The Killing Chase (Beach & Riley Book 2) Page 9

  “She is a very spirited young woman. I can understand your fondness for her. But make no mistake – follow my instructions or she dies – very simple. You’re being observed, so do not entertain any notion of heroics. Good-bye, Mr. Riley, perhaps we will meet in person one day.”

  “Count on it, you piece of –” The call went dead before Jake could finish. The deadly former Delta operative was powerless – frustration and fury welled inside him like a demonic geyser. Mike Lee sensed imminent violence and rushed to grip Jake’s arms before he could lash out.

  “Cool it, big guy – we don’t need to attract unnecessary attention. Tell me exactly what he said.”

  Listening intently to the relayed conversation, Mike’s analytical mind processed every detail, searching for options. He sighed in resignation. “I’m sorry, Jake, but we can’t risk taking this any further right now. Let’s go talk to Billy D., as planned – maybe he can shed some light.”

  Still fuming, Jake reluctantly agreed. Priest hailed two waiting tuktuks, giving them instructions to take the group to a popular expat bar in Street 51. The three-wheeled tuktuks looked too small to hold Priest and Mike Lee, but Jake and Dozer positively dwarfed the machines.

  When Dozer put his full weight on the side step, the driver feigned dread before laughing and jokingly leaning his body out in the opposite direction to balance the vehicle until the big man was in his seat. The small Cambodian driver turned to examine the monster behind him. His eyes bulged comically as he joked about the possibility of tipping the contraption over backward.

  Dozer grinned back. “Don’t worry, little bloke – you’ll get your tip. Pun intended.” He laughed at his own joke before bellowing, “Wagon, ho!” and waved his huge arm forward like the leader of a wagon train in an old western movie.

  Arriving at the bar, the men paid their drivers then climbed the stairs to the famous local haunt. The place was filled with expats and a smattering of tourists. The stench of stale beer and tobacco smoke flooded their nostrils, accented by the pungent aroma of fresh-made chili and barbecued ribs. A three-piece band played the blues in one corner, and the clientele looked relaxed or half-drunk, or perhaps both.

  Mike Lee nodded toward the Australian brothers. “What are you having, boys?”

  Their simultaneous response was, “Angkor Beer, mate.”

  “Thought you’d never ask,” Dozer added. “Make sure they’re bloody cold, mate!”

  Mike leaned in to Dozer. “Help me talk Jake down before he kills some random passerby.” Then he turned to Jake. “Jake, my boy, have a beer, try to calm down.”

  “I’m calm – I’ll take a Beer Lao. Is Billy D. here?”

  “He’ll be in his corner, holding court,” Priest said. “I’ll go suss him out.”

  The others sat at a small table, while Mike gave their order to a passing waitress. While they waited for their drinks, Dozer put a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, mate – we’ll get her back, but there’s nothing we can do right now. Let’s have a couple of coldies, and decompress. It’s been a big day.”

  Jake knew Dozer was right. He also knew Tik was safe for now, so he forced his fury down. There was no point sticking out like an angry, sore thumb. Better to blend in with the local crowd and glean as much as they could from the infamous Billy D. A couple of minutes later, Priest returned from the far end of the room.

  “Billy’s talking to some bloke about one of his shady deals. Should be done in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, and we can go join him.”

  Jake nodded. The waitress brought their beers, showing each label to her customers before plopping the bottles into koozies covered with garish advertising for various local businesses. Dozer examined his own koozie, which proclaimed the benefits of a “Special Massage” at a place called the “Pink Puddle.”

  “Aah, capitalism at its finest.” He proclaimed. “Shame they didn’t know how to spell poodle. Still, it’s all part of the local charm.”

  Jake managed a smile at Dozer’s attempts to lighten the mood. Just then a Khmer man approached their table and whispered into Priest’s ear.

  “We’re on.” Priest said, standing up from his stool.

  The others got up and followed him to the corner. Billy D’s appearance betrayed his former profession as a bodybuilder. Massive pectorals acted as tent poles, holding his shirt well out from his chest. The tenting effect concealed a slightly expanding midsection, while his short sleeves revealed tiny stretch marks around his loosely hanging biceps. He was book-ended by two little Cambodian lovelies, who continually fawned over him, tending his every need.

