The Land Cruiser lurched sideways as its front wheel dropped into the ditch. Castille was slammed against the door, then pitched painfully into the steering wheel as the 4x4 came to an abrupt halt.
He slumped back in his seat. His arms had cushioned the impact to an extent, but he still had a piercing pain in his forehead, and felt blood running from one nostril.
Noise from behind, the growl of an engine — and shouts. Castille tried to push himself upright. The Land Cruiser had come to rest at an angle, two wheels in the ditch. He grabbed the door handle, only to find to his dismay that it wouldn’t open, blocked by the bank. Grunting in pain, he scrambled over the central console to the passenger door.
It opened before he reached it.
‘Don’t fuckin’ move!’ Hoyt shouted, thrusting his rifle at the Belgian. Castille drew back. The American looked into the 4x4 as other men yanked open the rear passenger door and the tailgate. ‘Shit! They’re not here!’
Lock strode from the second Toyota. ‘What? Where are they?’
‘They musta bailed out somewhere back along the track.’ He glared at the mercenary team’s driver. ‘You stupid son of a bitch. If you hadn’t hit that rock, we wouldn’t have lost sight of them!’
Lock raised a hand. ‘Enough, enough!’ He gestured at the overturned Land Cruiser’s lone occupant. ‘Get him out of there.’
Hoyt and another man dragged Castille out of the 4x4, throwing him into the muddy water. ‘All right — Castille, is it?’ said Lock. ‘You’re going to take us to where you let out Natalia and your buddy.’
Castille wiped blood from his nose. ‘That is funny — I thought I was going to tell you to, ah…’ He thought for a moment. ‘To go and fuck your whore mother. If you will excuse the crudity. That is more Edward’s area.’ Lock’s face twitched in anger.
‘Funny guy,’ said Hoyt, unamused. He kicked Castille hard in the stomach. ‘You want to stay alive, you show us where they went. Otherwise I’ll shoot you right here, and we’ll go find their trail on our own. Either way, we’ll get ’em. You got ten seconds to decide.’
Castille caught his breath. ‘Do what you must, abruti. I will never give them up.’
‘Your choice.’ Hoyt aimed the gun at his face—
All heads turned at an unexpected sound.
‘The fuck?’ said Hoyt in disbelief as the shrill electronic warble of a police siren cut through the jungle’s background chatter. Castille looked up the track — and saw three vehicles approaching. In the lead was a Ford Ranger pickup in white-and-blue police livery, the lights on its roof flicking to life. Behind it was a mud-caked Nissan Patrol 4x4, and following that a larger six-wheeled truck in military green. Men in its rear bed peered over the top of the cab to see what was going on: uniformed men, all armed with Kalashnikovs.
Some of Lock’s men raised their own weapons, but their leader was already hurrying back to his Land Cruiser. ‘It’s TC2 — they called in backup, dammit!’ he snarled. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here!’
Hoyt looked back down at Castille, the gun still fixed on him. The Belgian tensed — then Hoyt turned and ran after his boss. The other mercenaries piled into the Land Cruiser, which reversed rapidly before making a mud-spraying handbrake turn and powering away back down the track. The police pickup sped after it, the Patrol pulling over into the undergrowth near Castille’s vehicle to let the lumbering troop truck past.
Castille staggered to his feet — and decided on the part he was going to play. ‘Thank God, thank God!’ he said in French, giving the men getting out of the SUV a smile of relief, part of which was because none of them were either of the guards who had been watching the kidnapped aid workers when Sullivan’s team moved in; they would almost certainly have recognised him. ‘They drove me off the road — they tried to kill me!’
The four men — Castille guessed they were members of TC2 — regarded the bloodied figure warily. He knew what they were thinking: they were searching for Westerners, so any Caucasian in the area would automatically be a suspect or even a target… but the group of other Caucasians had been holding him at gunpoint before they fled, and garish shirts were not exactly camouflage gear. One of the Vietnamese spoke, in halting French: ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’
‘I am so glad to see you,’ Castille went on, coming to them and exaggeratedly wiping his brow. ‘My name is Hugo, Hugo Castille. I drove past those men at a jetty a kilometre or so up the road, and they started chasing me and shooting at my truck! I crashed,’ he gestured at the overturned Toyota, ‘and they robbed me — they were going to kill me!’
‘You are French?’
‘No, I am Belgian,’ he replied in haughty protest.
‘And what are you doing here?’
‘I am a tourist. I was exploring the jungle — I did not know it was going to be dangerous!’
The French-speaking man translated this into his native language for the benefit of the others. One of them, apparently the leader, regarded Castille unreadably from behind a pair of oversized mirrored sunglasses, then issued a curt command. ‘We are going to look in your truck,’ the first man said.
Castille covered his concern; he didn’t think there was anything inside that would expose him as a mercenary, but he didn’t know exactly what Lock had brought with him. ‘Of course, of course,’ he said, smiling again. ‘And if you could help me get it out of the ditch, that would be great!’
The Vietnamese ushered him to the Land Cruiser, the leader standing back to keep an eye on the foreigner while the other three men rummaged through its interior. To Castille’s relief, Lock had not concealed any more weapons inside it. The man in the sunglasses spoke again, Castille getting a translation: ‘Show us your papers.’
‘I have them right here,’ he said, reaching into his top pocket to produce his passport, visa and other documents.
The man plucked them from his hand and leafed through them. ‘You are staying in Da Nang?’
‘Yes, the Red Leaf hotel.’
A nod. ‘The men who chased you — what were they doing when you saw them?’
Castille thought fast. ‘There was a boat at the jetty — I think they were about to get on board.’
‘A boat?’ He passed this on to the others, who exchanged calculating looks.
‘Yes. There were more people with them.’
That caught the man’s attention. ‘Who? Did you get a good look at them?’
He shook his head. ‘They looked European or American — I remember, because I was surprised to see so many other white people out here. I thought they were tourists, but then those men tried to kill me.’
‘Did you see a girl? A blonde girl?’
‘I do not know.’ Castille shrugged. ‘Perhaps. I am not sure.’
The leader received another translated report. He frowned, sunglasses still fixed on the Belgian, then spoke once more to his subordinate. ‘Why did you come down this road?’ the other man asked.
Castille shrugged again. ‘I saw the turning on the highway and thought it looked interesting. As I said, I wanted to explore the jungle.’
‘There is nothing to see here. Turn around and go back. If you want to visit the jungle, go to the Bach Ma park. This is a military area.’
‘But there was nothing on my map…’
The man glowered at him. ‘If you do not, we will arrest you.’
‘Then I will turn around and go back,’ Castille hurriedly assured him. ‘But what about those men?’
‘We will catch them. Now go.’ The four Vietnamese returned to the Nissan.
‘Are you going to help me get my truck out of the ditch?’ Castille asked. The slamming of doors gave him an answer. ‘No? Oh well.’