Ignition jet, p.14
Ignition: JET, page 14
Darkness had fallen earlier, and an amber glow seeped from shuttered windows. Inside, six men sat around a table, bowls of stew and bottles of strong beer before them, an ashtray playing the role of centerpiece. Thrash metal pounded from the speaker of an old-school stereo system, and the peeling walls were bare of art or photos, matching the stark furniture and dearth of anything remotely homey.
“They should have been back hours ago,” the oldest of the men growled in Romanian, his face heavily lined and sun-burnished, his nose crooked from countless bar fights, his balding hair cut close to his scalp.
“You know them, Nicu,” another said. “Probably stopped someplace and got too drunk to drive. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I don’t like it,” Nicu said. “They aren’t answering their phone. They could be in custody. In which case, we’re all screwed and should be out of here.”
“We would have been tipped off if that had happened. Besides, it isn’t like we can move the lab in a hurry,” the man responded. “We’ll need a box van or a cargo truck. Not to mention how explosive the chemicals are.”
Nicu pushed his plate away and fished a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his denim vest. He lit one and blew smoke at the others and pointed a pair of stubby fingers at them.
“Go find them, Cristi. I don’t like surprises,” he snapped.
“All of us?”
Nicu frowned. “You and your brother. Andrei can stay here and keep me company. The cops are still looking for him, so he shouldn’t leave the house.”
Cristi nodded and regarded the other men. “Good point. What about Luca and Dorian?”
Luca stared at Cristi without expression. “You need us to hold your hand?”
Nicu laughed. “Just the two of you. Not like it’s that big a place. We don’t need to attract a bunch of attention.”
Cristi stood. “Come on, Stefan.”
The brothers left, and Nicu shook his head as he reached for his beer. “Whatever those morons have gotten themselves into, we should never use them again,” he said.
“They know how to cook the dope. And they’re loyal. Nobody ever said they were responsible,” Andrei shot back.
“If they got themselves arrested, it’s on you. They’re your buddies.”
“They may be idiots, but they know better than that. Nobody wants to go back to jail.”
“Then what’s your excuse?”
Andrei offered a crooked grin and held up two fingers, signaling for a cigarette. “I had no idea she was fifteen. That’ll blow over soon enough. They have better things to do.”
“I had no idea she was human. I thought you’d found a hog to slaughter,” Luca said. Everyone laughed, and Nicu tossed the packet of smokes to Andrei.
“Seriously, though,” Nicu said. “Dorian, how long do you think it would take to pack up the lab if we have to?”
Dorian studied his boots. “Maybe half a day. But we’ve got shipments to make, remember? We stiff anyone and they won’t care why.”
“I can handle that, if it comes down to it. But let’s hope we don’t have to move. This place is perfect.” Nicu took a long drag of his cigarette. “I told everyone to lie low. This really pisses me off.”
Andrei nodded. Nicu was a meth manufacturer and as ruthless as they came. He was infamous in the business for a zero-tolerance attitude for nonpayment or excuses, and Andrei knew of at least a half dozen he’d killed for treachery since they’d started the business six years earlier. If Lucian and his dimwitted cousin had done anything to jeopardize the enterprise, Nicu wouldn’t hesitate to slit their throats.
Cristi and Stefan bounced along the road into town, their ancient Mitsubishi SUV’s shocks far past the point of no return, the interior reeking of stale smoke and body odor. Once on the main drag, they cruised past the usual bars Lucian and his cousin frequented, looking for their truck, but saw nothing. They parked at the most popular watering hole and took a lap inside, but didn’t see their boys, and after repeating the exercise in three other places, got back into their vehicle and stared at the dashboard.
“What now?” Cristi asked.
“Maybe they got into an accident? Got shitfaced and ran off the road? I’ve almost done it enough times,” Stefan said.
“You think they might have gotten arrested?”
“If so, their truck would be in the lot by the police station. We’ll go by on the way out of town.”
