Devil's Due: A Thomas Caine Thriller (The Thomas Caine Series Book 0) (5 page)

Naiyana nodded.

"Used to be, that memory was enough to keep the nightmares away.
 
Not anymore.
 
But when you come here, somehow I feel at peace...."

"No nightmares," Naiyana said.

Caine nodded.
 
"You're a good fried to me, too, Naiyana."

"I'm glad," she said as she stood up and slung her purse over her shoulder.
 
She kissed Caine on the cheek.
 
"Remember, good and bad in all of us.
 
Yin and yang.
 
People look at me; they see bad things, too.
 
But I see more.
 
You need to see more in you."

Caine called her a cab, and she left his apartment, smiling at him one last time as he shut the door behind her.

That night, the sound of the rain and the throbbing pain in his muscles kept him awake for several hours.
 
But when he finally drifted to sleep, he was at peace.

He did not dream.
 
He slept like the dead.

The rain continued to drench Pattaya the following day.
 
That afternoon, Caine met with a contact at a beer bar just off the walking street to discuss a possible business opportunity.
 
His contact was a small, unassuming man who wore round glasses and a white linen suit.
 
His name was Eugene Lee, and he owned a factory in Taiwan that was churning our replica Rolex watches.

With a flourish of his hands, Lee set a sample of his wares on the bar counter.
 
He beamed with pride.
 
"Real one made in Switzerland, cost many, many baht.
 
This one use Japanese movement, only 100 baht!"
 

Caine sipped his drink and looked around to make sure they were unobserved.
 
The place was dead, as the rain continued to drive away customers.
 
He hefted the watch in his hands.
 
The workmanship looked good.
 
The second hand moved in a smooth continuous sweep, rather than the choppy ticking motion of the cheaper counterfeits.

He set the sample back down on the bar.
 
"Save the sales pitch.
 
My job is to get them into the country.
 
Selling them is your problem."

Caine threw some cash down on the counter.
 
"That's for the drinks.
 
Let me know when you have enough merchandise to move.
 
Oh, and some free advice?
 
There's only one 'X' in Rolex."

After he left the meeting, Caine walked down a series of back alleys and side streets.
 
He kept away from the main drag just in case the Royal Police were still looking for him.
 
He doubted they would bother to keep looking for a farrang who had beaten another farrang in what would surely be reported as a bar fight over a girl.
 
And Caine had some pull with the Pattaya cops, since he already gave Police Chief Battang a cut of his smuggling revenue.
 
Still, he saw no point in taking chances.

As he walked through the rain-drenched streets, Caine felt a familiar sensation, one he knew intimately.
 
A tingling on the back of his neck, a feeling that something was wrong.
 
A half-heard sound, a barely glimpsed shadow, something observed on the edge of his sensory awareness told him he was not alone.
 
He was being followed.

Caine continued walking at the same pace, giving no indication to his tail that he knew anything was wrong.
 
He turned a corner and exploded into motion, leaping over a fence made of rusted chicken wire and wooden rods.
 
He found himself in the backyard of a tiny apartment complex.
 
Rows of colorful sarongs and other laundry hung from a line, now soaked by the rain.
 
Caine wondered why the owner had not brought them in once the rains had started.
 
An empty chicken coop took up the far corner of the muddy yard, and deep puddles of murky water dotted the ground.

The place seemed to be abandoned.
 
Caine was silent as he moved around the puddles and wedged himself in a dark, tiny space behind the chicken coop.
 
The wood of the coop was cracked and weathered.
 
By looking through a hole in one of the side planks, he could see through the fence and observe the alley path.
 
He doubted whoever was following him would be able to spot him.
 

A few seconds later, Caine heard the splashing of footsteps making their way down the alley. A lone figure stood across from the abandoned apartment building, looking left and right, as if trying to determine which way Caine had gone.

Caine didn't recognize the man.
 
He was a local, with black hair and a young but tempered face.
 
He looked over average height, and he was wearing a black waxed jacket over jeans.
 
His clothes were soaked from the falling rain.

After a few minutes, the man gave up and walked further down the alley.
 
Caine waited a moment, then leapt back over the fence.
 
Dropping into a crouch, he stalked down the alley, until he caught sight of the man.
 
He didn't recognize him, but he had a strong aversion to people following him--and he found himself consumed by a paranoid flame of anger.
 
Who was this man?
 
What did he want with him?
 
Was he another of the Russian’s goons?
 
The Royal Police?
 
Or had the CIA finally caught up with him?
 
Which of his many enemies had chosen to take action against him?

There was only one way to be sure.

Caine closed the distance between him and the Thai man.
 
The alley was ending up ahead, and he had only a few seconds to make his move before they would exit onto a main street.
 
As he moved, Caine's foot slipped on a patch of mud and dropped into a shallow puddle with an audible splash.

Caine muttered a silent curse.

The man spun around, his arm dropping to his rear waistband.
 
But Caine was already moving.
 
He slid to the man's side and slapped his reaching arm down and away.
 
At the same time, he pivoted forward, driving a straight punch to the man's face.
 
As his target staggered backwards, Caine slammed his forearm against the man's throat, and pushed him into a tiny alcove between two buildings, out of view of the street.
 
His target grunted in pain as his back slammed against a brick wall.

Whoever the man was, he had good training.
 
He threw up his left arm and twisted to the side, trying to break free of the pressure Caine's arm was exerting on his throat.
 
