Eastern Shadows, page 20
Shane’s mind raced despite the pain, but he could hardly speak or ask any of his own questions.
Wanchai, clearly aware of Ploy’s situation, spoke as if he had no connection to her disappearance. The man acted as if he were just as eager to find the truth as Shane was.
With their task completed, the hoods took a collective step back, allowing Wanchai to limp forward and continue their conversation.
Shane couldn’t move enough to acknowledge anything Wanchai would say, nor could he lower his head to observe what the others were doing as he heard them all around him. Helpless, he waited for what would come next.
“Ploy told us she needed protection from someone,” Wanchai said. “I asked her for details, but she didn’t say. I think she was trying to protect this person from me. She knew I would take…stronger action than just hiding her away.” His face darkened. “She was right.”
Shane’s head faltered as he wiggled side-to-side to prevent the hook from moving. A stream of blood trickled down his chest as the tip pierced the outermost layers of skin. The pain was bearable for now, but his bottom half could barely handle the position his legs were in. The heavy chain creaked as it tried to sway off-center. It took every ounce of effort for Shane to stop the hook from digging deeper into his flesh. Tears welled as the torturous stance wore him down.
“The day we lost her,” Wanchai said, “the day I sent my driver to get her. She knew the time and the place. So why was she not there, Mr. Morris?”
Shane couldn’t endure this much longer. It was not just the physical agony; the strain of Wanchai’s accusations weighed heavily on his mind. He couldn’t defend himself in this position, let alone try to understand why they blamed him for Ploy.
If Wanchai was telling the truth, they could be after the same thing.
“I would like for you to respond,” Wanchai said, his tone overly formal. Shane thought he and Chongrak must have gone to the same uppity school for English lessons.
Shane lifted his chin higher, allowing him to open his mouth enough to spit out a response. “What makes you think I have any more answers than you do?”
Wanchai said, “My men watched you run around tying up loose ends. That foreigner up north and the other in Bangkok. Then you went to one of my offices—the one near the place we told Ploy to wait for us.” He tapped his finger against his head. “That’s when I knew you were hiding something.”
Spittle dripped from the corners of Shane’s mouth. “I never killed anybody,” he said, sensing the men grow restless at all the incomprehensible chatter.
“Then who did?” Wanchai asked. He snapped his fingers, summoning one of his men. “Get him down from there.” Shane heard a button click on the wall. The hook lowered enough to clear his chin. He crumpled to the floor in exhaustion. Wanchai leaned over, using his cane for support. “It smells like the dead in here, chai mai?”
Shane remained still.
“Let me tell you something,” Wanchai said, “about the room you are in now. Have you heard of the ‘khuk khi kai,’ Mr. Morris?”
Chicken shit prison. That would explain the clucking.
“No,” Shane replied, unsure if he wanted to learn more.
“A kind of torture invented by the French—to use on my people,” Wanchai said, the narrow lips on his face partially curving upward as the paralyzed grin returned. He gazed around the room. “This is my own version.”
Shane flipped onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Aside from the hole the giant hook dangled from, the rest resembled a gigantic window shutter, with metal slats closed over what he now realized must be a chicken coop on the floor above.
“We will leave you now,” Wanchai said, “and you will suffer. A few minutes will drive you mad.”
Wanchai’s aide eased his master back into the wheelchair as the hoods filed out. “Come, Benz,” Wanchai said. “We’ll get Mr. Morris to talk when we return.”
Lurking in the far corner, Benz hesitated, hanging his head as he sulked toward the exit. He was the last to leave, slamming the metal door behind him. Shane heard the lock slide home, followed by a mechanical clunking sound from the ceiling. The shutters began to open, raining excrement from the gaps in the perforated mesh floor above. Shane retched as the stench of hell consumed him.
At least two dozen chickens bobbed and strutted along the upper floor, but Shane had to look away, his eyes burning from the stinky powder filling the room. The smell was excruciating. It reminded him of the time his mom spilled a bottle of ammonia across the kitchen floor when he was a kid. This was similar—if the bottle had been a thousand times bigger.
