s people had found me. I wasn’t even a half-assed spy. They’d been on my trail the whole way from Los Angeles.
So they must know that I was registered at the guesthouse. Thank God I’d kept the computer, passport, and cash on me. The little room I’d rented would be tossed. And they’d be watching for me. I couldn’t go back.
My screen came up. In the corner, the ticker read 1:08. I inserted the flash drive.
The screen lit white, skewed with streaks like veined lightning, and dimmed again. That wasn’t good. The ticker disappeared.
This time there was no preamble from Jax. Only the grainy view of a bedroom: rattan furniture and French windows opening onto a veranda, overlooking a lush garden. Through another door, a living room was visible. A ceiling fan lazed overhead.
Voices approached, sounding scratchy through the cheap microphone in the video system. In the living room Hank Sanger brawned into view. He dropped a baseball cap on the coffee table, headed to a sideboard, and screwed the top off a bottle of whiskey.
“Want one?” he said.
“Two fingers.”
As he poured, Jax sidled into frame. He handed her a glass and they drank.
She was young. She looked supple; she had the same dancer’s posture, but the clothes fit around yielding curves. Hank came into the be
droom, bringing his glass. Unzipping his jacket, he removed a silver gun from a shoulder holster and set it on the dresser.
He opened the French doors out to the veranda. “How about you rustle us up some steaks? We don’t have to go to the club till ten.”
Jax sauntered into the bedroom. She drank a swallow of whiskey and took a cigarette case from her back pocket. “How about we get high? We’ll be fine by ten.”
“Sounds good.”
I was wrong. She wasn’t yielding; she was petrified. Hank’s back was turned, and her gaze was shifting between him and the gun.
“God,” I said.
This was it. She was going to kill him.
I hunched against the wall, nauseated. She was going to murder him and make me watch it.
Hank turned from the window. “Something wrong?”
She looked up with a nervous smile. “Just wound up about the meeting.”
“Don’t worry. You’re going to wow them. And you’ll get the information you’re after, so you can go back to D.C. with a big notch in your belt.”
She nodded, but looked unconvinced. Because she knew that he had betrayed her—that the meeting was going to be an ambush. The people she was to meet were going to tear her apart.
He wrapped a hand around her rear end and kissed her roughly on the neck. “Course you will. Now come on, mija, I’m ravenous.”
She pulled out of his embrace, took a joint from the cigarette case, and lit up. She handed it to him and slipped a hand around his waist as he toked, her eyes on the flame, watching him inhale.
For a second I thought I was wrong. This was going to be something other than a snuff film. But no: He wanted the high more than the sex. Turning away from her, he took a deep drag and walked out onto the veranda. She stood by the dresser, eyes on his gun.
She made the sign of the cross and, in a whisper, began to pray.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.”
Staring out the veranda doors at Hank, she clutched the medallion hanging around her neck. Our Lady of the Assassins. My flesh contracted.
“Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
Bewitched with dread, I couldn’t turn away. This was what Rio Sanger wanted. Film footage of Jax Rivera killing her husband.
Hank stood on the veranda smoking the dope, leaning on the balcony railing. He lifted his glass and sunset turned the whiskey golden. He smoked the joint down to a roach and came in from the veranda, bumping the door as he passed through. He stared at his glass, and at the roach, with confusion.
Jax took it from him. “Easy, big guy.”
“This shit packs a punch. Where’d you get it?”
He swayed. The whiskey glass slipped from his fingers and cracked on the floor. He put a hand to his forehead.
“What’s . . . ?”
“Sit down, honey,” she said.
She eased him onto the edge of the bed. He reached for her, languidly, and smiled. She straddled him. He lay back and surrendered to the narcotic embrace.
She held herself motionless, eyes on his face. “Hank?”
He lay there like a slab of dough. After a minute she slid off him, moving like a cat, and pulled herself upright. Without a word she picked up his gun from the dresser.
With balletic precision she turned, raised the gun, and centered the barrel on his forehead. She held poised, staring hard at him, arm stiff.
I couldn’t even breathe. “Don’t do it, Jax.”
On my computer screen a warning flashed: Low battery. Your computer will automatically shut down in two minutes.
Not now. I dug in my backpack for the power cable and adapter plug, and kept watching.
Jax stared at Hank. She said, “God forgive me.”
And lowered the gun. Her shoulders heaved.
Her arm dropped to her side and she turned away from him. She had tears in her eyes.
Then she drew herself up. She turned back around to face him.
Hank was awake.
He was up off the bed. He was right there, ripping the gun from her hand. He backhanded her across the face, and sent her keeling.
And then he shot her.
The shot blew Jax off her feet, flat to the floor. I gaped at the screen, seeing the blood turning to a wet rose on her thigh. She struggled to sit up, horror on her face.
