Freedom Earned Read online

  From what I could see from my limited view, it looked as if they were sweeping the house. Still searching for me, no doubt. I needed to move, fast, to gain some ground before they realized I was gone. Having clothes was a plus, but running through the jungle without shoes was going to be nasty and painful. What choice did I have? Death or the prospect of being handed over to a terrorist organization, which sounded worse? I went with the better option and ran.

  13

  Charging through the jungle as I ran for my life wasn’t my idea of a fun vacation in Thailand. My hope was that I would be able to find some help, get out of there, and alert some sort of authorities. I didn’t care, anymore—this was getting out of hand. At least three people had died, and somehow, I was thrown into the middle of it all.

  Going to the authorities meant taking a chance on someone who was supposed to help me, and that was a chance I had to take. I slowed, feet stinging since the sand had turned to rock mixed with grass in places, to my relief. My mind started to process the fact that, since I didn’t have my clothes on me, that meant my wallet and identification were gone, too. Maybe with the woman, who would be able to use them somehow to claim I had been there. She would say I tried to rob them or something, that I had killed two men… and then maybe link me to the foreigner on the beach on Koh Samui.

  I stopped, checking my feet first to see that my suspicions were correct and the bottoms were cut up and bloody. Not dripping, but enough to be a hindrance. Going back to the house might be the smart move. For one, there was a good chance the woman might be out looking for me, or she could have sent the man. That would mean only one of them would be keeping a lookout. If I was lucky, both would be out looking.

  Another benefit of returning could be that I would be able to see what I was dealing with. They had said they were handing me off to others. If I waited too long, those others would be in the house, making it that much harder for me to get my wallet back.

  Rage caused my teeth to grind, my gut to clench—maybe the feeling was hunger. I wasn’t sure how long it had been since the barbecue. It was still night, though, so it couldn’t have been too long.

  The longer I hesitated, the worse the outcome would be for either decision. Knowing that, I made up my mind. First things first, though. I couldn’t continue running all over with my feet like this. I quickly found some large leaves, tore them off a nearby bush, and managed to strap them around my feet with strands of cloth I pulled from the shorts I had on. Not great, but they would work for now.

  That out of the way, I started back the way I had come, being careful to keep to the stones as much as possible to avoid leaving tracks. Already my bloody feet had left a trail, but it led out to a direction I was no longer going, so that was fine. After a while, I turned to work my way back to the house in a slight curve, in case anyone was following my original path.

  So far, there was no sign of anyone. I was able to see only the surrounding trees in the darkness, many of them tall and forming a canopy overhead. Jungle bush lined most of the way around me, with clear patches where the sandy rocks were. That told me I was at least close to a beach, I thought. A cacophony of birds sounded from my left, and a moment later, something flew overhead. Not one of the birds, I imagined, since it appeared to be a bat. Did they have those in Thailand? I had no idea. At least it wasn’t like the thing would turn into a vampire and suck my blood, but damn, it still freaked me out.

  I rested with my hand on a palm tree, only to see a dark form moving on the ground. That got my heart thudding double-time at a thought that it might be a snake. I kept moving, thinking as I charged ahead how this place reminded me of the survival training I had done on the north side of Okinawa. Marines could volunteer for such training, and at the time I had been working my ass off in the SCIF, finishing an assignment that both bored me to death and at the same time was entirely too depressing. Many of the jobs were that way. So, when my Gunny had asked if I was interested in going to the jungle to learn how to be more of a badass, of course, I had volunteered.

  Big mistake. My only pleasant memories were of the first day when there had been some downtime out in the jungle, and I was scouting out our surroundings with Lance Corporal Strutton. Young Marines like to tell tales, and he had been bragging about his trip to New Orleans for Mardi Gras straight out of boot. Something about being surrounded by a field of titties, beads flying everywhere, some guy going down on a lady on one of the balconies, right there for the cheering crowd. I told him to shut up, that we needed to focus.

  He had stared at me, glared, and said, “Marine, I’m about to tell you the dirtiest story you’ve ever heard, and all you want to do is focus on jungle survival?”

  “Why we’re here, isn’t it?”

  “Not at all. We’re here so you can learn how a real man gets it done. Pay attention. There I was, minding my business, when this young Indian girl catches my eye.”

  “Let me guess,” I interrupted. “Big brown eyes, the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen.”

  He laughed. “Not at all, but what do I care? For me, it’s not about the looks.”

