WHATEVER THE COST: A Mark Cole Thriller (7 page)

He swam swiftly down to three feet, knowing he would be completely safe at that depth, bullets and shotgun shells unable to penetrate any further and still do damage.

He didn’t know what the water would do to his own weapons, but was willing to lose them; better to reach the far bank unarmed than to be shot on the surface trying to keep them dry.

He swam through the slimy black water with long, powerful strokes, his body used to such tasks and able to perform
them with ruthless efficiency, and soon reached the far bank.

He was glad to drag his body out of the water – if the men had thought to throw grenades into the
moat, the shockwaves might well have killed him. But now he was on land, he was too far for someone to throw a grenade anyway. Unless the men had grenade launchers, on the other hand, which they might –

He saw the flash of light and heard a low, deep
thump
he recognized all too well as the sound of a Mk 19 40mm grenade launcher.

Damn.

In an instant, Cole turned and leapt into the thick jungle foliage just as the grenade landed, exploding in a violent arc of flame and shrapnel.

The leaves and dense shrubbery protected Cole from the shrapnel and the worst effects of the blast, but then he heard the roar of automatic small arms fire, the launch of grenades; and felt the passage of hot air as bullets whizzed past him, tearing away at leaves and chipping through tree trunks, concussive blasts from more grenades erupting all around him.

And then he could hear the high-pitched scream of a General Electric XM214 Minigun, the whine from its electric motor instantly recognizable as it spewed lethal 7.62mm rounds into the jungle foliage at up to 10,000 rounds a minute. The gun was supposed to be fitted to helicopters and light aircraft, and Cole wondered how the hell his pursuers had managed to haul one through the undergrowth.

But it was there now, and the power of the weapon tore the jungle apart around him.

Staggering, his head reeling from the pressure of the explosives, Cole fell through the damaged tree line, escape his only thought.

And even over the sound of the Minigun’s motor and its continuous supersonic chattering, Cole was sure he could hear the men on the far bank laughing.

9

Cole’s
mouth dropped open as he burst out of a line of trees into a clearing, waterlogged shotgun still leading the way.

Through a thin line of trees, Cole had been confronted by an ancient wall, its archaic, sculpted stonework previously hidden in the darkness.
The laterite walls, buttressed by earth, were at least twenty-five feet high, but Cole didn’t have a choice.

Desperate, Cole hauled himself up
the city’s protective wall, digging hands and feet in deep, getting purchase as he climbed as quickly as he had ever done, the Minigun spraying the trees and the wall around him.

And then he was on a parapet at the top, rolling off quickly and letting himself down the other side
, the wall now providing complete protection from the assault. He’d slipped down to his knees to catch his breath, and smelled the coppery scent of fresh blood.

Khat.

He looked hard at the ground around him until he picked up the man’s blood trail. It was difficult in the dark, but not impossible; he’d had plenty of practice over the years, and could recognize the shiny black spatters left across leaves and vines even at night.

He’d followed the trail across the path which separated the wall from the jungle, and re-entered the forbidding wall of dense vegetation, senses on high alert.

He knew that there was road access across the moat, from all four cardinal directions. The people chasing him wouldn’t even have to swim across; they could walk by the side of the moat until they got to a bridge, and cross quickly.

But Cole had decided not to dwell on that; his primary aim was to find Khat, and he could deal with everything else once that was out of the
way and his captive was secured.

And
now the blood trail had led him here – the main ceremonial square of Angkor Thom itself.

As the tree
line gave way to open ground, Cole could see a central wall illuminated by the stars and the moon, now high in the sky overhead.

Blood glistened on the grass in front of him, and Cole stalked forward, towards the southern gate, the temples looming beyond.

In the dead of night, with no tourists and just his own soft breathing to break the still night air, it could have been thousands of years ago and a deep sense of unease swept over Cole. He wasn’t a superstitious person by any means, but as he entered the central Bayan area, he had the feeling that this was a special place, one that had existed for so long that it had been imbued with a power that couldn’t be understood by mortal man.

