Gunshine State Page 18

  Saradet had stretched out on the canvas in the middle of the ring, eyes closed, hands behind his head, grabbing rest while he could. Chance had worked with professional criminals who’d been able to grab shuteye right before a job, always wondered how they could do it.

  He rolled his shoulders, heard bone and cartilage crack, looked at the Thai, wondered whether he’d be able to make good on his threat to kill him if the plan went wrong.

  Chance heard more movement outside the room. The footsteps didn’t continue down the corridor but stayed outside the door. Saradet heard it, too, opened his eyes, sat upright.

  The girlfriend was the only person who knew they were here. There was no reason for her to come back. That meant someone else.

  Saradet shot Chance a wary look. Chance put his hands up, shrugged. Saradet peered at him hard, nodded, climbed over the ropes around the boxing ring, glanced around the room. He picked up one of the leather stools, stepped closer to the door, the piece of furniture raised over his shoulder. Chance took up position on the other side, aimed the pistol with both hands at the middle of the door.

  A tentative knock. They both tensed.

  ‘Who is it?’ said Chance.

  ‘Me.’

  Chance grabbed the knob, twisted it, opened the door. Tavener stood in the hallway, eye level with the barrel of Chance’s gun, his face a mask of impatience. The American held a pistol parallel to his right leg.

  ‘Put that away.’ Tavener brushed the barrel of Chance’s gun away, stepped into the room, noticed Saradet. The two men locked eyes until each decided the other was no threat.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ said Chance, closing the door.

  Tavener did a slow sweep of the room, whistled. ‘This sure is some fancy setup.’

  ‘Tavener, why are you here?’

  ‘She was followed.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘His girlfriend, she was followed.’ Tavener smiled at the disbelief on Chance’s face. ‘That’s what happens when you put an amateur in charge of the store.’

  The American reached behind his back, hitched up his polo shirt, tucked the pistol into his pants. ‘So much for getting in front of things. Wasn’t a complete waste of time,’ the American wiped his mouth with his forearm. ‘Got the money and the photos.’

  ‘The photos, did you look at them?’

  ‘Briefly.’

  ‘The person Issarapong was with, was it a man or woman?’

  ‘Just young.’

  Chance grimaced. ‘You sure you were followed?’

  ‘Done it enough times myself, reckon I know when it’s being done to me.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Two. That I saw.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘How the fuck do I know. They were male, Asian.’

  ‘Kate,’ said Chance, a sliver of panic in his voice. ‘Where is she? Is she okay?’

  ‘Don’t worry, she’s safe and sound with Huey and the parcel.’

  ‘How’d she get the parcel?’

  ‘How the fuck do you think, Einstein? She came to the meet with me and I gave it to her.’

  ‘You brought her to the meet? What were you thinking? How do you know the two men didn’t follow her?’

  ‘Because I made sure they followed me instead.’

  ‘You’ve led them here?’

  ‘No, I’m pretty sure I lost them.’ Tavener wiped his mouth with his forearm. ‘Now if you’ve finished playing twenty questions, get hold of yourself.’

  Chance puffed his cheeks, blew out air. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Good.’ Tavener hitched a thumb in Saradet’s direction. ‘Cut him loose and let’s get the fuck out of Dodge.’

  Chance and Tavener stood in the entrance of the hotel driveway, watched the Benz’s rear lights grow smaller, disappear around the bend.

  Bangkok’s early morning sky was a soupy dark grey, the air rich with the smell of petrochemicals and rotting vegetable matter. The two men headed in the same direction as Saradet’s car. They passed an old woman sitting in a dark stairwell, tiny red lights from a shrine flickering behind her, a vendor pushing a wooden food cart, a drunk Westerner, his arm over the shoulder of a hawk-faced bar girl.

  Chance heard the whine of a motorbike like the buzzing of an angry insect in the distance. A bright light behind them cast their bodies in long shadows on the road. He glanced over his shoulder, was blinded by the hot glare of a headlight. Spots swam in his vision. He squeezed his eyes hard to clear them.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder, opened his eyes. Tavener was guiding him toward an alley, pushed him hard into the blackness, just as the sound of automatic machine gun fire tore apart the night.

