by Sam Powers
The world wouldn’t really be any worse off. In fact, he had to consider, the cumulative anti-social impact of keeping the Colonel in power for years had probably been extreme.
He kept scanning the sides of the road, anytime his car approached flat buildings, The parking lots were nearly all empty so late, making the job easier. But he knew he probably only had minutes, at best, left to go.
***
On the roof of a cargo warehouse that could’ve doubled as giant airplane hangars, Brennan had setup the tripod right at the edge. The wind sheer was more extreme there, and he didn’t want to misjudge its impact by selling it short.
Fortunately, the wind sock at the end of the runway was giving him a solid twenty miles per hour south southwest, based on its stiffness and sway. A cursory examination of trees around the property and their branches bending suggested the same.
He peered through the scope, adjusting the focal depth and magnification, keeping his unused eye open as trained, accustomed to using laser scopes that offered depth of field projection onto the target. But at the greater magnification and with standard crosshairs, it wasn’t an advantage, just a habit.
There was only one small jet at the private hangars end of the facility. It sat about four hundred meters from the cargo warehouse, in front of one of the hangars, waiting to taxi out to the end of the single long runway.
That had to be it. He took his eye away from the rifle and then rested its barrel gently on the stand while he switched to the binoculars. They gave him a tight, sharp view of the area around the plane. No one was there yet, but it was only just past midnight.
He wasn’t sure Walter Lang would understand; most probably, he knew he was sabotaging his chances of the clandestine service hiring him. And he was making enemies, quickly. But everything he’d been through, including Larry Nguyen’s death, had been set off by his decision to follow a girl up country. That made it his mess to clean up. His father had always said that no one ever really fixes their mistakes; they just make amends, so things are easier to live with afterward.
At the far end of the runway, on the other side of the main terminal, he saw a pair of headlights swing out onto the tarmac. They stayed parallel to the landing strip, on the apron that front the hangars and warehouses, eventually pulling up less than fifty yards from the small jet, a Ford Bronco in black-and-gold, followed by a stretch limousine.
And we’re off…
He got back down behind the scope but didn’t use it right away, keeping the binoculars elevated with his right hand. Four men were getting out of the Bronco, standard muscle in dark suits, all too bulky to be practical, making them less mobile and a bigger center mass to shoot at. He wondered, if he shot one of them in the head off center, whether the slight directional skew of the corpse would throw them off, lead them to draw their weapons and begin looking for a fight rather than finding cover.
Then he caught himself. That was the kind of thing they’d asked each other on grim assignments in a war zone. Even in the present circumstances it wasn’t warranted, as he had no intention of terminating anyone other than his objectives.
The limousine doors opened. First, the driver and front passenger climbed out. Then each opened the rear door on their side, allowing the Colonel to climb from one side and his wife from the other.
Where is she? There was no sign of Amanda Sạkdi̒s̄ithṭhi̒ or her people. Brennan recalled the debacle at the Colonel’s downtown facility. Was she setting him up again, after the first attempt failed so badly?
The Colonel walked slowly around to his wife’s side of the car and offered her his arm to hold as they walked, as if he was just someone’s charming old grandpa from down the street. Brennan had seen his file; the man was probably responsible for thousands of deaths, not just through the drugs he sold but through the enforcement of his power for decades. He was a parasite, as purely and simply as could be stated about another human being.
You can take him now with one clean, easy shot, before he gets anywhere near that plane or his bodyguards…
He was tempted. But Brennan knew if he pulled the trigger early, before The Apsonsi was present, one or both would probably get away, and he’d have missed his only window to put them together.
At the far gate, another vehicle rolled out onto the tarmac, its high beams cutting cones of light through the night sky. It was another SUV-sized vehicle, heading directly for the limousine, coming a little faster than the first two cars. He swung the sight over until he could just about see the driver, but it was too dark to make out anyone else inside the cab.
The second SUV slowed down and pulled to a halt behind the limousine, its engine idling as if it were dropping someone off. Thirty yards away, the old man and his wife had reached the bottom of the metal steps up to the private jet’s cabin. They began to climb them; in seconds, they’d be inside, out of view, Brennan knew. But she still hadn’t climbed out of the vehicle. He had to make a decision.
He swung the barrel back to the top of the stairs and found a spot just above and to the right of the Colonels’ head, accounting for the wind and the inevitable drop of the bullet on the way to its target. Then he breathed in and held it, beginning a steady three-count, to be as still as possible when he squeezed the trigger.
***
Lang could feel time slipping away. He’d gone the length of the street, behind the terminal, the duty-free store, the private hangars, all the way to Mahidol Road and the highway interchange. Then he’d turned around and made his way back, checking every property a second time, using the public-access parking areas to get as close to the buildings as possible.
He was almost back to the airport road’s end when he spotted it, a compact sedan, light-colored, parked in the dark of the tiny alley between a cargo warehouse facility and the offices next door. There was a metal emergency ladder affixed to the building’s brick wall and leading up to the roof.
Lang looked up. The roof was flat and expansive, offering perfect sightlines to the airport runway. It had to be him.
