Chimera

CHAPTER 2

The Khlong Saeng Wildlife Preserve, Thailand

The rain in Khlong Saeng Wildlife Preserve of southern Thailand was starting to fall heavier now, muting the night sounds of the uneasy Hornbills, Bamboo Rats, tree frogs and insects. All of these creatures were aware, in their own ways, of the single human figure stretched out on a thick pad laid across the top of a crude bamboo hunting platform standing six feet above the lush undergrowth.

He hadn’t done anything to scare them off, yet; but the subliminal threat that he might, at any moment, radiated from the platform like a radio distress signal.

Conversely, the man — almost invisible in the hooded and darkly-camouflaged rain poncho that covered everything except his boots and gloves — wasn’t the least bit concerned about their presence.

Michael Hateley had no interest in honking birds, croaking frogs, chirping insects, the rain or any other aspect of his surroundings. Just as long as the cobras — the Asians and Kings — that also inhabited this lush mountain rainforest stayed far away.

That was the primary responsibility of Marcus Emerson and his team: to keep the truly dangerous predators at bay — or, at the very least, away from the platform — until Hateley could take his shot.

This was Hateley’s fifth hunt in the southern peninsula of Thailand, and it promised to be the best one yet; assuming the creature Emerson had described in such incredible detail was still alive and actively roaming his territory.

At least a hundred and twenty kilos, Emerson had claimed. Maybe more if he’s been feeding well. World record class, in any case. And very possibly the last of the big ones, Hateley knew, because the species as a whole was disappearing fast, and there wouldn’t be many left of any size in another year or so.

A worthy centerpiece for your next club dinner, the international safari guide had reminded Hateley on the plane ride in, and Hateley knew Emerson was right. No one else in his exclusive club of extremely wealthy and dedicated hunters — four in total, to be precise, all in their mid-to-late fifties — would ever have anything like it in the carefully concealed chambers that housed their endangered species collections, no matter how much they were willing to pay.

Hateley kept his attention focused on the distant fluorescent green images of trees, ferns, bamboo, and massive limestone formations that came into view as he slowly shifted the aim-point of his night-vision-scoped. 243 Remington Magnum rifle. As he did so, he imagined the covetous expressions on the faces of his peers when they saw his latest — and perhaps most magnificent — kill, and smiled.

There was no doubt in his mind that when the accounting took place at the club’s annual dinner, he would maintain possession of the coveted trophy that symbolized dominance in their highly competitive game: the fearsomely-tusked boar’s head mounted above a glistening brass plate inscribed with three chilling words.

MERCHANT OF DEATH

It’s mine, again, gentlemen, Hateley thought with a sense of anticipation that was almost orgasmic, irrefutably and unconditionally mine.

Something splashed nearby in the darkness, causing the murmuring fauna to go silent for a few seconds. But the sound was familiar — probably a tree frog making a sudden lunge at a momentarily careless insect — and Hateley paid it no attention at all. He was waiting for the appearance of something smaller, but far more significant.

A fire-fly.

Five minutes passed, and nothing of interest appeared in the viewer of his night-scope. Then, finally, a deep voice rumbled in Hateley’s electronic ear-protectors.

“He’s coming.”

Hateley scanned the distant trees with a fast sweep of his scoped rifle, using the stacked pair of lead-shot-filled bags as a swivel, but saw nothing.

“Where — ?” he started to whisper into the small microphone attached to his left ear-protector. But at the moment he saw it too: a tiny flashpoint of bright light that suddenly appeared — far away, deep in the trees, high off the ground — and then vanished.

As he watched, barely breathing now, the pinpoint of infra-red light — intermittently visible now at four-second intervals — grew bigger as it approached the clearing, and the platform. The stealthy movements portrayed an attitude of aggression as well as innate caution.

The inference was clear. High up in the trees, in his element, this on-coming creature feared no other species. Not even man.

Big Bastard. Fearless. Probably come right at you, Emerson had said, and Hateley knew that this would be his moment, his trophy: the biggest Clouded Leopard that had ever lived, and almost certainly the last of a kind.

Feeling his heart starting to pound deep in his chest, Hateley shifted the aim-point of his rifle until the intermittent flashings were centered in the cross-hairs of his transmitter-equipped night-scope. Then he gently slid his gloved forefinger across the smooth, cross-hatched surface of the Remington Mag’s trigger.

