Thai Horse

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You said no more killing this morning,’ Melinda said.

  ‘I was wrong.’

  ‘You’re going to do this on your own?’ said Potter.

  ‘I still have a few good moves.’

  ‘So why the Lone Ranger act?’ asked Earp.

  ‘It’s my fight.’

  ‘Not true, warrior,’ Prophett said. ‘It’s our fight too. You don’t have a monopoly on hate. You got the lady, we got Kilhanney.’

  ‘You can’t take the chance, none of you,’ said Hatcher. ‘You get caught, you blow everything you’ve put together here. It’ll all come out.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got nothing to hide,’ said Earp.

  ‘Me either,’ said Corkscrew.

  ‘Or me,’ Potter chimed in.

  ‘I say if we’re going to do it, take down the whole works,’ said Riker.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Hatcher.

  ‘I told you before, he’s getting ready to make a major move on the U.S.,’ said Earp. ‘He’s got two tons of skag on that junk. I seem to remember searing you were the one took out the Dragon’s Breath back in ‘72, ‘73, to try to slow down heroin coming into Saigon. What’s the difference between then and now?

  Hatcher, his eyes the color of flint, stared at Earp. What Earp said was true. Wanting things to change didn’t change anything.

  ‘You’re right,’ Hatcher snapped. ‘Nothing’s changed.’

  ‘We take down the junk, right?’ Riker said with a grin.

  You lookin’ for a fight? Said Hatcher.

  Fuckin-A, Corkscrew answered for him.

  Hatcher walked behind the bar and drew himself half a glass of beer. He sipped it slowly, then wiped off his upper lip with his thumb.

  Old instincts were stirring in Hatcher. And old memories. Once, many years before, 126 and 127 had been having one of their long philosophical discussions.

  ‘Sometimes it is necessary for a man to play God,’ 126 had said. ‘Sometimes God is too busy to take care of things himself and he delegates the authority.’

  ‘How do you know?’ 127 had asked. ‘How do you know it’s not prejudice or hate or envy?’

  ‘Because it will not matter to you,’ 126 answered. ‘Because it will be a job without satisfaction.’

  There would be no satisfaction in killing Tollie Fong. He was simply a volcano waiting to erupt. The time had come, Hatcher couldn’t wait any longer. But Fong was no amateur. To do the job right would take everything he had. Just like the old days - as S loan used to say, ‘Do it and do it right.’

  ‘An operation like this, there are only two choices,’ Hatcher said. ‘Either you go to him or you bring him to you. Either way, we’ve got to get him right. He doesn’t travel alone, and if I count correctly, there’re only five of us. We’d have to find the stash, figure out how to get to it — and to him.’

  Earp smiled. ‘I told you, soldier, we always know where he is. One of us always has the bastard in view. Right now he’s on that junk. Arid you can kill two jackals with one shot.’

  ‘How’s that?’ Hatcher asked.

  ‘Because Sloan’s there too, in the House of Dreams,’ came the answer.

  A TIME FOR KILLING

  Hatcher recognized the area. He had been there once gangplank stretched to the wharf. Thais moved up and down the plank and argued in loud tones with the men on the deck. On the side of the junk facing the river, several boats — longtails, snakes and klong buggies — huddled around the side of the big boat as the river merchants unloaded their purchases onto their river craft.

  ‘I was here once before with Sy,’ Hatcher said. ‘That junk is sitting on the spot Wol Pot gave as his address.’

  ‘That was his front,’ said Earp. ‘He ran the produce haul for Fong, bringing in fresh produce from Chon Buri down the coast. They sell it right off the boat to local dealers.’

  ‘What makes you think his stash is on the junk?’

  ‘Because the courier Murph aced picked up the package here,’ Earp continued. ‘Sy was following him.’

  ‘The son of a bitch wants to stay as close to his fortune as he can get,’ said Corkscrew.

  ‘And the House of Dreams is in there, too?’ Hatcher said.

  Earp nodded. ‘Fong’s junk of plenty.’

  ‘You’re sure Sloan and Fong are in there?’

  ‘They were half an hour ago.’

  There were five of them in the van: Earp, Corkscrew, Potter, Riker and Hatcher. Hatcher was wearing his flying belt and a coil of rope thrown over his shoulder.

