Lethal Redemption Read online

  In the worst of places, whether war zones or trekking through wildernesses and climbing mountains, she had always had a team behind her. Guides, cameramen, fellow reporters, security guys, and in war zones her home office. She’d taken them for granted. Right now she felt alone, isolated. She couldn’t call on any of her normal resources.

  Maybe Vale Expeditions just moved and had a new number as well. She returned to the scooter with her smiley-faced escort.

  “No good. Fini,” Miloon said.

  “Yes, you were right, my friend. Fini. Let’s go to the American embassy.” Kiera mounted the scooter. “Maybe they know where Vale is.”

  “Father gone. He have son still here. Porter Vale.”

  “At this point I’ll take any Vale I can find.” She was on a mission that she felt was compromised and that made it all the more important she find her guide and find him soon.

  Her grandfather, as he lay dying—his body wasted, his gnarled hands thin and veined as they gripped hers—her grandfather had insisted that she could trust no one but Michael Vale. This once strong, powerful man, this former soldier who had raised her after her parents had been killed in a boating accident when she was eight years old, now reduced to a frail skeleton of his former self. She’d seen many shocking and violently disturbing things over the past years, but in some ways seeing this man ravaged and in constant pain was the worst.

  He’d been her rock, her teacher and mentor. He’d taken on the task of turning a scared, confused little girl into the opposite. He taught her how to be strong, to compete, and think about the world and deal with life. And now she intended to honor the only thing he had ever asked of her.

  Born almost a decade after his war ended, Kiera knew little about her grandfather’s role and he’d never talked about the war until he knew he was going to die.

  She’d flown back from the Middle East and took a leave of absence to care for him, and that first day of her arrival at his home in Chicago he had something he wanted her to do. He’d already signed everything over to her and wanted her to clean out his bank box. That’s when she first saw the journals, the pictures, the diary and the maps of the location of the plane, that last CIA flight out of Saigon. All his life he’d denied he remembered anything of the crash or the plane’s location. And it was all a lie.

  That’s when, through his eyes, through his journals, she was finally introduced to his war and to the plane crash that ended with his miraculous escape from Laos into Thailand with the help of fleeing Hmong. But what he didn’t tell her was exactly why he’d kept it a secret for so long. He said she’d understand when she found the plane and its contents.

  Kiera had been steeped in the dark dramas of so many current wars, so many of her own nightmares from Homs to Kabul, that going back into his history and into that war felt a little like time travel from one terrible place to another. Yet, on some level, this was what her grandfather had trained her for.

  Growing up, everything had always been about her. Now it was about him and what he’d left behind. His big secret and the origin of his dark, paranoid world that he’d finally asked her to enter.

  At her grandfather’s Arlington funeral three weeks ago, some men she’d never seen before showed up at the solemn burial. A couple of them identified themselves as Neil Hunter’s old war colleagues, Army Intel officers or CIA types. They were dutifully apologetic, knew who she was, and seemed very friendly. But they came at her with questions, with interest about if her grandfather had written his memoirs, or if he’d regained some of the memories of the plane crash. She gave them nothing. Or so she thought, up to the break-in of her condo.

  She was now convinced her Google searches and phone conversations were big mistakes. She hadn’t taken the warnings, the seeming paranoia of her grandfather, seriously enough and she was paying the price. She wasn’t the only one looking for that long lost plane.

  4

  The black Mercedes raced along the swollen Tonle Sap River at high speed, harassing anyone in its way with blaring horns and flashing headlights, as it shot toward the largest estate west of the city.

  The driver turned off the main road and slowed at the entrance gate that led into a vast estate. He was waved on by two AK-47 toting security guards. In the passenger seat a former colonel in the Cambodian military and now a head of security for Besson Enterprises, nodded to the armed guards, both once in his army unit.

  The colonel turned to the backseat, glancing at the wet, muddy suitcase between the two thieves. That they’d failed to get the woman’s other bag might seal their fate and maybe his. He gave each of them a hard look. He’d sent them on a simple errand and they’d come back with half the package. Not acceptable.