  Chance tried to roll, cushion the blow from the concrete, only partially succeeded. He lay on the ground, one knee throbbing. He recognised the familiar noise of an AK-47, a series of sharp whip cracks, from his time in Afghanistan. Tavener grunted, seemed to freeze for a moment, dived after him.

  The motorbike pulled up to the mouth of the alley, the shadows of the two men on the back outlined in the grimy half-light. Chance fumbled for his gun as Tavener fired several times in the direction of their assassins. The shots momentarily lit up the small corridor of brick. There was a moist tearing sound as the shadow on the rear of the bike fell backward, hit the asphalt with a thump

  The driver gunned his machine, sped off. The noise of the motorbike receded, replaced by a chorus of enraged barking from the neighbourhood dogs.

  ‘Tavener,’ said Chance.

  The American didn’t move but Chance could hear his uneven, rasping breath, figured the fall had knocked the wind out of him. Chance’s eyes slowly grew accustomed to the dark. He reached for what he thought was Tavener’s shoulder, shook him gently.

  ‘Come on, old man, no time to rest.’

  Tavener groaned.

  ‘The police will be here any second.’ Chance shook him harder, withdrew his hand, felt a warm wetness on his fingertips. He dabbed one on the tip of his tongue, tasted blood.

  The barking became more hysterical. Chance tore off his denim jacket, rolled it into a ball, pressed it hard against the part of Tavener’s chest where he thought the blood was coming from.

  Tavener emitted a moist cough, his breathing erratic. ‘Ah shit,’ he whispered. The words, filtered through the blood in his mouth, came out slurred.

  ‘Don’t worry, Lias, I’ll get you out of here.’ He reached under the American’s armpits, tried to lift him toward the entrance to the alleyway, felt the man’s body shudder in pain, put him down again.

  ‘Reckon I’ve used up my nine lives.’ Tavener’s head rested in Chance’s lap. ‘Got to say, thought it would happen the other way around, you bleeding out on the pavement in a stinking Bangkok alleyway.’

  ‘Relax, old man.’

  Tavener shivered, went completely limp. Chance laid the old man on the ground, emerged from the alley and glanced down at the body of the man shot off the back of the motorbike. An AK-47 machine gun lay on the road next to him.

  Chance leaned down, started to go through the man’s pockets, when he sensed a movement behind him. He turned, just in time to see a blur of flesh speed toward his face.

  TWELVE

  It was completely dark when Chance opened his eyes. A hood was over his head, the coarse burlap fabric rough against his skin.

  He lay on his side on a smooth metal surface. Engine parts moved under him, the wheeze and sigh of a vehicle braking, the swish of air as traffic passed in the opposite direction. He slid across the surface whenever the vehicle turned or stopped.

  His right knee throbbed, his head hurt more. He sniffed, got the acrid smell of piss, realised it was his own. He tried to move his arms but couldn’t, his wrists tied tightly behind his back. He stretched his legs, probed the area around his feet. The tip of his shoe connected with something soft.

  ‘Who’s there,’ he said weakly.

  Nothing.

  ‘Anybody
there?’ he said, louder.

  A low-pitched moan was the only reply.

  He remembered Saradet back at the hotel, resting while they waited for the phone call, knew there was no point struggling further. He had to conserve his energy for whatever came next. Chance rested his head on the hard surface, closed his eyes, let the vehicle’s movement lull him back into unconsciousness.

  Mottled daylight filtered through the hood and Chance felt the sun on his skin.

  The traffic noise was replaced by a steady, metallic throb. The surface against his face rose and fell. A boat. He could hear water lapping against the sides. The equilibrium of the vessel shifted as he tested the bindings on his wrist. Still tight.

  Chance heard men talk over the noise of the engine, a language he didn’t recognise. He lifted his head. The voices stopped and something hard hit him on the side of the head, sent him tumbling back into the darkness.

