Ransom Drop Read online

  Ransom Drop

  By

  Mike Sullivan

  Book Two of the Sam Seabury Series

  Credits Page

  Damnation Books, LLC.

  P.O. Box 3931

  Santa Rosa, CA 95402-9998

  www.damnationbooks.com

  Ransom Drop

  Book 2 of the Sam Seabury Series

  by Mike Sullivan

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-62929-061-4

  Print ISBN: 978-1-62929-062-1

  Cover art by: Dawné Dominique

  Edited by: Juanita Kees

  Copyright 2013 Mike Sullivan

  Printed in the United States of America

  Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights

  Worldwide English Language Print Rights

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication page

  To Sothara & Jayda with love.

  To all the staff at Damnation Books, thanks for all your help and support.

  “Everywhere on our planet one hand greases another. Often it’s done with a bloated face, wearing a serpent’s smile.”

  —M. Sullivan

  Chapter One

  In a corner of his Bangkok office, Sam Seabury—new owner of Private Artifacts Ltd—lifted heavy barbells high into the air. “One…two…three…aah!”

  The veins in his rock-hard biceps ballooned like black snakes under the bronze skin of his powerful arms. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and his muscular body strained and quaked as he grunted. With big, brawny hands, he brushed thick curls of black hair off his boyishly handsome face. His body tensed as his muscles strained under the stress of the workout. At age thirty-five, he felt strong and energetic.

  Finished, he leaned over and released the barbells onto the floor. He straightened, expelled a loud whoosh of air from his lungs, and he was finished. The shower at the rear of his office was a welcome refuge as he allowed the cool water to sluice the sweat from his body. It also gave him time to remember why he put himself through the rigors of training.

  Getting his ass kicked, like the time he’d gotten his ass kicked as a ten-year-old in front of his friends after school, had left a lasting impression. The incident had left his ego bruised and battered for years. He was over the humiliation now, but the image of the other boy—a wild, reckless, brown-haired, younger boy—had torn at him unmercifully. He rationalized that at the time he was simply out of shape, knew nothing about boxing, was a little too scrawny, and could have done better if only he’d been in better condition.

  Now, he was a workout fanatic, pushing his burly body beyond the limits, and torturing himself with a daily regimen of bench presses, curls, squats, and abdominal crunches—even aerobics to increase his stamina.

  Stepping out of the shower, he toweled himself dry and dressed quickly in a pair of tanned chinos, a chambray shirt, and his favorite deck shoes. He grinned at the reflection of his face in the shaving mirror.

  Oh, sure. He’d have an occasional beer. One had to have some vices. He’d quit smoking ten years before, gone cold turkey. Instead, he chewed pack after pack of sugarless minty gum, which kept his breath fresh and his teeth clean, sparkling white. Women liked his smile. They told him so, straight to his face, without the slightest trace of embarrassment.

  A merchant seaman, Seabury was promoted to the rank of Chief Boatswain’s Mate and had sailed the great oceans of the world, hauling cargo on bulk freighters for large commercial corporations. Recently, however, he’d rented an office near his high-rise apartment and hired a secretary to run a business that dealt in the procurement and sales of both Thai and Middle Eastern antiquities. Maybe not the best of business arrangements since at times, he would be out to sea for months at a time.

  Seabury had a knack for reading body language and judging people. He found a trustworthy secretary and made her a share-owner by giving her a stake in the business, so he trusted her. For the past eighteen months, things had worked out well.

  These days though, business wasn’t occupying his mind nearly as much as the pictures of the murders he’d seen all over the Internet. Those grisly photos of a dark, depraved side of human behavior and the cold, senseless brutality of the murders disturbed him. It wasn’t often that a crime scene affected him this way. Like a plunge into a frigid pond on a day when the temperature dropped below freezing—that kind of sensation. He found the grisly images hard to expel from his mind. What struck Seabury hardest was the sight of the bus driver’s face. It resembled a bloody stump taken off at the knee. Just blood, bone and tissue—no indication of the face ever having had a pair of eyes, a nose, or a chin. He wondered what kind of monster would do a thing like that to another human being.

  He was also clueless as to why the Laotian media would release the bus driver’s photo that way, or why the photos of the military police officers who’d been reported killed, were conveniently excluded. Also, why weren’t the dead women covered before their naked bodies were shown to the world? Where he’d come from in Honolulu, pictures like these were rarely shown in such graphic detail on television or in the newspapers.

  Seabury could almost see it now in his mind’s eye. A dark and deserted road, a group of rebel soldiers, and the busload of passengers eating at a roadside restaurant. He’d read accounts of bandits operating on the roads in central Laos. Last month, a Hmong rebel commander hijacked a busload of passengers. He used a Kalashnikov to riddle the side of the tour bus with deadly bullets while involved in a high-speed chase. He killed the driver and two MPs stationed on the bus. The bus crashed into a wall of dark, volcanic rock, killing four passengers, three women, one man, and injuring a dozen or so others. Along with three soldiers, he entered the bus, riddling the twisted metal with a burst of gunfire.

