Chapter 31

Reggie Waters rolled over on the mat he was trying to sleep on and waved away a mosquito with a listless hand. The persistent insect ignored the feeble gesture and landed on his lip, the one spot Reggie hadn’t slathered with insect repellent. Reggie stirred as the mosquito crept to a promising area and drove its long proboscis into the tender flesh. The sting of the forced entry woke Reggie fully and he sat up. The mosquito took flight, its search for nourishing blood aborted at the unexpected jarring.

He cursed quietly and his eyes drifted to where his bag rested on the flattened grass, his satellite phone atop it. Blinking, signaling that he’d missed a call.

Reggie swore again, this time audibly, and retrieved the phone. His Seiko dive watch showed that it was almost seven a.m. The sun was still too low on the horizon to really penetrate the overhead canopy, and his jungle encampment was still dark with shadows. He pushed away the rain poncho he’d jury-rigged over his head to shelter himself from the rain and checked the time of the call.

Calls.

Beginning at eleven the prior night, he’d received one call per hour thereafter. Reggie had set the phone to vibrate lest its warble draw the attention of predators — his Laotian guide had refused to stay with him overnight and warned him that he was in drug-gang territory, so to be discreet. They’d agree to rendezvous this morning at eight, but Reggie had his doubts as to whether the boat captain would reappear — even though he’d only collected half the promised money, he was alive to spend it, whereas the odds apparently declined the further north on the Mekong he pushed.

He thumbed the phone to active status and stood — he’d need to find a clearing for decent reception. He hurriedly dismantled his camp and shouldered his bag, the phone in one hand, an ancient Browning 9mm pistol the captain had sold him for five times the going rate in the other, and set off toward the river, which was a few hundred yards west.

Reggie had only made it thirty yards when he heard voices and smelled tobacco smoke. He crouched in the brush and stayed motionless, recalling the captain’s words.

“Plenty bad guy working river. Not safe.”

“Right, but on the Laos side, there’s a dirt road that parallels the river, and enough traffic to and from the farms, so it’s probably okay, isn’t it?”

The captain had shaken his head. “No work that way. Drug gang run that part Laos. Bad news. Farmers pay protection. But druggies everywhere. Plenty guns. Shoot first, no ask questions. Many disappear there.”

“What about the Myanmar side?”

“Worse. Even Laos druggies scared of Myanmar.”

Reggie glanced down at the peashooter that was his only defense and then back to the trail ahead. The captain had explained that if the dirt road was dangerous, the trails were worse — that’s where the caravans of beasts of burden laden with sacks of candy-coated methamphetamine tablets, referred to as yaba, worked their way south, accompanied by heavily armed traffickers who would kill anyone they encountered.

A procession of Laotians came into view, their AKs unmistakable even through the dense vegetation. They were leading a half-dozen mules carrying packs heavy with yaba bound for the metropolitan areas of Thailand, where the meth and caffeine blend was the most popular drug in the country, especially among sex workers and in the thriving nightclub scene. Reggie shrank back and willed himself to blend in with the darkened jungle — as lethal as he was, his odds against six automatic rifles were nil.

The men didn’t seem to be expecting trouble, though, judging by their chatter and the cigarettes. Reggie wasn’t sure whether to find it reassuring or troubling that they seemed so unconcerned. While it meant that they were less likely to have their antennae finely tuned, it also spoke to the security they must feel — reinforcing that, as the captain had warned, they were a law unto themselves.

Reggie remained still as the column filed past his hiding place, and was ready to issue a sigh of relief when one of the mules snorted in alarm, its eyes focused on where he crouched. Reggie silently did the math on the number of rounds in his pistol and, at thirty to forty yards, the likelihood of being able to hit all the men before they could turn their higher power weapons on him. Even though he was a marksman whose accuracy was far above the norm, one semiautomatic handgun against a hail of fully auto fire was suicide.