As the flashing light grew closer, still high up in the trees, the night sounds in the clearing grew quiet, as if all of the birds, frogs and insects were collectively holding their breath.

Unlike Hateley, they had never seen an apparition like this before, and they didn’t like it at all.

About a hundred yards from the platform, the pinpoint light-source flashed behind the central trunk of a widely-branching tree — its presence signaled by a brief glow of dimly-reflected light off the surrounding vegetation.

Hateley began to count silently.

Thousand-and-one.

Thousand-and-two.

Thousand-and-three.

Thousand-and…

At that instant, the fire-fly flashed again.

Expecting to see the reflected glow again, Hateley was caught off guard when the Clouded Leopard’s face — with its incredibly blank wide-open eyes — suddenly filled a considerable portion of the night-scope viewer, and then immediately disappeared when the infra-red Fire-fly™ tracking device secured to the cat’s neck flashed off.

Hateley cursed silently, but a subconscious portion of his brain had already begun the metronomic flasher count.

Thousand-and-one.

Thousand-and-two.

Thousand-and-three.

Hateley’s gloved forefinger tightened against the trigger.

One thousand-and The cat’s highlighted rosette spots and the distinctive black line running from eyes to ears — characteristics that had long made it one of the most coveted and endangered of the thirty-seven cat species — reappeared in the reflected glow of the Fire-fly™; and then vanished in an explosion of bright green light as a billowing streak of fire erupted from Hateley’s rifle.

In something less than a tenth of a second, a spinning 85-grain, full-jacketed bullet arced across the clearing, tore through the furry chest of the famously agile cat, and embedded itself deep into the wood trunk of an adjacent tree.

Heart shattered and torn from its chest, the grey-spotted creature was dead before its limp body finished crashing through tree limbs, branches and brush to the ground. But Hateley instinctively worked the bolt of his rifle anyway, ejecting the still-smoking brass cartridge and smoothly feeding another live round into the polished chamber of the lethal weapon; just in case.

Then the voice in his ear-protectors confirmed what he already knew to be true.

“Excellent shot, sir, but it’s time we departed. We may have some unwelcome visitors in the area.”

In a series of movements made routine by many replications in many foreign lands, Hateley thumbed the safety of his rifle to the ON position; sat up on the platform; turned; handed the expensive rifle down to the dark, barely-visible figure of a man now standing beside a crude bamboo ladder braced against the platform; and then quickly climbed down the ladder.

As soon as Hateley’s boots were on the ground, Marcus Wallis shifted the rifle to his left hand, stepped forward, shook Hateley’s gloved hand, and slapped the wealthy chief executive on the shoulder.

“About time you got that fellow in your sights,” Wallis said cheerfully.

“You and your team provided the perfect opportunity, as usual; I couldn’t possibly miss,” Hateley replied.

Then, after a pause: “what kind of visitors were you talking about?”

“Jack spotted a Thai Forestry Ranger jeep on patrol about an hour ago. They should be about five clicks north of us by now, but they could be heading back this way if someone heard and reported the shot.”

“Is that going to be a problem?”

“Not likely, but why take the chance? Be a lot less complicated if I take you directly back to the airport while Quince and the lads sort things out around here,” Wallis said.

“Then let’s get going,” Hateley agreed. “Is the helicopter ready?

“Yes, but as a precaution, I had them relocate to a nearby clearing — a bit more of a drive for us, but worth the effort. You never know where these damned Rangers are going to pop up next.”

Wallis paused for a second, turned away from Hateley, pressed a forefinger against a switch on his throat mike, and then whispered softly: “Gecko-One to Gecko-Two.”

“Gecko-Two, go.” The deep calm voice of Quince Lanyard rumbled in Wallis’ earphones.

“Gecko-Two, be advised we’re moving out now. Collect the target, secure the scene, relocate your team to rendezvous point Checkers, and then stand-by for link-up with Gecko-Three. Repeat, rendezvous point Checkers. I’m taking the Fireman to Alpha-Tango now.”

“Gecko-Two, copy.”

Wallis turned back to Hateley and motioned with his gloved hand. The two men began walking quickly in the darkness toward a pair of Land Rovers parked on a dirt road about fifty feet away.

Behind them, two small darkened figures moved in and quickly began to disassemble the shooting platform, cutting the lashing ropes with sharp knives and tossing the freed lengths of bamboo into the brush, while a third much larger figure ran toward the distant tree where the cat lay motionless. Wallis, Lanyard, and their two Thai helpers were all outfitted with night-vision goggles and infra-red filtered flashlights, the beams of which were invisible to anyone not equipped with night-vision gear.