  “Personality?” I couldn’t hide my doubt, considering what little I knew of the guy.

  “My man—I don’t gotta tell you. Point is, this girl’s eyeing me, and when I make contact, she runs her tongue along her lips. Oh, shit, right?” Stratton stood while we were supposed to be keeping a low profile and then made like he was unzipping his pants—luckily, he didn’t. “So, just like that, and maybe I had a couple drinks in me, she mouths, ‘I wanna see it,’ so who am I to deny the will of a goddess?”

  “Please tell me you didn’t.”

  “Of course, I did. Right there on Bourbon Street, I have it hanging out and she’s all excited, but some dude comes along and punches me right in the dick!”

  I had started cracking up, and of course, that’s when our trainers found us. No more fun, the rest of the training was hell. More so for the two of us, because they made sure of it. Thought we weren’t taking their training seriously. In hindsight, we weren’t, but at least the harsher training better prepared me for this.

  When it was over, I remember lying there on the concrete, head propped up on my pack at night as we waited for one of those white buses to pick us up. Stratton came waddling over—walking all weird because he was sore from whatever training they’d had him doing—and he plopped down next to me.

  “To finish the story,” he said, as if he hadn’t been stopped from his finishing it before, “My buddies kicked that dude’s ass, and while I was tucking myself away, that girl found me, pulled me into an alley, and we went at it like bunnies. True story.”

  I eyed him, chuckled, then shook my head. “Bull.”

  “Swear on my nuts, bro.”

  Not that I had much energy left to give two hoots, but at least I offered him a nod for attempting to keep me entertained. The training had been hell, but I made a friend from it. And a year later, when he flew his girlfriend out to meet him in Okinawa, I had put my foot in my mouth by asking her version of the story.

  “Bourbon Street?” she had asked, frowning. “No, we didn’t meet there. Went for our anniversary, though. It’s a nice place… great bread pudding.”

  I frowned, then noticed Stratton’s horrified expression behind her and the way he was shaking his head. Meaning he had either brought her to the same place that other stuff happened, or… it happened while he was there with this lady? The only thing I knew for sure after that about him was that he had a thing for Indian women.

  As I explored the island, I sure as hell hoped more of my survival training would come back to me than recollections of Stratton and his B.S. For the longest time, I had thought the whole thing to be a pretty big waste of my time. Especially out in the desert, where I figured the rest of my life would be. When you’re out there, it’s difficult to see anything beyond it.

  Sometimes what seems like a mistake at the time comes back to be a good choice in the end, as was
the case with that training. If I was going to survive this island, I imagined it would be in part because of that day I had told my Gunny to send me to training and the torture that followed.

  My throat was parched, a torture of its own. If I didn’t find water in the house, I would have to look for other means.

  I froze, staring into the darkness. Had there been movement? Crouching with a slow movement, ensuring my body wasn’t forming a silhouette, I watched. Sure enough, a figure was moving in the darkness. Going out the way I had run, clearly on my trail. On the one hand, that was terrifying. On the other, that meant that my plan was a go—at least one of them wasn’t at the house.

  Breaths coming fast and shallow, my mind raced with thoughts of how different this would be if I had my rifle. I would tear through this jungle, gun that crazy lady and her remaining friend down, then insist someone get me the hell back to the airport. Sure, I would run into trouble with the rifle, but I wasn’t thinking that far ahead.

  From what I could tell, the figure had moved on enough and wouldn’t notice me advancing toward the house. Focused on my goal, I froze again, realizing that the way back would bring me out to a field of much shorter palm trees. Each of them was barely as tall as me, and more spread out, too.

  If anyone was at the house keeping lookout, they would be much more likely to spot me running through there. Even so, I had to advance, and this was the best way considering the state of my feet and the time it would take to go around. My feet stung with each step, but I sprinted to the cover of one tree then to the next, each time pausing for a breath, eyes on the house, then darting out again.

  Halfway across, I was able to see the house more clearly. From the outside, I got a better sense of where they had been keeping me and now saw the water on the other side. An escape route, perhaps. Nearby was a yacht, but I guessed they would be guarding it. I wasn’t likely to figure out how to operate it on my own, especially while probably being shot at. While it wasn’t my best bet, it was an option, so I kept it logged in my mind.

  Moving up to the house, I saw the man. He stepped out of my range of sight, so I went to the side door, nudged it open, and checked. There he was, in the bathroom…cleaving a body! The sound of blade on bone sickened me even more than the sight of blood. A knife on the counter caught my attention, so I slowly, carefully picked it up.