Warning: Your computer will shut down in one minute.
No, no. I looked around. Where was an electrical outlet?
Hank stared at the gun, and then he began to lift it, getting ready to fire at her again.
“Don’t,” Jax said. “I have to tell you something.”
“You got nothing left to say to me.”
“It’s about Christian. Something’s wrong with him. Kill me and you’ll never find out.”
He kept the gun on her.
My computer went black. “Dammit.”
The outlet was at the baseboard near the door. I jammed the adapter into it. Come on, come on. Karma, please come on. The screen streaked again, shot wild with colors, and warped back into view.
The video clip was gone. In the bottom corner there was only a line of text and a blinking cursor.
Victorious commander?
“Goddammit.” I ran my hands through my hair. Then I forced myself to think. I got the map the flash drive had come wrapped in. I typed, William Tecumseh Sherman.
A new line of text appeared.
328 North Bridge Road
Singapore
In the corner of the screen, the down-ticker reset: 10:00, 9:59.59.
Slamming the computer, I hurried out through the restaurant and into the muggy day, winding between the sidewalk tables onto the narrow street. I felt numb. I waited for a couple of motor scooters to buzz past and stepped off the curb.
What the hell had happened during Riverbend?
Two steps into the street I heard a motorbike shift gears and rev up. I looked, saw the bike gunning along the street toward me. The driver was swathed in black leathers. Sunlight refracted off his helmet visor. I stepped back. The bike veered in my direction. Another step back, and the bike angled again to take aim at me.
I was so tired.
Damned tired. Past-the-point-of-putting-up-with-this-shit tired. I turned to a tourist couple at one of the sidewalk tables.
“May I borrow this chair?”
“Certainly.” They gestured for me to take it.
The bike sped along the curb. I hoisted the chair and swung it around like a drunken dance partner.
It hit the driver in the face and flew out of my hands. The driver sailed off the bike. My arms rang from the blow and the bike kept going. The driver hit the ground like a crazed bowling ball, flipped onto the opposite curb, and smashed into a rack of trinkets outside a gift shop. The bike jerked its way along the street and crashed over.
The tourists at the table leaped to their feet. “Bloody hell, what was that for?”
The driver lay in a heap with trinkets and toys dribbling off the rack across his leathers.
The shopkeeper rushed to the doorway. Diners stood up. The biker sprawled under the avalanche of baubles. The bike lay twenty yards farther down the street, motor revving. I walked toward it.
Screw the airport. I’d drive to Singapore. I pushed the bike upright, straightened the handlebars, and swung a leg over the seat.
Feeling a shift in the air, I turned my head. The biker grabbed me by the shoulders, hauled me off the motorcycle, and shoved me onto the sidewalk. Flinging his leg up, he threw a roundhouse kick that caught me in the midsection. I slammed backward through the door of the tourist shop and crashed into a display case. I slid to the floor. When I looked up, I saw his arm cocked to hit me.
Before I could raise a hand, the biker swung an arm and slapped me across the face. It stung like crazy. I thrashed to get up but was tangled in trinkets and strings of beads. The biker dropped down, straddled my rib cage, and clamped a leather
glove around my neck. He raised his other hand. I tensed for his punch.
He flipped up the visor on his helmet. His eyes were dark and infuriated. And familiar.
Jax? I mouthed.
She lifted her hand from my throat. “That hurt. Like hell.”
“How did you—”
“You could have killed me.” Sinking her gloves into my shirt, she hauled me to my feet.
“I didn’t know—”
“And you were going to steal my bike? I don’t think so. Move.”
She shoved me toward the door. The shopkeeper was waving her arms and yelling. Jax shouted back in Thai.
“Give her some money,” she said.
Head zinging, I fished a hunk of baht from my pocket and held it out. Jax handed it to the woman. I brushed broken plaster from my chest. Jax grabbed my shirt again, yanked me out the door, and pulled me toward the still-revving bike.
“Get on.”
She righted it and swung a leg over. Dumbly I climbed on behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist, feeling the heat swarming off her leathers. Without another word, she took off down the street.
17
I clung to Jax, my skin so slick with sweat that when she banked the motorcycle I slipped to the side. The street scene sped by, crammed with cars; tacky shops; ripe, damp smells; and hot people seeking shade. She shifted her balance and leaned into a turn. We careened around a corner. I gripped her waist, squeezing my thighs against hers. She rode the bike as if it were a metal extension of herself.
She gunned down an alley, sweeping under a line of trees, and all at once we were driving in gentle shade up a spotless driveway, through lawns and palms and lush ferns, toward a hotel that loomed like a pagoda. I saw the sign: SHANGRI-LA.
