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Inside the Lexus Rob kicked at them with his legs, but his power was spent, and his will drained. One of the men held him in a hammerlock as his buddy worked his fists on Rob’s midsection. By the time they’d finished with Rob, he slumped forward. The men taunted him in Thai.
One of them tapped Calvino on the shoulder and said in Thai, “Pai rew-rew”—Go fast. Clearly the goons weren’t Burmese. Like a twitch on a poker player’s face, a man’s “tell” always gave him away if others at the table could read it.
“Pai nai?” asked Calvino in his most guttural Issan accent.
The two men froze, exchanging puzzled looks, as if the other one might have a clue what was happening in the front seat. A new player sat at the wheel, and he spoke Thai with a farang accent. In the heartbeat of a rabbit chased by a fox, Rob and Calvino made a play. The only one they had.
Rob butted the gun hand of the man seated next to him. A shot from the 9mm shattered the windshield to the right of Calvino’s head. The other goon jammed his elbow into Rob’s side. He screamed in pain. The gunman held the 9mm with both hands, looking for movement in the front seat. Calvino stayed absolutely still. Just as he squeezed the trigger, Rob kneed the shooter’s gun hand. The 9mm kicked, blew a hole through the front seat. The sound of firecrackers outside masked the shots. Calvino had dropped to the floor.
In the dark, Calvino found what he was looking for. He used the space between the driver’s seat and the seats in the back to make his move. Violence happens in seconds that seem to take an eternity to pass. Calvino squeezed off two rounds, hitting the shooter in the chest. He slumped against Rob, who used him as a shield against the surviving thug, who’d pulled out his own gun and was now looking to shoot Rob. The second thug then emptied two shots into the front seat, inches above Calvino. His gun jammed, and Calvino sat up, leaned through space between the seats and shot the gunman twice in the head.
A moment passed.
“You okay, Rob?”
Nothing came from the back seat but a long empty silence punctured by gongs and cymbals and drums from the street outside. The scent of fresh blood rose from the bodies and filled the Lexus with the gut-retching smell as it combined with the gore and gunpowder. Rob had blood smeared on his beard, face, neck, shirt and pants. He looked like a slaughterhouse worker who’d just ended a double shift.
“Christ, you killed them!” he said, sitting between two dead men. Blood seeped into the dead men’s clothing from their wounds.
“I asked if you’re okay.”
Rob nodded, the color drained from his face. Shaking, he pushed the body from his lap, leaning it against the side window.
“You hear them speaking Thai?” Calvino asked.
The kid had gone into shock. His ears still hadn’t cleared from the guns going off in the confined space. His mouth opened, but this time nothing came out. He had that glazed-eye look of someone in shock.
“You’ll have to tell me what that was about when I can hear again,” said Calvino.
Inside his head a thousand drum band played the close-range 9mm bogey.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Calvino.
Calvino shoved the door open on the driver’s side. Next, he popped the glove compartment, grabbed the papers inside and stuffed them in his pocket, and climbed out. He walked around the front of the Lexus, memorized the license plate number and circled the vehicle to check the perimeter before opening the back door. He waited until another group of dragon dancers had passed, their sound still muffled in his head. His ears felt like they were stuffed with sticky rice and cotton. He didn’t hear the 250cc motorcycle that pulled to within a foot of the door. He had his Walther in his hand and was about to raise it when the motorcycle rider removed her helmet. The Black Cat saw the gun.
“It’s me,” she said.
He could see that and holstered the handgun.
“Can you take two on the back of that thing?”
She had left the table right after Calvino and gone to her Honda, parked twenty meters away.
“Is Rob okay?” she asked.
“Ask him yourself,” he said, pulling Rob out of the back seat.
He was a mess—bloody and muttering, shaking his head like a crazy man. He swallowed like a man trying to clear his ears on a long-haul flight. But the main outcome was Rob Osborne had survived. He was no longer missing.
“Rob, get on,” she said.
Calvino helped him as he struggled to lift one leg over the motorcycle. Rob wrapped his arms around her waist and leaned his head on her back.
“You want to take him to your place?” asked Calvino.
She shook her head. “That won’t work. Get on, we’ll take him to your place.”
There was no time for argument. Calvino got on and gave directions to the guesthouse around the corner from the Savoy Hotel.
