He could see the water of the Chao Phraya flowing swiftly by, so real he could almost touch it. As the imaginary Daeng leaned toward the surface, a bright light cut across his face. It wasn’t reflecting off the river, though. In fact, it wasn’t in the world of his mind at all.
He blinked, then squinted. The glare was coming from the door, partially blocked by a shadow standing in the opening.
“So, um, next time, check the door before you close it,” Nate whispered.
“Sage advice,” Daeng said, rising to his feet.
Standing near Nate was a small Asian woman. Orlando, Daeng realized, the woman he’d heard Quinn talk about often when Dang visited him at Wat Doi Thong. She was as beautiful as the American had made her out to be, her small frame radiating with an intensity and strength that seemed out of proportion with her size.
“The girl’s downstairs?” Nate asked.
“ Someone ’s downstairs,” Daeng said.
“One guard. Correct?”
“Yes. When I checked, there was only the one, and I haven’t heard anyone else enter the building. Of course, I didn’t hear you, either, and I knew you were coming, so maybe that’s not such a good gauge.”
Nate took in the information, but said nothing.
“Are we attempting a rescue?” Daeng asked.
“Might be our best opportunity.”
“The problem is, you can’t get close to the guard without him knowing. He could set off an alarm that would bring the others.”
“Not going to be a problem,” Nate said.
He pulled his backpack off his shoulders, unzipped the top, and removed a thin, four-inch-long cylinder.
Daeng raised an eyebrow.
“Stun grenade,” Nate said. “Low power. Enough to disable one or two people if it’s close enough, but the noise should be all contained to the basement.” He handed the weapon to Orlando, and pulled his bag back over his shoulders. “Show me how you saw the guard without him knowing, then I’ll toss this in.”
Quinn’s phone vibrated. Since the only people he had any interest in talking to at the moment were on the other end of the radio in his ear, he didn’t pull it out of his pocket.
Surveying the farm again, he noted that the smoker had finished his cigarette, and that the other man was rolling his head over his shoulders, stretching his neck. Neither made any indication they were aware that one of their buildings had been infiltrated.
On the comm, reception was once more a problem, and Quinn was able to hear only about seventy percent of the conversation between Nate, Daeng, and Orlando. It was enough, though, to know that things were progressing as planned.
When all talk ceased, he assumed they had moved back into the hallway, where words would be kept to an absolute minimum in case the guard in the basement could hear them.
It was amazing how slowly time passed when he could only wait for the others to do the work he should be doing himself. Convinced he would have been finished by now, he glanced at his watch and saw that not even a minute had passed.
Just relax and wait for the click, he told himself.
That would be the signal, a simple on and off click of Orlando’s mic when Nate was about to set off the grenade.
He couldn’t help but look at the windowless building, as if there would be some sort of sign that it was time. Of course there was nothing, just the blank walls and single door. He switched his attention back to the guards. The one at the cars looked as bored as ever. As Quinn panned his binoculars over the patio to check the other one, he heard:
Click.
They walked silently down the hall to the stairwell. Once there, Nate looked at Daeng, who pantomimed how he’d stretched out over the opening earlier.
Nate nodded, removed his backpack, and set it on the floor. As a precaution, Orlando continued to hold the grenade until he was ready to throw it. He lowered himself to his stomach and slinked forward over the steps.
When he was out as far as he wanted to go, he dipped his head, and looked into the basement. The upside-down view was exactly as Daeng described, doors along one wall and the guard sitting in a chair at the far end with a book in his lap.
Nate extended his arm behind him and raised his palm into the air. As soon as he felt the stun grenade touch his skin, he wrapped his fingers around it, and carefully brought it forward over the gap. On the comm he could hear Orlando click her mic, but he barely registered it. All his attention was on the task ahead.
Though he knew the toss was a relatively easy one, he had to account for his inverted perspective or he’d likely throw the grenade into the ceiling. That would alter its trajectory, and could keep it from getting close enough to the guard to be effective.
A nice, simple lob was all that was needed.
He tried a practice swing, adjusted his arm motion, and tried again. Happy with the result, he brought the grenade up so he could see it, and turned the timer to five seconds. He drew his arm back and tossed the grenade into the room, then pulled himself out of the stairwell as quickly as he could.
At the two-and-a-half-second mark, they could hear the sound of metal skidding across the floor. A second later, the wooden chair below creaked as the guard must have started to wake. Then Boooom!
Quinn continued to monitor the guards. Though he expected to be the only one outside the detention building to know that anything had happened, he wanted to make sure there was no reaction from the other two.
Unconsciously, he counted off the seconds after the click.
Four seconds. Five. Six. Seven. Ei Booom!
The sound had most definitely not been contained within the building.
The guards were instantly alert, both turning toward the other building. They exchanged a few words, and one started running in the direction of the sound.
“I don’t know what happened,” Quinn said, “but you’ve got company on the way.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he pulled back. Given his current position-the perfect place for a spotter- he was vulnerable, too.
As he was turning away, he heard the front door of the main house open. He took a quick look over his shoulder just in time to see at least half a dozen men rush outside.
Quinn’s voice. Distant.
Something about company.
That’s when Nate realized he was lying on the floor. Which floor and where took him another second to remember. When he did, he scrambled to his feet.
Daeng was sitting against the wall, Nate’s backpack somehow sitting in his lap.
Nate grabbed it from him and said, “Are you all right?”
“Uh…yeah. Fine.”
A hand clamped down on Nate’s back and whirled him around.
“What the hell was that?” Orlando said. “I thought you said it was low power. That was not low power.”
Screwed by Giacona again, Nate realized, though he doubted the weapon supplier had any idea his grenades were mislabeled. But now was not the time to worry about it.
He jumped into the stairwell, and raced down to the basement. The guard, his chair, and his book were now all on the floor, and two of the cell doors were hanging open on broken hinges.
Nate ran over to the guard, and checked the man’s pulse. Not exactly strong, but it wasn’t threatening to stop, either. There was blood on the floor, but it appeared to be a result of the man’s nose coming into abrupt contact with the ground.
Keep going! Nate told himself.
He checked the two cells with the broken doors, but they were empty, so he headed for the last cell. It had been the one closest to the guard, therefore the most likely place a prisoner was being kept. He turned the knob and tried to pull it open, but it didn’t budge. At first he thought it was locked on the outside. Then he saw that the blast had warped it enough to jam it in place.
He stepped back and kicked at the door. It groaned as it moved inward. From the other side he thought he heard a voice. He kicked it again.