  The Mercedes raced up the palm tree-lined ribbon of road that led to the massive French colonial building on the banks of the swollen river. The estate belonged to Luc Besson, a former French intelligence officer and one of the wealthiest men in Indochina.

  The driver swung in by the side of the house and parked between a vintage gray Citroen and a green Land Rover.

  The colonel got out, opened the back door and took the Samsonite suitcase. He walked around the side of the main house past a fish pond to the expansive veranda that overlooked the gardens, the chopper pad and the river. As he approached he heard the familiar sharp crack of a heavy caliber rifle.

  When the colonel mounted the steps, Luc Besson, a tall, thin, grey-haired Frenchman, aimed at something out in the gardens until his houseman said something. He lowered the rifle and turned, seeing the colonel, and more importantly, the suitcase. He emitted a little yelp of delight, and then surrendered his rifle to one of his housemen.

  “Vous l’avez. Excellent.” That was followed by a frown. “There were two bags?”

  “The men said the woman was big and strong and fought like a tiger. They were able to get only one before a big crowd gathered and they were forced to run away.”

  Besson didn’t take that news well, as the colonel knew he wouldn’t. But it was his American business associate, Arnold Cole, who had ordered the theft and he was the one to worry about. Cole would be arriving from Angkor Wat and he had a vicious temper and many powerful friends all over Southeast Asia. He was nobody to anger.

  “Open it,” Besson thundered. He then yelled to his houseman to bring a tool box.

  From the tool box the colonel selected a hammer and chisel. He cut the locks with a couple well placed blows.

  Besson dumped everything out onto a table. He picked up a plastic bag and removed a manila envelope and took out some photos. He then removed a well-worn, leather bound book of some kind that he leafed through fast. Then, apparently disappointed, went through it much slower the second time. Finally he dropped it with disgust on the table.

  Besson then went through the woman’s clothes and toiletries, throwing things that the houseman picked up. Whatever he was after wasn’t there and the colonel wasn’t happy about that at all.

  The Frenchman then ripped out the lining of the suitcase, before setting it aside. For a moment he stood and stared at the pile. That’s when his phone buzzed.

  Besson pulled the phone from his shirt pocket, looked at the caller ID. He answered, walked away and had a brief conversation.

  When he hung up and walked back he said, “Cole is coming in from Angkor Wat. You’d best find Kiera Hunter. Do nothing to her. Just locate her and have your men watch her every move until we’re ready. And those idiots you hired that got their asses handed to them by a damn girl, get rid of them.”

  The colonel left Besson and returned to the car. He was in a very sour mood for what those idiots had done by letting a woman beat them, because it would come back on him.

  He opened the back door and shot the man closest to him in the head. The other tried to get out but never got the door opened. The colonel shot him in the back of the neck. Then he got into the passenger seat and told the driver where to go.

  There was a field not all that far away that
was a preferred spot to dump bodies. The colonel had visited it on more than one occasion. He was in a hurry. He knew if he didn’t find this Hunter woman and keep her in sight, he might well be joining those he was putting in what he liked to call the field of errors.

  5

  When Miloon pulled his Vespa in front of the American Embassy gates, Kiera hopped off saying, “I’ll be right back.”

  Her wet clothes stuck to her in the heat like hot wax and she couldn’t wait to get out of them, but first things first.

  Kiera walked through the Embassy courtyard where half a dozen small kids were playing soccer. Most of them Caucasian, one Black and the others Asian. In her dark mood she feared what kind of world these kids were going to inherit.

  Inside the Embassy she was directed to the Public Affairs office occupied by a bored, phlegmatic embassy officer.

  As she registered under his watchful eye, the whole time he inundated her with an unsolicited list of security updates on Cambodia, and, for no reason she could discern, went into his analysis of the conflicts in Burma between Buddhists and Islamists.