  He ordered the survivors out of the bus and marched them back into the forest. Alongside the irrigation ditch, he made the men, twenty in number, strip to the waist. He ordered his soldiers to execute them, with shots to the back of the head.

  Later, in a clearing inside the forest, he and his men raped the fifteen women who survived the bus crash. Shots rang out inside the forest a while later when he lined them up to face the ditch, ending their lives in a hail of bullets. One-by—one, the women toppled over into the dark, muddy waters of the ditch to join their husbands and boyfriends in death.

  Seabury read about the murders with the chill of a frosty morning slicing through his veins.

  * * * *

  That afternoon, at a minute before five o’clock in Vientiane Laos, the soft, feminine, and almost erotic voice of radio host Kamea Bee carried over the airwaves.

  “Coming up next, at the top of the hour, we’re live at five on All News Action Radio. Hello, I’m Kamea Bee, broadcasting live from our brand new studio in Vientiane, keeping you informed of special events and breaking news, and airing the kind of current, hard-edged interviews that other stations in Laos refuse to do.

  My guest tonight is Colonel Maran Tint of our very own Pathet Lao Military Police, whose distinguished career dates back over two decades. He was a Major in the Burmese Army, a Special Ops paramilitary in three foreign wars, and until recently, Deputy Warden at the famed Black Swallow Detention Center. Tell me, Colonel, does the reason you agreed to appear on tonight’s prog
ram on short notice have anything to do with the military buildup taking place up north near the Vietnam border?”

  The Colonel responded in the low, esoteric tones of east Burma. “It has, yes. I’m a very busy man, Kamea, as you can see from my schedule, but not too busy to keep people informed about issues involving National Security.”

  “The phones have been ringing off the hook here at the station. Our listeners are worried about their homes and families. They wonder if a civil war is going to break out, soon. They’ve been asking questions and looking for answers that, quite frankly, I can’t give them. What can you tell us about the situation, Colonel?”

  “At the present time, there are rebel forces camped near Phou Pha Thi Mountain. One main camp and two smaller are located in a quadrant fifteen miles west of the North Vietnam border. The rebels—I call them terrorists, because that’s what they are—have M20 single shot grenade launchers. They have assault rifle ammunition—enough for their Kalashnikov’s—to last four or five days. This, I can tell you.”

  “What seems to be the problem, Colonel? Laos has been at peace for decades.”

  “Simply stated, these terrorists want to stage a coup and overthrow the government.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  “Serious. Hah! Only if you let things get out of control. Let me say this to you and the audience listening. At the present time, the 2nd Army Division has been deployed to the area. They are clearing it out now using aerial bombardment and heavy artillery. It won’t be long before the terrorists are on their knees, begging for mercy.”

  “Phou Pha Thi Mountain? Wasn’t that once the stronghold of Vang Pao, the famed revolutionary who ravaged the country during the 1970s?”

  “It was, yes.”

  “Then, you’ve no doubt heard the news about Pao. He died recently in America.”

  “I’ve always been a firm believer in the adage that every dog has his day. And no, I won’t lose sleep over it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Judging by your reaction, it seems I’ve struck a nerve.”

  “I have no great love for Vang Pao, if that’s what you’re implying.” He shook his head, his voice tense, haughty.

  “I’m implying nothing more than what seems to be the general consensus about him, Colonel. Actually, I think we’re on the same page when it comes to Pao, but let’s not stray off topic. What more can you tell us about the rebels?”

  “A new generation of armed revolutionaries has emerged, taking Vang Pao’s place. They call themselves the Rebel Army for Liberation and go by the nickname the Red Wall. Their aim, as I just mentioned, is to overthrow the government. Let me tell you this is not going to happen. Not on my watch.”

  “How large is the group?”

  “Not large. We estimate about four or five hundred. These terrorists, disguised as common villagers, sweep across the countryside, randomly attacking our troops and murdering innocent people. They claim to want to live in a free, democratic country. One not ruled by communists, the military or, heaven forbid, a powerful bureaucratic elite. Hogwash—that’s all it is. Hogwash.” Tint caught his breath and went on. “These terrorists will fail, make no mistake about it. They will fail the same way Vang Pao’s reign of terror failed here years ago. I’m glad you asked about the terrorists, Kamea. As I speak, two things are happening, now…”

  Kamea adjusted her headset. She nodded, and Marin Tint continued.

  “We’re engaging them on two separate fronts. One group is camped near Phou Pha Thi Mountain. The other is a group of bandits operating on our highways…that I will get back to later.”

  “I’m not following you,” responded Kamea. “What I’m not clear about is who the rebels are. Are most of them hill-tribe Hmong?”

  “No. Most of them are paid-for-hire mercenaries funded by the Americans, but that isn’t to say some Hmong aren’t involved in acts of terror, because they are. The number, from my estimation, is less than a hundred.

