The Khmer Kill: A Dox Short Story (Kindle Single) Page 5
“I don’t speak Khmer. You know any English?”
“You fuck your mommy!”
Dox snorted. “Well, I don’t know if that’s a maximally useful phrase to travel the world with. You might do better with, ‘I’ll have a beer, please,’ or ‘Pardon me, I’m looking for the restroom.’ Now I asked you what you’re doing here.”
“I watch for big American. He come, I call.”
So a lookout on the more obvious approach to the bike. Either they couldn’t find anyone older, or they recruited this kid as cut-rate labor. “What’d they pay you?”
“Five dollar.”
“How much if you kill me?”
“Twenty dollar.”
“Well, it looks like you’re shit out of luck either way. But tell you what. If I pay you twenty, will you just vamoose? Leave, I mean.”
The boy turned his head as though trying to see Dox’s face, to gauge whether the offer was serious. “You give me twenty dollar?”
Dox reached into his pocket and took out a pair of twenties. “I’ll give you forty. Here.” He leaned closer and dropped the bills on the kid’s hand. The kid gripped them and squinted. Dox wasn’t sure if he could see them in the dark.
“It’s forty. And you’re lucky I didn’t kill you. Get yourself a better job. Those guys who hired you were underpaying you and they would have sold you out in a heartbeat regardless. Christ, where are your parents anyway?”
The kid glanced back at him again. “No parents.”
Dox wondered whether he was being played. Still, he took out three more twenties and handed them over.
“Now I’m going to step back, and you’re going to get up and run along the river. Forget about the toys you dropped. Just run away. Don’t make me regret letting you go.”
He stepped back. The kid hesitated, then stood up and took off like a rocket. It was only then Dox realized how scared he must have been.
Dox made double time back to the bike. Other than the three cooling Khmers, there was no one around. He drove a half mile, then stopped and broke down the rifle, wiping each piece with a rag and slinging it into the river. He purged the phone, pulled the battery, and sent all that in, too. Last was the duffle bag. Then he drove back to the city center. Along the way, he purged, broke down, and tossed his personal mobile phone, too. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure they’d followed him via a tracking device in the rifle, so no sense taking chances.
There were no more flights that night, but he’d catch something to somewhere in the morning. Best not to linger after a job. Especially one that had turned out like this. He’d meant it when he told Gant he didn’t think anyone would bother to retaliate on Gant’s behalf, but he didn’t see any upside to testing the theory, either. Besides, there was always the law to be careful about, too.
He thought about immediately checking into a more obscure local hotel, but then decided against it. Best not to do anything too out of the ordinary, like suddenly disappearing from Raffles. The staff knew him too well at this point. No, better to check out tomorrow morning like a normal person, earlier than anticipated by his reservation but nothing remarkable, either.
By the time he reached the hotel, he realized he was starving. He wolfed down a meal of beef lok lak and amok trei in the hotel restaurant, then went up to his room and took a long shower. That kid. It really bugged him. Like hell they would have paid him, even if he’d done what they’d hired him for. They were just using him. And Dox had almost killed him.
He thought about calling Chantrea. But he didn’t know what to say. He had to leave town tomorrow and he doubted he’d be back for a while, if ever.
He was still wired from everything that had happened, but by the time he was done with the shower, the parasympathetic backlash was kicking in and exhaustion washed over him. He got in bed and was asleep almost instantly.
The room phone woke him. He glanced over at the bedside clock and saw it was just past midnight. He wondered who the hell would be calling him. Who even knew he was here?
Then he realized—Chantrea. She must have been trying him on his mobile, but he’d dumped it. He almost didn’t pick up, but then he did.
“Hello.”
“Hello,” she said. “I’ve been trying you on your mobile. It goes straight through to voicemail.”
“I’m sorry. I lost the damn thing. I had kind of a bad night tonight. Ate in the hotel restaurant and crashed early. I’m sorry I didn’t call.”
There was a pause. Then: “Are you… are you alone?”
Shit, he hadn’t even thought about her thinking something like that. “Yes, I’m alone. I was just tired. Really.”
“Do you want me to come over?”
He paused, feeling sad and torn. “The truth, darlin’? I do. But I have to leave tomorrow morning, and I don’t know when I’ll be back. Or even… if I’ll be back.”
There was another pause. “I see,” she said.
“And if you come over tonight, I just… I just don’t know.”
Another pause, longer this time. Then she said, “I want to. If you want me.”
He felt himself weakening. He knew he was being stupid. “Are you sure?” he said.
She was sure.