Stefan started the engine, and they rolled along the street until they reached the police station. It was a small building, and the impound lot consisted of nothing more than a parking area beside it, encircled with a fence. A sorry collection of old economy cars was parked inside collecting dust, but there was no lifted truck.
“Well, that’s a relief, I guess,” Cristi said.
“Yep. Now we have to look for accidents. Stupid bastards…”
They retraced their route to the house and drove slowly, high beams on, looking for any signs of skid marks. They were at one of the hairpin turns three-quarters of a kilometer past their drive when Cristi grabbed Stefan’s arm and pointed. “There, see? Over by the shoulder.”
Stefan pulled to the side of the road and squinted into the darkness before swinging his door open. His brother opened the glove compartment and removed a flashlight, and together they made their way to the edge of the drop. Cristi directed the beam down the hill and swept it, but saw nothing but brush and trees.
Stefan turned to him. “The bushes are flattened. They must be down there, but a decent way. I can’t make anything out from here.” He peered into the gloom and removed his cell phone and switched on the flashlight. “Come on.”
They picked their way down the drop and stopped at a rock outcropping, below which was an even steeper slope. At the bottom, they could just make out the truck below them, crumpled against a tree like a flattened tin can, missing two of its wheels.
“Damn,” Cristi whispered.
“I’ll say. Let’s see whether they’re in there.”
Stefan led the way to the cab and recoiled at the sight of the driver, obviously dead, hanging halfway through the shattered windshield, his skull crushed and half his face torn off. Cristi played the flashlight over Lucian in the passenger seat and then called to his brother, “He’s alive!”
Stefan redirected his phone light to where Lucian was wedged between the dashboard and bench seat, covered in blood, his nose ruined and one eye bulging from the socket, struggling for breath. He shuddered at the light and managed a hoarse whisper.
“Help me…”
“It’s Stefan and Cristi. What happened?” Stefan said.
Lucian tried to twist to look at Stefan, but gave up, the pain too much.
“We…ran off…the road. Other guy…must be…a cop. Drove…like a…pro…”
“What other guy?” Stefan demanded.
The injured man coughed, and blood trickled from his mouth. “Help me.”
“The other guy, Lucian. Who is he? Describe him.”
“Old…Jeep. Tall.”
“Hair color? How old?”
“Please. I’m…hurt bad.”
“We’ll do what we can. But what color hair did he have, and how old is he?”
“Cristi, it’s…that guy from…the market…yesterday…”
Cristi had been in town with Lucian the prior morning, bored and looking for amusement as they stocked up on supplies, and he remembered the man.
“With the little girl?” Cristi asked.
“Urgh…yes…”
Cristi straightened and looked at his brother. “I know who he’s talking about. Looks pretty hard. Could be a cop.”
“Get…me…out. Help. Please,” Lucian said, and ended with a gurgling moan.
Stefan stepped away from the cab. “It’s a miracle he’s still alive. It’s been hours.”
“How are we going to get him up to the car?”
Stefan shook his head. “We’d have to get him to a hospital…and that would open us up to all kinds of questions. Assuming we could even get him out of there. He looks like the dash cut him in two. There’s no way.”
Cristi’s eyes widened. “We can’t just leave him. He’ll die.”
“He’s going to die anyway. There’s nothing we can do.”
“Jesus…”
Stefan rounded the truck, flicked open a butterfly knife, and then drove it through Lucian’s bulging eye as Cristi looked on in horror. Lucian stiffened, and a tremor shot through his body, and then he exhaled a long groan and fell still. Stefan withdrew the blade and looked at his brother. “At least he won’t suffer.”
“You…killed him.”
“He was too far gone. You want to go explain to Nicu how we could have saved a guy who was nearly dead anyway? Who picked a fight with a cop, or nearly led him to the lab? You were with him yesterday. What happened?”
“Nothing. I mean, you know Lucian. He can get…but we didn’t do anything. Except on the way out, he was flooring it. But he didn’t hit the kid.”