  He came to with a start. The light through the fabric of his hood was dimmer now. The engine had stopped. He heard water lap against the sides of the boat.

  Strong hands took hold and lowered him into waist-deep water, let go. Chance fell forward, hit the water headfirst. He thrashed about under the surface, scared of drowning. Someone grabbed his hood, pulled him to the surface. Chance gasped for breath. Male laughter filled the air around him.

  He was steered to shore, his feet making sucking sounds in the mud at the water’s edge. He heard the crack of wood splitting in an open fire, the clink of metal, someone singing a Thai pop song, the thrum of a generator.

  ‘Stop,’ said a voice.

  Chance felt a hand force the top of his head down, another push him forward. The remaining light faded as he was steered into position against a wall and forced to the floor. The ground was cool and damp, a dirt floor. He could sense his captors watching him for a moment, and then he was alone.

  Hands still tied behind him, Chance was manoeuvred into a hard-backed chair. He closed his eyes against the flood of light as the hood was lifted off. The skin on his face and hands itched from where mosquitoes had feasted the night before, and his throat was dry.

  Issarapong sat at a trestle table in front of him. The driver, Milo’s minder, whatever Nareth was, stood next to him, arms folded across his broad chest, dressed in clothes similar to the ones he had worn when Chance first met him, with the addition of a machete in a scabbard, hanging from his belt.

  Issarapong nodded absentmindedly. A wiry, dark-skinned man came into view. He held a plastic bottle to Chance’s lips. Chance slurped at the bottle greedily.

  The man doused Chance’s head with the remains of the bottle. Rivulets of moisture dripped from his hair and cheeks, cleared away the grit and hessian fibres.

  Chance shook his head like a wet animal, gazed at his surroundings.

  They were in a large canvas tent, the sides rolled up to reveal a square of hard-packed red earth, several bamboo huts, surrounded in every direction by thick emerald green jungle that roared with insect life. A small satellite dish, several aerials, peeked out from the thatched roof of one of the huts. Smoke wafted from a campfire, chickens pecked at the ground, men busied themselves with tasks, high-powered weapons slung across their shoulders.

  He focused on Issarapong. Even in the middle of a jungle Issarapong came off looking like he was on a corporate retreat, trainers, jeans, and a khaki shirt.

  Issarapong tapped on the keys of a laptop open in front of him while he waited for Chance to get his bearings. The only other items on the table were an Akubra hat and a large, red semi-circle of plastic mesh. Flies buzzed over the cover.

  ‘Saradet told me not everyone was happy with daddy’s boy taking over the family business,’ said Chance. ‘But I didn’t think you’d fallen this low, cowering from your enemies in the middle of the jungle.’

  ‘Saradet?’ Issarapong said the name as if it were unfamiliar. He reached over, lifted the red plastic mesh to reveal a bloated misshapen head. Chance dry-retched, nothing in his stomach to throw up. Flies danced in the air for a moment, descended in a frenzied swarm on Saradet’s decaying flesh.

  ‘Let me assure you, my presence here is merely a tactical retreat while I regroup to plan my next move against the dogs who have dared rise against me. As for you, thinking you could cut a side deal with that maggot Saradet.’ Issarapong’s voice trailed off in disgust.

  ‘Who tipped you off, the girlfriend?’

  Issarapong shook his head.

  ‘Milo?’ said Chance, trying to keep his voice level.

  Issarapong’s mouth contorted into a snarl. ‘That half-cast fuck was as disloyal and treacherous as the others, tried to cut a deal with my enemies.’

  ‘The men on the motorbike?’

  Issarapong nodded. ‘Gao’s people.’

  Nareth hadn’t moved. It must have been him, spying for Issarapong the entire time. A loyal foot soldier, probably worked for the father, been passed on to Issarapong like the other possessions attached to the family business.

  Issarapong noticed Chance staring at the man beside him. ‘Do you think I’m so stupid that I’d hire thieves to do a job and not keep tabs on them?’

  The crime lord stood, shouted something in Thai.