As the two men reached the Land Rovers, Wallis turned back to Hateley. “What’s the status of your plane?”

“Sitting on the tarmac at Phuket International, fully fueled and re-stocked, flight plan filed,” Hateley replied. “I told the pilots we might be leaving tonight. They’re ready to taxi out as soon as we’re on board.”

“First-rate.”

As Hateley quickly levered himself into the front passenger seat of the first Land Rover, and reached for the safety belt, Wallis unloaded and then carefully slid the expensive scoped rifle into its soft leather case, laid the weapon across the back seat, hopped in the driver’s seat, secured his own safety belt, and then reached for the ignition key.

The Land Rover’s powerful engine started up immediately.

As Hateley stared out into the almost complete darkness with a calm and satisfied expression on his unshaven face, Wallis accelerated the vehicle down the pitch-black dirt road — an easy accomplishment in spite of the numerous potholes, because the jeep’s headlights were infra-red filtered as well. From Wallis’s narrowed view through his night vision goggles, the narrow winding road was as clearly visible as if it had been noon in one of Thailand’s most spectacular wildlife preserves instead of midnight.

As Wallis continued to accelerate along the rough dirt road, he pulled an encrypted satellite cell phone out of his jacket pocket and activated a quick-dial number.

“Alpha-Tango, this is Gecko-One. Do you copy?”

“Go ahead, Gecko-One.”

“Alpha-Tango, be advised our ETA is approximately forty minutes. Be prepared to… oh bloody hell!”

A pair of bright headlights suddenly appeared in the road, nearly blinding Hateley and forcing Wallis to rip the now-useless night-vision goggles off his face.

“Who are they?” Hateley demanded, but he already knew the answer.

“Thai Rangers,” Wallis said calmly. “You stay in the vehicle, sir. Keep your goggles on and your head down. I’ll handle them.”

Wallis undid his safety belt, opened the door of the Land Rover, and calmly stepped out into the road, using one hand to shield his eyes from the glaring headlights.

“Stay where you are, and keep your hands up!” one of the Rangers — the driver — yelled as he stepped out of an old, mud-encrusted Jeep Cherokee and aimed a short-barreled submachine gun directly at Wallis, who quickly noted the sergeant stripes on the man’s uniform sleeves.

Two more uniformed Rangers — one with a pair of corporal stripes on his upper sleeve, and the other bearing a constable’s insignia — jumped out of the jeep’s rear doors with longer-barreled assault rifles up and ready. The fourth Ranger — younger than the sergeant, but clearly the leader of the four-man team, probably a lieutenant, Wallis guessed — stepped out of the front passenger seat with his right hand around the grip of his holstered pistol and a pack-set radio in his left hand.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Wallis demanded, keeping his hands open and high in the air as he continued to approach the vehicle. “We’re biologists on official assignment. We have a permit from your government that specifically allows us to work at night in this sector of the Preserve.”

“Why were you driving in the refuge without lights?” the team leader demanded.

“We use infrared-filtered lights and night-vision gear out here so the animals can’t track our movements,” Wallis said patiently as he came to a stop a few feet away from the senior Ranger, and just past the cone of the jeep’s glaring headlights.

Now he could see all four Rangers clearly, Wallis focused his attention on the shoulder patch on the team leader’s uniform, the sewn insignia clearly indicating a lieutenant in the Thai Forestry Police Division. The young commander had a suspicious expression on his face; the older sergeant looked tough and competent; and the corporal appeared ready to shoot the first thing that moved. Only the young constable looked uneasy. An unfortunate combination as far as Wallis was concerned.

“It’s a necessary collection technique when you’re using short-range dart guns to tranquilize these creatures,” Wallis went on calmly. “Your superiors are very much aware of our protocols, and we have already paid a great deal of money for the privilege of collecting the genetic samples in your Preserves.”

The mention of genetic samples — or it might have been the great deal of money, Wallis wasn’t sure — seemed to make the Ranger lieutenant hesitate.

“We heard a gunshot a few minutes ago.”

“That was probably us; sometimes we have to use a high-velocity dart to get at some of the more skittish animals,” Wallis explained. “The propane charges are extremely loud when they go off, and the sounds do echo considerably in these mountains, but — ”

“You’re not out here hunting?”