  There was a clinking of metal n metal as the team prepared their weapons: Hatcher’s Aug, loaded with three extra magazines in his belt, Corkscrew’s 870 riot shotgun and 9 mm. H&K, Potter’s AK-47, which he had borrowed from Sweets Wilkie, and Earp’s trusty .375 ‘Buntline Special’ stuck in one side of his belt, two pockets full of quick loads and two pipe bombs stuck in the opposite side of his waistband. Riker had a trusty old M-16. Plenty of firepower, thought Hatcher. With that kind of firepower, they could hit Fong by surprise and quickly however bad the odds were. Hard and fast and no quarter, he was thinking. The old wham-bam-thank-you ma’m approach.

  Sy appeared from the shadows and jumped in the side panel door. When he saw Hatcher, he looked embarrassed and lowered his head in a sign of shame.

  ‘You don’t have to do that,’ Hatcher said.

  ‘I am sorry, Hatch,’ he said without looking up.

  ‘Mai pen rai,’ Hatcher answered with a grin. ‘I don’t know what you’re better at, spying or fighting.’

  The little Thai looked relieved. ‘I went on board,’ he said excitedly. ‘They think I am checking out their stuff to buy. The Chinese are all down below.’

  ‘How about that bunch?’ Potter asked, pointing to several men in black on the deck of the junk.

  ‘They are Thais,’ said Sy. ‘They make talk for the food.’

  ‘Salesmen,’ Earp said and Sy nodded. ‘They’ll leave soon. The junk market closes at nine.’

  ‘Be good and dark by then,’ Corkscrew said.

  ‘Let me show you,’ Sy said. ‘Paper and ball point, please?’

  He was a good spy. Pretending to be a produce dealer, he had studied the junk well. His map was full of little details, location of hatchways, stairwells, cabins. The junk was a giant. The main hold ran the width of the junk and half its length, an enormous yawning cavern that could be filled with lettuce, rice, watermelons and whatever other produce Fong’s front men had to sell. On one side of the hold was an open booth, a pleasant, comfortable space with pillows on the floor and a low-slung table where Fong and his men could sit in comfort, sip their scotch and monitor the produce market.

  Opposite the booth on the forward end of the main hold was a wooden door leading to the cubicles called the House of Dreams. Nestled in the prow were three small cells.

  There was only one stairwell – at the stern of the hold.

  There was an open hatchway near the water level on the river side of the boat through which produce was being off-loaded to waiting boats on the river. On deck, a thin latticework hatch afforded a view- of the main hold.

  A two-master with a small captain’s cabin on the stern end.

  ‘On this side, gas tanks,’ said Sy, pointing to the starboard side, above the booth, the side adjoining the wharf.

  ‘How do you know?’ Hatcher asked.

  ‘They were putting new fuel in from dock.’

  ‘You don’t miss a thing,’ said Hatcher.

  ‘Good fighter cannot miss anything,’ he answered proudly.

  ‘How many Chinese?’ asked Hatcher.

  ‘Fong, Kot, three others. They were sitting in the booth drinking. I do not see Sloan. There are two gunners on each side of hold downstairs, two more on main deck.’

  ‘A mere eleven of them to four of us,’ Hatcher sighed. ‘You’d think the odds would get better with time.’

  ??
?What do you mean, four. I count six of us, if you include Sy,’ said Riker.

  ‘Sy stays outside,’ said Earp. ‘It isn’t his fight. But he can provide us with a back-up getaway. You can’t go in either, Riker. You can’t afford to get caught — you have to keep the van warm.’

  ‘When it starts,’ said Hatcher, do it fast. Waste Fong and all his boys, burn the junk, and get the hell out. Don’t think, just do it. And one more thing — Sloan is mine. We have unfinished business. Sy, find us a snakeboat real fast. And, Riker, keep the engine running. However it goes, this won’t take long.’

  Earlier in the day, Sloan had sought relief from his nightmares at the House of Dreams. Walking down its darkened depths, he descended into his own personal hell, following the old man and the smell of opium to one of the cubicles, watching eagerly as the old man rolled the goli of thick tar and sniffed it in the pipe, then taking the pipe and sucking its smoke deeply and slipping into his dream world. Lying on the cot, staring up into the darkness, his mind dispelled thoughts of Cody and Hatcher and Tollie Fong as the smoke took effect and he felt the ethereal rush. H began to hum an aimless song to himself and then to whistle very softly as he watched the blessed smoke twirl far up into the darkness above him. Around him, from the other cubicles, he saw the snakes of gray vapor rising too, like dozens of wispy cobras dancing to the tune of an invisible flute.