  Chance noticed movement at the entrance to one of the thatched huts. A man emerged, arms bound behind his back, naked except for a filthy pair of Y-fronts, a hessian sack over his head. He was followed by another man with dark Afro hair, an AK-47 in his hands.

  Afro prodded his captive forward with the barrel of his gun, brought him to a halt in the middle of the square. The other camp residents stopped what they were doing and watched.

  The man trembled, glanced around, unseeing. His body was streaked with grime and covered in tattoos and deep purple bruises. Chance sensed something familiar about him.

  Afro forced the man onto his knees, stood behind him, looked at Issarapong.

  Issarapong made a cutting gesture in the air with his hand. Afro wrenched the sack off the man’s head. Milo returned Chance’s stare for a moment before a shot rang out and the front of his head exploded. He fell face down on the ground. The executioner spat on the ground next to the corpse, slung his gun over his shoulder, walked away. His audience resumed their duties as if nothing had happened.

  ‘Now, what to do with you?’ Issarapong turned to Chance. ‘Pardon the pun, but I think the new face may have gone to your head, made you feel stronger than you really are.’

  The crime lord chuckled at his own joke. ‘I gave you that face. It’s mine. Maybe I’ll have Nareth peel it off you, make you watch as he feeds it to our pigs.’

  Chance looked at Milo’s body contorted in a ball on the ground.

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting one thing?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The photographs.’

  The colour drained from the Issarapong’s face and he became serious.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re doing in the pictures, but whatever it was,’ Chance continued, ‘must have been bad to kill Saradet over them.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Somewhere safe?’

  ‘With your friend, the woman? My people in Bangkok are looking for her as we speak, she won’t stay free for long.’

  ‘Your people?’ A sharp laugh escaped from Chances mouth. ‘We have a saying in Australia, ‘Don’t shit a shitter.’’

  Issarapong’s brow furrowed.

  ‘It means don’t lie to another liar. If you had the manpower to search Bangkok for my friend you wouldn’t be hiding here in the middle of fuck-knows-where with your tail between your legs. You’ve got your hands full just trying to stay one step ahead of the mutiny, put your operation back together.’

  Chance felt emboldened by the Issarapong’s silence, locked eyes with him and breathed deeply to sooth the panic boiling in his chest. ‘Way I see it, you have two choices.’

  Issarapong leaned back in his seat, his hands forming a steeple in front of him. ‘Go on.’

  ‘T
avener may be dead but he’s got friends in Bangkok. They’ve got a real mean streak. Not like me. They’ll want payback, big time. Kill me, I promise, you’ll jump on that laptop at some point in the next few days, see those pictures splashed all over the screen. That’s quite apart from whatever else they have up their sleeves. You’ll be fighting on two fronts.’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘Cut me loose. You’ll never see me or my friends again and you can focus your energies on more pressing problems.’

  Issarapong stared at Chance sullenly, inclined his head to Nareth and said something in Thai.

  Like a robot suddenly activated by its master, Nareth walked around the trestle table. Chance squirmed against the binding around his wrists, tried to stand but only got halfway before Nareth had replaced the hood over his head.

  Chance sat with his back against the bamboo wall. The piss smell was worse. Mosquitoes buzzed around him, bit his exposed skin at will. He was thirsty, hungry, and scared.

  Someone entered the hut, hauled him up, and pushed him forward. He walked, the unseen hand prodding and turning him in different directions. Tiny shoots of fear grew inside him with each step, became thick vines, curled around his lungs and heart, until his breath started to falter. The camp noise faded, replaced by jungle sounds, insects, birds, the slap of branches and foliage against his face and body.

  Eventually, the hand stopped him. The hood was lifted off. Chance stood in a shaded clearing, Issarapong and Nareth in front of him. Nareth unsheathed the machete, stepped behind Chance.

  Chance felt the blade cut into the binding. He raised his arms. They were heavy, like metal. His wristwatch was missing, no doubt looted by one of his captors. The sun high overhead sent shafts of light through the tree cover. He guessed it was sometime in the middle of the day.

  Issarapong removed his Akubra, ran a hand through his hair. ‘What happens to the photographs if I let you go?’