Caine kept him pinned against the wall and drove his knee up, striking into the man's solar plexus and forcing the air from his lungs in a gasp of pain.

Caine spun the man around, and slammed his arm down on the back of his neck.
 
Using his free hand, he did a quick frisk of the target's waistband and removed a Glock 19 9mm.
 
He scanned the alley again to confirm they were alone, then pressed the gun’s barrel against the man's spine.

"You have something you want to say to me?" Caine hissed.
 
"Spit it out."

The man coughed and sputtered as Caine increased the pressure against his neck.
 
"You Mark Waters, right?
 
My name Satra, Satra Watana.
 
Detective Watana.
 
Chief Battang told me look for you."

Caine pressed harder, slamming the man's face against the brick wall.
 
"Bullshit!"

"It's true," Satra gasped.
 
"Check ID.
 
Jacket pocket."

Caine slipped the pistol into his waistband and used his free hand to frisk the man's jacket.
 
Sure enough, his fingers touched a slim leather badge case.
 
He pulled it out, flipped it open, and found himself staring at a shiny metal badge, engraved with the symbol of the Royal Police.

He tossed the badge onto the sodden ground.
 
"Fine.
 
Tell Battang I pay him and I pay him well.
 
His cut's not getting any bigger, not matter how many dirty cops he sends my way."

The man shook his head, sending a spray of rain droplets through the air.
 
"No, not like that.
 
I'm clean, dammit.
 
Good cop!
 
Battang said you have skills, training.
 
You outsider.
 
You can help me."

"Help you do what?"

"Girls missing.
 
Kidnapped.
 
You can help me find them."

"What girls?" Caine growled.

"Bar girls.
 
Girls no one miss."

Caine eased up the pressure on his throat.
 
"Battang said to find me?
 
Why?
 
Why would I help you?"

The man coughed.
 
"He say you strange man.
 
Maybe you will help; maybe you won't.
 
Police can't do anything.
 
But I watch you.
 
I see you fight for that girl other day.
 
I see you keep an eye on her.
 
You protect her.
 
These girls ... no one looking out for them.
 
Just me."

Caine dropped his arm and stepped back.
 
"If you're lying to me, I swear...."

The man fell to the muddy ground, spitting and gasping for breath.
 
He looked up at Caine, and his dark brown eyes burned hot with anger.
 
Then the anger faded into a calm, determined stare.
 
He took a deep breath, stood up, and looked Caine in the eye.
 
"No lie.
 
Follow me.
 
We talk.
 
I buy you beer."

Caine sighed, and gestured to the street.
 
"Fine.
 
Let's go."

They stepped out of the alley, and Satra groaned as he raised his arm to hail a taxi.

"You want my advice?" Caine said. "Next time lead with the free beer."

Satra took them to a local bar on the outskirts of the city.
 
If the place had a name, Caine didn't know it.
 
There was no sign outside, and no writing on the old, peeling door.

Inside, it was little more than a shack, filled with long, splintering wood tables and round stools.
 
An old tube television was mounted in the far corner, and a Muay Thai kickboxing match was playing on the blurry screen.
 
The excited cheers of the audience pierced the quiet mumbling of the locals who sat at the bar.
 
The only other sounds were the rain outside and the clinking of liquor bottles tipping into glasses.

Caine walked ahead of Satra, and chose a stool that faced the entrance.
 
The bartender, a middle-aged man with a copper-tanned face and skin like leather, shouted for their order from behind the counter.
 
Caine ordered a Singha beer, and Satra asked for a glass of Mekong whiskey on the rocks.

A fresh-faced teenage girl wearing jeans and a T-shirt brought them their drinks.
 
Satra spoke to her in rapid-fire Thai.
 
She nodded, memorizing his order.

As she rushed back to the kitchen, Satra turned to Caine.
 
"You like bar food?
 
I order gap klaem, small plates.
 
We eat, then we talk."

Caine nodded and scanned the bar.
 
He saw no sign of danger, so he watched the kickboxing match as he sipped his cold beer.

The food arrived quickly.
 
Gap klaem, or "drinking snacks", consisted of a variety of small dishes that were almost always served alongside alcohol in bars.
 
The girl set down several plates, and Caine and Satra began snacking on bites of yam khai kem, a cold salad of pickled hardboiled eggs.
 
A few minutes later, Caine's throat was burning from the spicy heat of pu pad prik pao, crab cakes fried with egg and a hot pepper paste.

Caine cooled his fiery tongue with a long sip of beer, then set the bottle on the table.
 
"I appreciate the meal, but I don't like being followed. What's this all about?"

Satra was silent for a moment.
 
Then he took a long drink of his whiskey before pulling out his cell phone.

"Here, look at this."
 
He swiped though a series of photos.
 
They were pictures of Thai girls, bar girls from the looks of them.
 
All the photos appeared to be from some kind of dating site.
 
The site's name, Thai Angels, was written in gold letters at the top of the page.
 
Beneath each girl's photo was a heart symbol, and next to the heart was a number.

"I was investigating a missing person case.
 
Bar girl, just twenty years old, didn't show up for work one day.
 
Her roommate call the police when landlord complain that missing girl no pay her share of rent."

Caine leaned back in his chair.
 
"Satra, come on, you're a cop.
 
You know as well as I do these girls take off all the time.
 
Maybe she went back home, or she's on vacation with a boyfriend."