Stefan’s tone grew cold. “Did he almost hit her?”
Cristi was silent for a few moments. “I mean, I wasn’t driving…”
“Were you high? Sounds like it.”
“Maybe a little.”
“Crap. And now you have a cop on our tail? Nicu would snap your neck like a twig if he knew.”
“What do we tell him?”
Stefan shut off his phone light and wiped the knife blade off on the tall grass before pocketing it.
“Let’s get back to the truck. We’ll figure out a story that won’t get you killed.”
“What about the wreck? The bodies?”
“It could be years until someone finds them. If ever. We couldn’t see them from the road. Neither can anyone else. By that time, they’ll have been picked clean by the buzzards. Now get it into gear. We have bigger problems to worry about. Like what the hell you two got us into, and how to explain enough of it so we can figure out what to do.”
Chapter 28
St. Andrews, Scotland
Lun watched his final putt of the day sink into the eighteenth hole and smiled for the fiftieth time, his face aching from the unfamiliar expression. The course had been magnificent, just as he’d expected and as challenging as any he’d played on, with the additional gravitas of the area’s history making every hole a personal challenge for him. He wiped away a trickle of perspiration from his brow and gazed skyward to where a pair of seagulls were noisily circling the course, and looked to the Malaysian politician.
“Wonderful game. Truly,” Lun said. “A delight I shall never forget, Hatar.”
“It was indeed, was it not? I’m so glad that you were able to make it. There are some things that transcend description.”
Lun nodded. “I completely agree.”
Their caddy gathered their clubs and placed them into the back of his cart, and Lun and Hatar followed in their own back to the golf club. Hatar smiled broadly as he pulled to a stop in one of the reserved slots and turned to Lun.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m parched after all that exertion,” he said. “The beer was half warm.”
“And half flat,” Lun agreed.
“Best if we stick to scotch from here on out, don’t you think?”
“I can’t think of a single argument against it,” Lun said and accompanied the Malaysian into the club’s bar – a storied affair that, like the course, reeked of history and tradition.
Hatar checked the time on his platinum watch. “I told my chef to expect us in an hour or so. Does that work for you?”
“Yes. I’m hungry after eighteen holes.”
“And thirsty, I hope,” Hatar said, signaling for the barkeep. A server hurried over, and Lun spoke to him in English.
“Do you have a list of your best scotches?”
“Of course, sir,” the man said, and went in search of it as Hatar and Lun took in the place. When he returned, he presented a laminated card to Lun, who perused it before setting it on the table.
“Two glasses of the Bowmore 1984. Neat.”
Hatar nodded approval as the server departed to get their drinks. “A fine choice.”
“Yes, their list is extensive.”
“I took the liberty of arranging for a bottle of Dalmore Constellation 1973 Cask Ten for us to try with dinner. Have you had it?”
Lun shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not.”
“It’s truly remarkable. An experience, not a whiskey. Rare as hen’s teeth.”
“I look forward to it.”
The server returned with a bottle on a tray and two glasses. He set them down on the table and poured an inch into each. He waited until Lun tasted his and nodded acceptance, and then disappeared, leaving them to their drinks. They both took appreciative sips, and Hatar set his glass down as Lun swirled his and sniffed, the better to appreciate the aroma.
“My chef is a master,” Hatar said. “I stole him from one of the top restaurants in Okinawa. A magician, truly. The man has a gift. I’m glad you’ll have the time to dine with me.”
“Today has been one of the best in recent memory,” Lun said. “I can only imagine how it could improve.”
Hatar leaned into him and whispered conspiratorially, “I have a pair of young lovelies from London who would be charmed to make your acquaintance. One phone call and they can join us for dinner.”
Lun’s face was impassive. “What is the saying about when in Rome?”
“I suspected you would approve. They are both gorgeous…and discreet.”
“A spellbinding combination, I’m sure.”