Shane’s vision blurred as he felt his mind begin to shut down, overpowered by the terrible odor. Every orifice in his face seared with agony. He buried his head in his sleeve as putrid drops splattered across his back. There was no escape. Wanchai had said they would be back, but he knew he wouldn’t last until then. All his senses protested the sickening deluge. Sweat poured down his shirt. Each moment stretched as he worked to stay alert in this filthy haze. He didn’t want to imagine what would become of him if he lost consciousness.
A nearby sound brought him out of his stupor. He heard someone thump toward him, but his eyes stung too severely to see who it was. It felt like an eternity, but it had barely been a minute since those rafters opened. They couldn’t possibly be back so soon.
A hand clutched the back of his shirt, and Shane’s assailant wheezed as they dragged him, throwing him into the outer room. The air felt fresher on this side of the door to the dreaded cell.
“If you could see yourself right now,” a familiar voice said. “Take a minute—catch your breath. I want you to feel it when you get what is coming. It’s going to be much worse than what that old man planned for you.”
Shane fought through a coughing fit, lifting his head as his vision cleared. Benz stood above him, his ears lifting as a smile formed beneath the folds of his surgical mask.
Benz ripped the mask from his face as he lifted the gun, pointing it at Shane. “Kneel,” he said. “Like the last time.”
Shane lifted his body into what had to be at least the ninth or tenth submissive position over the past few days.
Benz moved the gun closer, stroking Shane’s swollen face with the barrel. He lingered on Shane’s chapped lips, caressing them. “All this time, na,” he said, “Wanchai wanted you alive. No matter how I tried to push him. I wanted to end you on the beach. I should not have listened when he told me no. I knew you were gonna keep on fucking up my life. I should have killed you when I had the chance.”
Shane knew he needed to think quickly. Benz was a sensitive brute—a flaw that he could exploit. “So, you couldn’t get your greasy paws on Fah?” he said. “I hid her well, didn’t I?”
“Hia!” Benz screamed. He lashed out with the butt of the gun. Shane felt a back tooth loosen as the weapon slammed against his cheek. He spat a cocktail of blood and bird dust. Despite this, he couldn’t help but crack a smile. That was all it took to get under this man’s skin.
Benz started pacing, which signaled to Shane that he was beginning to lose control. He said, “She’s far away, Benz. Probably spent all that money we took from you on a cushy new place where you wouldn’t find her.”
Benz lunged toward him, the gun clattering to the floor as he wrapped his jewelry-laden fingers around Shane’s neck. “I’m gonna kill you!” he screamed.
This was what Shane wanted. Benz had dropped his gun—the only real leverage in this situation.
Benz was stocky, but his flabby arms and paunchy midsection suggested that he rarely got this physical. Shane raised his hands, ignoring the throbbing of the broken one, and started to pry Benz’s fingers from his neck.
In the ensuing struggle, Shane kept his eyes on the gun. If he could reach it…
That’s when he noticed the jagged scratch on the barrel. It was Hall’s gun. Benz had nearly used Shane’s mangled friend’s gun against him.
Fool, Shane thought. You slimy, cowardly fool.
Reflecting on what had happened to Hall gave Shane the jolt he needed. Adrenaline, and the will to survive, coursed through him like it never had before. He ripped Benz’s hands away from his throat and reached for Hall’s gun. Benz jumped on him, frantically pawing at Shane’s arms so he couldn’t get the grip he needed to get a shot off.
Shane bucked him off. Before Benz countered, Shane whacked him in the head with the butt of the gun. His opponent dazed, Shane was able to land on top of him, landing blow after blow with his left fist. The bones in Benz’s face popped and splintered—payback for the busted hand.
Images flooded Shane’s mind of what this beast had done to him, to Fah, and to countless others. His one good fist kept hammering.
Finally, Shane stood up. The creature writhing before him was almost unrecognizable. His face was strawberry jam.
“I’ll get you for this,” Benz moaned.
With the immediate threat immobilized, Shane figured he had little time to find a way out before the others returned. He scanned the room, spotting a dark bag resting on a folding chair; it was his carryall. He thanked his lucky stars for strapping it to his back before One-Hair’s boys pulled him from Hall’s truck. That act had brought the bag here with him.