T
here in front of him was the vast stone expanse of the Bayan itself, the ancient state temple of King Jayavarman VII rising up before him in its ethereal, vine-covered, regal glory; the ages-old edifice erupting out of the jungle like some primeval force of nature, as if placed there by the gods.

Cole heard vehicles then, and knew that the men from the gun market were coming for him in force.

But over the sound of racing diesel engines, Cole could hear the soft whimpering of a man, and Cole looked down to follow the last of the blood trail, watching in the moonlight as it led to the crumbling stone steps underneath a rising, heavily sculpted monument. An enormous head sat atop the monument, the strange light playing off the green stone eyes, making it seem almost as if it was a giant come to life.

And on the steps lay the body of Khat Narong, chest rising and falling with great effort, the man’s breath hollow and rasping.

Cole raced forward, careful that Khat might be leading him into a trap. Yet when he got to the man, he could see it was no act – Cole’s shotgun pellets had lacerated the man’s legs and back, and he was bleeding profusely. Blood seeped out of the gun dealer’s mouth, and Cole wondered if perhaps some of the pellets had indeed penetrated further. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on the man, and it was possible that a vital organ might have been pierced. And the chase through the jungle had now left Khat near death.

Cole looked
around, saw the uneven glare of headlights being driven at speed along bumpy roads. He only had minutes left now; maybe not even that.

From his belt, Cole withdrew a US Marine KA-BAR knife he had taken from Khat’s stall, crouching down to Khat and placing it between his legs.

‘Your friends will be here soon,’ Cole whispered in his ear, watching how Khat looked at him, hatred and fire in his weak, rheumy eyes. ‘They’ll be able to help you, get you medical assistance. You’ll live,’ Cole assured him, even as he nudged the knife closer to Khat’s testicles, the razor sharp blade parting the camouflage shorts, the tip resting by the scrotum.

‘I’m going to ask you a question,’ Cole said softly. ‘If you tell me the truth, I’ll let you go,
and I’ll just disappear right back into the jungle and you won’t see me again.’ He let the tip of the blade pierce the wrinkled skin of the scrotal sack, and Khat flinched, panic replacing the fire in his eyes. ‘If I think you’re lying, then Mrs. Narong is going to have to find herself a new man, you understand? No more boom-boom time for
you
, my friend.’

Sweat poured from Khat’s head, and he nodded quickly, all resistance gone now. He was too weak, too tired, and far too terrified.

‘Good,’ Cole said, all too aware of the shouts coming from nearby, cars having arrived close by, men jumping out, holding guns and flashlights. It wouldn’t be long now.

‘Now tell me who your contact is with Liang Kebangkitan.’

Khat hesitated momentarily, a lifetime of discretion overriding his current terror, but a gentle nudge of the knife turned back his focus in an instant.

‘Wong Xiang,’ Khat whispered, breath caught in his throat.

‘Who is he?’

‘Chinese arms broker,’ Khat said nervously. ‘Acts as middleman between me and pirates, you know?’

‘Where is he based?’

‘You want his fucking address?’ Khat spat, before grimacing as the knife pulled away the skin between his legs. ‘Okay . . . Okay . . . I don’ know the address man
, really . . . but he live in Jakarta, okay? He based in Jakarta.’

‘How do you contact him?’ Cole asked
, his own pulse rising as the flashlights came ever closer.

There was resistance to the question, and Cole let the knife slip further, eyes burning into Khat’s.

‘I don’ contact him, man! He contact me, okay? But I met him before – two, maybe three times – at a place in east of city, Vietnamese restaurant, okay? Everyone know him there, yeah?’

Cole examined the man’s eyes in the short time he had, and could see no guile in them, no hint that Khat was misleading him; the knife between his legs truly terrified him, as Cole had known it would.

He could hear footsteps on the surrounding steps now, approaching from the other sides.

Cole withdrew the knife from between Khat’s legs, and the little Cambodian gun dealer didn’t even pause to sag with relief. Instead, he instantly screamed out in Khmer, calling to his friends, shouting for help.

