Page 43

Dimitry

Bangkok, Thailand

I t’s midmorning when we land in Bangkok.

“Best not to fuck about.” Paddy, Luke’s old army contact, keeps his chin tucked and cap on as he leads us through the teeming crowds in the airport.

“Keep your head down, don’t make eye contact, and you better hope nobody’s expecting you, because Thai immigration leaks worse than a fucking army tent. ”

We do as he says all the way through the taxi ride through the Bangkok suburbs.

We pull up in a street filled with market stalls and local restaurants, then follow Paddy through a door beside one of them and up a set of stairs to an apartment above the restaurant.

It’s basic, just one bedroom, a bathroom, and a basic kitchen, but it’s neat and clean.

Paddy pulls out enough folding chairs to seat us and serves up some cold drinks. “So.” He takes a pull on his soda and eyes Luke. “How much shit are you in? ”

Briefly Luke fills him in. Paddy listens, nodding occasionally.

He’s lean and wiry, with a face that looks like it’s taken more than its fair share of punches.

Like Luke, there’s no ink anywhere on him; the special forces boys keep their skin clean, Luke told me once, to avoid being easily identified if they’re caught behind enemy lines.

I catch him studying me out of the corner of his eye a couple of times, but he waits until Luke’s given him a quick rundown before turning to me.

“You’re not going to be able to move in this town without drawing attention,” he says bluntly.

“Which, going by the ink on your arms, you should know already.” He frowns at me.

“What’s a bratva boy doing in town without connections?

Your people own this place. Even the fucking menus are in Russian.

If you’ve got trouble, why don’t you call them? ”

I avoid Pete’s curious eyes. I’m definitely not about to start explaining the Russian mafia to Abby’s father.

“This is off book,” I say shortly. “I need it to stay that way.”

Paddy sits back in his chair and lights a cigarette. “No chance,” he says amiably. “Or not for long, at least. Your people have eyes everywhere, and the triads have eyes wherever the Russians don’t. Either way, by the sound of it, you’ll have people wanting to talk with you soon enough.”

“Then we need to move fast.” I’m in little mood for a security lecture. “Luke told you there was a contract out on Abby. Do you know anything about it?”

Pete tenses in his chair at the word contract , his eyes narrowing as he looks between us.

Tough , I think. You wanted to come. Now you’re going to find out all the things you’d rather not know.

Paddy shrugs. “Nope. Not my line of work, or at least, not on my home turf. Never shit where you eat,” he adds, taking a drink. “I make a living supplying others with what they need, but I stay out of their business. ”

“Can you point us in the direction of one of these others that you supply, then?” I keep my voice even with an effort.

“Here’s your problem.” Paddy’s Irish brogue may sound whimsical, but his eyes are sharp as glass.

“The minute you ask a question of men like that, you’re going to have a lot of dangerous people asking you harder ones.

I would suggest using old mate here.” He nods at Pete.

“No offense, cock, but all you need is a floral shirt, and you’ll look like every other white middle-aged tourist from Australia who’s had a rough divorce and is out here looking for a bit of local fun.

The most dangerous thing you’ll get offered is a rub and tug from a ladyboy.

And you’ve got the perfect cover: a concerned father looking for his daughter.

It will be a while before you draw attention.

Even then, the worst that will happen is you get a bit of a rough-up and warned to stop asking.

The part we watch for is who turns up to give you that warning.

That’s when we’ll know who we’re dealing with. ”

“So you want me to walk into some dark places and chat with some unsavory people.” Pete gives me a shit-eating grin. “Good thing I came along after all, hey, Dimitry?”

Lucky you’re Abby’s father, you old prick. I settle for glaring at him.

“So Pete starts asking questions,” I say, “then we watch for who comes to rough him up. Any ideas where he should start?”

Paddy eyes me through his cigarette smoke. “From what Luke says, the contract on Abby is an old one, correct?”

I nod. “Going back several years. But we think the actual hit was put out from Colombia.”

“Colombia.” He narrows his eyes, thinking. “So she was dealing powder.”

I wince inwardly, not daring to look at Pete. Way to shatter all his illusions in one conversation.

“That means she would have been out on the islands,” Paddy says, “where the backpackers go. That’s the only place they use Westerners to shift product.”

To my surprise, Pete interjects. “Abby told her mother she met her boyfriend on an island.” He doesn’t sound half as shaken as I expected. “Ko Pha Ngan, I think she said it was called.” He says the unfamiliar name awkwardly.

“That fits.” Paddy nods. “Ko Pha Ngan is famous for drug-fueled full moon parties, or at least it was back then. That’s not good news, though.” He looks pointedly at my ink. “Ko Pha Ngan is triad territory, not bratva.”

“That’s not a problem,” Luke says. “Like we told you, Dimitry would rather keep this out of bratva circles.”

“Probably wise.” Paddy finishes his cigarette and lights another. “The triads and the bratva aren’t on the best of terms in Bangkok.”

I nod. “I’m not looking to start a war.”

“Yeah, well.” He shoots me a baleful look.

“You Russian boys came in hard a few years back. Took over a lot of business, including the party drug scene. Powder and opium are about the only parts of the drug trade the triads still control, and even then, they’ve lost a lot of the high end.

Rumor has it most of the product they move these days goes to Australia. ”

I don’t give a shit.

“Look.” I try to keep the impatience out of my voice. “I’m not here to cause you trouble. I just need to get Abby back. Can you help us, or do we need to go somewhere else?”

Paddy grimaces. “Steady on, cock. I can definitely arm you and get you a lead. But that’s a long way from finding your girl. And to be honest—”

I glare at him. Don’t say it, you Irish prick. I shift my eyes warningly toward Pete.

Paddy, getting the message, shuts his mouth obediently.

“So.” I try to change the subject.

Unfortunately, Pete is clearly paying attention. “What were you going to say, Paddy?” When we all look away awkwardly, his face darkens. “Just fucking say it,” he snaps.

You asked for it, old man.

“A contract is a kill order,” I say flatly. “What Paddy doesn’t want to say is that even if we do find Abby, it’s likely we won’t find her alive.”

Which is something I’ve been trying not to fucking think about from the moment Turbo told me she was taken.

Pete stares at me for a long time.

“Then what the fuck are we doing sitting around here?” His voice is slightly hoarse, but no less sure. “Get me one of those ugly floral shirts, and let’s make like tourists.”