Could they have framed her?
The thought had made his blood boil, but he didn’t have time for that. He knew in his country, a country he hated, or more accurately, a country whose government he hated, his sister would most likely never be seen again unless it was at a trial where her guilt would be predetermined, the sentence death, carried out with the swift efficiency of the communist state.
He had dedicated his adult life to undermining that very state, not through joining some obscure rebel faction, but by joining the underground community that lived away from the grid of authority and supplied the masses with what they wanted—black market goods. Whether it was American cigarettes or Russian Vodka, he had it in supply or knew someone who did. Guns, DVDs, computers, illegal satellite dishes? He had it all. And every time he made a sale, it gave him a rush in knowing that not only had he defied the government one more time, he had subverted a citizen yet again.
It especially gave him a thrill knowing when it was a Party member that had come to him to fulfil some special need.
Drugs and prostitution weren’t his bag, and they never would be despite some members of his gang wanting to branch out into those extremely lucrative markets. He refused to. He had a moral code that he strictly followed. Goods the government banned were fair game if they were freely available in other countries. If Sylvester Stallone and Chuck Norris movies could be freely watched in the United States, why not here? If Smirnoff and Camels could be enjoyed, why not here?
But drugs and prostitution only destroyed lives. A good Rambo movie enjoyed with a few shots of vodka and a cigarette never did.
He whipped past the left side of the news vehicle his spotter had seen the two Americans enter. He’d worry about them later—if anything happened to his little sister, they were dead.
His spotter, Tran, pointed at a car stopped in traffic ahead and he gunned his engine, the front wheel popping slightly off the ground. He grabbed his Beretta M9, his pride and joy, and hit the brakes, skidding to a halt at the driver side window.
He stuck his gun against the driver’s temple, the window conveniently down.
The others surrounded the vehicle, screwdrivers used to flatten all four tires within seconds, Tran holding a gun to the officer in the passenger seat. Shouts ensued, the driver silent and trembling as Cadeo’s men yanked open the back doors and hauled the two officers out and onto the ground. Mai was screaming as Tran grabbed her, hauling her out. She looked at Cadeo and he could tell she immediately recognized him despite his helmet’s visor being closed.
She shut up.
She climbed on the back of Tran’s bike and he gunned his engine sending them racing forward. Cadeo kept his gun trained on the driver until he saw Tran turn right and disappear out of sight. Out of the corner of his eye he saw several people running toward them. He turned to see two men, one carrying a television camera, along with what he assumed were the two Americans, a man and a woman.
Rage consumed him as he looked at the two people who had got his sister involved, effectively ending her life as she knew it. He flipped up his visor and glared at them.
Then raised his weapon and shot at the woman.
Trang Tien Street, Hanoi, Vietnam
Acton saw the man on the motorcycle raise his weapon at them. He dove at Laura, knocking her to the ground as the shot rang out. They hit hard, Laura yelping in pain and shock as the bullet ricocheted off a nearby vehicle. Stewart and his cameraman, Murphy, ducked, Acton swearing Murphy didn’t lose the shot the entire time. The shooter turned and raced away with the rest of the bikers, disappearing around a corner within seconds.
The entire kidnapping had taken less than a minute.
The four policemen suddenly were all business, screaming and waving their arms, trying to get the traffic out of their way, and Acton was sure trying to look like they hadn’t just been totally owned by the well-executed kidnapping.
Then they noticed the camera.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Stewart, putting a hand on Murphy’s shoulder as he led him back to the van, the experienced reporters documenting everything as they beat a hasty retreat. Acton pulled Laura to her feet then rushed after the reporters, the police shouting behind them, making sure they were walking very quickly as opposed to running, he hoping the excuse of “I don’t speak Vietnamese” might just work if they were caught.
But he knew they had to get out of there. They had just witnessed Mai being kidnapped—or probably more accurately rescued—by what he assumed was her brother.
And they had been with the camera crew that caught most of it on tape, a tape that would embarrass the Vietnamese government.
Something he assumed they wouldn’t tolerate with today’s events.
He pushed Laura into the back of the van, jumping in after her as he slid the door closed, Stewart grabbing the camera as he climbed in, Murphy starting the engine and looking for a hole in the traffic. Stewart kept shooting as the police began to run toward them. Murphy looked in his side view mirror then suddenly gunned the engine, cranking the wheel to the left. He surged into a gap in the oncoming traffic with a flurry of honked horns and burnt rubber, then quickly forcing his way into the right hand lanes, he was able to make a sharp right turn and leave the police in the distance as he eased off the gas and tried to blend.
“What the hell was that?” asked Stewart as he turned off the camera and handed it back to Acton.
“I’m guessing that was Mai’s brother,” said Laura as Acton placed the camera beside him. “Apparently he’s not quite a law abiding citizen.”
“Ya think?” Stewart shook his head looking at Laura. “You okay?”
She nodded, examining her wrists, both with a little road rash. “I’ve had worse, believe me.”
Murphy made another turn. “You’re just lucky he missed.”