“You have no idea.”
They drained their scotch and ordered two more, after which Lun insisted on paying, flipping his black card casually to the server. He left a generous tip, and Hatar escorted his guest to a private suite, where Hatar’s chef was waiting in full sushi chef regalia with a trio of helpers by his side, their garb traditional Japanese.
The young women appeared fifteen minutes later and were, as promised, barely out of their teens, gorgeous, and friendly in the manner only professionals could be. The dinner proceeded, and delicacy after delicacy was served until everyone was at the bursting point. The chef’s helpers whisked the trays away, and Hatar snapped his fingers for the scotch. One of the helpers hurried to retrieve the bottle, and Hatar did the honors of pouring the nectar into a pair of glasses, not offering any to the girls, who were content with their flutes of Dom.
Lun toasted Hatar and took a preliminary sip and then closed his eyes and savored the smoky elixir, reveling in the complexity of the flavors as they played across his palate. When he opened them, he smiled with genuine warmth, fueled in part by the scotch and two bottles of sake consumed during their meal, and sat back in his chair.
“As you said, it is an experience, not a whisky,” he said.
Hatar nodded. “It will change with each mouthful. Remarkable, is it not?”
“Absolutely.”
The girls giggled and stood, and one of them beamed at the men. “We’re going to the loo to freshen up, okay?” she said.
Hatar waved them away. “Don’t stay too long.”
“We’ll be back.”
Lun finished his drink and blinked several times. Hatar refilled his glass and held his aloft again in salutation.
“To a night to end all nights,” he proclaimed.
“Indeed!” Lun agreed, and swallowed half his drink in a gulp.
The chef approached, and Hatar spoke in Japanese to him, congratulating him on an exquisite meal. Lun responded in kind, his Japanese was markedly better, but he pretended to speak at the same level as the Malaysian so the politician wouldn’t lose face. The chef bowed and left, and Hatar nodded again.
“The girls will be back shortly. Which do you fancy? Or do you want them both?” he asked.
Lun blinked several times again. “I… I think you’ll have to keep them entertained, my friend. The day is catching up with me. I’m going to go to my room.” He put a hand over his stomach. “I’m sorry. I seem to have a bit of heartburn from all the celebration.”
Hatar rose. “No need to apologize. I’m honored you took the time to join me. I’ll try to console the young ladies. Think nothing of it, Lun. I’ll have one of my men take you back to the hotel.”
“Thank you. For everything.”
By the time Lun made it to his room, he was trembling slightly, and his mouth seemed flooded with saliva. He removed his togs and climbed into bed and pulled the covers over his head. His heart was pounding so hard it seemed determined to tear out of his chest, and he concentrated on his breathing, trying to slow it as the room spun.
Eventually it slowed, but Lun was overcome with weakness, and it was all he could do to call the front desk and ask for them to send a doctor. He was at an age where he took things like food poisoning seriously, having traveled all over the world and experienced its ravages firsthand too many times, and he knew that the sooner he got five hundred milligrams of ciprofloxacin into his system, the faster his symptoms would abate.
After a seeming eternity, a soft rap at the door announced the doctor’s arrival. Lun groaned and struggled from beneath the blankets, but his legs seemed unwilling to obey his brain’s commands, and his knees buckled after three steps toward the door. He moaned at the pain from his hip striking the marble, and after two failed attempts to regain his footing, dragged himself the rest of the way, exhausting himself by the time he made it. Lun mustered all of his resources to reach the knob and unlock it, and then fell backward onto the cool stone as he shuddered and struggled for breath.
“Mr. Zhang?” a male voice asked from outside the door. “This is Dr. Reynolds. May I come in?”
Zhang managed another moan, and the doctor swung the door open, nearly battering Lun’s legs. His expression changed from concern to shock at the sight of Lun, convulsing, saliva streaming from both corners of his mouth, eyes clamped shut, face contorted in an agonized grimace.