  “Have a seat, guys,” Billy offered. “What’s on your minds?”

  Mike Lee obviously wasn’t comfortable with the girls hearing the conversation. “Can we lose the fluff, Billy?”

  The local kingpin chuckled. “You really think I’d keep girls who understand English?” He turned to one of his consorts. “Does Daddy like bus stops? Are you a goat? Can you drive my Ferrari up the stairs in reverse?”

  The precious creature smiled, nodding enthusiastically at his soothing tone and clearly not understanding a single word. She stroked his inner thigh, moving toward his crotch, as though that was the answer to his every question.

  “Satisfied?”

  Mike, embarrassed by his own naivety and the overt display of sexuality, brought a hand up to shield his view, and took a long swig of his beer. His shy behavior brought a bellow of laughter from Billy D. “You’re new in town aren’t you, oldtimer?”

  Jake’s patience was thin. “Enough – we need some information. What do you know about a Russian operation run by a guy called Sergei Ugolev?”

  “About time someone got to the point. Here’s what I know – information like that costs money. A thousand bucks should cover it.”

  Dozer shot a hand out to Billy D’s neck and began to squeeze. “Don’t be an asshole, mate. You owe Priest and me – it’s time to collect.”

  Jake interrupted, slapping ten crisp hundred-dollar bills on the table and slowly pulling Dozer’s arm away. “I don’t give a shit about the money – as long as the information is good. If it isn’t, we’ll come back and Dozer will have some fun with you.”

  Billy D. rubbed his neck. “Fifteen years ago, you wouldn’t have gotten that arm back, you Aussie prick.”

  “All show, no go, fat man,” Dozer said. “This is my world – not a bunch of prissy boys prancing around on a stage in budgie-smugglers. Don’t you forget it, mate.”

  “Both of you, shut the hell up!” Jake’s tolerance was gone. “This is no chest-thumping contest. Tik’s life is at stake, and I have unfinished business with Ugolev. Take the money and tell me what I need to know, Billy. No screwing around or playing pat-a-cake with Dozer will be the least of your worries.”

  Despite his power, bulk, and pedigree, Dozer sat back in his seat like a scolded child. He’d seen Jake’s formidable skills in action on more than a few occasions, and knew it was unwise to test him. Billy D. also knew Jake, though purely by reputation. He spat out a quick phrase in Khmer, sending the girls scurrying over the seatback and out of the booth. Then the local kingpin pushed the money back toward Jake.

  “Dozer’s right, I do owe the boys. Sorry, I didn’t realize the situation was so serious. Can’t blame a guy for trying to make a buck, right?”

  “Like I said, I couldn’t care less about the money. Keep it – I won’t hold it against you. But you’d better have something good for me.”

  “Wait for it…” Billy D. turned, looking expectantly at the club’s entrance. “Five, four, three, two – and here he comes.”

  A tiny Cambodian man, about forty-five years old, cantered toward them. The girls had been sent away not only for privacy, but to summon the little man. He bowed deeply to the group, and stood in silence as Billy D. prattled to him in the staccato Khmer language. When Billy had finished, the man prattled back for a moment, then bowed deeply and scurried away.

  “Your man ha
s been building a methamphetamine empire in Phnom Penh for a while now. He’s not the biggest yet, but he will be soon – especially with the connections he’s got on the payroll. Have you heard of General Klot? He’s one of the top guys in the Cambodian police – and this guy, Ugolev has him firmly in his pocket. The general is now the proud owner of a beachfront mansion near Sihanoukville on the south coast – one of several very pricey “gifts” from your Russian. You can bet the general won’t like anyone messing with his honeypot, so you need to be careful. General Klot’s known for what’s loosely translated as the “Wishbone.” It’s a technique the Khmer Rouge used on dissidents during Pol Pot’s rule. They tie your wrists together behind your back, then attach a rope to your bindings, and lift you until your shoulders come out of their sockets. Then, while you’re hanging there like a rag doll, they slit your stomach to let your guts fall out. It can take more than twenty minutes to die.”