Benz said, “You will never get away. Thailand, America, it doesn’t matter. I will come for you.”
Shane unzipped the carryall. Christmas had come early this year. Everything was there: burner phone, clothes, passport, pills, lockpick, even his revolver. Someone must have thrown the bag aside when they tossed him in the cell, oblivious to what it contained.
Benz’s taunting continued. “And if I don’t get to you, I’ll find Fah. She can’t hide.”
Shane reached inside the bag. He had the upper hand, but this man meant what he said. Shane could escape, run, or hide, but Benz would never let up unless it ended tonight.
“Speak!” Benz yelled.
Shane tightened his grip on the revolver, pressing the tips of his fingers into the rubber contours of the handle. He turned to face the enemy lying at his feet, letting his gun speak for him.
CHAPTER 21
Pistols at Dawn
Chunks of plaster lay beneath the spot where the bullet had entered the wall about ten feet away. Shane had made sure to aim high to avoid grazing the top of Benz’s head. Although it wouldn’t have been much of a tragedy if he had.
Benz turned, gaping open-mouthed at the bullet hole. He began to cough.
“Now we’re even,” Shane said.
Still on his knees, Benz turned his upper body back toward Shane. “What?”
Shane lowered the gun. “You had a chance to kill me, but you left me with a warning instead. This time, I’m returning the favor.”
“You…you’re not gonna kill me?” Benz sputtered. Shane knew this was a rare occurrence in the world this man lived in.
“Not today,” Shane said. “Although I can’t say the same for Wanchai when he comes back and sees what you’ve done.”
Benz winced at the thought.
Shane raised the gun again. “But if I so much as see a shadow lurking behind me, or if I hear of anything happening to Fah, I won’t aim high next time. You and me, we’re on even ground now.”
Shane’s arm was shaking, but he kept the gun level with Benz’s head. He knew he didn’t have much time. The sound of the gunshot would have alerted Wanchai’s entourage if they hadn’t already been on their way back. With little time to think, he grabbed his bag and chose an exit from the room, stepping past Benz, who lay trembling on the floor, hands pressed against his broken face.
Shane found himself on the mezzanine overlooking the main hangar of a warehouse. It gave lower-end IKEA vibes. On the ground floor, another door loomed at the far end of the expansive room. Twilight filtered through the windows on either side, indicating a potential way out. He rushed toward the staircase, clambering down the metal steps. Shouts, followed by footsteps, sounded from the room he’d just left. Leaning against a crate, he unzipped his bag, retrieved the two pill bottles, and swallowed enough painkillers from the first one to dull the aches and pains from his latest ordeal.
Shane grabbed some dexies from bottle number two and spun one of the capsules between his fingers. He knew he needed something to get him through this endless night—he needed a pick-me-up.
At least it wasn’t ya ba.
Shane popped the drugs in his mouth. Call it the placebo effect, but he already felt better. The burden of his ordeal began to lift. He could do this.
Throwing his revolver back in the bag, Shane reached behind his back and slipped Hall’s gun from his waistband. His friend had said it packed a punch. If that were true, the extra firepower of the Black Star would come in handy if he needed to shoot his way out. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. If it came time to throw lead, would he even know how to do it right? He’d just busted one upstairs, but the pressure wasn’t there. Benz had been unarmed.
He checked the magazine, just like they did in the movies, slamming it back home as the door above him burst open.
“Choe laeo!” someone shouted. Shane thought it would have taken longer to spot him. He slung his bag over one shoulder, feeling the zing of the bullets whiz past his ears as he ran for cover. The warehouse’s low-slung lights made it difficult to see in the dark, but Shane thought he could use it to his advantage. As much as he wanted to see his hunters—determine their movements—as he scrambled to the other side of the room, it was more important that they couldn’t spot their prey.
Advantage: Him.
Shane embraced the darkness as he noticed a more discreet path along the side wall.
Follow the shadows.
