The Killing Chase (Beach & Riley Book 2) Page 2

  Jake had trusted Lee’s planning and judgment with his life on many occasions. Mutual professional respect aside, they’d become fast friends while Jake was recuperating from his knee surgery. Jake had understood immediately the meaning in Mike’s brief message and shook his head in silent resignation. “The Finger” was code for Goldfinger Bar in Patpong Road, and usually meant only one thing, alcohol and plenty of it.

  While Jake had been undergoing physical therapy, and was being fitted for crutches following his surgery, Lee was in the early stages of his retirement process from the agency. Lee chose to spend the latter part of his enforced debriefing and transition period in the Silom area of Bangkok so he could help Jake with his rehabilitation. With the enormous U.S. embassy complex only a mile away on Wireless Road, Lee could easily shuttle back and forth as required.

  Jake’s daily recovery routine had been modified to include meeting Mike for dinner at one of the many restaurants in the area, then on to Goldfinger for ‘a couple of cold ones’. The Finger had quickly become one of Jake’s two favorite bars in the world. It was a meeting place for some of the most interesting characters he’d ever encountered. He’d become firm friends with a number of visiting and expatriate regulars, almost none of whom had any idea of Jake’s murky past. His knee injury and facial scar were easily explained by an imaginary motorcycle accident; an all too common occurrence in The Land of Smiles. You couldn’t walk down a main street without seeing someone with the telltale bandages or scars somewhere on his body.

  Jake supposed some of the cannier crew at Goldfinger might suspect there was more to his story, considering his relationship with Lee. But if they did, they weren’t letting on. There were a few other former CIA and Special Ops guys who frequented the historic establishment, but everyone knew the code, so the past, for the most part, remained just that.

  Jake and Tik headed directly to the immigration checkpoints. Waiting in line, Tik looked up at her six-foot- one companion. “You sure you not know what you friend want?”

  “No idea, but I doubt he’s just hard up for a drinking buddy. Could be anything.”

  “You got funny friends, Mr. Jake. Funny but good.”

  “Yeah, Mike is definitely one of the good guys.”

  The immigration officer gave Tik a quizzical look as he examined her U.S. passport and spoke briefly to her in Thai. Her reply was obviously sufficient to satisfy his curiosity, and he waved her through. Once Jake cleared the desk, he asked Tik what their conversation was about.

  “He want to know why I got American passport. I tell him I born there but I live in Isan, so he know why I have Lao accent and stop ask me questions.”

  “Smart girl.”

  Neither Jake nor Tik had any checked luggage, so they continued to the Customs desks with nothing to declare. After a quick stop at a currency exchange booth, they arrived at the main exit. The heavy glass doors slid open for the heat and humidity to hit them like an invisible wall. The contrast between the climate-controlled airport interior and the tropical oppression outside was so palpable that Jake thought he could actually see it. The atmosphere evoked a flood of vivid memories of this beautiful, diverse land. Sights, sounds, and smells inundating his senses, he was instantly energized with feelings of optimism and anticipation.

  Every time he’d visited the Land of Smiles, Jake had experienced the same euphoria. It usually wore off after a few days, but he was going to enjoy the excitement while it lasted. It was a place full of promise, exotic foods, smiling faces, and conspicuous contradictions. The gaudy combination of bright colors, bizarre noises, myriad aromas, glaring disparities, and seemingly endless smiles made Thailand a major draw for people from all over the world.

  Crossing the concourse, Tik nodded acknowledgement to a waving taxi driver. The man’s vast smile revealed rows of flashing white, crooked teeth.

  “Sawasdee Krahp!” His hands met in front of his face, fingers upward, in a Wai, the Thai greeting of respect. “Where you go?”

  “Taxi meter mai?” was Tik’s instant reply.

  Seeing she knew the ins and outs, the driver resigned himself to a regular, metered fare. He smiled a particular one of the seven smiles of Thailand. “Chai, taxi meter, krahp.”

  Many Bangkok taxi drivers, as Jake and Tik both knew, try to negotiate a set price to ferry their patrons from one point to another. If they judge the traffic and the trip correctly, they’re generally able to increase their meager profit; but they’re required by law to use their meters when asked.

