"Holy fuck!" Banyon spat out in a gruff whisper. "Is that Quibin?!"
"It was."
"Jesus! I haven't seen anything like that since the VC raided the Ka Do village. He's gotta have a couple hundred slashes."
Drug supplier Quibin, tied to a chair, naked, blindfolded, gagged, tortured — extremely dead.
Holcomb noticed that whatever little furnishings there were, nothing seemed out of place. Nothing was disturbed, nothing to indicate there'd been a struggle or fight.
As he started backing away from the body, he directed the flashlight beam down at the floor. Dried splotches and small pools of dried blood were under and around the chair. Smeared shoe prints led to the door.
Holcomb analyzed the prints, noticing different heel impressions. "More than one person did this, and I'd say he's been dead for more than a day."
"You don't think it was those Navy guys, do you?"
"It had to be whoever was in that first chopper, the ones who blew up my operation."
"C'mon," Banyon whispered, backing up. "Let's get the hell outta here."
Sooner or later — probably sooner — Quibin's body would be found. It would take authorities a long time to find out where he worked. But the men at the factory would soon learn of Quibin's demise, if they hadn't already — and more than likely from the men who killed him. Their terror tactics would prevent anyone from coming forward with information. There was always a possibility none of those men would ever return to the factory from fear alone.
Holcomb drove the 1970, four-door, blue Daihatsu toward downtown. Banyon rolled down the window, taking deep breaths. "Shit! I still can't get that fuckin' smell outta my nose." He finally noticed they weren't headed toward the airport. "Where the hell are you goin'?"
"We're gonna stay a couple of days and hang out near the factory. Somebody's gotta show."
"You got any 'dough'?"
"Yeah, plus I've got my money spread around in local banks. We can stay at a flophouse near the river. It's cheap. But first thing in the morning, I need to buy ammo."
During the drive, Holcomb had more questions, very unsettling questions. Why would someone kill Quibin? He'd been running the operation for as long as Holcomb could remember — a successful operation at that. Was someone trying to take over? Another Thai organization? Army rebels? Even if that were the case, why torture him? Why kill him?
When Holcomb decided to get into the yaba drug business, he put the word out during visits to bars and to prostitutes that he had cash and was prepared to buy large quantities. He was contacted with instructions on where to meet the supplier, Quibin. Holcomb didn't know anything about the man's personal life. He was in his early forties, unmarried, nationality was unknown, but he suspected Filipino. What did surprise Holcomb was Quibin's mastery with numbers.
Both men would remain wary of one another, but Holcomb paid with cash, and Quibin never failed to have the order ready as scheduled.
Holcomb shifted uncomfortably in the seat, as an unsettling thought struck him. His operation was destroyed because Quibin "ratted" on him, which only meant one thing: Quibin didn't own the business but was making money on the side.
The chopper. The unknown chopper kept fucking up his thoughts. Who owned it? Who wanted him dead? That was the biggest question of alclass="underline" Who?
Banyon interrupted his thoughts. "Hey! Let's grab a bite. Maybe it'll help get this rotten smell outta my nose."
Silom Road, located east of the Chao Phraya River, was in the sub-district of Bank Rak. Different height office and apartment buildings lined both sides of the busy thoroughfare. Motorcycles and scooters "buzzed" up and down the road, swerving in an out of traffic, avoiding tuk tuks. During the daytime, fruit and vegetable markets were crammed together along alleyways. Colored umbrellas, on both sides of Silom Road, covered portable food stands serving Tai fast-food. Many varied aromas mingled in the air, some pleasant, most not.
Holcomb parked down a side street, then they walked back to Silom Road. "Look," Banyon pointed, "there's a Mexican joint." Without waiting for Holcomb, he ran across the street, darting in and out of cars, scooters, tuk tuks.
Holcomb finally made it across. As he neared the outdoor eatery, he started past a small newspaper and magazine stand. Several copies of the Bangkok Post were stacked neatly. (In 1946 an American and a Thai founded the Bangkok Post. The American, Alexander McDonald, was a former World War II agent for the OSS, the precursor to the CIA.) Alongside the papers was a pile of the magazine, Buddhist Land.
Two words in the newspaper headline brought Holcomb to a dead stop: "Deaths" and "Carrier." He fumbled for some change in his pocket, flipped them on the counter, then snatched the paper.
"Sonny!" Banyon called, standing near a small cafe table. Perturbed from not getting an answer, he took long, hurried strides back to Holcomb. "What's goin' on?!" Still no response. He looked over Holcomb's shoulder, finally seeing the newspaper. "What?! What's that say?!" He reached for the paper, but Holcomb swung around, unable to stop reading, trying to digest the words.
Holcomb's hands shook. "Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ!"
Banyon grabbed the paper. "What the fuck?! It can't be!"
Completely overwhelmed, Holcomb walked away, with words swirling in his mind: Dead sailors! Drug killed them! Somebody was targeting a U.S. aircraft carrier! He stopped abruptly, then steadied himself against a storefront. He remained quiet, unaware of constant, noisy traffic, and pedestrians rushing past him.
Banyon stood in front of him, trying to keep his voice low, holding the paper toward him. "That's why those dudes showed up! But how could they think it was you?!"
Holcomb slowly shook his head. "I. don't. know."
"Maybe you should talk with your Subic guy. He might have some answers."
"What the hell could he tell me, Mitch?!"
Banyon got right in Holcomb's face. "You're the one not thinking now, Sonny! That guy's in the midst of Navy personnel! You don't think word's spreading over there?!"
Holcomb pushed Banyon aside and started walking along Silom. Banyon caught up to him, trying to continue the conversation. "How much do you trust him?"
Holcomb stopped short. "What the fuck do you mean?! He's been making a shitload of money off me!"
"Well, maybe he's making money off somebody else, too?! Have you thought about that?!"
Holcomb got toe-to-toe with Banyon. "No, Mitch! I haven't! Right now there's too much other fuckin' shit to think about! Now, you wanna come with me to the factory? Or maybe you'd rather fly to Subic and do your own investigating!" Without waiting for an answer, Holcomb took off across the street, with Banyon close on his heels.
Not wasting any time, the two picked up the pace and ran to the side street without any words passing between them, until they reached the vehicle. As Banyon opened the door, he looked over the roof. "Maybe you'd better notify someone, and tell them it wasn't you, unless you want those Navy 'boys' tracking you down — again."
Holcomb flung open the door, then pounded a fist against the roof. "Me?! What about you, Mitch?! You think you're an innocent bystander?! You delivered those damn pills, remember?!"
Banyon blew out a long breath. "So, whadda we do?"
Holcomb slid behind the steering wheel and slammed the door shut. "We're going to the factory."
Banyon got in just as the engine started. "You said it closed after dark!"
"We're gonna wait, Mitch! Somebody's bound to show up, and you can bet your ass it'll be whoever's running the operation now." Tires screeched as Holcomb pulled away.
Chapter 23
Traveling in the Bang Rak District, Holcomb drove along the main road, then turned left onto Naret Alley. He parked in front of an abandoned, rusted 1968 Toyota Stout pickup truck.