Dead to rights,my friend.
He squeezed the trigger.
Misfire.
Simon dropped the pistol as Shaka barged through the door. The man pointed his gun at Simon. He fired. Nothing. Empty. Unbothered, he slid the pistol into the waist of his pants. He wore a black polo shirt and tan slacks. For the first time, Simon took notice of his size, his muscularity. He wasn’t sure which were larger, his arms or his legs. And his neck. It would take an executioner three swings of his ax to get through it.
Simon jumped to his feet. He picked up a cannon ball and threw it at him, striking the man—Shaka—squarely in the chest. The ball bounced off without effect. No underhand toss either. The man unsheathed a knife from a calf strap, the blade protruding between his middle and ring finger. A gutting knife designed for hand-to-hand combat. Simon knew at once that the man had considerable practice with it.
Fighting was not an option. At best, he would escape alive, but injured. More likely, he’d be killed, and worse, give up the flash drive. So far, five men—at least—had died for its contents. The key to why, and who was responsible, could be found in its contents, in the files Rafa had stolen from PetroSaud. Like it or not, Simon had to keep them safe. He owed his friend that much.
And so, escape.
Chapter 26
Bangkok
Simon ran to the broken window, diving through headfirst, landing on the gravel-topped roof covering the veranda, turning a somersault. Two steps took him to the edge. Crouching, he took hold of the gutter and dropped over the side. The gutter held. He released his grip and fell to the grass several feet below. Up and running. A straight line across the lawn. A glance over his shoulder. Shaka following, twenty paces behind.
Simon hit the fence at full stride, one foot propelling him higher, arm outstretched, hand grasping the top. No barbed wire, but curved stanchions with sharpened tips to keep intruders out. He threw a leg over and slid his torso along the rounded irons. He had nothing to grab on to, nothing to slow his fall. He plunged ten feet to the sidewalk, landing awkwardly, toppling to his side, cheek striking the pavement. Dazed, he stood, noting a drizzle of blood. His shirt was ripped. A gash from the window.
Vehicles zoomed past, right to left, a one-way street. He ran counter to the flow, arms pumping, snaking through the dense foot traffic. No looking behind him. A break in the cars. He cut across the street, dashing beneath a highway overpass. A different world here. Shade. Layers of darkness. The air cooler, a welcome breeze. Pop-up stalls selling lunch and cold drinks.
He slowed, clothing drenched, panting. He searched for the best route, not knowing where he was, where to go. Straight, he decided, wanting to remain in the shade for as long as possible.
The blow knocked him through the air. Shaka landed on top of him, his momentum causing both men to roll. Stunned, adrenaline firing, Simon made it to his feet first. He kicked his attacker viciously, a wild shot to the neck, the blow crushing his larynx. On all fours, Shaka gripped his ruined throat. Simon kicked him again, squarely in the jaw. Shaka fell onto his side, a skein of blood dangling from his mouth, a terrible noise coming from his lips.
Simon took off, following an abandoned railway track running beneath the highway. A hundred yards along, the track ended. A fence blocked his path. To his left a broad alley. Tenements on both sides, rising several stories. Air conditioners perched outside windows. Clothes hung to dry from laundry lines. And lined up, as if one to each dwelling, an endless row of motorbikes. Vespas, Hondas, Yamahas. The common transport of Bangkok’s teeming millions.
He entered the alley, eyes on the locks attached to each bike, searching for a certain model. There. A U-lock. He took a pen from his pocket and unscrewed it, dropping the ink cartridge on the ground. Keeping only the uppermost half of the pen, he inserted the open end into the circular lock and turned it one way, then the other, applying pressure. The lock opened.
The bike was a Honda 125, several years old, in good condition. He crouched low and pulled a random wire from the motorbike next to it. Using his teeth, he shortened the wire to the length of a toothbrush, then exposed the copper filaments at each end, taking care to curl them neatly. Next, he found the Honda’s ignition cable and unplugged the socket. Fashioning the wire into a U-shape, he inserted the exposed ends into each of the socket’s connecting leads. Having bypassed the key contact, he thumbed the ignition key and the motorcycle’s engine turned over.
He backed up the bike as Shaka appeared at the mouth of the alley. Another biker turned in and slowed to pass him. Shaka looked at Simon and, without hesitation, took hold of the biker’s shoulders and threw him to the ground, jumping on the bike in his place.
Simon gunned the Honda, turning right at the far end of the alley and accelerating into three lanes of smoothly flowing traffic. He passed through an intersection and saw he was driving on Sathorn Road. The road grew broader still, four lanes in either direction, skyscrapers lined up like sentries on either side of the boulevard. Signs on the buildings advertised the world’s largest banks and insurance companies. He drove as fast as the bike allowed, carving his own lane through the slower moving automobiles. Ahead, an intersection. Four lanes coming from each direction. He kept his wrist cocked, refusing to slow as, all around him, cars came to a halt. The light turned red a full second before he passed beneath it. Cars darted forth left and right, cutting off his path. He dodged one way, then another. Horns blared. Like that, he was through.
A look over his shoulder. No sign of his pursuer. He was clear. He slowed, moved into the right lane. Then, a squeal of brakes. A cacophony of horns. Shaka emerged from the cross traffic, off-balance, one foot dragging on the pavement.
Simon veered onto a side street. Two lanes, commercial buildings, restaurants, foliage springing up between the structures. Palms, casuarinas. Traffic in front of him came to an abrupt halt. He slid past one car and another. The road narrowed. The space between cars going in opposite directions lessened to a foot, less even, drivers playing a kind of hide-and-seek as they made their way along what essentially was a one-way street. Simon stopped repeatedly, shouting for a path to open. He could feel Shaka closing the distance between them. A glance behind him. Two cars back.
A memory from his past.
Simon, fourteen years old, on his Vespa. A broiling summer day on the narrow streets of Marseille. Cars parked cheek by jowl, one after another, every space taken. A dare.No way you can…
Mounting a Citroën parked along the Rue de Fleury, he maneuvered his bike over the top of the car—trunk, roof, hood, punch the gas—onto the next car and the next…making it ten cars before jumping back to the sidewalk.
But that was twenty-five years ago.
What choice did he have?
Simon revved the engine, pulled up the handlebars, and jumped the bike onto the trunk of the car stopped in front of him—a gold BMW, dealer plates, straight off the lot—up and over the roof, onto the hood, accelerate, and jump to the next car. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Two cars. Three. He rode standing up, fighting for balance, wishing he had more power, not once looking behind him. A last car and he was at the front of the line. Back on the street, horns letting him know what they thought of his performance.
Simon turned onto a wide boulevard, accelerating for all the bike was worth. A look over his shoulder. Shaka remained far behind, locked in traffic, unable to follow. One trick he didn’t have up his sleeve.
In minutes, Simon was on the highway, following signs to the river. He crossed the Chao Phraya, tossing his phone into the water—Follow that, asshole!—and headed west out of the city, toward Ratchaburi, the countryside.
Free.