  “Enough with the bullshit scare tactics,” Jake snapped. ”What’s the lowdown on Ugolev’s operation? Where would he hold a captive?”

  “He’s got a compound on the edge of town, and a luxury apartment near the river, where he stays. But there’s no way he’d hold someone hostage in those places. My guy says he also has a couple of safe houses in the city – the question is which one would he use? You don’t have enough guys to breach both at once.”

  “You aren’t the only guy in Cambodia who owes us a favor. A certain army general owes his daughter’s life to me – and the military is a lot more powerful than the cops. It might take a little while to organize, but we’ll have enough guys. I need the addresses of the two safe houses.”

  The hundred-dollar bills remained where Jake had left them, Billy D’s eyes burning metaphorical holes through the pile. “Are you sure about the money? I don’t want to sour our friendship.”

  “Take it.” Jake was still glaring at him. “This is no friendship, so I have no problem paying you for services rendered, but be warned – never bite the hand that feeds you.”

  Billy D. scribbled the addresses and handed them to Jake. “I don’t want to leave things like this, man. How about I send my guy with you? He knows the quickest routes, and the lay of the land.”

  “That’d be helpful. Does he speak English?”

  Priest interjected, “Don’t worry about it, mate. I can translate.”

  “That’s right – your Khmer’s pretty good, isn’t it?” Billy D. replied. “My guy doesn’t speak a word of English, but he’s handy with a blade, and he’s all yours.”

  “Just tell him to get us where we need to be,” Jake said. “He doesn’t need to get involved.”

  Dozer pulled cash from his pocket to pay the check, but Billy D. waved him off. “I’ve got this one, Dozer – peace offering.”

  The big Aussie put his money away, shooting a tight grin at the kingpin before exiting the booth. The silent exchange was clearly understood; Billy D. had been suitably admonished. The small Cambodian guide was summoned, and Billy D. explained his duties for the night. The little man nodded eagerly with each instruction, while Priest listened nearby to ensure there was no skullduggery afoot. Satisfied the arrangement was legitimate, he nodded toward the stairs, and they all left.

  Billy D. watched the last of the group disappear through the arched entry before dialing a number on his cell phone. Keeping his eye squarely on the doorway, he inserted a Bluetooth earpiece. “Hello? Yeah, it’s me. Okay, I sent them where you told me, so we’re square, right – my debt is paid?”

  Chapter 11

  The receptionist, Miss Cosban, pursed her lips, giving the pair her best look of disdain as Foxx followed Alan through Dr. Pollock’s waiting room out to the SUV. Behind the wheel, Foxx turned to his partner. “What the hell was that all about? That doctor probably thinks you’re nuts now.”

  “I couldn’t elaborate in front of him.”

  “Okay, but blurting out ‘a matter of national security’ – really? Some chins’ll be wagging after that little bombshell. I can just hear that freak-show receptionist and her cronies now.”

  “Start the car and turn on the radio. I don’t want anyone else to hear what I have to tell you.”

  “Paranoid much?” Foxx said, complying with Beach’s instructions. “What the hell’s got you wound so tight?”

  Beach reached for the volume control, turning the music up loud enough so he was certain no one outside could overhear. “I found a tiny puncture mark on the back of Tinsley’s neck.”

  “The guy hit a tree at fifty miles an hour. He’s got all kinds of marks all over him.”

  “You don’t get it. Remember I told you about Project Hallucineers? I told you the hallucination implant has to be delivered to the brain stem. How do you think it gets there?”

  “I don’t know, a needle through the…” Foxx squinted like he was trying to see something in the distance. “You mean someone got to our guy with that medical voodoo stuff? I thought you said it was all taken away by the Department of Defense.”

  “It was! Why do you think I’m so shocked?”

  “Wait a minute. How could someone stick a needle into the back of a guy’s neck without him knowing, especially a doctor?”