Wallis managed to look offended. “You mean actually killing things? No, absolutely not; we’re simply capturing animals and collecting small bits of tissue — ideally from every mammalian species in the Preserve — to work out the DNA sequences. Catch and release. All we need is a tiny clip of skin from one ear, which we immediately swab with iodine to counteract any infection. Once the drugs wear off, the animals are no worse for the wear. Have to do it at night because — ”

“What is your name?” the lieutenant interrupted.

“Emerson. Marcus Emerson,” Wallis replied.

“I am not familiar with that name.”

“We’re based out of Khao Sok. I’m surprised you don’t know about our project. We’ve been working here, on and off, for several months now. Are you new to the district?”

“We’re on a temporary detail to this area,” the lieutenant acknowledged and he brought the radio up to the side of his face. “I’ll contact my supervisor in Bangkok. They can confirm your collection permit. How do you spell your name?”

Bangkok? Bloody hell, Wallis thought, staring thoughtfully at the assault rifle aimed at his chest. “E-M-E-R-S-O-N.”

As the lieutenant brought the pack-set radio up to the side of his mouth, a voice out of the darkness said “Excuse me.”

The sergeant, corporal and constable all started to whirl around in the direction of the new voice, and then crumpled to the ground as a flurry of 9mm bullets from a silenced pistol ripped into their heads.

The lieutenant had dropped the pack-set radio and was starting to draw his pistol when Wallis swiftly drew a silenced pistol from his shoulder holster and shot the young team leader twice in the side of the head. As he crumbled to the ground, Jack Gavin stepped forward out of the darkness.

“Check the jeep. See if they’ve got anything in there that identifies us,” Wallis ordered as he knelt down and quickly began searching the jacket pockets of the four Rangers.

“Nothing here, just a map of Southern Thailand with the entire Reservoir area circled in red,” Gavin said as he came back from the jeep. “Nothing to indicate that they were focused on the Khlong Preserve, or on us.”

“Nothing on the bodies, either,” Wallis said as he stood up. The two men looked at each other.

“Sorry, but from where I was standing, and what I heard, I couldn’t see any other option,” Gavin said, shrugging his lean, muscular shoulders as he returned the silenced pistol to his shoulder holster.

“No, there wasn’t,” Wallis agreed. “Thai Forestry Lieutenants and Sergeants don’t go out on routine patrol in the middle of the night; and when was the last time you saw a Thai Ranger patrol wearing ceramic chest plates in their vests? They were definitely on the hunt for something, or someone.”

“What happened to Choon? Why didn’t he warn us?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” Wallis shook his head in frustration, and then sighed. “It had to be done, no question; but these Rangers are going to cost us dear.” He stared grimly down at the four bodies for a moment, and then back up at Gavin. “How did you get here?”

“The motor-bike,” Gavin replied.

“Give me your pistol and holster.”

Gavin blinked in momentary confusion, as if he hadn’t heard Wallis correctly. But then he quickly obeyed, taking off his jacket, slipping out of the shoulder holster and handing the holstered weapon to Wallis.

“If you need a weapon, use one of theirs,” Wallis said, “but try to avoid any additional shooting if at all possible. We’re going to need a plausible diversion if we’re to get out of this with our arses intact.”

“Understood,” Gavin acknowledged.

“Take the jeep and the bodies back to where you left the bike, pick it up, slip into the best-looking uniform of the four — ideally the sergeant’s — and then head north. Try to get as close to Khuraburi as you can without being spotted, run the jeep off the road — into the brush or over a cliff, whatever you can do fast without being seen — and then motor-bike back down to Tauka Pa, dump the bike, and then wait for Quince. While you’re doing that, I’m going to take Hateley back to the helicopter and get him on his plane as quickly as I can. Shit is going to hit the bloody fan when these four fail to check in. If Hateley gets scooped up at a road-block, we’re bloody-well screwed. He wouldn’t last five minutes under Thai interrogation.”

“Are you going to fly out with him?”

“No, I need to shut down the office and sort things out around here first.” Wallis fingered his throat mike again. “Gecko-One to Gecko-Two.”

“Gecko-Two, go.”

“Change of plans. Bright Light. Repeat, Bright Light. Scrub the scene completely, and then relocate your team to rendezvous point Papa-John, double-time. Repeat, rendezvous point Papa-John. I’ll meet you there in about two hours with the office kit.”