She got there a half hour later, and he was kissing her the second he had the door bolted behind her. And she was kissing him back with equal abandon. They pulled off each other’s clothes and threw them aside as though the garments were on fire, and he tried to take his time with her but she made it clear she didn’t want that, and she was wet when he touched her, so wet, and God he was glad she called. He still had condoms in the room from before he’d met her, and by the time the sun came up they’d used three, talking and dozing and laughing in between, the second round slower than the first and the third slower still, each of them wanting to make it linger because it was likely to be the last.
The alarm clock on her mobile phone woke them at eight. She showered and dressed and he pulled on a robe to see her to the door. He felt groggy and guilty and happy and sad. He wanted to say something but didn’t know what.
Chantrea paused by the door and touched his cheek. “I’m glad.”
He smiled. “I am, too.”
“You don’t look glad.”
“Well, I’m sad, too, I guess. I… I like you, Chantrea.”
“I like you, too.”
The way she said it was so direct and open. He wanted to believe it was true, that there was nothing more to it.
He said, “But I have to go today.”
She looked at him, and something in her eyes seemed to close off. “Come back sometime. If you like.”
“I’m not sure if I’ll be able. But… I’d like to. I would.”
Her lips moved, and then something in her expression made him think she’d changed her mind about what she was going to say. She smiled, but the smile was too bright. “Well, you know my number.”
He wanted to ask her what she’d been on the verge of saying. But he didn’t. She hesitated a moment longer, then unbolted the door and walked quickly away.
He closed the door and leaned back against it, and realized suddenly that he hadn’t given her any money. He thought she’d left abruptly because the goodbye was awkward. But maybe it was because she was afraid he might try to pay her, and didn’t want to give him the chance to spoil things more than maybe he already had.
Shit, what was wrong with him? She was sweet and smart and strong. And delicious on top of it. He liked her. He admired her. What was his problem? Was he just afraid that maybe in some ways she might have been trying to manipulate him? Why was he so reluctant to get involved?
Fuck it. There was nothing he could do.
He thought of the boy he’d almost killed the night before. And the rouged, doped-up girls he’d seen in front of that dim storefront earlier.
He smacked the back of a fist into the wall next to him. Christ, what was with this country?
He stayed like that, leaning against the door, th
inking. Then he stood and paced for a while. Eventually, he found himself looking out his window onto the sunny courtyard below. He felt better, somehow. Calmer.
He wondered whether they really couldn’t make a decent martini. It did seem a shame he hadn’t properly tested that proposition.
And Gant had said Sorm would be harder to get to in Pailin province, where he lived, because foreigners are more conspicuous there. Be interesting to test that theory, too.
He thought of Chantrea, the way she’d said, We have to do what we can, yes? Even if it’s just a little.
Maybe there wasn’t much he could do. A problem this widespread and malignant, it seemed like taking out one man would be no more than a fart in a gale. But all at once, he decided he wanted to believe otherwise.
Because sometimes you had to act as if something was true, even if it might not be.
notes & sources
As far as I know, there is no bar called Café Mist in Phnom Penh. But there are plenty of places like it. Other than Mist, all locations in this story are described, as always, as I found them.
I’m indebted to two friends for the phrase “un-fucking an attitude”—one, Clint Overland; another, who must be known only as Wade—a topic on which they are both expert. And indebted to Marc “Animal” MacYoung for the wonderfully droll line, “Sometimes you just have to explain things to people in terms they understand.” Indeed. It sounded just like Dox and I shamelessly stole it. http://www.nononsenseselfdefense.com/
The National Museum of Cambodia http://cambodiamuseum.info/
More on Cambodia’s world-famous Citadel Knives http://www.knives-citadel.com/
The Somali Mam Foundation, “Envisioning a world where women and children are safe from slavery” http://www.somaly.org/
Somali Mam on Twitter http://twitter.com/somalymam
Road of Lost Innocence: The True Story of a Cambodian Heroine, by Somaly Mam
The “wild thing” quote Dox is thinking of is D.H. Lawrence: “I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A bird will fall frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.” http://www.quotationspage.com/quote/33221.html
The “Homeland Battlefield” Bill http://www.salon.com/2011/12/16/three_myths_about_the_detention_bill/singleton/
Stephen Colbert on the president’s power to order the execution of American Citizens http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/410085/march-06-2012/the-word---due-or-die
Ray Davis Pakistan shooting incident http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raymond_Allen_Davis_incident
US torture of whistleblower Bradley Manning http://www.salon.com/2012/03/07/un_top_torture_official_denounces_bradley_mannings_detention/
XM2010 Enhanced Sniper Rifle http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/XM2010_Enhanced_Sniper_Rifle
Khmer Borane Restaurant http://www.borane.net/
the detachment
a john rain thriller
John Rain is back. And “the most charismatic assassin since James Bond” (San Francisco Chronicle) is up against his most formidable enemy yet: the nexus of political, military, media, and corporate factions known only as the Oligarchy.