  “I’m not going to Burma,” she said with a bit of an edge. “Can you tell me if there is a new address for Vale Expeditions?”

  He studied her a moment. “Sorry, I don’t think I can be of much help there.”

  “Why is that?”

  “There no longer is a Vale Expeditions.” He paused, and then said, “You look banged up. An accident?”

  Observant, aren’t you, she thought, saying, “No. I tripped and fell in the storm. Is Michael Vale still in Phnom Penh?”

  “No. He’s gone. His son, Porter Vale, is still around cleaning up his father’s mess. If you want to have medical personnel take a look—”

  “No thanks. What do you mean by mess?”

  “Are you a friend or relative?”

  “No.”

  When he didn’t volunteer what ‘mess’ meant, she said, “You have any idea where he might be?”

  The man had an annoying habit of staring and his eyes didn’t seem to have a normal blink ratio. He said, with pointed sarcasm, “If Porter Vale’s not in jail you will probably find him at a bar. You might try the usual watering holes like The Red Fox, Jungle Bar and Grill, or the Heart of Darkness Bar on fifty-one street. And if I can be of any assistance, I’d be happy to show you a few places.”

  Not in this, or any, lifetime, she thought. “No, thanks.” She gave him a tight smirk. “Are there ATMs in this fair city?”

  “Yes. The Canadia Bank. That’s the tallest new building in town. Phnom Penh’s version of a skyscraper. Some mobile ATMs. But if you’re thinking of getting local currency, the riel is becoming more or less worthless. The dollar is the currency of choice. At least until it goes the way of the riel.”

  “Where’s the best place to shop for outdoor clothes and gear?”

  “Central Market, Sorya shops, Night Market. Any driver will take you around. Or, if you want to wait a bit—”

  “I appreciate your help,” Kiera said curtly. “I’d like to use your restroom.”

  “Down the hall on the left. You look familiar, by the way.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  In the bathroom she looked into the metal framed mirror and was slightly amused and slightly horrified at the swollen lips, red eyes, scrape on her neck, paddy mud in her hair. Christ, I’m a wreck, she thought. She made an attempt to wash up.

  Her clothes hadn’t dried at all. Kiera needed to go shopping and that was her intention when she walked back out to the street.

  But before she could say anything, Miloon announced triumphantly, “I find Porter Vale. My friend tell me.”

  “Finally, some good news! Where is he?”

  “Thunder Range.”

  Somehow that sounded appropriate. She hopped on the back of the scooter, forgetting all about new clothes. “Let’s go find Mister Porter Vale.”

  She held onto Miloon’s skinny frame for dear life as he did his tricky dance through the teeming streets, negotiating with harrowing mastery the visually impaired traffic he encountered at every intersection on the way out of Phnom Penh.

  They raced down a narrow road out of the city, dodging occasional traffic, water holes, animals and the ever present bicycles before hitting some open stretches. She knew far more congested Third World cities, but Phnom Penh appeared to be catching up.

  When they reached Thunder Range ten minutes later she thought it aptly named with the sound of weapons blasting away all over the place.

  Most of the shooters appeared to be Westerners. Men with guns. No females that she could see. The silhouette targets in use were getting shredded by high-powered instruments of destruction.

  Miloon parked and told her to wait while he went to pay his respects to the range boss who was idling away the day in a hammock, smoking a cigarette and fiddling with a handgun.

  The Cambodian officer glanced over at her once, nodded, and Miloon left him and returned just as three young Caucasian men passed by, each carrying an automatic weapon.

  “Israeli,” Miloon informed her. Then he pointed to a couple men downrange. “Tall man, Porter Vale.”

  Porter Vale had his back to them. He looked well over six feet, wore a black ball cap, a short-sleeved, faded tan shirt and green khaki shorts. Above the ankle-high sneakers his muscled calves suggested a man who did a lot of hiking and climbing. She guessed he was somewhere in his mid-thirties.

  Kiera told Miloon to wait for her. At least she’d finally found a Vale, even if the wrong one.