“Gecko-Two, copy Bright Light, copy Papa-John,” Quince Lanyard replied with no trace of emotion in his voice.

Wallis nodded approvingly and fingered his throat-mike again; only this time activating a different frequency.

“Gecko-One to Alpha-Tango.”

“Alpha-Tango, go.”

“Be advised we have a change of plans. Relocate to pick-up point Echo-Five, full caution. We’re heading your way now.”

“Alpha-Tango, copy Echo-Five. ETA fifteen.”

Wallis turned back to Gavin. “As soon as Hateley takes off, Quince and I will scrub our trail. Then Quince will link up with you at Tauka Pa while I have a heart-to-heart with our Surat Thani friend.”

“You mean Yak?”

“Exactly,” Wallis muttered as he bent down and grabbed the legs of the dead lieutenant.

“What about the cat? Are we still going to try to get it out?” Gavin asked as he and Wallis quickly heaved the bodies of the four Rangers into the back of the jeep and covered them with a tarp.

“Bloody damn right we are; we’ve got too much invested in this project to miss out on Hateley’s final payment,” Wallis said emphatically. “And besides, he’s too good of a customer. We don’t want to lose him now, just when things are starting to get interesting.”

Wallis got back in the jeep, shielding his eyes from the headlight glare until Gavin had the Ranger’s jeep turned around and heading north.

“What was that all about, Marcus?” Hateley demanded. “You were out there a hell of a long time. I was starting to get worried.”

“Some unexpected complications,” Wallis said. “Nothing we can’t handle, but we need to get you on that plane to Singapore and then heading back home as quickly as possible. The fewer people who see you in the area of the Khlong Preserve right about now, the easier it will be for all of us.”

“You’re not going with me?

“No, I need to finish sorting things out around here first.”

“Sorting things out?”

Wallis shrugged. “Close up shop; set accounts in order; pay our respects; put out a false trail of bread crumbs, that sort of thing.”

Hateley was silent for a few moments.

“Is the situation really that precarious?”

Wallis hesitated before he spoke. “Straight up: it’s a bit dicey at the moment, Mr. Hateley; but nothing that you need to be concerned about. You pay us handsomely to deal with any complications, and that’s what we’re going to do. But you should be aware that we may not be able to hunt in this area again for a while.”

“By ’this area’ you mean — ?”

“Thailand.”

“Ah, I see.”

Hateley started out the jeep’s side window for a couple of seconds, then turned back to Wallis.

“What about my trophy?”

“The cat’s on his way to a first-class taxidermist as we speak. I’ll deliver him to you, personally, in about ten days, two weeks at the outside; tree-mounted, as we agreed.”

“And the money I’ve already invested in my next Thai hunt?”

“Your hundred and fifty thousand dollar down-payment, minus our expenses to date, will either be refunded to you when I deliver your mount, or invested in some equally profitable ventures, your choice.”

Hateley remained silent as Wallis re-secured the night-vision goggles over his eyes, started up the jeep, and continued driving toward the main road.

When they reached the paved roadway, Wallis pulled off to the side of the dirt road, got out, quickly removed the infrared filters from the Land Rover’s headlights, got back into the vehicle, turned on the headlights, pulled into the flow of traffic, and headed east.

Fifteen minutes later, at a remote clearing far from the originally planned pick-up site, Wallis secured Hateley and his rifle case in the back seats of a helicopter with the words ‘Pauley Air Transport’ painted on the side in bold letters, and then quickly scrambled into the front co-pilot seat.

Wallis and Hateley had both donned microphone-mounted head-sets that enabled them to communicate with the pilot and each other; but neither spoke as the helicopter road up in to the sky and then began to follow a pre-planned route to the Phuket International Airport.

Both men started out at the distant, brightly-lit coastline of Thailand; each aware, in their own way, that they might never see this sight again.

At the helipad near the tarmac area reserved for private charter planes, Wallis helped Hateley out of the helicopter, handed him the rifle case and then walked with him over to the gleaming forty-million-dollar Gulfstream-Four that stood waiting like an about-to-be released falcon. At the base of the stairs, Hateley turned and extended his hand.

“This turned out to be quite an exhilarating day, Marcus,” he said with a smile. “I’d hate to think my hunting days in Thailand are over because of an unfortunate incident.”

“We’ll do everything we can to make sure that is not the case,” Wallis promised.

“Good, I was hoping you’d say that; but, in any case, I’m a patient man. So what do you have in mind for my next hunt?”

