Devil's Due: A Thomas Caine Thriller (The Thomas Caine Series Book 0) (16 page)

"I'm sorry; you right.
 
What do we do now?"

"There's something I have to do, for a friend.
 
He tried to help you, tried to help the other girls, too.
 
But Kang had him killed."

Naiyana's featured softened.
 
"I'm sorry for your friend."

"Me too.
 
Now, I want you to get across the river.
 
Stay out of sight.
 
I'll come find you when I finish here.
 
Then we'll look for the other girls."

"No, I go with you!"

"Naiyana, please, I came all this way to make sure you were safe.
 
This is something I have to do alone.
 
Just wait for me. I promise I won't be long."
 
He handed her the AK-47.
 
"Here, take this.
 
Go, quickly!"

Naiyana stared at Caine, her eyes wide with concern and fear.
 
Then she slung the automatic weapon over her shoulder.
 
"All right, I go.
 
Please hurry."

Caine nodded.
 
"Believe me, I will."

The girl turned, and disappeared into the jungle.

Caine stalked towards the shack.
 
The wounds in his legs throbbed in agony.
 
Caine pushed forward.
   

The interior of the shack was dark.
 
Caine paused at the entrance.
 
A rotting stench wafted out from the darkness.
 
He could just make out a set of work lights, perched on a small metal stand near the doorframe.
 
He crept over to the lights and felt around for a switch.
 
When he flicked it, the lights flared, and he blinked while his eyes adjusted to the sudden illumination.

He adjusted the lights, dialing them back to a dim glow, just enough to see by.
 
The camp still appeared to be abandoned, but he didn't want to push his luck.
 
He scanned the interior of the cabin.

A workbench was set up in the far corner of the room.
 
On top of the bench was a new-looking canvas duffel bag and a variety of electronics tools.
 
A large burlap sack hung from a hook in the ceiling.
 
It swayed gently in the night air.
 
It was about the size of a man.

It stank of dead flesh.

Caine made his way to the sack and reached up.
 
Using the knife he had taken from Naiyana, he sliced a foot-long incision in the top of the bag.
 
Satra's head rolled out.
 
A dark gash was cut across his throat.

Caine took a step back.
 
Again, he felt pangs of guilt gnawing at his gut.
 
If I had said yes sooner, if I had helped him…
 
He shook his head, and cleared his mind.
 
There was still work to be done.

Satra’s flesh was pale and gray.
 
Caine ripped open the bag further, revealing that the corpse had been stripped from the waist up.
 
Knife wounds crisscrossed the body's chest and arms.
 
Caine examined the throat wound.
 
The edges were swollen, and thick clots of blood lined either side of the gash.
 
The wounds in the chest were different.
 
Those cuts were not inflamed, and there was little excess blood.

They were postmortem, Caine decided.
 
Kang's men had killed Satra by slitting his throat, then removed the body before setting off the bomb in his apartment.
 
Satra had told him that the last public bombing was accompanied by a warning note to the police, written in a missing policeman's blood.

If Alexi was right, if a new bomb was going to be set off in a public place, then this time it would be Satra's blood on the note.

Caine clenched his fist.
 
No
, he thought.
 
There will be no bomb.
 
No note.
 
Not this time.

Caine walked over to the workbench. He took a deep breath and unzipped the duffel bag.
 
Inside, he found exactly what he expected.

Two large, plastic jugs were packed with a whitish yellow powder.
 
A small electronics package was taped to the bottles, and wires ran from the center into the powder.

It was a bomb.

Caine recognized another of Eddy Ashikaga's military-grade detonators in the center of the wires and circuits.
 
The plastic jugs held compressed TNT.
 
Based on the amount present, Caine judged the bomb was powerful enough to wipe out a city block.
 

Or
, he thought,
the entire Red Wa camp
.

The detonator was attached to a cellphone.
 
The device could be set to detonate upon receipt of the call.
 
The call could also trigger an alarm timer in the other phone, giving more time for the bomber to make his escape.
 
Caine was familiar with such devices.
 
He had used them many times himself.
 

Caine examined the phone.
 
The model wired up to the detonator used a push to talk system.
 
Essentially, the phone was capable of acting as a short-range walkie-talkie.
 
Perfect for areas with poor cell reception.

Caine searched the workbench and found another identical phone, sitting in a charging cradle behind the duffel bag.
 
He turned on the phone and checked the battery.
 
It was charged, and active.
 
There was only one number programmed into the phone's memory.

Caine reached into the duffel bag and pressed a button on the detonator.
 
A small screen blinked to life, showing some menus and options.
 
Caine quickly navigated to the settings he was looking for.
 
He determined that the device's timer was set to five minutes.
 
Caine pressed another series of buttons.
 
A red LED light began to blink on the device.
 
It was now armed.

As he zipped up the bag, he heard the wood floor creak behind him.
 
He felt the old, familiar tingle on his neck, that sixth sense of danger, honed by years of instinct.
 
Caine twisted his body to the right and felt the red hot sting of a blade cutting across the skin of his shoulder.

His sudden movement had turned what would have been a fatal stab into a painful slash instead.
 
Still unable to see his adversary, he threw his left elbow back and felt it connect with a man's face.
 
His attacker grunted and stumbled back as Caine whirled around.
 
He slipped the cell phone into his pocket and held up the survival knife in a defensive pose.

He found himself facing Kang Long Wei.
 
The dim light cast shadows over the hollows of Kang's gaunt features.
 