Stewart’s phone buzzed on his hip and he grabbed it, swiping his finger to take the call. “Stewart.” He listened for a moment, cursed, then hung up. “That was Steve Frost from NBC. He said he just overheard a police broadcast down at the museum.” He nodded toward Acton and Laura. “You two are apparently wanted for involvement in what just happened, and so are we.”
“Shit,” muttered Acton. “What the hell do we do now?”
Stewart shrugged. “We’ve got video proof we weren’t involved. That should get us off.”
Acton shook his head. “No, they’re trying to pin this assassination on the United States. I’m guessing because their security failed so miserably, they don’t want to be held accountable by their closest ally. That video”—he tipped his head toward the camera—“will just be conveniently lost or erased and we’ll all be tied into this.”
Stewart’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re right.” He reached back and flicked open a panel on the camera then pressed several buttons on a touch display. “I’m uploading the video to New York now, just in case.”
Acton watched a green bar crawl across the screen at an excruciatingly slow pace, the satellite uplink not the quickest method of transmission but the most reliable when in a moving vehicle in the Third World.
“Aww Christ!” cried Murphy as a siren sounded behind them. The rest of them turned to see a police car several vehicles back in pursuit, its lights flashing, the occupants with their arms out the windows trying to wave cars out of the way. “What now?”
“Let’s get to the American Embassy,” said Acton. “If we can hole up there until this blows over we just might be okay.”
Murphy jerked the wheel to the right and lay on his horn, scattering the pedestrians from the sidewalk he was now driving down. He turned right and managed to just cut ahead of the traffic surging forward from a newly green light. This bought a momentary reprieve but by the time they had caught up to the next light the police car, along with a second, was visible again.
“How far to the embassy?” asked Laura.
“Not far,” said Stewart. “Just a few blocks.”
“Yeah, but this traffic is ridiculous. I’ve never seen it this bad.”
Acton was about to ask if Murphy was local when he jerked the wheel to the right again, shooting down an alleyway.
He must be stationed here.
He seemed to know the roads like the back of his hand, gunning the van into a sharp, hair raising left skid, propelling them up a relatively quiet side street, still heading in the same direction as before but bypassing the busy main roads. Acton looked back through the opaque windows and could see flashing police lights in the distance.
“Almost there!”
He made a quick left and Acton could see the main road ahead, but rather than cars, it seemed to be filled with people.
People protesting.
“Shit!” cried Murphy as he slammed his brakes on, hundreds of bodies blocking the way.
“Where’s the Embassy?” asked Laura as Acton threw open the side door.
Stewart pointed in the flow of the protesters. “Half a mile that way, you can’t miss it.”
“Let’s go!” Acton jumped out, helping Laura down to the scorching pavement, the midday sun baking everything. Stewart reached back and grabbed the camera, heaving it toward Murphy as he climbed out. Stewart led the way, pushing through the crowd chanting something Acton couldn’t quite make out.
Yankee go home!
He cursed to himself realizing that there could only be one reason this crowd was at this particular location.
The American Embassy.
And this was clearly an orchestrated demonstration. Camera crews were in among the throng, beaming the Communist Party’s designer message to the world. This was a full court press to convince the world that the Vietnamese people were united in their belief that an American, and not a Vietnamese, was responsible for today’s assassination.
“Murph, start rolling!” called Stewart as he apparently realized the crowds were letting the news teams move freely. The four of them bunched together, Acton with a hand on Stewart’s shoulder, his other hand gripping Laura’s as Murphy raised his camera to his shoulder and began shooting.
As if by magic the crowd parted, their “anger”, which to Acton looked half-hearted until on camera, shouted at the lens, fists pumped even harder than a moment before, anger creasing faces that seconds ago looked almost bored.
True propaganda.
Acton was willing to bet barely half the people knew why they were there, too many of them in white dress shirts with dark pants, clearly government workers sent into the streets.
But political manipulation of the proletariat wasn’t his problem today, his problem lay directly ahead.
An Embassy ringed by a cordon of police officers.
“There’s no way we’re getting through that!” shouted Acton, Stewart nodding his agreement. “You try to get into the embassy, they might let you in as a camera crew. We’re going to try and get to the British Embassy.”
Stewart pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Acton. “Call me if you can’t get in. I’ll see what I can do to help.”
Acton nodded, stuffing the card in his pocket as he and Laura pushed through the crowd toward the opposite side of the street. He glanced back and could see the heads of police officers jumping up in the crowd like whack-a-moles trying to spot them.
He ducked down, his six foot plus frame too obvious in a sea of five-foot-five. Even Laura ducked, she too taller than the average male in this country.
Acton spotted an alleyway and pointed, trying to stay low and not draw attention by shoving against the steady forward flow.
Laura’s hand suddenly broke free.
“James!” she cried as he spun around, catching a glimpse of her as she was carried with the flow, several men pushing her along, one grabbing her from behind, almost bear hugging her.
