Typhoon Fury

22

Call me now!

Alastair Lynch, who was on his way home from work at Interpol’s Bangkok duty station, glanced at the text message in confusion as he steered his Mercedes S-Class through the dense traffic. The phone number prefix was familiar, but the texter wasn’t on his contact list. Then his stomach went ice cold when he realized why the number wasn’t stored in his phone. It was coming from his mole at Bangkok police headquarters.

Normally, they communicated through an untraceable Internet email app. Lynch told the mole his phone number was only to be used in case of an emergency.

Lynch hated emergencies. He liked boring routine. After studying statistics at a university in London, the Brit had joined Interpol and was sent to the Bangkok office to analyze the routes and organization of drug smuggling networks. Usually, he spent most of his time in air-conditioned offices, poring over data related to the drug trade and generally leading an existence as straitlaced as a single man could in Southeast Asia. It was only in the last few months that his life had taken a turn toward the darkness that he’d joined Interpol to thwart.

He clicked the number to call back and it was answered on the first ring.

The mole, a staff member at the police headquarters evidence locker, spoke in a low voice, his English mangled by urgency. “Why you send someone to take the pill?”

“What are you talking about?” Lynch responded.

“Interpol came and took it. You not warn me.”

Lynch’s heart raced, and he sat up straighter in his seat. The Typhoon pill that had been confiscated after the firefight at the Nightcrawlers club was supposed to remain in the evidence locker. Lynch was planning to remove it the next day when he was already scheduled to visit police headquarters so that he had a reason for being there. That way he would not be a suspect when the pill disappeared.

Now his mole was telling him that the pill was already gone. If it got away, there would be no telling what Salvador Locsin would do to him.

“I didn’t authorize any Interpol officials to take custody of it!” Lynch yelled. Since he’d started taking Typhoon, his mood could transform from calm and logical to uncontrollable rage in an instant. Even some of his colleagues had commented on it recently.

“They had correct papers,” the mole said in broken English. “What else can I do?”

“Who took it?”

“He said he from Interpol headquarters in France, but he not French. Baxter is the name. Big white guy with dark brown hair, mustache, and expensive gray suit.”

Lynch racked his brain for anyone in the organization named Baxter, but he was drawing a blank. He certainly wasn’t informed about anyone coming from France to consult on the case.

“When was this?”

“He finish signing for it just now.”

“You mean he’s still there?”

“He leaving the building any minute.”

That was a stroke of luck for Lynch. For obvious reasons, the Interpol duty station was located only a few blocks from Bangkok police headquarters. He wrenched the wheel around in the middle of the street and headed back the way he’d come, causing even more honking horns to be added to the city din.

A minute later, he reached the massive compound housing the huge headquarters building of the Royal Thai Police. It was likely that the unknown Interpol official had gone through the main entrance, so Lynch flashed his credentials at the guard at the gate.

He pulled in just in time to see a dark-haired man emerge from the building. It had to be Baxter. He walked with the purpose and alertness of a soldier, not like the bureaucrats and analysts that made up most of Interpol’s employment. Baxter strode over to a waiting Jaguar XJR sedan and got in. It took off as soon as the door was closed.

Lynch couldn’t let them out of his sight. He was certain Baxter wasn’t with Interpol. Lynch had been the one consulting on the case, and if someone was coming halfway across the world to assist him or even take over the case, he would have known about it.

Which meant this guy was an impostor. An impostor with the capability to pass himself off convincingly as an Interpol official. But why did Baxter want to get his hands on a single Typhoon pill?

For a nanosecond, Lynch considered calling Locsin for help before he realized how idiotic that would be. Announcing his incompetence in securing the pill to the man who now controlled his life would be the stupidest thing he could do.

A year ago, Lynch had injured his back when the tuk-tuk he’d been riding in collided with a taxi. The surgery on his spine staved off paralysis, but the pain had been excruciating. His doctors tried to wean him off the painkillers, but the pain wasn’t going away. Soon, even the narcotics he could get at the local pharmacies weren’t strong enough. Luckily, he knew how to find drug dealers.

At first, he stuck to opiates like OxyContin, but the painkillers were making it difficult to focus at work. And caffeine wasn’t doing the job, so he started taking amphetamines to give him a boost.

That’s when Salvador Locsin came along. His gang had been the one supplying Lynch with his meds. Locsin claimed that he had a brand-new drug, a pill that would take care of all of Lynch’s problems. He called it Typhoon and gave Lynch two weeks’ worth of samples free of charge.

Lynch was dubious, but he knew the path he was currently on would end in ruin, so he took the pills.

Lynch didn’t believe in miracles, but if he did, Typhoon would have qualified. Within two days, his back pain was completely gone. In fact, Lynch felt better than at any other time in his life. Not only that, in just a few more days he noticed that his scrawny frame was putting on muscle. All he had to do was eat, ravenously consuming more noodles than a sumo wrestler could choke down.