“Something interesting, Mr. Hateley,” Wallis answered as he shook his client’s hand. “You can be sure of that.”

“Fair enough. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks,” Hateley said, and then climbed up into the cabin of the chartered plane.

The wealthy businessman settled himself into one of the four luxurious seats and motioned for the uniformed steward to fix him a drink. Then, as the sleek Gulfstream jet began to taxi out to the runway, Hateley looked out the window at the nearby helipad; but the helicopter and Wallis were already gone.

Wearing the night-vision goggles again to cope with the almost total darkness, Wallis worked the four-wheel-drive Land Rover through the deep muddy ruts of a tree-lined dirt road leading into the western section of the Khlong Saeng Wildlife Preserve.

As he did so, he periodically checked his odometer.

At the 5.8 kilometer mark, Wallis slowed down, turned left onto a very narrow mud trail just barely wide enough for the Land Rover, and followed a set of recently-made tire tracks for another thirty seconds until he came to small, chain-sawed clearing where the park maintenance staff had built a storage shed for an old back-hoe and even older tractor.

There was another Land Rover parked next to the shed, illuminated — at least for night-vision goggles — by an exterior shed light that had been temporarily covered with an infra-red filter gel, and then turned on.

Wallis parked next to the Land Rover, flashed his infra-red-filtered headlights twice, shut off the engine, then stepped out of the vehicle and walked around to the rear.

As he did so, Quince Lanyard stepped out of the surrounding forest and opened the rear door of Wallis’ Land Rover. Working quickly, the two men unloaded three back-packs, three scoped hunting rifles in waterproof cases, two tied plastic bags filled with shredded paper and a pair of walking sticks. Lanyard started to remove a five-foot-long black plastic Pelican™ case and a blue-striped military ammo can from the back of the Land Rover, but Wallis shook his head.

“Leave it there for now,” he said.

“Are we still in the clear?” Lanyard asked.

“So far, but the shit will definitely hit the bloody fan when those Rangers are found. We need to be gone before then.”

“With our assets secured and all loose ends tied, I assume?”

Wallis nodded. “Exactly.”

“What about Pauley?”

“He won’t walk away from his business, and I can’t see him lasting long under Thai interrogation.”

“Same with our client, I’d wager.” Lanyard nodded his head knowingly. “He’d give us up in a heartbeat.”

“We’ll have to see to it that he never steps foot in Thailand again,” Wallis acknowledged.

“Must have been tempting to just give Jack one more body to stash.”

“If there was time for a proper disposal, yes. But we’d be pissing away a chance to retire in style.”

“You really think he’ll go for it?”

“A man of his wealth, power and ego?” Wallis shrugged. “I don’t think he’s capable of saying no to what we’re going to propose.”

“But aren’t we rushing things a bit?”

“The timing’s bad. Another big cat hunt first would have been better. I’m going to see if Draganov can push things along a bit.”

“What about Hateley’s Cloud?”

“We still need to get it out to keep him focused on the big prize.”

“But not through Yak, I take it?”

Wallis shook his head firmly. “No, it wouldn’t take him long to put two and two together and rat us out. We’re better off going south.”

“You mean cross down into Malaysia?”

“It shouldn’t be a problem. Our visas are still good, and we've got Kai to grease the proper palms.”

“Fucking Kai.”

“He’ll help. He has no choice.”

“Still, it’s a long way to drive with contraband in the boot and Kai being Kai. What about the boat?”

“The Avatar? In the open seas? This time of the year?” Wallis cocked his head, a slight smile forming in his grizzled face.

“Not our favorite way to travel,” Lanyard acknowledged with a grimace, “but there’s a nice dive spot at Ko Tanga where we can sort things out with Kai.”

“Fine by me.” Wallis shrugged. “I’ll set up the meet. Let’s get this done.”

After locking up the Land Rover, the two men shouldered the loads, and headed into the trees behind the shed.

Twenty yards into the dense forest, Quince pulled a remote device out of his jacket pocket and pressed a button. Instantly, deep in the trees, a periodically-flashing firefly became faintly visible.

Using the flickering light as a guide, the two men slowly and methodically worked their way through the trees and brush, using the walking sticks to push tangled vines and large leaf fronds aside, and to warn any lurking creatures of their direction of travel.

The occasional whisper of a long snake tail disappearing into the thick underbrush spoke to the value of their precautions.