  “It doesn’t take a needle. Some genius on Professor Gelling’s team at Blue Sky Biotech – what the hell was his name? Sanders – that’s it, Dr. Sanders. This guy Sanders developed a specialized delivery device to implant the hallucination technology into the brain. It looks like a little glue gun, and it shoots the thing into your neck, right below the base of your skull. It’s so small you can barely feel it. They can do it while you’re asleep, and it wouldn’t even wake you.”

  “So you think someone from the DoD used this thing to get rid of Tinsley. But why?”

  “That’s just one of many burning questions this whole thing raises. Like, who would want him silenced? And who could have programmed the hallucination that made Tinsley ram into a tree? According to Gelling, the only guy with the necessary skills was that computer game designer, Eric Rothstein. And he’s in federal maximum security awaiting execution for crimes including murder and treason.”

  “And who could have gotten close enough to the doc to stick that thing in his neck without him noticing?”

  Beach froze; deep in thought.

  “What is it?” Foxx prompted.

  “Most important question of all – what was Dr. Tinsley going to tell us that got him killed? And how did ‘they’ – whoever the hell ‘they’ are – know he needed to be silenced?”

  Beach pulled his cell phone out. They both looked at it intently before Foxx reached over to grab the device. He pulled the back off to access the battery and SIM card. “Can’t see anything that shouldn’t be here.”

  “Maybe it was in Tinsley’s.”

  “One way to find out,” Foxx said, turning his head to reverse the car.

  They found the sheriff’s office in less than five minutes. Foxx led the way in and slapped his hand on the service counter. A deputy with a half-eaten donut approached. “Help you, boys?”

  Foxx already had his badge out. “FBI. We need to see Dr. Tinsley’s belongings.”

  “What for?”

  “Just get them – now!”

  “Okay, hold your horses.” The man sauntered off, mumbling something derogatory about city folk and feds.

  “Are you sure you’ll be able to tell if his phone was bugged?” Beach asked.

  “If it’s a physical device, I’ll see it straightaway. If not, I’ve got some software on my phone that should tell me if it was cloned. Let’s just hope it still works after the impact of the crash.”

  The deputy returned with a plastic evidence bag. Foxx reached out to grab it, but the deputy pulled it away and handed Beach a clipboard. “You’ll need to sign here first.”

  Beach complied, and the deputy relinquished his prize. Foxx retrieved the phone, quickly removing the battery cover. He checked the inner workings then replaced the SIM card and battery. “He
re goes nothing.” He pressed the phone’s power button, watching for any signs of life. The scratched and crazed display flashed as the processor fired up. Finally the phone let out a muffled blip, and Foxx let out a heavy sigh. “Password protected, damn it! This’ll take a while.”

  Beach smiled politely at the deputy. “Can you tell us where we can get a decent coffee and one of those delightful looking donuts please, Deputy?”

  “Big Al’s Diner is a block and a half that way.” He crooked a finger to his left. It ain’t no high-society, federal city-slicker joint, but it does us simple country folk just fine.”

  Foxx was in no mood for the unnecessary sarcasm. “I guess they don’t teach manners in West Virginia like they do in the small Georgia town where I grew up. We’ll bring the phone back when I’m done, thank you very much.”

  Walking to Big Al’s, Beach couldn’t help himself. “There’s nothing small town about you, partner. What small town in Georgia?”

  Foxx smiled broadly. “Atlanta.”

  After three coffee refills, some chili cheese fries, and a donut each, Foxx had eventually worked through enough combinations to crack the phone’s four-digit password. He’d called the manufacturer’s help desk to have the anti-hacking software turned off before he started, so he was able to work his way up from 0000 through to 2345, which Dr. Tinsley has used as his password.

  “Not too simple but not too complicated. I like his style.”

  “Can you find out if it was cloned?”

  “First I have to clone it with my phone. The software I’ve got will do a reverse trace on all Bluetooth and WiFi connections. Searching now… and, bingo! Yup, someone definitely forced a pairing with this thing. Looks like whatever device they used was pretty high-tech. It’s not as easy to hack these things as people think.”

  “So someone was monitoring his calls?”

  “Definitely.”

  Beach nodded, then dialed a number on his own cell. “Time for reinforcements.”

  “Who you calling?”

  “It’s time to call in the heavy artillery.”