Jet (34 page)

Gordon elbowed him again.

Doug shuddered, raised his head, and cracked open a bleary eye.

“What?”

“Shhh. Keep it down,” Gordon hissed. “We don’t want to alert the guards.”

He shifted his camouflage-clad legs in the mud and rotting vegetation then glanced at his partner’s calf, where a filthy bandage was wrapped around a festering bullet wound, the pants cut off at the knee. The rusty stain of dried blood on the dressing was alive with ants exploring the once-white gauze.

Doug was pale, his body battling infection and fever. It hadn’t helped that neither of them had been fed for two days, or that they only got water every four hours. The jungle in the southern hills of Myanmar was brutal at the best of times  – if their captors didn’t kill them, nature soon would.

“I got my hands almost free,” Gordon whispered. “Slide over here so I can work on yours.”

Both men were tied to a stake hammered into the ground at the edge of a clearing, their wrists bound behind them with rope. A crude-yet-effective form of imprisonment – and it wasn’t as if there were a lot of places to go. The Golden Triangle was a lawless area that ran from Myanmar to Vietnam, encompassing a swatch of Laos and northern Thailand. Other than occasional villages, where the natives lived in abject poverty, it was mostly jungle and opium poppy fields.

“How?” Doug slurred, too loud for Gordon’s liking.

“Shut up. Just move a little. And stay quiet.”

Doug complied, inching his body to where Gordon could reach his wrists.

The night was dark but a sliver of moon shining through the trees overhead provided enough light to reveal Doug’s haggard features. Glancing to the right, Gordon could make out the main encampment’s tents in the clearing and a few rough-hewn shacks near the tree line, close to one of the countless streams in the hills of the Shan state that bordered Laos and Thailand.

Gordon sawed at the rope with a sharp shard of bamboo he’d broken from the base of the stake. His hands were bleeding from where the jagged edge had sliced the skin, but he didn’t care. If they didn’t escape, they would die. It was that simple.

He guessed that it was around one in the morning. The sun had set at least five hours ago, although his sense of time had become warped, he knew, from the dehydration, hunger and exposure. They’d been left out through the inevitable periodic downpours, the mountain air drying the moisture from their skin over time, bringing with it the mosquitoes that swarmed around them. He’d been bitten so often that every area of exposed skin was swollen and red, as was Doug’s.

He didn’t even want to think about the mosquito-borne diseases that were endemic to the area. Dengue fever, malaria, yellow fever, chikungunya…and there was typhoid, hepatitis, the plague, hemorrhagic fever and a host of other delights that could be had from drinking the water or coming into contact with the jungle denizens.

The least of their problems right now.

Gordon strained to hear anything from the camp. All was quiet, but he knew that could be illusory because, day and night, random patrols of two or three men moved soundlessly into the jungle from the shelters, assault rifles slung over their shoulders. These were Shan – area tribesmen who knew the region like their own back yard – hired guns, paid to live like fugitives and act as security for the man who was a kind of God to them.

A white man.

A round eye – with incredible riches and a desire for extreme privacy, who ruled his domain like a warlord.

Gordon hadn’t spotted their elusive target – the
farang
the natives were protecting, in whose camp they were now involuntary guests. From what he could make out of the guards’ hushed discussions the man wasn’t there. So even if their mission had gone to plan and they’d been able to sneak up on the camp without being captured, it would have been in vain.

The knowledge did him no good. It didn’t really matter if you were successful or not when you were dead.

He felt Doug’s rope fraying from his efforts with the bamboo and kept sawing methodically. Doug slumped into unconsciousness again at some point over the next hour, and Gordon let him be. He’d need any energy he could muster soon enough.

A noise disrupted the gloom’s tranquility, branches snapping, as two armed men entered the clearing from the periphery, chatting in the local dialect – the night sentries, Gordon knew from memorizing their shifts. The camp seemed calm even during the day, the men lounging around lazily, nothing much to do but cook, patrol and gamble amongst themselves. With their patron absent there was nothing to guard. Nobody would be interested in taking on a heavily-armed group in order to confiscate their tents or weapons. This slice of the world had plenty of weapons – they were more common than shoes in the rural hills.