  ‘Sloan?’ The voice was familiar hut seemed miles away.

  Sloan sighed.

  ‘You spend too much time on the pipe,’ Tollie Fong’s voice said. ‘You have not been attending to business, as was our agreement.’

  He stared up and refocused his eyes. Tollie Fong stood over him. There were three other Chins standing behind him. One of them was the new Red Pole, Billy Kot.

  ‘You’re ruining a perfectly good dream,’ Sloan said softly, staring backup at the smoke.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘Later.’

  ‘You have broken a promise to me.’

  ‘Later. I’m busy,’ Sloan said dreamily.

  ‘You stinking junkie,’ Fong snarled back and hit Sloan in the mouth with a straight, hard right punch. Sloan went over backward, falling off the cot, his lips split and bleeding. He sat up, his eyes suddenly afire. Control, his opium-fogged mind thought, Don’t lose your control, Sloan.

  ‘That was a stupid thing to do,’ he said through numbed lips.

  “You made me a promise,’ Fong hissed.

  Sloan clambered off the floor. Only his eyes reflected his rage. ‘You better pull it together, Fong, unless you’re ready to take on the whole United States Army, because that’s —‘

  Billy Kot hit him a sharp, hard rap on the back of the neck and Sloan fell abruptly to his knees. He turned painfully toward the short, wiry killer.

  ‘This is the man who did your killing work for you,’ Fong said contemptuously. ‘His name is Billy Kot.’

  Sloan slid onto the cot and wiped his mouth, staring down mutely at the blood on the back of his hand. The dope was beginning to wear off, chased by anger and pain.

  I’ll give you one thing,’ Sloan said quietly to Billy Kot. ‘You’re very good.’

  The assassin nodded but said nothing.

  ‘You don’t know how good he really is — yet,’ said Fong.

  Sloan smiled up at his ally turned adversary. ‘You scare me to death,’ he said with resignation.

  ‘You made me a promise, Sloan.’

  ‘And so far I’ve kept my end of the bargain,’ said Sloan.

  ‘No! You said you would deliver Hatcher to me.’

  ‘I said I’d have him find out if Cody was Thai Horse. If you weren’t good enough to keep a finger on him, that’s your problem.’

  ‘You said he would kill Cody for us.’

  Sloan shook his head. ‘Never said that,’ he said. ‘You said he would kill Cody’ Fong insisted. ‘I said he’d find him if he was alive,’ Sloan said emphatically without raising his voice.

  ‘Sloan, the deal was you would bring him in and he would find this Cody, if Cody indeed was Thai Horse, and he would kill him.’

  ‘Well then, I was wrong about that,’ Sloan said. The smile lingered on his swollen lips.

  ‘You were wrong about a lot of things. This man of yours killed my number one on Hong Kong, tore up the Ts’e K’am Men Ti. He killed Batal and Billy Death — men we were training for you! And no-w he has vanished like clouds in the wind.’

  ‘There’s an old Swedish hymn that goes, “Nought is given ‘neath the sun; nought is had that is not won.”

  ‘I do not understand the meaning of that,’ said Fong.

  ‘Well, it is a little subtle for your pea brain,’ Sloan said, wiping the blood from his split lips and staring numbly at it.

  The pupils in Fong’s eyes dilated with hate, his mouth remained a thin slash in his face. But he held his temper, his voice a whispered threat. ‘We did our part of the bargain. Billy Kot killed the terrorist, took care of the bombing, killed the South American.’

  Sloan looked up at the Chinese mobster, the usual smile on his face, his voice still soft as down.

  ‘You idiot,’ he said with a sneer.

  The infuriated Fong pulled out his pistol. He held it an inch from the bridge of Sloan’s nose. ‘No gwai-lo talks to me like that.’

  Sloan chuckled. He leaned his head forward until the muzzle of the gun rested against his forehead. ‘Go ahead, shoot,’ he said. ‘Shoot, you bastard!’

  He stared past the gun, past Fong’s arm and into his eyes. ‘You need me,’ Sloan said with an edge in his voice. ‘You’re sitting on dynamite. It’s only a matter of time before the DEA tumbles on to your whole stash. They already know you got the stuff. They’ll squash you like a bug. Without me, you’ll be just another dumb Chinaman floating in the river.’