When legendary black ops veteran Colonel Scott “Hort” Horton tracks Rain down in Tokyo, Rain can’t resist the offer: a multi-million dollar payday for the “natural causes” demise of three ultra-high-profile targets who are dangerously close to launching a coup in America.
But the opposition on this job is going to be too much for even Rain to pull it off alone. He’ll need a detachment of other deniable irregulars: his partner, the former Marine sniper, Dox. Ben Treven, a covert operator with ambivalent motives and conflicted loyalties. And Larison, a man with a hair trigger and a secret he’ll kill to protect.
From the shadowy backstreets of Tokyo and Vienna, to the deceptive glitz and glamour of Los Angeles and Las Vegas, and finally to a Washington, D.C. in a permanent state of war, these four lone wolf killers will have to survive presidential hit teams, secret CIA prisons, and a national security state as obsessed with guarding its own secrets as it is with invading the privacy of the populace.
But first, they’ll have to survive each other.
The Detachment is what fans of Eisler, “one of the most talented and literary writers in the thriller genre” (Chicago Sun-Times), have been waiting for: the worlds of the award-winning Rain series, and of the bestselling Fault Line and Inside Out, colliding in one explosive thriller as real as today’s headlines and as frightening as tomorrow’s.
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the lost coast
a daniel larison short story
By internationally bestselling author Barry Eisler, The Lost Coast is a dark short story featuring rogue black-ops soldier Daniel Larison, last seen in Eisler’s Inside Out, which Op-Ed News called a “thriller as good or better than any of Grisham’s” and Library Journal called “a relentless and revelatory look into the human cost of those who torture on behalf of their country.”
For Larison, a man off the grid and on the run, the Lost Coast seems like a perfect place to disappear for a while. But when three twisted locals decide Larison looks like an easy target, they unleash a vengeful and dangerous predator with a personal score to settle. Find out why Entertainment Weekly called Eisler’s work “furious and creative.”
“If you’re a fan of Eisler specifically, or thriller fiction in general, don’t even hesitate. Well worth the money.” —J.A. Konrath
WARNING: this story is intended for mature audiences, and contains depictions of sexual activity…though perhaps not in the way you're expecting.
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paris is a bitch
a john rain short story
For most couples, a quiet dinner for two at Auberge de la Reine Blanche on the Ile Saint Louis would be just the thing to smooth out the complications in a romance. But for gorgeous Mossad operative Delilah and trying-to-retire contract killer John Rain, nothing is ever easy, and when Rain sees a crew of hard-looking men setting up outside the restaurant, he realizes someone has been bringing her work home with her. Is it a hit — or something even worse? When it comes to killing, business and pleasure are the most dangerous mix of all. The download comes with an essay called Personal Safety Tips from Assassin John Rain, which includes information that will be at least as valuable to civilians as it has been to Rain.
“Rain’s combination of quirks and proficiency is the stuff great characters are made of.” —Entertainment Weekly
“Eisler combines the insouciance of Ian Fleming, the realistic detail of Tom Clancy, the ennui of Graham Greene and the prose power of John le Carré.” —News-Press
Buy Paris Is a Bitch today!
about the author
Barry Eisler spent three years in a covert position with the CIA’s Directorate of Operations, then worked as a technology lawyer and startup executive in Silicon Valley and Japan, earning his black belt at the Kodokan International Judo Center along the way. Eisler’s bestselling thrillers have won the Barry Award and the Gumshoe Award for Best Thriller of the Year, have been included in numerous “Best Of” lists, and have been translated into nearly twenty languages. Eisler lives in the San Francisco Bay Area and, when not writing novels, he blogs about torture, civil liberties, and the rule of law at www.BarryEisler.com.
books by barry eisler
Novels
Rain Fall
Hard Rain
Rain Storm
Killing Rain
The Last Assassin
Requiem For An Assassin
Fault Line
Inside Out
The Detachment
Short Fiction
The Lost Coast
Paris Is A Bitch
The Khmer Kill
Essays
Be the Monkey: A Conversation About the New World of Publishing
The Ass Is A Poor Receptacle For The Head
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