Staring out from the grim, demonic face were his eyes, two burning black dots.
 
They looked like tiny eclipsed suns, blazing with drug-induced fury.

Kang.
 
Pisac.
 
The devil.

In place of the metal claw he had used at dinner, a foot-long blade was now screwed into the metal cap at the end of his arm.
 
The weapon's cutting edge was serrated with a series of savage-looking barbs.

"Nice knife," Caine said.

"I see you have made your choice, Mr. Caine." His voice a deep and guttural rasp.
 
"Welcome to hell.
 
Let's see just what kind of devil you are!"

Caine charged towards Kang and swung out with his knife in a tight slash.
 
Rather than block the feint, Kang stepped backwards, moving out of range.
 
As the blow swung past him, he hopped forward again, thrusting with the blade that was affixed to the end of his arm.

Caine pivoted and pushed Kang's knife arm away, causing the thrust to go wide.
 
At the same time, he transferred his blade to his other hand and stabbed upwards, aiming for the exposed pit of Kang's arm.

Kang swung his right arm down into a block before the blade touched his flesh.
 
He slashed inwards with his knife, forcing Caine to break and step away.
 
The two men sized each other up and began stepping left and right, each angling for an opening.
 
After a series of feints and blocks, neither man claimed the advantage.
 
They continued bobbing and weaving across the floor of the shack.

The two men's fighting styles were completely different.
 
Caine kept his attacks and blocks in a tight box pattern, roughly the width of his shoulders and from his neck to his groin.
 
His thrusts and slashes were quick, efficient movements.
 
They used a minimum of energy, and did not leave him exposed to an easy counter attack.

But Kang spun and whirled his blade through the air with a fluid, dancing motion.
 
He fought as though his weapon were a natural extension of his limb.
 
The sweeping, erratic movements were difficult to predict.
 
They seemed to leave him wide open, a weakness that should have been easy to exploit.
 
But time after time, Caine found his attacks blocked, or Kang spun of the way before his blade could strike.

Caine wasn't sure if it was due to Kang's drug-fueled euphoria, or if it simply came down to a higher level of skill, but the truth was undeniable.
 
Kang was faster than he was.
 
And Caine knew that a knife fight in a tight, closed environment like the shack would give him no opportunity to rest.
 
Sooner or later, Caine would grow tired.

Caine saw an opening and stabbed inwards, thrusting the tip of his blade sideways towards the right side of Kang's neck.
 
But the older man's right arm swung up into the air like cobra, raising to strike.
 
His palm slapped Caine's wrist away, and his body swung sideways, leaving his left arm facing Caine.
 
He swung out, and the blade sliced across Caine's mid-section.

Kang's right hand hooked around in a punch, and Caine felt his neck snap back as the blow connected.
 
He stumbled backwards, struggling to put some distance between himself and Kang's blade.

Kang smiled serenely.
 
"Perhaps I was wrong about you, Mr. Caine.
 
You have allowed yourself to hide amongst the damned for too long.
 
You have lost your power.
 
But here in hell, only the powerful survive."

Caine slashed forward again, but Kang blocked the blow with little effort and thrust with his knife.
 
Caine dodged, but Kang diverted the thrust in midair.
 
He slashed upwards, cutting across the flesh of Caine's knife arm.
 
The bloody wound joined those on his abdomen and legs.
 
Caine panted for breath.

"You are getting tired.
 
Slow."
 
Kang punctuated his words with another thrust.
 
Caine stepped forward and blocked the blow, but before he could counter strike, Kang's fingers lanced forward, driving into his throat.
 
Caine gasped for air.
 
His knife fell from his grasp, clattering to the floor.
 
He raised his hand to protect his bruised throat from another blow.

"It is time," Kang said, his lips curled into a smile.
 
"Time for you to leave this hell.
 
The next one awaits you."

Caine shuffled backwards, trying to increase the space between them.
 
He needed to buy some time, catch his breath.
 
But suddenly, he felt a heavy weight brush up against his back.
 
His retreat was blocked by Satra's hanging corpse.
 
He heard the rope creak as the burlap sack pulled and spun on the hook in the ceiling.

"Maybe so, Kang," Caine said, the words hissed from his swollen, injured throat.
 
"But I promise you I won't be alone."

Kang snarled and thrust forward with all his strength.

Caine pushed backwards, using the motion to spin his body around the hanging carcass.
 
As he fell back, Kang's long knife drove forward, just missing Caine.
 
It slashed through the burlap sack and plunged deep into Satra's corpse.
 
The blade sunk up to its hilt.

Kang found himself staring into the gray, lifeless face of the dead policeman.
 
Satra's eyes were unblinking, unseeing.
 
His lifeless head dropped forward from the force of the impact.
 
Kang cursed in Chinese and yanked his arm back to withdraw the blade.

The blade would not budge.
 
He pulled harder, and Satra's body swung towards him.
 
The blade was still embedded deep in the corpse's flesh, refusing to come free.

Caine stumbled to his feet.
 
He watched Kang struggle to free his blade and realized what must have happened.
 
He had seen it happen in knife fights before.
 
The serrated barbs on Kang's knife had caught on the ribs of the corpse.
 
The knife was stuck, and Kang would not be able to pull it free without cutting down the body.

Caine stepped forward, adrenaline crackling through his body.
 
This was his chance!
 
His fist lashed out in a kidney punch.
 
Kang gasped as the blow struck its target.
 
The man collapsed to the ground, his arm still trapped in the flesh of the swaying corpse.