Finally, the two men stepped into a small, machete-cut, ten-foot-square clearing, two-thirds of which was taken up with a deep hole surrounded by piles of recently cut brush and vines, a stack of six-foot boards, a folded black plastic tarp, chunks of sod, a pair of shovels, and a much larger pile of rope-entangled and machete-chopped lengths of bamboo that — earlier in the evening — had formed a secure shooting platform for Michael Hateley.

Wallis stepped up to the edge of the six-by-six-by-eight-foot-deep hole that he and Lanyard and Gavin had dug several months earlier for just such a contingency, glanced down at the pair of machetes lying across the two twisted bodies at the bottom, and turned to Lanyard.

“Any problems I should know about?”

“Not really. They were busy cutting the bamboo up into smaller pieces when the older one started getting pushy about being paid extra for difficult work. I terminated their contracts early and finished cutting the bamboo myself.”

“Good,” Wallis grunted.

Working quickly now, using the intermittent flashes of the Fire-Fly™ for illumination, the two men tore open the two plastic bags, dumped the shredded remains of their office correspondence into the hole, and then tossed in the splintered lengths of bamboo, burying the bodies under a cross-laced fibrous mat almost a foot thick.

Then they opened up the tarp, spread it out as a much-too-big liner for the remaining portion of the hole, and worked as a team — Lanyard handing the rifles and back-packs down to Wallis who carefully arranged them in the hole, covered them with the tarp flaps, and then used a roll of duct tape to seal the bundle from the corrosive Thai soil.

A few minutes later, the two men finished arranging the sod squares over the crossed support boards covering the duct-taped cache, tossed an assortment of shredded brush and leaves over the sod, and stood up.

“I don’t think we have to worry about anyone finding this lot,” Wallis said, nodding in satisfaction as he looked around at the clearing that he knew, from experience, would be overgrown again with a few days.

“Not bloody likely,” Quince Lanyard chuckled as he looked up at the still-pulsing Fire-Fly™ hanging from an overhead tree limb, used the remote device to shut it off, and then dropped the remote back into his pocket. “If it wasn’t for GPS, and that little flasher, I wouldn’t have found it either.”

Fifteen minutes later, using the IR-glow of the shed light as a guide, the two men were back at their Land Rovers.

Reaching into the back of his vehicle, Wallis pulled out a pair of armored vests with filled magazine pouches, two assault rifles, a pair of military ammo boxes, and a case labeled ‘electronics.’ As Lanyard transferred the armaments to Lanyard’s Land Rover, Wallis pulled out the five-foot-long Pelican™ case and the blue-striped military ammo can.

“Take this along too,” Wallis said.

Lanyard took the fifty-pound case and equally heavy blue-striped ammo box, and juggled both in his muscular hands. “You really think Jack and I’ll need something like this to deal with Kai and his boys?”

“If Yak’s the one who informed on us, no, you shouldn’t,” Wallis said. “If not — ” He shrugged. “Do what you have to do, and then dump it with the rest of the gear.”

“Bloody expensive toy to be tossing out with the trash after one use, don’t you think?” Lanyard suggested in a voice that was fully respectful. Wallis had always encouraged Lanyard and Gavin to offer their opinions; but there was no question as to who was the leader of their illicit team.

“It’s just a tool that’s easily replaced. Don’t hesitate to use it if you have to,” Wallis replied firmly.

Lanyard acknowledged the order with a quick nod of his head. “Any word on Choon’s whereabouts?”

“He was at a brokers meeting in Surat yesterday. Explains why we weren‘t told about the new patrol.”

“Is that a normal assignment for a police captain?”

Wallis shook his head. “I doubt it. Probably got sent there by Bangkok HQ.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Doesn’t mean they’re on to us. Could have been a routine check, and they moved him out of the way because they don’t trust him.”

“But if they think he’s helping hunters, we’ll have that damned Colonel Kulawnit on our ass.”

“Kulawnit’s scheduled to be at the Wildlife Interpol meeting in Tokyo all week,” Wallis replied evenly. “By the time he returns, we should be out of Thailand.”

“Damned good thing. What about Yak?”

“We’re having an early breakfast at his house tomorrow morning.”

“How did he sound?”

“Sleepy, confused, and upset that I know where his mistress lives. Not like a man waiting nervously to hear if we were dead or in custody.”

“So where does that put Kai?”

“In a bloody bad light.”