  The driver quickly changed tack, to flattery and pandering, clearly designed to extract a good tip from the big white Farang with the nasty scar on his face. “Wow,” he said, apparently to Tik, but obviously for Jake’s ears as well, “You friend have big muscle, very handsome man.”

  Jake grinned knowingly. “Get us to the Sofitel on Silom Road safely, and you’ll get your tip. And the less talking you do, the more you’ll get.”

  The man’s fingers closed his mouth with a zipping motion. Then, baring his teeth again in a wide smile, he jumped into his seat for the race into the center of the city. They took the elevated Skyway for ten minutes, the driver opening his mouth only to ask for a sixty-Baht toll fee, at the row of booths blocking their way at Bang Na.

  After one more tollbooth, and another ten minutes driving, they’d reached Rama IV Road. The driver turned left toward the old city of Yowarat then left again into Silom Road, Jake’s former stomping ground. Passing Convent Road on the left, Jake recalled his many trips on crutches to and from BNH Hospital at the Sathorn end of the street. They passed the famous red-light district of Patpong on their right then made a U-turn near Narathiwas Road to head back in the direction of Patpong. About five hundred meters before the red light district, the driver swerved into the Sofitel’s driveway, and stopped just outside the main doors.

  Turning to Jake, he flashed his widest smile. “Safe and fast – and no talking, too.”

  Jake smiled back, knowing he was being worked, as two hotel doormen arrived swiftly to open the passenger doors. Dressed in crisp, white uniform jackets and burgundy-colored Thai pants, known as Jongrabaen, the doormen greeted the travelers then opened the trunk to look for luggage. Seeing no bags, they threw Jake an anxious glance, but their concerns quickly eased as they saw the big American count out the taxi fare plus a generous three hundred Baht tip. Only about nine US dollars, it would easily provide the driver with a family feast.

  “Don’t worry, guys,” Jake gave the doormen a reassuring wink, “I’ll look after you.”

  The two smiled back at Jake and rushed to open the front doors, bowing their heads deeply as Jake and Tik breezed past into the lobby. Jake looked back over his shoulder, motioning for the doormen to follow him in. As they approached, Jake’s hand appeared behind him with a pair of hundred Baht notes. The pink bills - the most universally capable tools in the Kingdom of Thailand, in Jake’s experience - vanished into grateful hands as Jake continued with Tik toward reception. The doormen, meanwhile, jostled each other playfully, giggling their way back to their posts in the oppressive heat outside.

  Following check-in, the travelers went to their rooms. Jake had specially requested rooms facing each other across the hall, so their peepholes could view one another’s door for security purposes. They quickly showered and changed then met in the lobby just after 8:30 p.m.

  They walked outside, past the open driveway, and almost made it to the sidewalk before being accosted by the waiting throng of tuktuk drivers vying for business. The streets of Bangkok are littered with these little three-wheeled, open-air taxis. They wait in droves, hoping to snare unsuspecting passengers and convey them on hair-raising, death-defying blasts around the city. The standard come-on is an aggressively shouted “Where you go?” or “Tuktuk - cheap, cheap!” And cheap they are, if you don’t factor in the detours to every tailor, jewelry shop, and seafood restaurant on their list of kickback partners.

  Jake waved off the tuktuk drivers with
a smile while Tik walked ahead, blithely ignoring them. Making their way along Silom Road to the main entrance to Patpong Road, they were accosted again, this time by the myriad touts, hawkers, hustlers, and vendors who throng the open-air market which dominates the famous red light district at night. They waded through touts shoving bar menus in their faces, and vendors’ calls of, “T-shirt, sir…Take a look first!” and, “Watches, watches, good quality…You want belt, wallet? Have many! You can try!”

  As they neared the halfway point of the bustling market street, the inimitable Goldfinger bar came into view, with its garish yellow neon sign and grey marble entrance. A sturdy Laotian/Thai woman with long, frizzy hair in a ponytail stood guard at the door; to welcome customers and ward off undesirables. Through a stern glare of concentration, she carefully weighed the passing prospects. As she turned toward Jake and Tik, her eyes bulged in recognition. A wide, beaming smile broke out on her face and her solid legs began to propel her toward the big man. Completely ignoring Tik, she wrapped her arms around Jake’s waist in a bear-hug and Jake chuckled, returning her embrace. After a big squeeze, she tilted her hear back at a comically absurd angle until her eyes could meet Jake’s. “Kid teung mahk mahk, Khun Jake!”