Gordon watched through shuttered eyes as the two moved to a small fire, where another man sat holding a Kalashnikov rifle, gesturing for him to pass his bottle. He protested half-heartedly and then the three men laughed as he handed them the alcohol. Cigarettes came out, and soon the inevitable cards were shuffled in preparation for another late-night redistribution of wealth.

There would be none of this kind of sloppiness once their target was back. They’d both read his dossier. It was just lucky that Gordon had gotten the rope loose on a night when security was lax. That might be the edge that kept them alive.

Although Doug’s odds weren’t good.

The gunshot wound in his calf had missed the bone, but infection had set in and would hobble his ability to get far. Gordon had debated slipping off without him, but he didn’t have the heart. If he had been wounded he knew Doug would have stayed with him. After all they’d been through together, Gordon owed Doug at least that much in return.

But that didn’t mean his chances were favorable.

If the guards kept drinking, Gordon hoped that in an hour they could make their move and disappear into the jungle. But then what? They were days from anything remotely resembling civilization. And this wasn’t the only armed group in the region. Drug smugglers, bandits, human traffickers, poachers: all flourished in the no man’s land that was the Triangle, and any one of them would kill without a second’s hesitation.

Not the greatest scenario, but one they wouldn’t have to worry about if Gordon couldn’t get their arms loose.

Twenty minutes later he felt the final frayed edges of the bindings separate with a quiet snap and nudged Doug again.

“Hey. You’re free. Cut the rest of my rope the same way I cut yours.”

Doug jolted and looked at him with uncomprehending eyes.

Maybe it had been a mistake to wait after all. He was out of it. The delirium brought about by the infection had progressed too far.

“Doug. Grab this piece of bamboo. Keep your hands behind you. Don’t make any sudden movements. Saw until I’m free.”

Awareness flickered and Gordon felt Doug’s fingers grasping for the shard.

When the bindings finally separated and his wrists pulled apart, circulation returned to his numb hands with a rush of feeling. He peered through slits at the guards, who had finished the bottle and were slapping down cards, cheating each other with tired familiarity, their vigil punctuated by an occasional burp or hacking cough. The guards were seventy-five yards away, and Gordon’s hope was that if they crawled into the underbrush it could be hours before anyone noticed they were missing. It wasn’t as though anyone had checked on them since the sun had set, and he knew from his experience over the last two nights that nobody would be by to look at them until dawn, at the earliest.

“Doug. Listen. We’re going to slide over by that clump of plants and then run for it. Can you make it?” Gordon murmured.

Doug seemed more alert now that his hands were free and there was a chance of escape.

“I think so. How do we do this?”

“I’ll go first. There’s so little light they won’t be able to make us out if we don’t do anything stupid. Once I’m out of sight you crawl to me and then we’ll head downhill. If we make it till daylight we can tell by the sun what direction we’re headed and we can get to the Thai border.”

Doug nodded.

With a final glance at the guards, Gordon inched down and rolled onto his stomach, then dog crawled to the trees. Nobody noticed – no shots were fired or alarms raised. Once he made it into the brush he turned and watched for Doug. He hoped he wasn’t making a fatal mistake by taking him.

Two minutes later Doug materialized next to him. Both of them stood, and Doug tentatively put weight on his leg. The pain in his eyes was obvious but he choked it down.

With a final glance at the camp they slipped deeper into the brush, the sound of night creatures around them their accompaniment as they wordlessly wove through the thick vegetation, hoping to find a trail in the meager moonlight.

Gordon supported Doug as they plodded forward, an hour into their trek to freedom. Doug was already tiring from the ravaging his system had endured from the infection but he trudged on without complaint. Gordon’s arm burned with inflammation from where the guards had crudely carved out the implanted tracking chip, leaving a gash of tortured flesh. He could only imagine what Doug was enduring.

They came to a stream that meandered downhill from the camp, and soon found a game trail that ran along its banks, enabling them to pick up the pace – they didn’t have to blaze a new path or fight their way through tangles of vines.