He parked the rental and checked his pistol, putting it into his coat pocket out of sight. Then he turned off the engine and climbed out, making his way over to the ladder quickly. He pulled himself up until his feet could find the bottom run, then began making his way up.
Lang heard the rifle bolt being drawn as he reached the top, a shell being breached and ready. He spotted the younger man as soon as his eyes were above roof level, a shadowy figure on the ground at the far corner. He was behind a rifle, and in the distance, Lang could see a private plane on the runway, a group of people boarding.
Brennan pulled the trigger, the report like a thunderclap, Lang startled by the suddenness after so many years. “NO!” he yelled, far too late. The bullet travelled straight and true across the quarter-kilometer or so of divide, just as the Colonel turned to wave at the men by the car. It punched a dime-sized hole through one side of his skull, the force fracturing and blowing out the left side as it exited.
The Colonel slumped over the handrail, then over onto his back, sliding ungracefully down the stairs a bump at a time, a trail of blood and brain matter smearing each in turn. His wife was paralyzed in place, screaming, as Brennan swung the sight toward the last car. Lang sprinted toward him, screaming for him not to fire as the door opened and the girl stepped out.
Lang dived forward, his arm coming down on the tripod, knocking the rifle and shooter off target. Brennan pushed him away roughly, rising to one knee with the rifle and using it as a brace while he reacquired his target…
And then he stopped.
Lang lay on his side on the wet, dirty roof. “Don’t…”
“I know. It’s… it’s not her.” He was sweating profusely and had a makeshift bandage on his left arm. “Snakebite,” he offered simply.
Lang nodded. “You need…”
“Medical attention, right away, yeah.”
Across the divide, the Colonel’s granddaughter had just finished climbin
g out of the car when the bullet ended his life. It took her a few moments to realize what had happened, then to scream, then to run toward the plane.
From the rooftop, both men watched her as she cradled his corpse, her grandmother still screaming.
CHAPTER 11
Eighteen hours later, Brennan looked out the window as the plane descended toward Bangkok, the array of skyscrapers seemingly receding all the way to the horizon. It was cloudy and grey, rain tracing the edge of the window in a steady trickle.
Everything had gone wrong, according to Walter.
But Brennan wasn’t so sure. The Colonel was dead, and he was a public menace of the highest order, an international heroin dealer. That would leave resources open for… other problems.
Like Amanda.
Lang and he both knew what had happened as soon as they’d taken a step back to assess the night. She hadn’t let the fact that the meeting was on a plane slip; she’d deliberately let him know, judging that if Brennan escaped – getting rid of her ambitious and psychopathic number two in the process – he would at the very least take out her competition for her.
She probably knew the Colonel’s granddaughter was going along, or at the very least that Brennan, failing to see both targets, would go for one.
It was tactically astute; brilliant, even. She’d played him from the first like a concert pianist. She’d been so effective at manipulating him, Brennan figured, it might even have been her plan from Pattaya.
Nah. Nobody’s that devious. Get a grip, Joe. You made your own choices.
Maybe that was it; maybe he just wanted a convenient scapegoat for his own stupidity in ever having fallen for her. Either way, when they’d returned to the hotel from the hospital, Lang told him the mission was scrubbed. The Colonel was somebody’s boy, somebody high up at headquarters in Langley. “I’m no happier about it than you are, but that’s how it is,” Walter had explained. “You fucked up. You shot a major source of intel and let the actual target get away. So it’s time for you to get out of here, before things start going sideways.”
To that end, the agency was paying for a ticket back State-side. He’d never been officially hired, so they didn’t need to fire him. Given the type of work he’d have been taking on, Lang said, maybe that was for the best. Maybe once things cooled down, there would be a role, something off the books and deniable but well-compensated, nonetheless.
But not right away.
For now, he was to be met at the airport when he debarked the flight from Chiang Mia by a pair of embassy staff and escorted to his new gate, where he’d receive his departure ticket. Officially, he was just a guy who got in a vaguely worded dispute with local authorities in the north. Every cop in Chiang Mai was looking for Thornavansong’s killer, as well as the Colonel’s.
Walter refused to reveal his next step. That meant he had no way of knowing whether the agency continued to hunt Amanda. The way Walter had talked about their deal with the Colonel and its importance, it was possible they’d try to cut something similar with her; and then she’d get off, scot-free, for all the death and mayhem she’d caused.
It seemed so perverse. And these are the people Walter considers our best? Maybe his judgement isn’t all that he thinks it is.
Or maybe, just like his own role in two theaters of combat, he was following orders because it was his duty, to which he’d agreed upon signing up. Brennan felt a stab of guilt over judging the man for decisions made way above him.
It was a dirty job…
He thought about a man like Somchai Mercedes ever getting more power, and it put a lot into perspective.
… But somebody had to do it.
***
Agent Daniel Liersch did not enjoy working in Bangkok. He did not enjoy it at all. And sitting for two hours in the arrivals lounge at the airport had done nothing to further enamor him.
