Silent Vengeance

Chapter 23

Traveling in the Bang Rak District, Holcomb drove along the main road, then turned left onto Naret Alley. He parked in front of an abandoned, rusted 1968 Toyota Stout pickup truck.

Banyon looked out the windshield, trying to distinguish buildings in the darkened, rundown neighborhood. On one side of the single lane road were vacant stores with apartments above. Most were abandoned, but an occasional dim light filtered through blinds. Across from them a yellow-colored safety fence blocked off a row of vacant lots. Chunks of concrete, scattered pieces of wood, metal, glass were all that remained of demolished buildings.

"Where the hell is the place?"

"We've gotta walk from here." Holcomb pointed ahead, then motioned to the left. "It's about 50 feet down a side driveway." He turned on his flashlight. "C'mon."

Banyon kept his right hand on his holstered .38 while he aimed the beam of his flashlight from side to side.

The small beams were all that provided light along a driveway nearly 100 feet long. A ten-foot high, chipped and cracked concrete wall ran its entire length. Green-black mold was spreading in a jagged pattern along its base. On the opposite side of the driveway was a row of apartments, each with a garage, protected by a flimsy, roll-up metal door.

"This is it," Holcomb pointed, walking to a faded blue door next to the last garage.

"You followed him here?"

"Yeah. I waited hours until everyone finally left before I got inside the place. Then it took me a helluva long time to find where they were producing the shit." He reached into his pocket, and removed a small leather lock pick case. "Keep an eye out." Banyon drew his .38 as Holcomb worked the lock. It clicked. Holcomb slid his weapon from the holster, then both men entered quickly.

Reynaldo Flores had been on his second "trip" around the roof's perimeter, when a slight noise caught his attention. Voices? Gripping the Uzi, he hustled to the south side of the roof, then got down on a knee. As he leaned over the edge, he caught sight of two men with flashlights just as they disappeared inside. It was impossible to tell who they were, but he reasoned it wasn't anyone from the group. No signal had been given. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. How the hell did someone find this place?!

Being careful where he stepped, and staying quiet, he walked back to the wooden hatch. Getting close to the opening, he aimed the weapon down the ladder, while he listened for any sounds that could indicate someone was climbing the stairs to the second floor. If that happened, the ladder extending up to the roof would surely give away his position. Suddenly, a beam of light glowed in the darkness, moving along the lower staircase. He backed up and held his breath. He waited.

The light from Banyon's flashlight settled on a narrow staircase directly opposite the door. "What's up there?" he whispered, shining the light toward the top.

"Empty space." Holcomb walked behind the stairwell and pushed open a panel. "C'mon, and watch your step. It's blacker than hell down there. Close that panel."

"No lights?"

"There's a generator out back, used only when they're working."

Banyon stood on the bottom step, aiming his flashlight toward the middle of the room. The light glinted off a stainless steel pill-making machine, one of five placed on a long wooden table made of rough planks. The machines were all electric, 21"x12"x9", and could produce more than 5,000 pills each, per hour.

As Banyon went to get an up close look, Holcomb shined the flashlight around the perimeter of the room. Five rows of dilapidated shelving held ingredients. Along one wall empty boxes had already been assembled and piled one on top of the other. On the opposite wall, the side where the machines "punched" out the pills, cardboard boxes were taped shut, ready for delivery.

"Sonny," Banyon whispered. "Look."

Holcomb walked toward the table, as Banyon shined the light on several orange pills scattered in a stainless steel tray. Holcomb was nearing the table, when a noise overhead made him freeze. They hurried across the room, shut off the flashlights, then took up positions under the stairs.

Flores cautiously walked to the front door, then reached for the doorknob. Unlocked! Was it possible the intruders left while he waited on the roof — or were they still in the basement? He slowly opened the door, then looked both ways along the alley. All he heard were vehicles along the main road. Overhead was the sound of a commercial jet making its approach to Bangkok airport. He closed the door.

With boxes already packed, it would've been easy for someone to make off with a few. If that happened, and knowing Mendoza's accuracy with inventory records, would Mendoza accuse him of stealing? He pictured Quibin's body when they were through with him. Would that be his fate? What he found in the basement — or didn't find — would determine his next move.

Shifting the Uzi around to his back, he drew his pistol, then went to the staircase and lifted a flashlight from a hook. He opened the panel then listened. Nothing. Gripping his pistol, he took slow, careful steps.

Stepping onto the concrete floor, he stayed on alert, as his eyes followed the light. The only place for someone to hide, was…

Holcomb's voice boomed. "Hands up! Hands up!" Within an instant, a light was shining on Flores, casting his shadow on the opposite wall. Holcomb finally saw the Uzi and pistol. "Drop those fuckin' weapons!"

Flores froze, but he continued gripping his pistol and flashlight. A decision. He had to make a decision. He dropped the flashlight.

Holcomb ordered again, "Lose the goddamn guns!"

Flores refused, thinking that if he fired at the light, he might not hit it, but he'd more than likely hit the aggressor, and possibly give him a chance to escape.

Banyon was tired of screwing around. He crept up behind Flores, and hit him in the back of the head with his revolver, just enough to stun him. As Flores started to fall, Banyon spun him around, and punched him hard in the solar plexus, taking his breath away. Flores fell to his knees in pain. Banyon jerked the pistol from his hand.

Holcomb knelt down, and yanked the Uzi strap over his head, handing it to Banyon. He grabbed Flores by the shirt. "Tell me who's in charge of this operation! It can't be you!" Flores squinted in pain, trying to regain his breath. But he remained defiant.

Banyon dropped to a knee, then jammed his .38 against Flores' temple. "Unless you wanna die right now, answer the fuckin' question!" Flores refused again.

Holcomb was about to reveal his knowledge of the dead Quibin, hoping his assumption was correct. He lowered his voice. "We can do to you what you and your friends did to Quibin."

Flores' eyes went wide. What he feared Mendoza would do to him, these men were threatening. "Mendoza! Rodel Mendoza!"

That didn't mean a damn thing to Holcomb. "Do you know where he is?!"

"Yes."

Banyon pressed his gun harder against the temple. "You're not fucking with us, are you?!"

"No!"

"Find something to tie him with, then get the car." Holcomb kept a grip on Flores, as he waited.

Ten minutes later, the three men were in the Daihatsu. Holcomb switched on the ignition then made a K-turn in the narrow roadway.