  “I missed you too, Kanom. How are you?”

  “I okay now, happy I see you! Who you friend?” She pointed her lips at Tik.

  “This is Tik. Tik, this is Kanom. She’s also from Laos.”

  Instantly all lack of familiarity disappeared as both women pressed their hands together in a traditional wai greeting and began chattering away in rapid-fire Lao. Jake tried to tell them he’d meet them inside, but the two countrywomen completely ignored him, clearly intent on discovering the names of each other’s villages, family names, schools, etc. Satisfied Tik was in good hands; Jake entered the bar and was pleasantly assailed by the familiar smell of cigar smoke, the chill of air-conditioning, and the sound of hard, driving rock music.

  The first thing he saw was the famous two-foot-tall wooden carving of an anonymous fist, middle finger upraised. It was positioned directly under a large, brass ship’s bell, as if daring someone to ring it - at the cost, Jake knew, of a round of drinks for everyone in the bar. Jake reached out for the bell’s handle and gave it several hard yanks back and forth. The bell pealed loudly above Led Zeppelin’s “When the Levee Breaks,” causing everyone to look up, wondering who would disturb their conversations with a round of free drinks so early in the night.

  Those who remembered Jake from his long post-surgical recovery raised their glasses and whooped hearty greetings. Those who didn’t took in the impressive size and appearance of their new sponsor, some nodding in appreciation at his generous gesture. The din of the heavy brass bell and cheers subsiding, Jake made his way along the right-hand side of the long rectangular bar. Familiar faces smiled in greeting and vigorous handshakes were exchanged; a ritual faithfully observed for decades now in the intimate expatriate bar. Jake joked with men he knew relatively well, and struggled to recall the names of those he didn’t. There were engineers, lawyers, pilots, accountants and other corporate types, jewelers from the gemstone district a couple of miles away, and still others of less conspicuous pedigrees.

  Among a group of dangerous-looking but relaxed men, whose backgrounds were politely disregarded by Goldfinger regulars, stood Mike Lee, Jake’s friend and former colleague. Mike was a few inches shorter than Jake, of medium build, with short-cropped, sandy hair and a friendly face framing bright, intelligent green eyes. His features and demeanor made him appear much younger than his sixty-one years. Beaming a mischievous smile, he nodded at Jake, and broke from the group, raising his right hand to meet Jake’s in an up-high handshake. Their left arms reached around each other’s shoulders in a tight, brotherly embrace. Their bond obviously ran deeper than the average friendship.

  Grabbing Jake’s upper arms, Mike studied his face as a long-lost father would. “Damn, boy, you sure make a flashy entrance!”

  “Hey, I’m on holiday - in Thailand. Time to celebrate!”

  Mike gave a brief look of concern but quickly flashed back to a smile. Jake noted the look but knew better than to query his friend in open company. He would wait until they were alone for an explanation. Jake and Mike had become highly attuned to each other’s signals over the years, so intentions were easily understood, and verbal communication was often unnecessary.

  “Hell yeah, let’s get this party started, Jake, my boy!” Mike said loudly, mostly for the benefit of others.

  Mike introduced Jake to the members of his group who he didn’t already know, then the night’s drinking, story-telling and joking began in earnest. Two of the men were brothers Jake knew, and had liked, from previous missions. Former Australian SAS soldiers turned private operators; they were used by Mike as freelancers on select missions.

  At the top of the food chain in their murky world, the Aussies maintained strict training regimens and full mission readiness, so Mike kept them in reserve, in case their particular capabilities were required. Somewhat regally named Charles and Harry Phillips, they went exclusively by their nicknames of Dozer and Priest. When Jake had first met them, he hadn’t needed to ask where the massive Charles “Dozer” Phillips got his apt moniker, but was curious as to the origins of the elder and slightly less imposing brother, Harry’s, handle of “Priest.”