Acton rose to his full height, shoving against the crowd, tossing them aside without warning as he fought toward his wife. Suddenly he saw her left elbow lash out, catching one of the men on the chin. He dropped. The man almost carrying Laura slowed to look down at his friend as she threw her entire bodyweight forward, picking the man up off the ground, his body draped over her back. The third man swung his fist, punching Laura in the stomach just as Acton arrived. He thrust the web of his hand hard against the man’s throat, partially collapsing his windpipe. As the man dropped to a knee, gasping for breath, Laura flipped her assailant over her back and onto the pavement, dropping a well planted heel on his groin causing him to cry out in agony.
Acton grabbed her wrist again and pushed to the side of the crowd and into another alleyway, the Embassy tantalizingly close, the Marine guards visible behind the wall of Vietnamese police.
Suddenly it was another world, dark and closed in, the crowd almost muffled as they moved deeper into the alleyway, the protest becoming more distant.
Acton stopped, turning toward Laura. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, rubbing her stomach. “He hits like a girl, I’ll be fine.” She looked back at the crowd at the other end of the alley then continued moving forward as she pulled out her cellphone. Her thumb flew over the touch screen and she held up her phone, surprised. “The British Embassy is only about half a kilometer from here.”
Acton felt a surge of hope as they cleared the alleyway and hurried along another a side street heading south. And as they neared a pit began to form in his stomach as chanting in the distance, rather than continuing to fade, became louder.
“It’s just up here on this next street,” said Laura, pointing ahead. They turned the corner and froze in their tracks.
The British Embassy was surrounded as well.
Acton pulled Laura back and out of sight of the smaller but still significant crowd.
“They obviously don’t want us going to either of our embassies,” said Acton, frowning as he tried to figure out what to do next. They couldn’t get the help of their governments since both sources of assistance were behind police cordons, they couldn’t go back to their hotel since they were now wanted criminals, and they had no way of reaching Dawson.
“Could we call Dylan?”
Acton shrugged. “It’s worth a try, but his kind of help is probably at least hours away. We need to get off the streets now. You and I stick out like sore thumbs.”
Acton was painfully aware of the stares they were both getting and decided that walking with a purpose looked less suspicious. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Stewart’s business card. “Let’s call Charles and see if he has any ideas.” He dialed the number and it rang several times before the reporter finally answered.
“Stewart.”
“It’s Jim. Are you guys safe?”
“Yeah, we managed to get inside the embassy. What about you two?”
“The British Embassy is surrounded as well. And I doubt we can go back to our hotel.”
“Definitely not! I just spoke to one of the guys here and they said you two have been named co-conspirators in the assassination. Every cop in the country is looking for you.”
“Shit!” exclaimed Acton, lowering the mouthpiece, turning to Laura, her inquisitive look demanding an explanation. “We’ve been named co-conspirators.”
“Bloody hell!”
“You two need to get off the streets and hole up somewhere,” said Stewart. “I’m going to see if we can work out something here and I’ll get back to you.”
“Okay, thanks Charles.”
Acton ended the call as Laura snapped her fingers.
“I know who we can call.”
Over the Arctic Ocean
184 nautical miles from Alaskan coast
Major Terry “Sandman” Johnson pushed the engines of his F-22 Raptor hard, his entire body pressed into his seat, the feeling of the g-forces pressing against him familiar and comforting. He had always wanted to be a pilot from the time he got his first toy airplane, and with his father in the Air Force having flown dozens of missions in Gulf War One and his grandfather over Vietnam,
he was now carrying on the family tradition. After meeting his wife and the birth of his two daughters, earning his wings was probably the greatest thing that ever happened to him. He loved his job, loved his life and wouldn’t change a thing.
Except perhaps the mindset of these asshole Russians.
He and his wingman Captain Larry “Hagman” Ewing were racing to intercept eight Russian long range bombers, Tu-95 Bears, approaching American airspace. These challenges to American and Canadian Arctic sovereignty had been frequent during the Cold War, stopping almost completely after the collapse of the Soviet Union. But a newly resurgent Russia had begun sending bombers toward the borders again, turning back at the last minute after being intercepted by American or Canadian fighters coordinated by NORAD.
And the dance long thought over with had resumed.
It made no sense.
He simply couldn’t understand the arrogance of the Russians and why they had to bring back a state of the world that had almost led to nuclear war on at least one occasion the public knew about, and several others they didn’t. It frustrated him and his fellow pilots why anyone would want to try and trigger an incident like this. They were flying at high speeds at high altitude in the middle of nowhere. If something went wrong, which it easily could, people would die and who knew what kind of international incident that might trigger.
He never worried about what his fellow pilots were doing. They trained together, flew together and knew each other’s moves like they were their own.
It was the Russians that worried him.
He had no idea what they would do. The last time they had intercepted two bombers he had pulled up beside the cockpit on the starboard side and looked at the pilot who promptly banked directly into him. If he had been checking his own starboard side he might have missed the maneuver and been taken out by the massive airframe.
The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) Page 11