He’d been ‘in country,’ as the ex-pats liked to say, for eighteen months. Eighteen months of trying to get the air conditioning in his apartment to function. Eighteen months of sunburns and air pollution. Eighteen months of traffic that could slow movement to a crawl at any moment and snarl intersections like so much automotive silly string.
It was a long way from Bemidji, Minnesota, where his father ran a sporting goods store and his mom ran one of the more popular local family restaurants. He’d spent five years renting in Washington, D.C., first training with the FBI at Quantico, West Virginia for two, then transferring to the Agency’s training program after that. He hadn’t liked D.C., or any city much bigger than Duluth, really. So Bangkok was a daily assault on the senses.
Plus, if Liersch was honest with himself, he was a pretty conservative, old-fashioned kind of fellow. He still went to church every Sunday, he still read a verse from the Good Book occasionally, and he wasn’t overly fond of the fact that the city openly welcomed prostitution and the tourist dollars it drew in. A lot of it was transsexual, also, which he just knew had to be wrong in some way.
So he sat in the departure lounge, watching the travelers in their relaxed-fit clothing as they wandered around; he leaned forward anxiously, his forearms resting on his knees and his hands clutched as he studied the various people getting off various flights, his unease building. He just wanted to be transferred, preferably somewhere that was cold for at least seven months of the year. Latvia was nice, apparently.
He wondered what flight Lang was coming in on later in the day; he knew the senior man had business in the capital. The least he could have done was accompany his own mess here, so I don’t have to babysit.
Across the arrivals lounge, a light on a gate sign flashed to life, signifying that the flight was in. Liersch rose and, by force of habit, buttoned the first button on his suit jacket; he stood with his hands clenched, flexing his fingers, worried about making an authoritative introduction. Shake hands with the man? No, that would be too accommodating. This is about getting rid of him, sending him back Stateside.
Home.
Liersch sighed. He’d thought being in cover as an embassy staffer meant he’d be used regularly, because of the protection of diplomatic immunity. Instead, he’d spent week after week doing little but sitting in an office all day looking at analysts’ regional security briefings.
Maybe this guy will try something stupid. He’s not officially with us, apparently, just an ex-serviceman. He knew he should have read Brennan’s file, but the short-term nature of the assignment made it seem interminable and unnecessary. Maybe he’ll try to get tough. Then maybe we’ll see some fireworks. He smiled at the prospect of having to show some greenhorn navy guy what they learned at Camp Peary.
Not that he’d really spent much time there himself. The camp’s course was for clandestine service guys, the ones who ended up working for guys like Walter Lang. But he’d done a week-long self-defense course there and, after eighteen months of Bangkok heat, he was ready to use it.
He spotted him quickly. Most of the passengers debarking were under six feet, only a handful above. Brennan had a golf shirt on and a pair of sunglasses, even though they were indoors, a compact knapsack over one shoulder. See? Regular poseur. He’ll be back in California or wherever next week, sipping Starbucks Lattes and complaining about the Grammys being too commercial.
Brennan stopped walking for a split second as his eyes scanned the crowd ahead, instantly picking out Liersch. He walked over to him. “Hey…”
Before he could think it through, Liersch reacted nervously, sticking out a hand to shake. “Daniel…”
But Brennan ignored it, looking over the shorter man’s head. “… I thought they were sending two of you.” Then he noticed the man standing there, his arm suspended awkwardly. He reached out to shake… just as Liersch withdrew his hand. Joe pulled his hand back… and Liersch leaned in again to shake. Before he could move again, Joe grabbed the agent’s wrist with a firm left hand, then shook with his right.
“Okay, now that we’ve got that out of the way… where’s the other guy?
”
“I made the call,” Liersch said. “It… seemed an excessive use of resources to send two people for what was essentially an escort job. I mean… you’re not planning to cause any trouble… right, Mr. Brennan?”
“None at all.” They began walking toward the doors, his civilian charge checking out the airport as they strolled. “You like Bangkok?”
“Hate it,” Liersch said. “It’s where civility came to die.”
“Do you speak Thai? It probably makes things easier if…”
“Hey… I’m not posted here forever, okay? I’m here until my transfer request is accepted and I can go somewhere more friendly to the human body’s sweat reflex.”
“Where are we headed?”
“We are headed to the Airport Hilton, where I have vouchers to pay for your dinner and a room, which we will occupy until your next flight departs in nine hours. At that point, I shall take you to gate eighteen and you will board said flight to New York.”
“It’s too bad about Walter,” Brennan offered casually.
Liersch didn’t catch what he’d said at first, because he was daydreaming about better days. He stopped walking for a moment. “Sorry… what did you hear?” Anything that affected CIA operations in Thailand could affect him, the young agent knew.
“Just that he seemed pretty sure he’s going to wear this one, the way things have gone so far.”
He resumed walking. “I’m not going to discuss agency business with a civilian,” Liersch said.
“Walter didn’t have that problem.”
“And look where it got him, trying to clean up his own messes.”
“They’ll chain him to a desk,” Brennan suggested.
“He’s still got a chance to pull it out. We’ll see.”