“Gahh. Oh, God…” Doug exclaimed as his ankle twisted on a rut, tearing at his brutalized calf muscle and bringing tears to his eyes.

“Let’s take a break and rinse off that bandage. The water will make you feel better,” Gordon said as Doug sank to the ground grabbing at his leg.

He gasped, his breath coming in hoarse bursts as Gordon unwound the gauze.

The stink was unbearable. Like rotting meat. Discoloration ran up the veins and the wound seeped a bloody mixture of pus. Gordon rinsed it as Doug winced and didn’t comment on the insects that had taken up a home. The water washed them away but Gordon wasn’t kidding himself. If Doug survived he’d probably lose the leg unless there was some miracle antibiotic they could get their hands on.

“How is it? Hurts like a bitch,” Doug said, but then his voice trailed off when he saw Gordon cock his head to the side and raise a finger to his lips. “What?”

“Shhh,” Gordon whispered, listening. “Damn. We need to get moving. Now. Let’s get you wrapped up. We don’t have much time.”

Gordon wrung out the bandage and hastily wound it around the gash – the bullet had passed cleanly through the calf muscle but the subsequent infection had caused immeasurable damage.

Doug glanced at him with alarm.

“What do you hear?”

“A dog.”

They struggled to their aching feet and stepped into the stream, hoping that would eliminate their trail – although Gordon suspected that Doug’s wound was emanating a strong scent.

He had no idea where his captors had gotten their hands on a dog. Probably one of the nearby villages. A few dollars would buy almost anything, even at three in the morning. Their luck had just ran out.

Clouds drifted across the sky and without warning a downpour started, drenching the two men and further darkening their way. There was no place to take cover from the cloudburst, but getting wet was the least of their worries.

Doug stumbled several times and then cried out. He’d pulled the ravaged muscle again, and this time looked like he wasn’t going to be able to continue any longer.

“Just leave me,” Doug hissed through clenched teeth.

“Not a chance. Come on. Pick up the pace.”

“I…I can’t do it. It’s too–”

A burst of rifle fire tore across Doug’s torso, bullets whizzing past Gordon as he instinctively threw himself to the ground. Doug spun and collapsed next to him, burbling his last breath, and then lay still. The crash of men and beast tearing through the jungle a few hundred yards away signaled that Gordon’s time had run out. He wondered whether they would drag him back or simply end his ordeal with a bullet to the skull.

The rain poured down with renewed vigor, large drops pelting him, and he used the temporary cover it offered to scramble forward and put distance between himself and his pursuers. His boots slammed onto the rocky riverbed, but the torrent falling all around him drowned the sound out. His only hope now was that nobody had night vision gear or worse, an infrared scope. If they did he was already dead.

He followed the brook to a small area of churning froth. Rapids, the stream swollen from the rain. He stepped carefully onto the exposed rocks and hopped across from one to another, hoping to make it to the other side while the downpour covered his escape.

His footing gave out and his sole slipped on the third rock, and he felt himself falling, disoriented as he slammed into the water, the force of the jolt knocking the wind out of him. He shook his head to clear it and felt warm liquid streaming down his neck, and when he reached around to feel the back of his skull his hand came away with a smear of blood.

Glancing around, he climbed to his feet and jogged along the shore as the stream widened, straining to hear any followers. The muffled sound of a dog barking told him everything he needed to know. He needed to put distance between himself and his pursuers while he could. When the rain stopped he’d be exposed – the guards were all locals recruited from the neighboring hamlets, and he had no doubt that some of them were guides for the smuggling trails that wove through the hills. His only edge now was a slim lead and the dark of night. Come morning, if he lasted that long, he’d be a dead man unless he could make it across the border into Thailand and into relative civilization.

The irony of his being the prey wasn’t lost on him. This had been a seek-and-destroy mission, the target a relatively easy, if elusive, one. Gordon had carried out similar operations in Afghanistan, the Balkans and the Middle East with no complications. He was the predator. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

The sound of men crashing through the trees trailed him, but at a greater distance now.