He controlled his breathing, forcing his heart rate lower in preparation for his last stand, his finger hovering over the trigger. His eyes darted to the side — a fallen tree, rotting, but possibly still solid enough to provide cover. He would take out the leader first, a straightforward kill shot, and then dive for the log and pick off as many of the men as he could before they nailed him. The prospect was grim, but Reggie had long ago resigned himself to death, and a small part of him believed that going out in a blaze might be preferable to a slow decline in the climate-controlled air of an office in Washington.

The lead man peered into the brush, now on alert, and then his companion raised his rifle. The leader said something in rapid-fire Laotian, and the man nodded and began an approach. Reggie steadily raised the Browning and drew a bead on the man’s sweating face, and then dropped his aim to the center of his chest — a shot to the torso at that range was a sure thing, a head shot less certain.

The man kept coming and Reggie’s finger tightened on the trigger. As he was squeezing it, the man froze, his eyes wide. Reggie let some pressure off as the gunman backed carefully away, his gaze fixed on the ground in front of him, not on Reggie. He returned to the column, and Reggie understood what had happened to save the trafficker’s life when he pantomimed flaps opening at the side of his neck as the others laughed.

The group continued on its way and Reggie turned his attention to the brush, where he was sure one of the myriad king cobras that called the area home was lurking. He maintained his position for five minutes, eyes roaming over the jungle floor, before rising and making his way gingerly to the trail, giving the suspect area a wide berth. Aside from being deadly, cobras were fiercely territorial, and he didn’t want to tempt fate twice in a handful of minutes.

He veered west and made it to a clearing near the river. After checking the satellite phone signal and altering his position slightly, he made a call.

His control answered in seconds. “What happened?”

“I had company. Some of the local rabble. But I can talk now.”

“Is the situation stable?”

“As much as any around here.”

“We heard from the Thai guide — they’re moving into Myanmar this morning. They found the plane and will hit the trail at dawn.”

“So too late for me to join them?”

“Affirmative.”

“Why didn’t they wait?”

“The guide said that it was a nonstarter. There’s a warlord in control of the area, and a local is going to act as their envoy to ensure safe passage. He’s got ties to the Shans. But the more unfamiliar faces, the more risk, so he didn’t want to chance it. The local doesn’t know this is an agency op, either, and explaining you would have taken some doing.”

“I get it. How should I proceed?”

“We have the approximate coordinates for the plane. You should shadow them if you can pick up their trail to the wreck site.” The control told him the longitude and latitude, and he fished an aluminum shaft pen from his pocket and wrote the information on a slip of paper.

“Should I make myself known?”

“Only if absolutely necessary. The guide understands he’s to retrieve anything that looks pertinent: remains of computers, flash drives, CDs, that sort of thing. Although given the circumstances, it’s unlikely there’s going to be much besides wreckage.”

“Why don’t I just go through it if I arrive first?”

“You won’t be able to from where you are. They’ve got a hell of a head start.”

“Roger that. What can you tell me about the Shans?”

The control gave him a brief rundown, and when he was done, Reggie was silent for several moments. When he spoke, he chose his words carefully. “Any chance of getting me some backup? All I’ve got is a pistol. Sounds like I could use SEAL Team Six.”

“We discussed it. We’re putting out the word to see if we can locate any friendlies in Myanmar. But don’t count on it. Best case, maybe we can get you some heavier ordnance.”

Which meant he was on his own. Reggie knew how the system worked. They wanted to keep him deniable, and a larger presence would jeopardize that. At the end of the day, Reggie was expendable, as were all field assets. The mission always came first.

“I’ll check back in once I’m across the river. Don’t bother calling. I’m shutting the phone off to save battery. Sounds like I’m going to be out here a while.”

“Understood.”

Reggie powered down and considered his next step. He’d need to find a way across the Mekong, which was easily three hundred yards at its narrowest point in that region, so negotiating it on his own was out of the question. Which meant he’d need a boat. Of course, the captain was history now, Reggie having moved from his campsite, assuming the Thai ever returned.

He set off north, hoping that he could find a native who would exchange safe passage for a fistful of dollars. Reggie was confident he would — the only question was how much time it would take to find someone.

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