  “You don’t wanna know, mate,” Dozer had cut in, answering for his brother.

  With an exaggerated wink, Dozer had held out his beer for Priest to clunk with his own, and both downed their mason jars in one gulp. Jake had been amused at the brothers’ obliviousness to his own murky past and formidable skills, but chest-puffing with these two would have been futile, so he’d simply downed his own beer and ordered another round. Since then, they’d worked on three missions together, and while mutual trust had been established, Jake was no closer to knowing the origins of Priest’s nickname.

  As the night wore on, Jake caught Mike Lee glancing at him from time to time. Assuming his friend was trying to decide when to tell him the reason for their meeting, Jake finally sidled up to the bar beside him. He leaned in to speak just loudly enough for Mike to hear above the music: “Something on your mind, old buddy?”

  “Who you calling old?” Mike feigned offense before turning serious. “I could do with a lungful of air that hasn’t been farted out by a battery of fat Cuban cigars.”

  He started toward the front door, and Jake followed a couple steps behind. Outside, in the din of the street markets, Mike leaned his back against the marble wall, hanging his head in deep thought.

  “I’m getting a bad signal here,” Jake said. ”How serious is this?”

  Mike looked deep into Jake’s eyes as though searching for something. “I’m sorry to leave you hanging like that. I couldn’t bring myself to tell you until we had a chance to loosen up. This conversation is about to change the face of the night and your whole trip.”

  “Just say what you’ve got to say, Mike. You know I don’t like bullshit.”

  “Yeah, I know. It wasn’t for you, it was for me. I needed a bit of time with my friend before he transforms into the Surgeon.” Mike’s demeanor had now changed into the business-mode Jake knew so well from past missions. “I know we said there was no hope, but I got a lead, and I’ve been following the trail in secret for months now. There’s no other way to tell you this, Jake. I found the guy who killed your brother… and he’s in Thailand right now.”

  Chapter 3

  Alan Beach sat in somber silence, his partner guiding their rented car to Bluegrass Airport in Lexington, about forty-five miles away from The Test. Foxx desperately wanted to know what their Special Agent in Charge could have said to evoke such profound gloom in his partner, but could see Alan needed some time to process.

  Foxx didn’t have to wait long. About a minute later Beach, staring straight ahead through the windscreen, spoke in monotone: “Sorry, partner, I needed some time to work through this. There’s been
a double homicide in Poughkeepsie - New York State. The M.O. is exactly the same as the Orphan Maker’s.”

  “You mean Bryan Adler? But that psycho freak has been dead - what, a year?”

  “A little more than nine months. That’s the problem. SAC Talbot says there are specific indicators at the crime scene that match Adler’s M.O. to a tee. These are details that were never released to the press, so the killer knows way more than he should. The only outside contacts Adler had while he was incarcerated were psychiatrists, doctors, and law enforcement professionals. He didn’t correspond with anyone, so there’s nothing and no one from his personal past to look into. And since Adler was never publicly tried, there are no public transcripts either.”

  “Why the hell didn’t it go to trial?”

  “It was a three-way compromise. He got life without the possibility of release in order to avoid the death penalty, the USDA got a win without the risk of an insanity plea, and the taxpayers saved millions on a long trial.”

  “He got off way too easy! Maybe they saved money on the trial, but imagine how much it would have cost to keep that little prick alive and locked down for the rest of his life. Should have just put one in his brain and be done with it. I’m glad he was crushed and burnt alive in that prisoner transport accident.”

  Alan was more circumspect. “I would agree with you, except for two things: They’ve learned a lot from studying him, and twenty-five unsolved, double homicides were put to bed as part of his plea bargain. Anyway, I’ve been thinking it through, over and over. I can see only two possibilities. Either he had an accomplice during the original crimes, or some other nutjob with access to the case file has taken up his torch. Knowing Adler, there was no accomplice, so -”

  “You saying the copycat’s in law enforcement?”

  “I’m saying it’s got to be someone who had, or has, access to Adler’s full case file. That file was open and ongoing for years. Anyone from Adler’s lawyers to evidence clerks could have had looked at it. Not only that, local law enforcement officers were first on site at every one of his crime scenes. We’re looking at the proverbial needle in a haystack.”