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

Chapter 2

Forty-eight hours after the call from his friend and former CIA handler, Mike Lee, Jake Riley arrived at Suvarnabhumi International Airport just south of Bangkok. It was typically hot and steamy in central Thailand when the Boeing 777-300ER landed at 7:15 Saturday evening.

The twelve-and-a-half hour Emirates flight from New York to Dubai had been followed by a two-hour stopover and another six-and-a-half hours flying time to Bangkok. Despite the unknown nature of his meeting with Lee, Jake had managed to sleep much of the trip. He was now fresh and ready for whatever lay ahead. 

Walking through the arrivals area, he glanced over at his traveling companion, a petite Laotian woman. He was certain it had been Tik’s first time traveling in first class, and likely her second time ever on an airplane. Jake searched for signs of nervousness; but if she had any trepidation, her training, experience, and strength of character kept them fully concealed.

Tik had been his faithful housekeeper and friend for the past four years. Before that, she had been a very capable CIA asset in Laos, until her cover was blown during an ill-fated, clandestine operation. Jake had grown to like and respect the feisty little woman during their three month operation, and ignoring contrary orders from above, he’d personally evacuated her to the USA via Thailand before the fearsome Lao authorities could take her.

The Company’s higher-ups weren’t happy with his disobedience, but since he’d paid for the evacuation himself, and his value to the agency’s Special Operations Group (SOG) outweighed his commanders’ egoism, his minor insubordination had been tolerated. Besides, no matter what the personal risk or consequences to his career, there was no way he would have left the Laotian woman behind; especially given the terrible fate she would certainly have faced. The CIA had a regrettable history of disavowing its assets among the good people of Laos. Jake was not about to see that reputation perpetuated through his fiercely loyal friend and ally.

Tik caught Jake glancing at her, and gave him a stern glare in return. “What you think,” she said in her thick Laotian accent, “it my first rodeo?”

Tik’s comically mispronounced attempt at American vernacular drew a broad smile from Jake, while her spunk triggered memories of their time working together during his final mission for the CIA. The smile forced his skin to crease where it met the deep, jagged scar running vertically from above his right eyebrow to halfway down his cheek. Tracing a finger over the scar, he recalled the explosion that had caused the injury. The facial wound served as a stark reminder of the night his right knee had been destroyed by enemy gunfire, bringing about the end of his military career.  The damage to his leg had required a full titanium knee replacement, so Mike Lee had suggested Jake’s surgery be performed by one of the world’s top knee replacement surgeons at BNH Hospital in Bangkok.

Aside from an almost imperceptible limp, Jake’s overall physical performance was barely affected. The injury had, however, been enough to force his retirement from elite active service. Not the type to accept a training position, Jake chose to retire from Delta Force and the U.S. Army altogether. Since leaving the military, he’d chosen his own private missions, self-funding them with his substantial personal fortune. Jake had been in the initial planning phase of his latest personal venture when he’d received Mike Lee’s call.

A retired CIA Special Operations Officer, the inscrutable Lee oversaw many of the S.O.G. missions for which Jake had been seconded from his Delta unit. His call to Jake had been brief and to the point. “Hey, big guy, I need you at The Finger in PPR this Saturday, twenty-one hundred hours.” Lee had hung up without waiting for a response.

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.