  The mercenaries, on the other hand, operate here strictly for profit and are brainwashed by forces operating within Amnesty International. This group of liberal, hyperactive misfits only knows one thing—how to cause trouble. They use propaganda to spin the truth and tell lies to the rest of the world every day. They call air strikes and use of heavy artillery against defenseless people in war crimes. They claim that the Pathet Lao Army is conducting a campaign of genocide against the Hmong. They’ve petitioned the United Nations to stop what they call ‘extra-judicial killing’ from taking place here.”

  “Colonel, please. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. News through the grapevine indicates that excessive force has been used all along against the Hmong. Of course, it’s only speculation, without any hard, factual evidence.”

  “And there won’t be any hard, factual evidence.” The colonel’s face flushed, and his voice shot up higher, “because none of it is true. These liberal misfits accuse the Pathet Lao Army of joining forces with North Vietnam. They say we’re engaged in a campaign of defoliation and the use of chemical warfare against the Hmong. All of it is rubbish, just total, absolute rubbish. I have personally coordinated operations in the north-eastern provinces, and I can assure you, none of this is happening. Where do these liberals get their information from, anyway—a daily tabloid?”

  “Colonel,” said Kamea. “You mentioned a second group operating on our highways.”

  “I did, Kamea. They are bandits, probably from one of the local villages operating up north. We think they are part of the same terrorist cell camped near Phou Pha Thai Mountain. At this time, however, we aren’t sure. Instead of sweeping down from the mountains and attacking our troops, they sneak out of the forest like jackals and hijack our tour buses. They’re operating in a quadrant south of the town of Phonsavan, where tour buses normally drive along Highway 7 toward the World Heritage site at the Plain of Jars. I can assure you that the robbery and murder of innocent people touring our country will not be tolerated. These criminals will be caught and punished.”

  “Colonel, how can you not account for the rice tax which, in my view, is excessive and keeps the Hmong poor,” said Kamea, her soft voice a contrast for the harshness of the circumstances. “They pay the tax without protest, but afterwards have little else left to live on.”

  “The Hmong are not poor. The government provides loans and cash subsidies and has built schools for their children, and no. I’m not going to debate with you, Kamea, if that’s your intention. I realize your ratings are important, but I won’t fall into that trap. Have you now become a Human Rights Liberal?” The colonel laughed derisively.

  Kamea’s warm voice suddenly went cold. “I report only from research based on fact.”

  “With due respect, your research is wrong. The government provided money for the Hmong. Excessive force has never been used against them. It is used only on rebel troops—mostly paid mercenary—who attack our soldiers and pillage the countryside.”

  “Then, I can quote you on this, Colonel? No excessive force has ever been used against the Hmong?”

  “As sure as the sun rises each morning, that is how sure I am. You see, the Pathet Lao Army is one of the most well-trained, well-organized armies in the world. They are trained in guerrilla warfare tactics, karate, and Judo, and in the use of high-powered weaponry. But…and let me repeat this… for you and your audience, the PLA does not wage war against its own people.”

  “I’ve known you a long time, Colonel. Let’s be honest. There are people in this country who are critical about your motives for being here. They say you are nothing more than a slick opportunist, out to serve your own self-interests.”

  Tint began to laugh.

  “Why the laughter, Colonel?”

  “I am amused by the accusations, because there is absolutely no truth whatsoever to them. True, I am Burmese by birth and not Laotian, but no one has to remind me of my place in this country. My place is to serve the State. My job is National Security, and I can assure you tha
t I take both very seriously. My mission is to see that law and order are upheld here, whatever the cost. If by doing so, I am labeled an opportunist, then so be it. I have a mission to complete and a job to do. So, to all those critics and naysayers who have called me an opportunist, I would like to remind them that nothing will stop me from bringing these terrorists to justice.”

  “Well, there you have it, folks. Colonel Maran Tint keeping us informed of military operations taking place inside the country. It’s been a pleasure talking to you, and I wish you the best of luck completing your mission.”

  “Thank you, Kamea. I appreciate the kind words.”

  As the radio show ended with the Lao national anthem, Kamea Bee removed her headset and asked, “Why do I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me, Colonel?”

  Chapter Two

  “I’m telling you, Victoria,” said Hyde Greer, “Stark wants you dead, floating face-down in the river. That’s how crazy he is.”

  Greer glanced past his partner, Navarro Lopez, to the back seat of the car where two women sat. One was a short, small-boned, Chinese beauty with long, raven hair, dark brown eyes, and a look of terror sweeping across her heart-shaped face, tarnishing her eye-catching beauty. Her red, full-lipped mouth shriveled into what resembled the petal of a dying flower…and she was sinking rapidly into the depths of despair. Her tall, stringy girlfriend—a blue-eyed blonde from Stuttgart—tried to comfort her. The blonde wore a butch cut, tattoos, and a zirconium earring strung from her left lobe. She looked worried.

  Victoria Hong said, “He wants to kill me just because I fell in love? Is that what you’re saying, Hyde?”

  Greer hit the marijuana joint again, held the smoke deep in his lungs, and let it go. Navarro—a fat, doughy, out-of-shape thirty-year-old Mexican—reached for the joint, took a hit, and handed it back to Hyde.