  The guy Porter Vale was chatting with, a short, stout man sporting a bush hat, caught her approach. She heard him say in a heavy accent, “Incoming, mate.”

  Porter Vale turned. He had this expression that said you had entered his space without asking, so you’d better have a damn good reason. He had a face that was attractive in a pugilistic sort of way. Apparently it hadn’t avoided every punch.

  She noticed he didn’t give her body a visual sweep, as his friend, and most men, did, and she appreciated that. Instead he locked on her eyes, not friendly, but with skepticism, like he knew she couldn’t be good news.

  She had a sneaking suspicion this wasn’t going to be an easy interview, but if that proved true at least it would be consistent with the day so far.

  6

  “You’re Porter Vale?”

  “Yes, and you, madam, are all wet.”

  Kiera allowed a faint smile, but she pulled it back quickly when he didn’t reciprocate, feeling a little disappointed. Under different circumstances she might have even openly flirted with the guy.

  She said, trying not to sound apologetic, “I took an unanticipated swim in a rice paddy on my way in from the airport.”

  “It’s the season for unanticipated swims,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s a private matter,” she said, giving the Aussie a glance. He opened his hands in a gesture of benign compliance, smiled and bowed out, giving Porter Vale a wry glance before he wandered over to join other Westerners farther down range, young men enthusiastically ridding the world of imaginary enemies with multiple bursts of automatic weapons.

  “I came to Phnom Penh looking to hire your father.” Kiera paused as the Israelis near them opened up with their ubiquitous UZIs. “Apparently he’s no longer in business.”

  “Pop’s off to Tahiti.”

  “Vacation?”

  “Retired. Following in the footsteps of Gauguin.”

  “A painter?”

  He gave a little shrug. “Sunsets, beautiful beaches, half-naked young ladies and vast quantities of whatever’s on tap.”

  “He any good as a painter?”

  “He’s a man in perpetual search of the illusion of paradise, as are many of us. Painting is cover. What can I do for you?”

  “You took over the business?”

  “Just long enough to relinquish all its assets.”

  He didn’t ask who she was so she offered. “I’m K
iera Hunter. I emailed your father several times over the past couple weeks. I didn’t get a reply.”

  “He was busy closing down, packing, and under a lot of different pressures. He sent out notices. Apparently you were overlooked.”

  Kiera nodded. “My laptop was stolen. That’s probably the reason. My grandfather, Neil Hunter, knew your father. I think they worked together once a long time ago.”

  “Could be.”

  His gaze hadn’t budged a bit, still holding hers steady. Kiera waited, giving him room to elaborate. When he didn’t she figured it would be best to get right to the point, which was quickly becoming her only hope. “Would you be interested in one more job before you go off to do whatever you’re doing next?”

  “What sort of job?”

  “Hunting for a lost plane flown by my grandfather.”

  He tipped his head a little and gave her a sardonic smile. “It’s the ‘one more’ that I’m afraid of. One last bank job. One last diamond heist. I never believed in the ‘one last’ concept that film people are so fascinated with. It’s my philosophy that if you’ve reached the ‘one last’ stage you’ve already gone too far. But there are plenty of guides—”

  “No. There aren’t,” she said. “I’m not asking you to commit a crime.”

  “I’m sorry you came all this way looking for my father. But he’s gone and the business is no more.” He crossed his arms and she watched a jaw muscle tighten like he was clenching his teeth.

  “I need a guide to take me into the mountains of Laos north of a town called Attapeu near the Vietnamese border. It’ll take just a day or two and you’ll be very well paid.”

  He studied her for a moment, as if maybe trying to assess whether she was asking the impossible. “You’re kidding, right? That is a crime…against sanity.” He shook his head.

  “I have reasons why I need to do this now, whatever the risks. I can’t wait. Your father was about the only one my grandfather would trust with finding the plane he crashed nearly forty years ago. It was the last fixed wing CIA plane to leave Saigon before the fall.”