The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (28 page)

Kentucky Fried Chicken, Nguyen Thai Hoc Street, Hanoi, Vietnam

Niner stretched then flushed to make it sound like he had actually
done some business, he having waited for almost twenty minutes before hearing
from the professors, or the Actons as he had come to think of them though he
wasn’t sure if she had taken his name.

He hoped
that if he ever got married his wife would take his. He knew it would make his
parents happy, especially his mother. He was a traditionalist when it came to
that though he had to admit he wasn’t overly religious. He prayed before each
mission, just a quick, informal affair to remind the Almighty that he was on
his side and doing his duty to his country. He didn’t enjoy killing with the
possible exception of terrorists. Enemy soldiers were at least fighting for
their country, just like he was. Terrorists were murdering scum who didn’t
deserve to breathe the same air as the rest of us.

But the
people who were his enemy today were soldiers and policemen, not terrorists.
They were just doing their jobs and he would hate to have to kill one of them
because of this situation.

Killing was
a job, not a joy.

Not to
say he didn’t love his job. He did. He wouldn’t trade it in for anything. He
loved the adrenaline, he loved the rush, and he loved knowing at the end of the
mission, hopefully successful, they had made the world a slightly safer place.
Did he take satisfaction in killing the bad guys, especially the terrorists?
Yes, it would be a lie to say he didn’t. Did he enjoy it? No, he never went
into combat saying to himself or one of his buddies, “Can’t wait to blow some
asshole’s head off today because he was born under a different flag!” then live
with the memory for the rest of his life.

He
killed because it was necessary. He had killed too many to want to count, but
he did, his mind simply unable to let go of the carnage. And the number was
probably low. Too many times you sent bursts of gunfire around a corner or at a
position to know if you actually did or didn’t kill someone.

Yes, the
count was probably much higher.

And he
didn’t want it to go any higher today.

But he
had a feeling things weren’t going to work out the way he wanted.

His
secure phone had satellite web access so he had spent his time reading about
the latest developments in Hanoi and around the world. The latest showed over
ten thousand Russian troops along with armor, artillery and air support were surging
into Eastern Ukraine in what appeared to be a well-planned, well-executed
invasion. The Russian’s were of course denying it, saying it was Western
propaganda, despite footage rapidly filling the Internet of Russian vehicles
and men pouring across the border.

Russia’s
“new” KGB mindset simply didn’t understand the modern reality of social media
and a free press, having such tight controls in place in their so-called
democracy. Russia ranked a dismal 148
^th
out of 179 countries for
freedom of the press in 2013.

It was
sad how much potential had been lost so quickly under a single leader stuck so
far in the past.

Niner
stepped out, washed his hands in the for the moment empty bathroom, making sure
his Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts were hiding his Glock tucked in the
waistband.

Shades
and his ball cap completed his look as he exited the bathroom, descending the
three floors to the ground level and exiting, turning east, walking at a brisk
pace, but not too brisk. He couldn’t risk standing out, but the coordinates he
had been given were almost a ninety minute walk from his current position.
Apparently the Actons had somehow holed up near the Red River, a silt-laden
source of water that actually appeared red.

How they
had gotten there he had no idea, but he had to get to them, not only to protect
them, but for his own protection. Those two were good in a fight and there was
strength in numbers. The three of them would become a team, self-preservation
and the truth their motivation.

How he
could contribute toward the truth he had no idea.

All he
could testify to would be that he had been at the hotel when the Prime Minister
had been shot, and that his pass had been stolen. Nothing more. Which meant
that they had to take his word for it. Sarkov had been right. He very well
could have taken a motorcycle from the museum and been back at the hotel in no
time.

But
right now the truth could wait. Dawson needed to get Atwater and her entourage
to safety, and he needed to take himself out of play by somehow getting into
the American Embassy, ideally with the Actons in tow.

For now
the embassy, according to the news reports he had read, was completely
surrounded.

Inaccessible.

Which
would mean the waiting game.

He
spotted a bicycle in an alleyway, no evidence of a lock or owner.

He
walked up to it and climbed on as if it was his own, pushing away and
immediately blending in with the traffic, turning down the first road heading
south that he could and out of sight of the scene of the crime. As he rode
however one thing became painfully clear.

His
Hawaiian shirt was screaming tourist.

Unfortunately
he had simply tossed a couple of casual shirts in his suitcase for wearing off
duty, and both had been from his “fun” drawer since there would be zero time
available for socializing outside the hotel. His current outfit was for hanging
around with the guys in one of the rooms, shootin’ the shit and playing cards.

Not
blending in with the public while on the run from authorities.

He
spotted a small shop with a few racks of t-shirts and stopped. They were all
printed tees with crazy slogans and bright colors. He spotted a black one and
grabbed it, handing the clerk twenty bucks, much to their delight. He biked to
a nearby alley and pulled off his Hawaiian shirt, taking the opportunity to
move his Glock to the front, it a little too exposed when leaning forward on a
bike. He pulled the new shirt on, saying a silent prayer of thanks when it
actually fit decently, then looked down at the words emblazoned on the front
and laughed.

THINK LESS.

STUPID MORE.

He
shoved down on the pedal, pushing himself back into traffic, quickly picking up
speed as he continued to chuckle.

I
should take a picture for Engrish.com.

The sun
was setting rapidly, the buildings lining the streets casting long shadows when
he heard drums in the distance. He pulled his phone from his pocket and
memorized the upcoming few turns, taking the next street east toward the river.
Stopping at a light, queuing up with a gaggle of other cyclists, mopeds and
cars ignoring the painted lines, he looked straight forward, his head slightly
down as he debated whether or not the sunglasses were attention grabbing at
this level of brightness or not.

“Nice
shirt, mate!”