Cole plunged the knife into Khat’s chest up to the hilt, the blade striking right through the breastbone and the heart, and the man’s words stopped immediately, head lolling to one side.

Cole sprang away from the steps a moment later as the crumbling stone was illuminated by a high-power torch, and then obliterated by the high-velocity rounds of an assault rifle.

The sound of Cole’s shotgun rang out then, and the shooter was blasted across the temple steps before he had a chance to react. The water hadn’t caused a fatal blockage at least.

Cole was about to make a run for the safety of the jungle when he had another idea; and instead of heading away from the man he had just shot, instead he raced across the steps, picking up the man’s assault rifle as he went.

He heard other men approaching, flashlights bouncing across the vine–encrusted stonework, and tucked himself into a shadowed corner, levering himself up the temple walls.

He scrambled quickly upwards, lost in shadow, until he was high enough to avoid completely the glare of the flashlights.

He stared down as a dozen armed men arrived on the steps next to the body of Khat and their friend, heard them cursing and shouting as they looked around the area for Cole.

Cole steadied himself in the arms of the Cambodian
stone giant, aiming the Steyr AUG bullpup rifle he’d taken from the man just moments before.

And just when the confusion was at its peak – some people looking at Khat’s body, others at the second man’s, whilst still more shone their flashlights in big arcs from left to right, weapons tracking wi
th them, looking for something –
anything
– to shoot, if only to unload their frustrations – Cole opened fire himself, filling the ancient stone enclosure with the staccato blasts of full-auto 5.56mm ammunition.

It was like shooting fish in a barrel, and Cole watched as men fell one after another, their confusion working against them, unable to see Cole from his position on the giant statue, and firing back at their own comrades instead.

By the time the smoke cleared, they’d killed more of their own people than Cole had.

There wasn’t time to assess the morality of his actions, nor any need – they’d been trying to kill him, and instead Cole had killed
them
. It was self-protection, plain and simple; survival of the fittest.

And he had just re-learnt the hard way with Boom Suparat not to trust anyone.

As he heard more people approaching, lights once more bouncing through the temple complex, Cole turned and climbed further over the domed pillars of the incredible structure, heading away from the south side.

He slipped down further away, keeping to the shadows as he got to ground level and stepped over the ancient paving, moving smoothly,
unseen by the encroaching enemy.

Ahead, Cole could see the headlights of a truck, parked south so it faced the complex, illuminating it with full beam, engine ticking over at idle.

Cole saw that the hood was up, running engine exposed, clips attached and leading to the right, towards . . .

Cole saw the Minigun, its electric motors needing the power of the truck battery to get going, positioned on the back of a pick-up parked with its rear to the temple; the mounted Minigun had its barrels facing outwards, primed to destroy everything in its path.

Cole slipped through the shadows towards the truck, glad to see most of the men racing forwards towards the Bayan.

Controlling his heart, he crept forward inch by careful inch, keeping close to the ground, until he was close enough to reach out and touch it.

And then he sprang up, shot the driver through the side of the head, his skull exploding across the window; and then double-tapped the center mass of the man in the pick-up stood behind the Minigun, dropping him instantly; and then the two men checking the engine battery connections, only now looking up as Cole fired towards them.

And then he was inside the truck as his rifle clicked empty, kicking the dead driver out the other side and taking immediate control, foot down on the accelerator and hands wrenching the wheel around in a tight circle
.

He could feel the
tires struggling to get traction, felt the weak impact of rounds being fired at him from over at the Bayan; and then the tires got their grip and he accelerated towards the northern gate.

He looked in the rear-view mirror, saw men struggling to turn the pick-up truck around, get someone else on the Minigun, get it connected to the pick-up’s battery and aimed at the escaping truck.

But by the time they had got themselves organized, it was too late anyway; Cole was through the gateway and blasting north along the jungle road, the electric hum and ferocious power of the Minigun lost and useless behind him.

Even then, Cole didn’t allow himself to relax; he couldn’t.

For now he had a new mission.

Jakarta.

And a meeting with a man called Wong Xiang.