Dane had pulled out a second M-16 when putting the weapons in the trunk along with several magazines. He tossed the weapon to Freed as they got back in the limo. “Don't say I never gave you anything,” Dane said as he followed the weapon with four magazines. “I think getting out of here is going to be more difficult than getting in was.”
Freed loaded his rifle as the limo turned around. The doors opened and the pickup truck drove out into the alley, the limo following closely behind.
Dane felt the sense of dread even more sharply than before. “Stop!” he yelled as the front edge of the limo passed between the doors. The driver reacted automatically, slamming on the brakes.
The pick-up truck exploded in flames as a rocket-propelled grenade slammed into it. Several lines of tracers roared down from the surrounding rooftops peppering the street and truck. A second grenade slammed into the street just in front of the limo. Dane kicked open his door, weapon at the ready as Michelet, Beasley and Lucian hunkered down inside, protected from the bullets by the car's armor plating and bullet proof glass, while Freed went out the other side.
Dane used the side of the car for cover, firing an entire magazine in quick three rounds bursts at the sources of the tracers. Freed was on the other side of the car, shooting across his field of fire, covering him.
Dane recognized the chatter of AK-47s, a sound he'd heard many times before. He slid a new magazine home. A man with a rocket launcher on his shoulder stood up, aiming down. Dane fired a quick burst, slamming the man back out of sight.
Dane paused as he recognized a slightly different sound of automatic fire coming from the rooftops. Someone up there had a weapon other than an AK. Dane raised the M-16 to his shoulder when a body tumbled over the edge of the roof and fell to the street between the front of the limo and the burning pick-up truck. Another quick burst from the same new gun followed. Then two more.
Suddenly, all was silent. Dane glanced over the hood of the trunk at Freed, who raised his eyebrows in question. “Let's get out of here,” was all Dane said.
As Freed slid in the door on his side, Dane ran forward and grabbed the body that had fallen. He tossed the slender Cambodian over his shoulder and carried him, tossing the body into the back to the consternation of Michelet and Lucian and Chelsea who whined and cowered as far away from the corpse as possible.
“Go!” Dane ordered.
The driver needed little prompting. He pushed the wreckage of the truck out of the way with his front bumper, then accelerated.
“Easy girl,” Dane whispered to Chelsea as he knelt next to the body.
“What is the purpose of this?” Michelet demanded.
“It's always good to know who's shooting at you,” Dane said as he quickly searched the man's pockets. All he found was a thick roll of local currency. He didn't know what the going rate for murder was in Bangkok but even with high inflation it looked like the roll would meet the going rate anywhere in the world. Other than that, there was nothing.
“Know your enemies,” Dane said as he ripped the man's shirt off, “and know who the enemies of your enemies are. Because they might be your friend but then again they might not. They might be even worse enemies.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Michelet demanded.
“You tell him,” Dane told Freed.
“Someone busted the ambush for us from behind,” Freed said.
“How do you know that?” Michelet asked.
“We heard a different weapon from what the ambushers had being fired on the rooftops and there's no way we killed them all from our position,” the security man explained.
Dane pulled a Leatherman out of the case on his belt. He extended the large knife blade and dug into the mangled flesh around one of the bullet wounds. He pushed in, then with his free hand, pressed two fingers into the hole. He felt the hard knob of a bullet between the two fingers and with great difficulty pulled it out.
He put his bloody hand under one of the small lights. “9 millimeter. The Cambod's were firing AKs; 7.62 mm. Someone hit them from behind with a submachinegun.”
“Who?” Lucian asked, his face still pale from the bloody incident.
“Someone who knew we were going to the warehouse. Someone who knew we were going to get ambushed. Someone who must have been following us from the airport,” Dane said. He was tired. The bad feeling was gone and now he was drained. He sat back in the deep upholstery and closed his eyes.
“We were followed?” Michelet asked. He turned to Lucian. “What do you know of this?”
Lucian sputtered out a protest, but Dane's weary voice cut in. “Sihouk sold us out to someone. He got your money, and then he got money from someone else to give us up. It was just a good day’s work or him, nothing personal. You got any enemies?”
“Hie-Tech,” Freed said.
“What's that?” Dane asked.
“A rival company.”
Dane opened his eyes. “Would they try to kill you?”
Michelet gave a harsh laugh. “We're talking hundreds of millions, if not billions of dollars involved here. Yes, they'd kill for that. Wouldn't you?”
“No,” Dane said, which prompted another laugh from Michelet.
“Actually, I think you were paid considerably less when you were in the army.”
Dane stared over Chelsea at the old man. Their eyes locked, then Dane leaned back and nodded. “You're right. I was paid considerably less then.” He turned his body away from the others, placed his hand on Chelsea’s neck and closed his eyes to rest.
They made it back to the airport without further incident, but instead of pulling up to Michelet's plane, then went around the main runway to an old hanger. Dane opened his eyes once more as they pulled inside. A battered two engine C-123 transport plane and an aging Huey helicopter rested inside.
The limousine came to a halt. Lucian did not get out with them. He looked at Michelet. “Our business is concluded. Contrary to your feelings, I believe there is much that money cannot replace or buy. Please do not ever call me again.”
Freed and Dane barely had time to get the lockers out of the trunk before the limousine raced away. A figure detached itself from the shadow of the C-123 and ambled over.
“Good day,” the man said in a deep Australian accent. “Or good morning, I should say as the day is not yet upon us. I'm Porter, your pilot.”
“Is the plane ready?” Michelet demanded.
Dane noted that Michelet had recovered from the events of the past couple of hours. Dane imagined a person did not get to be in the position the old man was in without having hard nerves.
“Aye, it's ready.” Porter glanced over his shoulder. “But these fellows your friend in the limo lined up. Not too sure about them, if I was you.”
“You aren't me,” Michelet brusquely said.
More men were coming out of the shadows. There were four of them, dressed in plain green jungle fatigues that had seen better days and were stripped of all insignia. Their boots were encrusted with mud and they had large knives prominently strapped to their belts. Rambo knives, Dane noted. Such weapons looked very impressive but were impractical for either slitting a man’s throat, which took a small commando stiletto, or cutting through the jungle, where a machete worked best. Each man had several days worth of beard on their face and their eyes were red. Dane picked up the odor of alcohol.
“I'm McKenzie,” the largest of the four introduced himself. “Major McKenzie.”
Dane watched as Freed stepped forward. “I know who you are, McKenzie. You're not a major any longer.”
“These are my men,” McKenzie said, looking over the small black man in front of him, trying to size up the situation.