Niner
turned toward the Aussie accent. A young guy was grinning at him, early
twenties with a gorgeous Vietnamese seat cover perched enticingly on the back
of his motorcycle.

Niner
smiled, deciding being rude would just attract more attention.

“Hey
wait a minute, you’re the guy that’s all over the television. The assassin! You’re
that American they’re all looking for!”

Fear
suddenly shoved the tourist’s smile aside as he realized his gaffe and he
gunned his engine, looking for a way to put some distance between them and a
killer. Which was fine by Niner, but unfortunately the word ‘American’ seemed
to have caused almost every head to swivel toward him.

This
can’t be good.

The
light changed and he pushed forward, weaving between the gawking cyclists just
as one finally shouted something in Vietnamese. More shouts from just across
the intersection had him cursing as two police officers rushed toward him.

He
pulled his Glock, aiming it directly at the first officer’s chest as he gained
speed through the intersection, the man and his partner throwing up their
hands. He kept pumping forward, aiming the gun behind him as he put some
distance between them, finally turning back, the gun still in his hand as he
raced forward, suddenly jerking the bike to the left, cutting across two lanes
of traffic and down an alleyway. He shoved the gun in his belt and rose off the
seat, pumping hard, a siren nearby adding to the urgency.

He
banked hard to the right, back onto a busy street, the sidewalks filling with
people in colorful clothes and costumes, some with drums strapped to their
shoulders, a rhythmic beat beginning as what was clearly some sort of festival
was just getting underway.

Which
might be just the diversion I need.

He
removed his sunglasses, hooking them over his t-shirt under his chin and
slowed, plastering a smile on his face as he exchanged looks with the gathering
crowds, trying his best to blend in. The sun was almost set now, streetlamps,
light from shop windows and apartments along with lanterns and candles carried
by revelers provided a comforting glow, the dim light his friend.

The
chances of being recognized now were slim unless he stopped and someone got a
good look.

Instead
he made sure he never stopped. He set a leisurely pace, weaving slowly among
the crowd now spilling onto the streets. There were few cars that weren’t
parked, those that were on the road had people hanging out the windows, joining
in what was turning into a parade. He checked his phone’s GPS and he was less
than ten minutes from his destination.

Multiple
sirens in the distance suddenly became very loud. He looked over his shoulder
and saw three police cars, lights flashing, sirens blaring, turn onto the
street.

He
smiled.

The
crowd was large now, the street thick with humanity as he picked up a little
speed, much of the crowd having stopped and turned toward the noise. A
loudspeaker announced something and the crowd started to part, the police
obviously ordering them to make a hole.

He
turned leisurely into another alleyway, gaining some speed but nothing that
might suggest to the revelers he passed that he was fleeing. Several more quick
turns and the sirens were again distant, and according to his GPS, he was
nearly at the location.

Making
the final turn, he began looking for street numbers and quickly realized that
there were none that he could see. He pulled out his phone and prayed it would
at least get him close.

He
stopped where the phone indicated, finding a shitty building with a  garage
door, suggesting it was or had been some sort of business, nestled between more
shitty buildings.

This
wasn’t a good neighborhood, though there were lots of colorfully dressed people
milling about, some gathering into small groups who looked perfectly friendly,
clearly getting ready to head for the festival or perhaps create their own
party right here.

He tried
calling Acton’s phone but got his voicemail, the cellular network still down.

He
didn’t leave a pointless message.

He
thumbed through the contacts and found Laura’s phone which he knew from
previous experience was a satellite phone.

She
answered on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“I’m
outside, but I’m not sure which building.”

“Just a
second.”

He heard
muffled talking then a garage door, three doors down from where he was sitting
on his bike, opened, a Vietnamese man stepping out, looking about. Niner slowly
biked toward him, holding the phone to his ear.

“Garage
door? One man smoking a cigarette?”

“That’s
it,” said Laura.

He
pushed a little harder, the man nodding at him, tossing his cigarette out onto
the street as he dropped the door closed behind Niner entered the nearly pitch
black entrance. The moment the door hit the ground with a shudder and a clang
lights were turned on and he breathed a sigh of relief, the two professors
rushing toward him, Laura giving him a hug as he climbed off the bike, Acton
shaking his hand.

“Thank
God you’re safe!” cried Laura. “We were starting to get worried.”

“You
should know better than that,” grinned Niner as he surveyed their surroundings.
It appeared to be some sort of hangout, about half a dozen young men milling
about looking like they had never been up to any good in their life. A
television showing CNN had been turned toward a table with half a dozen chairs
surrounding it, a laptop with a Vietnamese girl sitting at it had what looked
like security footage playing on it. “So, where are we?”

Acton
motioned toward the girl at the computer. “We’re at Mai’s brother’s…place,
shall we say. They rescued her from the police then saved our asses a little
while later.”

Niner
noticed what was on the television and his jaw dropped. “What the hell’s been
going on since I left?” He walked toward the television, footage from the
outside of the hotel on a loop showing what looked like a fairly large
explosion blasting out several windows, then footage of Atwater being hustled
away off camera. A tag line in a red bar across the bottom of the screen read,
“Secretary of State Dead?”

“They
cut cellphone and Internet access a little while ago. This is from a satellite
dish on the roof,” explained Acton. “I’m pretty sure that’s BD”—he pointed at
the screen, Niner nodding in agreement with the identification—“and since that
explosion nothing else has been heard, it’s just talking heads right now.”

“I
pulled some updates down while I was waiting for you guys but didn’t see this.
Apparently the Russians have sent troops into the Ukraine?”

Acton
nodded. “Yeah, over ten thousand of them. It looks like they basically sent
everything they had in the area across. The NATO Secretary General has already
given a press conference suggesting it was a well-planned, well-coordinated
attack.”