The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (16 page)

She was
still his little sister.

And it
was his duty to protect her.

It had
only been a precaution to go to the museum, he figured there was no way she
could be involved, but by the time they got there the place was swarming with
police and she wasn’t answering her phone. When one of his friends texted that
she had just arrived in a museum car with two white people he had immediately
become concerned since the story had broken it was an American that had killed
some Russian big-wig.

And now
she had come back.

It
wasn’t even ten minutes later that she was led out by police. His decision had
been quick and decisive. There was no doubt they thought she was involved
otherwise they wouldn’t have arrested her. And since she had arrived with these
two Americans—or who he presumed were Americans—they were involved too.

Could
they have framed her?

The
thought had made his blood boil, but he didn’t have time for that. He knew in
his country, a country he hated, or more accurately, a country whose government
he hated, his sister would most likely never be seen again unless it was at a
trial where her guilt would be predetermined, the sentence death, carried out
with the swift efficiency of the communist state.

He had
dedicated his adult life to undermining that very state, not through joining
some obscure rebel faction, but by joining the underground community that lived
away from the grid of authority and supplied the masses with what they wanted—black
market goods. Whether it was American cigarettes or Russian Vodka, he had it in
supply or knew someone who did. Guns, DVDs, computers, illegal satellite
dishes? He had it all. And every time he made a sale, it gave him a rush in
knowing that not only had he defied the government one more time, he had
subverted a citizen yet again.

It
especially gave him a thrill knowing when it was a Party member that had come
to him to fulfil some special need.

Drugs
and prostitution weren’t his bag, and they never would be despite some members
of his gang wanting to branch out into those extremely lucrative markets. He
refused to. He had a moral code that he strictly followed. Goods the government
banned were fair game if they were freely available in other countries. If
Sylvester Stallone and Chuck Norris movies could be freely watched in the
United States, why not here? If Smirnoff and Camels could be enjoyed, why not
here?

But
drugs and prostitution only destroyed lives. A good Rambo movie enjoyed with a few
shots of vodka and a cigarette never did.

He
whipped past the left side of the news vehicle his spotter had seen the two
Americans enter. He’d worry about them later—if anything happened to his little
sister, they were dead.

His
spotter, Tran, pointed at a car stopped in traffic ahead and he gunned his
engine, the front wheel popping slightly off the ground. He grabbed his Beretta
M9, his pride and joy, and hit the brakes, skidding to a halt at the driver
side window.

He stuck
his gun against the driver’s temple, the window conveniently down.

The
others surrounded the vehicle, screwdrivers used to flatten all four tires
within seconds, Tran holding a gun to the officer in the passenger seat. Shouts
ensued, the driver silent and trembling as Cadeo’s men yanked open the back
doors and hauled the two officers out and onto the ground. Mai was screaming as
Tran grabbed her, hauling her out. She looked at Cadeo and he could tell she
immediately recognized him despite his helmet’s visor being closed.

She shut
up.

She climbed
on the back of Tran’s bike and he gunned his engine sending them racing
forward. Cadeo kept his gun trained on the driver until he saw Tran turn right
and disappear out of sight. Out of the corner of his eye he saw several people
running toward them. He turned to see two men, one carrying a television
camera, along with what he assumed were the two Americans, a man and a woman.

Rage
consumed him as he looked at the two people who had got his sister involved,
effectively ending her life as she knew it. He flipped up his visor and glared
at them.

Then raised
his weapon and shot at the woman.

Trang Tien Street, Hanoi, Vietnam

Acton saw the man on the motorcycle raise his weapon at them. He
dove at Laura, knocking her to the ground as the shot rang out. They hit hard,
Laura yelping in pain and shock as the bullet ricocheted off a nearby vehicle. Stewart
and his cameraman, Murphy, ducked, Acton swearing Murphy didn’t lose the shot the
entire time. The shooter turned and raced away with the rest of the bikers,
disappearing around a corner within seconds.

The
entire kidnapping had taken less than a minute.

The four
policemen suddenly were all business, screaming and waving their arms, trying
to get the traffic out of their way, and Acton was sure trying to look like
they hadn’t just been totally owned by the well-executed kidnapping.

Then
they noticed the camera.

“Let’s
get out of here,” said Stewart, putting a hand on Murphy’s shoulder as he led
him back to the van, the experienced reporters documenting everything as they
beat a hasty retreat. Acton pulled Laura to her feet then rushed after the
reporters, the police shouting behind them, making sure they were walking very
quickly as opposed to running, he hoping the excuse of “I don’t speak
Vietnamese” might just work if they were caught.

But he
knew they had to get out of there. They had just witnessed Mai being
kidnapped—or probably more accurately rescued—by what he assumed was her
brother.

And they
had been with the camera crew that caught most of it on tape, a tape that would
embarrass the Vietnamese government.

Something
he assumed they wouldn’t tolerate with today’s events.

He
pushed Laura into the back of the van, jumping in after her as he slid the door
closed, Stewart grabbing the camera as he climbed in, Murphy starting the
engine and looking for a hole in the traffic. Stewart kept shooting as the
police began to run toward them. Murphy looked in his side view mirror then
suddenly gunned the engine, cranking the wheel to the left. He surged into a
gap in the oncoming traffic with a flurry of honked horns and burnt rubber,
then quickly forcing his way into the right hand lanes, he was able to make a sharp
right turn and leave the police in the distance as he eased off the gas and
tried to blend.