  With a growl like an animal’s, Fong slashed his pistol down on Sloan’s skull, and the big man groaned and rolled over on his face.

  ‘You are a dead soldier,’ Fong hissed in his ear.

  On the port side of the junk Hatcher worked his way up a pile of discarded produce and felt the surface of the boat, looking for chinks in its teak wood armor. He got a finger hold in a split in its side, pulled himself up and searched for another, then another, inching his way up the ancient side of the craft split by split, chink by chink, like the old free-climbing days.

  Unlike the regulars, he was too well known among the Chiu Chaos to walk brazenly aboard the produce boat. His face had been memorized by every one of Fong’s assassins and he knew it. It was the way they operated. Like the FBI. Ten Most Wanted.

  Earp, however, strolled the deck in a cowboy hat, a tan safari jacket tied loosely at the waist by a cloth belt. He lit a cigar, stared down through the latticework hatch into the hold below, lie saw Billy Kot and two henchmen lounging in the booth, drinking. There was no sign of Fong.

  Hatcher clung tenaciously to the side of the junk, his hand sliding quietly and expertly across its smooth teakwood hull. He felt a splinter, worked at it with his free hand, his sturdy fingers digging at the chink until he could get four fingertips into the slit. He pulled himself up slowly, let go with his other hand and groped for another slot.

  On the deck of the junk, Earp thumped the watermelons, peeled back leaves of lettuce and smelled them, tried to look as if he knew what he was doing.

  ‘Okay?’ one of the Thai salesmen said.

  ‘Yeah, not bad,’ Earp answered. ‘How much for the lot?’ He swept his arm around the deck.

  ‘All of it?’ the astonished Thai answered.

  ‘Yeah. What’ve you got below, any more stuff?’

  ‘More of the same.’

  ‘I’ll just take a look.’

  The Thai produce man, anxious to please Earp, led him toward the hatch that led below-decks. Two Chinese gunmen leaned against the railing, watching them casually.

  Sy swung a snaketail boat alongside and started chattering with one of the off-loaders. Corkscrew, his shotgun
tucked under his arm, pulled himself up on the lip of the boat and entered the hold. He saw Earp coming down the stairs.

  Hatcher continued to inch his way up the side of the junk. Behind the guards he grasped the rail with one hand, then with the other, and then he peered over the side. He searched the people on deck for Potter but couldn’t see him. Then he saw a stooped old Chinese walk over to one of the guards.

  ‘A light, please?’ the old man asked.

  ‘No smoke.’

  My God, it’s Potter, Hatcher realized.

  Potter stood in front of the other guard, who took out a Bic lighter and held it for him. Potter reached under his robe and grasped the handle of a K-Bar knife. Slowly he slid it out, and as Hatcher vaulted over the railing and pulled back the guard’s head and slit his throat, Potter jammed the heavy assault knife, hilt deep, under the ribs of the second guard and up into his heart.

  They both died without a sound.

  Hatcher ran to the mainmast and quickly tied a rope around it, slipping one end through the ring in his belt.

  Potter continued down the stairway toward the hold.

  In the hatch a swaggering Earp walked over to the booth where Billy Kot and his two compatriots were sitting. Tollie Fong was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘The name’s Holliday, from Valdosta, Georgia, U.S. of A.,’ Earp bellowed. ‘I’m interested in buying up the rest of this cargo.’

  ‘The whole thing?’ Billy Kot asked with surprise.

  ‘That’s right. Allow me to give you my card.’

  Earp stared into Billy Kot’s eyes arid, with a single, lightning move, reached under his jacket, hauled out his long-barreled .44, swung it out until it was six inches from Billy Kot’s heart and fired. The gun roared and the shot ripped into Billy Kot’s chest and exploded into his heart. He was lifted six inches off the floor and blown backward into the open hatch of the junk, where he landed spread-eagled on his back and slid to a stop.

  Earp dived over the table and rolled away, he clawed loose one of the pipe bombs from his belt, lit it with his cigar and threw it over his shoulder toward the bulkhead.

  On deck, Hatcher jumped up and, holding his legs together, came down feet first on the thin latticework hatch cover. It shattered and he dropped through. The floor below swept up toward him. The Aug spat quietly in his hand, cutting down the other two Chinese gangsters in the alcove as Hatcher hit the floor.