He crawled toward the path, allowing him to reach the next row of cover without being seen. He scanned the floor above, recognizing some of the men from the chicken cell. Their entourage had grown larger. Numbers were not on his side. He had no way of knowing how many crawled the upper walkways; they knew they were dealing with one guy.
Advantage: Them.
The hunters stuck to the upper floor, trying to maintain a bird’s-eye view of the area as if they were scientists observing a lab rat. Shane waited until the guys in his line of sight weren’t looking, then scurried another ten feet closer to the cheese at the end of this sinister maze. Shots rang out as he slid behind an abandoned forklift, the sounds echoing off the steel walls. Someone had spotted him—he should be more careful.
Shane lay prone on his stomach. Here goes nothing, he thought, extending his gun out in front of him one-handed, using his right arm as a support beneath him. He fired several shots toward the railings above, barely holding onto the grip as it threatened to fly out of his hand from the recoil.
Several men ducked as a window shattered behind them. Shane had timed the distraction to draw the group’s attention while he moved to a better hiding spot. He was surprised it worked. Pushing himself up to his feet, he sprinted to another part of the room.
“Farang pai nai wa?” one of them yelled.
Good, Shane thought. They had lost him.
A knot of tension twisted in his stomach, threatening to paralyze his limbs. He lifted his gun and noticed the hand holding it was shaking. Was it the drugs, or was it just nerves?
James Bond doesn’t get this nervous.
A series of gunshots echoed from the rafters above, sending chunks of wood flying from crates all around him. They still hadn’t picked back up on his location; they meant to flush him out. But he couldn’t stay hidden in this spot all day. He eyed his destination, which was directly across the room, at least forty yards away. There was no way he could move closer without them spotting him again.
Shane lifted the gun and fired three shots in the air—another trick he’d learned from the movies. It had the intended effect as the hunters scrambled for cover. Figuring he had half a second before they realized he was just blindly shooting, Shane sprinted toward another staircase leading up to the mezzanine, intent on moving past it toward the exit. He skidded to a halt as a pair of legs appeared on the top step. A hunter was coming downstairs. Shane moved toward the nearest crate, easing behind it as the hunter descended the steps. The man’s shoes squeaked as he crossed the floor, the sound growing louder as he drew closer to Shane’s hiding spot.
Shane dared not stick his head out to see where the ground-floor man was. Instead, he watched his pursuer’s shadow progress closer along the floor. Holding his breath, Shane slipped further behind the crate, raising his gun as the back of Ground-floor Man’s head came into view. The low lighting wouldn’t prevent this guy from seeing the business end of the weapon staring at him from the shadows. Shane’s finger hesitated as it rested on the trigger. He tried to ready himself for the worst, knowing that nothing could prepare him for what he would have to do if the man saw him.
Shane hesitated again as he lined up the sights, wondering if he could even go through with it.
But Ground-floor Man didn’t turn in Shane’s direction. He kept walking the opposite way.
Relief washed over Shane as he lowered the gun. He hadn’t had to kill the man. These hunters were mere foot soldiers. Even if their intent was to harm, Shane had no real beef with them. And who was he kidding? He couldn’t even kill Benz when he’d had the chance.
Squeezing from the back of the crate, he made another run for it. He cleared the staircase this time, but the shouts from above meant they had spotted him again. He spun around, firing several rounds in their direction.
Ground-floor Man began to double back due to the commotion. Shane’s eyes fixed on the mezzanine, but from the corner of his vision, he saw Ground-floor Man raising his pistol, ready to take down his prey.
Shane didn’t know whether the hunters were aiming to kill or if Wanchai still wanted him alive, but he wasn’t going to stay here to find out. He fired blindly, the recoil of the pistol causing his shots to spray wildly throughout the room. Between muzzle flashes, Shane noticed Ground-floor Man drop like an anchor. It was difficult to tell whether he had been hit or was simply quick to seek cover. Reaching the exit, Shane glanced back once more. No one was behind him. Ground-floor Man hadn’t gotten back up. Despite his earlier act of mercy, had Shane ended up killing him after all? His stomach lurched at the thought.