“What
the hell was that?” asked Stewart as he turned off the camera and handed it
back to Acton.

“I’m
guessing that was Mai’s brother,” said Laura as Acton placed the camera beside
him. “Apparently he’s not quite a law abiding citizen.”

“Ya
think?” Stewart shook his head looking at Laura. “You okay?”

She
nodded, examining her wrists, both with a little road rash. “I’ve had worse,
believe me.”

Murphy
made another turn. “You’re just lucky he missed.”

Stewart’s
phone buzzed on his hip and he grabbed it, swiping his finger to take the call.
“Stewart.” He listened for a moment, cursed, then hung up. “That was Steve
Frost from NBC. He said he just overheard a police broadcast down at the
museum.” He nodded toward Acton and Laura. “You two are apparently wanted for involvement
in what just happened, and so are we.”

“Shit,”
muttered Acton. “What the hell do we do now?”

Stewart
shrugged. “We’ve got video proof we weren’t involved. That should get us off.”

Acton
shook his head. “No, they’re trying to pin this assassination on the United
States. I’m guessing because their security failed so miserably, they don’t
want to be held accountable by their closest ally. That video”—he tipped his
head toward the camera—“will just be conveniently lost or erased and we’ll all
be tied into this.”

Stewart’s
lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re right.” He reached back and flicked open
a panel on the camera then pressed several buttons on a touch display. “I’m
uploading the video to New York now, just in case.”

Acton
watched a green bar crawl across the screen at an excruciatingly slow pace, the
satellite uplink not the quickest method of transmission but the most reliable
when in a moving vehicle in the Third World.

“Aww
Christ!” cried Murphy as a siren sounded behind them. The rest of them turned
to see a police car several vehicles back in pursuit, its lights flashing, the
occupants with their arms out the windows trying to wave cars out of the way.
“What now?”

“Let’s
get to the American Embassy,” said Acton. “If we can hole up there until this
blows over we just might be okay.”

Murphy
jerked the wheel to the right and lay on his horn, scattering the pedestrians
from the sidewalk he was now driving down. He turned right and managed to just
cut ahead of the traffic surging forward from a newly green light. This bought
a momentary reprieve but by the time they had caught up to the next light the
police car, along with a second, was visible again.

“How far
to the embassy?” asked Laura.

“Not
far,” said Stewart. “Just a few blocks.”

“Yeah, but
this traffic is ridiculous. I’ve never seen it this bad.”

Acton
was about to ask if Murphy was local when he jerked the wheel to the right
again, shooting down an alleyway.

He
must be stationed here.

He
seemed to know the roads like the back of his hand, gunning the van into a
sharp, hair raising left skid, propelling them up a relatively quiet side
street, still heading in the same direction as before but bypassing the busy
main roads. Acton looked back through the opaque windows and could see flashing
police lights in the distance.

“Almost
there!”

He made
a quick left and Acton could see the main road ahead, but rather than cars, it
seemed to be filled with people.

People
protesting.

“Shit!”
cried Murphy as he slammed his brakes on, hundreds of bodies blocking the way.

“Where’s
the Embassy?” asked Laura as Acton threw open the side door.

Stewart
pointed in the flow of the protesters. “Half a mile that way, you can’t miss
it.”

“Let’s
go!” Acton jumped out, helping Laura down to the scorching pavement, the midday
sun baking everything. Stewart reached back and grabbed the camera, heaving it
toward Murphy as he climbed out. Stewart led the way, pushing through the crowd
chanting something Acton couldn’t quite make out.

Yankee
go home!

He
cursed to himself realizing that there could only be one reason this crowd was
at this particular location.

The
American Embassy.

And this
was clearly an orchestrated demonstration. Camera crews were in among the
throng, beaming the Communist Party’s designer message to the world. This was a
full court press to convince the world that the Vietnamese people were united
in their belief that an American, and not a Vietnamese, was responsible for
today’s assassination.

“Murph,
start rolling!” called Stewart as he apparently realized the crowds were
letting the news teams move freely. The four of them bunched together, Acton
with a hand on Stewart’s shoulder, his other hand gripping Laura’s as Murphy
raised his camera to his shoulder and began shooting.

As if by
magic the crowd parted, their “anger”, which to Acton looked half-hearted until
on camera, shouted at the lens, fists pumped even harder than a moment before,
anger creasing faces that seconds ago looked almost bored.

True
propaganda.

Acton
was willing to bet barely half the people knew why they were there, too many of
them in white dress shirts with dark pants, clearly government workers sent
into the streets.

But
political manipulation of the proletariat wasn’t his problem today, his problem
lay directly ahead.

An
Embassy ringed by a cordon of police officers.

“There’s
no way we’re getting through that!” shouted Acton, Stewart nodding his
agreement. “You try to get into the embassy, they might let you in as a camera
crew. We’re going to try and get to the British Embassy.”

Stewart
pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Acton. “Call me
if you can’t get in. I’ll see what I can do to help.”

Acton
nodded, stuffing the card in his pocket as he and Laura pushed through the
crowd toward the opposite side of the street. He glanced back and could see the
heads of police officers jumping up in the crowd like whack-a-moles trying to
spot them.

He
ducked down, his six foot plus frame too obvious in a sea of five-foot-five.
Even Laura ducked, she too taller than the average male in this country.

Acton
spotted an alleyway and pointed, trying to stay low and not draw attention by
shoving against the steady forward flow.