The light was even better when they returned to the little shack by the beach, but as soon as the two men had a view down to the little docking area, they both stopped in their tracks.
Three green powerboats, each some twenty feet in length, floated silently in the water just yards offshore, and in them some two dozen men, all armed with assault rifles and machetes, stared right back at Court and Fan with hard eyes.
Over a dozen muzzles pointed at the chests of the two foreigners.
“Well… that’s not good,” Court muttered.
“Who are these men?” Fan whispered.
Court sized up the men on the boats. They were sinewy, weathered, tan from living on the water and out in the elements. These guys knew the jungle.
“The kind of men you don’t piss off. Raise your hands slowly.”
“Should we run?” Fan asked.
Court raised his hands, and Fan followed suit. Yes, Court could have run. He could have dived off the trail, rolled down into a shallow ditch in the trees, and disappeared into the jungle.
But not with Fan.
Court said, “No, kid. We’re going to do exactly what they say.”
“Where will they take us?”
“Just a guess. Not to Taiwan.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
The powerboats were old and covered with rust and peeling paint, but each vessel had two huge and well-maintained engines, and the boats were each large enough to carry eight men. Half of the men waded ashore, their weapons pointed right at Fan and Court, and then one of the boats pulled up to the rotting wooden dock, while the other vessels just trolled in the river, the gunmen on board training their Kalashnikovs on the pair of new captives.
One of the men seemed to be in charge, simply because he began ordering the others around. He was of average size and build, and he appeared to be no older than twenty-five or so. He had a folded-stock AK-47 hanging off his shoulder and a simple assault vest on his chest, and he wore a red bandana that held back his long dark hair. His arms were covered in tats, like the others, and also like the others, his skin was burnt orange and leathery.
His sunglasses and his wristwatch looked expensive to Court, but his gun and his gear looked third-rate.
Red Bandana looked carefully at Fan Jiang, even stepping up to him, pinching his face in his hand, and moving his head around, examining the Chinese man as if he were looking at a horse at auction. He appeared to be making sure he had the right guy. With a nod to the armed men around him he reached into one of the magazine pouches in his vest, then pulled out a plastic Ziploc bag. He opened it up and retrieved a mobile phone. While he dialed a number he waved his free hand and shouted orders at the men standing around the two captives, and they all began moving.
Court’s wrists were pulled behind his back and tied with a length of thick hemp, and the man who did it was clearly an expert at the task. Even though Court knew he couldn’t undo his hands, Court was glad he was being bound, because he figured he was just the booby prize for these guys; Fan was the real catch.
Being tied up meant Court was going for a ride, and he found that much preferable to getting shot and left in the jungle for the bugs.
Court didn’t imagine for a second this had been some sort of opportunistic kidnapping by river bandits who just happened by, so Court was glad that whoever was running the show on the other end of the phone didn’t order them to just shoot the big American and be done with it.
Court asked them who they were and what they wanted, and although none of them seemed to speak any English, after a nod from Red Bandana, a large man wearing an assault vest adorned with a huge Rambo combat knife in a sheath came over and smacked Court in the side of the head with the butt of his rifle.
Court understood this language. Loosely translated, it meant No more questions.
Fan Jiang and Court Gentry were placed into the powerboat at the dock, and several gunmen climbed in with them. The prisoners were pushed down onto a bench in the middle of the boat, shoulder to shoulder, and while the commander continued his phone call on the bank, Fan leaned over and spoke into Court’s ear.
He said, “They are Thai.”
“How do you know?”
“I did some research on different organizations in Southeast Asia when I was in Hong Kong. The tattoos mean they are from a Thai Chao.”
“What’s that?”
“It just means they are an underworld group, from Bangkok. There are lots of different organizations, but the biggest and most dangerous is called Chamroon Syndicate. They are all over. Even in Hong Kong.”
“Why didn’t you work for them in Hong Kong?”
Fan just looked down at the deck of the boat. Softly, he said, “Because they are animals. Vicious animals. Very bad.”
“Terrific,” Court muttered.
Soon Red Bandana boarded the same boat and sat down behind the man at the helm, and then the big outboard engines roared to life.
Five minutes later all three boats raced single file south on the river as the morning sun glared orange off the water. Court and Fan were seated among eight men, most of whom sat on the gunwales on the port and starboard sides and held their rifles out, as if there were real threats here on this river.
Court imagined there probably were, but he didn’t think he could possibly be in deeper trouble than right here, in the middle of this boat.
Court looked at Red Bandana now. He sat on the bench facing inboard; he had a cigarette in one hand and the mobile phone in the other, and his elbows were back on the port-side gunwale behind him. He leaned back, relaxed and happy after making this catch so early in his day.
He hung up the phone a minute later and slid it back in the plastic bag, but instead of putting it back in his vest, he just tucked the phone under his leg on the bench. Court figured the phone was left out because Red Bandana was expecting another call.
Court eyed the man on his right, just past Fan. He was taller than the others, and his big Rambo knife stuck straight up from its sheath on the front of his assault vest. His rifle faced outboard, but he looked Court’s way through cheap aviator sunglasses.
Scanning around the boat a little more, Court saw a space between two men sitting on the gunwale. It was on the starboard side, across from Red Bandana. The men looked out at the riverbank, with about three feet between them.
Court took everything in again: the cell phone in the plastic bag sticking out from under the right leg of the man ahead and on his left. The knife on the man’s chest rig on Court’s right. And the clear space over the side of the boat ahead and on Court’s right.
Court gazed out of the boat now, across the brown water. On the starboard side the riverbank was only about fifty feet away. On the port side, however, it was a good forty or fifty yards to the shore. Court imagined there were some rocks or other obstacles in the river ahead that caused the pilot to hug the western bank.
One more quick scan around him and Court made his decision.
He leaned over to Fan and whispered, “Do everything they say; don’t put yourself in danger. Sooner or later, probably sooner, they’ll sit you down in front of a computer to do some work for them. When that happens, figure out a way to let America know where you are.”
Fan shook his head now. “I’m not letting America know anything. The Taiwanese will save me. I just have to tell them where I am.”
“Kid… you aren’t getting saved by Taiwan. They don’t even know you are on the run.”
Fan turned to Court. “Yes, they do. They promised me a new life. A house. A job.”
Court was confused. “When was this?”