When the two weeks’ supply was up, he looked and felt like an Olympic athlete and begged Locsin for more. He’d pay anything. He was already concocting plans for how he might be able to find the cash.

But Locsin didn’t want money. He wanted Lynch’s allegiance. Lynch would be his inside man at Interpol.

Lynch balked at first. Locsin shrugged and said, “Fine.” No threats. No coercion of any kind.

But Lynch wouldn’t be getting any more Typhoon pills. If he changed his mind, he was told how to contact Locsin.

It took only two days for Lynch to realize that Locsin owned him. If he thought the pain from the back injury was agonizing, it was nothing compared to the withdrawal he experienced without Typhoon. He suffered debilitating nausea and could barely hold down any food. He sweated profusely, and the headaches were beyond anything he’d ever imagined. But the worst was the agony he endured as his newly developed muscles began to wither. They cramped so badly that it felt like they were being torn apart by razor-sharp tiger’s claws.

When he called Locsin, Lynch was so far gone that he was sobbing as he pleaded for more Typhoon.

After that, he did anything that Locsin asked without hesitation. And his latest task had been to make sure that the Typhoon pill recovered from the drug gang fight was never taken in for scientific analysis. Lynch had been counting on the backlog of cases to keep that from happening before he could get it back himself.

Now someone had beat him to it. And if Locsin found out, Lynch might never see another Typhoon pill again. He was due for another week’s supply tomorrow. He couldn’t show up at the exchange empty-handed.

He kept the Jaguar in view yet tried to stay back as far as he could. He wasn’t a trained agent, but he had begun taking classes in the Muay Thai kickboxing discipline, in addition to lifting weights. But he didn’t think he’d need any of that. He had a Glock pistol under the front seat.

His plan was simple. When the Jaguar stopped in a good location, Lynch would shoot the driver and the so-called Interpol official, Baxter, and retrieve the pill. He’d like to wait for a remote location, but that might not be possible in a city as crowded as Bangkok. However, he was even willing to risk witnesses if it meant staving off another round of Typhoon withdrawal.

When the Jaguar made the next turn, at a sign indicating that road would take them to the airport, Lynch thought he might have to reassess his plan. Shooting them at the airport would be suicidal.

But, a mile later, Lynch breathed a sigh of relief. The Jag turned off the main road and made its way toward the parking lot for Rama IX Park, the biggest green space in Bangkok. If his targets had a rendezvous in the park with someone else, he could easily wait until they reached an isolated section and take them out there without anyone seeing him.

He pulled into the lot a hundred feet behind them and into a space. Baxter and his driver got out of the Jaguar and began walking toward the park. They never glanced in Lynch’s direction.

Lynch reached under the seat and withdrew the semiautomatic pistol and its holster. He snapped it to his belt and got out of the car.

Before he could walk ten feet, a windowless white van screeched to a stop next to him. The side door flew open and four men in black masks jumped out brandishing automatic weapons.

One of them clubbed Lynch over the head with his gun, the Typhoon making it feel like little more than a love tap. He kicked the man in the solar plexus and he went sprawling. He tried to draw the pistol, but that was something he’d never practiced in a high-stress situation. The other three men tackled him before he could get it fully out, knocking it from his hand.

Lynch fought back ferociously, taking down another man with a powerful punch to the head, but they were expert fighters and he was not. They managed to pin him to the ground and cuff his hands behind his back. They tossed him into the van just as Baxter and the Jag driver got in and closed the door behind them.

The van’s tires squealed as it took off.

The man with the mustache reached into Lynch’s coat pocket and took out his wallet as well as a thin metal case.

“Let’s see who our mixed martial arts fighter is,” the man said with a slight Dutch accent. He opened the wallet and raised an eyebrow at the ID. “It says he’s Alastair Lynch. Looks like we’ve got ourselves a member of Interpol here, boys.”

Then the man popped open the metal container. This time, both eyebrows went up when he saw what was inside.

In a mindless panic, Lynch leapt up and shouted, “That’s mine!”

Two of the masked men shoved him back down. Lynch continued to struggle, but he couldn’t move.

With a bemused expression, the dark-haired man reached into his own coat pocket and took out a small Thai police evidence envelope. He said, “My name is Gerhard Brekker, Mr. Lynch. Not only are you going to tell us why you were following us, I’d also like you to explain why you have one of these in your pocket.”

Brekker emptied the envelope and showed him the Typhoon pill he’d taken from the police station. Then he upended the metal container from Lynch’s pocket and held up the pill that had been inside it next to the one from the envelope.

Both tablets were etched with identical symbols of a cyclone.