  The man froze, standing, head slowly turning. Had I made a noise? Calling out in Thai first, he then added in English, “It’s you, is it? The Marine?”

  I eyed him, debating my move. He knew I was there, so where did that leave me? First, I figured I would see how gullible this guy was and play the oldest trick in the book—seeing the nearby table and an ashtray on it, I had my plan. The ashtray was made of clay, so it smashed when it hit the far wall.

  The man moved, going for the way through to his right. Steeling my nerves, I gripped the knife and moved into the room he had vacated. He had called my bluff, though, and was there waiting for me. Coming in with that hatchet in one hand, he almost got me. I moved out of the way and sliced first at his arm, then knocked him aside with my shoulder as I came up again and drove the blade into his gut, all the way up to the handle. I twisted, staring into his eyes as they registered pain and then death’s imminent arrival.

  Pulling the blade out, I clenched my jaw, trying to ignore the blood as I stabbed, again and again, to be safe. A glance at a small, metal clock on the counter reminded me that time was running out. I quickly checked the guy’s shoes, annoyed at how small they were, but took his hatchet and moved to find my wallet. They wouldn’t have ditched it, I hoped, because whoever they were handing me over to would likely want proof of my identity.

  No luck, unfortunately, but the other dead guy’s shoes looked much more to my liking, so I took them and put them on. I checked his pockets and found money, which couldn’t hurt to have, so I tucked that into my new shoes.

  I was about to go when I noticed something on the counter by the clock. None of my other belongings were there, but my ID card was. Along with what looked like a fax printout. It had my passport, along with a note written in Thai. I slipped the ID and note into a torn section of my recently acquired shoe, in case that could come in handy later. Also, it made sense to remove any sign of my having been in this place, if possible. Someone had clearly been there and done some killing, but best if they didn’t have any way of tracing it back to me.

  Time was running out, but if I was going to survive this place, I needed food and water. Unfortunately, the water that came from the faucet was brown, and the only food I could find was a bag of rice. Except then I remembered the meat one of them had been cooking, and gladly went for it. It was too messy to take with me, but I grabbed a stick of meat and devoured it as I searched the place. Damn, it was a shame the cook wouldn’t be able to repeat the recipe, because it tasted amazing.

  A quick search didn’t reveal anything more, which spoke for itself. If they didn’t have water or food, they clearly weren’t staying long. Alternatively, they could have planned to go out for it, but I had a feeling they expected the people who were going to take me to arrive quite soon.

  Another glance around and my eyes landed on an old-school rotary phone. No way. I lunged for it, picking up the receiver and dialing nine…then what? No way was nine-one-one a thing in Thailand, right? Had other countries mimicked the U.S. to make the number reach the cops, or maybe had we gotten it from elsewhere?

  I tried, anyway. Nothing. There had to be a similar thing here though, right? Japan had one-one-nine, so I tried that next. No good, either.

  Getting frantic, I tried one-nine-nine. A ring, then…Thai.

  “Police,” I said. “I need the police.”

  “No police,” the voice said, then a string of Thai again.

  Cursing, I held the phone away, then said, “Does anyone speak English? Or… Japanese?”

  “No. No English.” More Thai.

  Then, suddenly another voice came on. A scratchier, older woman’s voice. “Sir, American?”

  “Yes, I’m in trouble.”

  “One-nine-one police, but English need one-one-five-five.”

  “Thank you!” I said, clicking the hang-up button and then dialing immediately. Damn rotary, how did anyone ever live with these things? So close, I needed only one more five… when a door creaked.

  She was back.

  I dialed the five, setting down the phone before ducking away from the sound of the opening door, eyes darting about for a hiding place. I remembered the knife and the hatchet and grabbed them. There, behind the dead body, was the bathroom where he had been cutting up at least one other body—to bury or hide, I imagined.

  The linen closet in there was my best bet, with a window beyond that I hoped to escape through. Ducking in, I didn’t make it to the window as I’d hoped, but I was able to hide in there and had a nice vantage point to see through the cracks in the door.

  Her shadow appeared first, creeping across the floor and stepping over the blood from the man I’d stabbed. Then the rest of her followed, slowly coming into full view. She still had that pistol. Her eyes first took in the phone hanging off the hook. She stared hard, taking in the entire scene, then went right over to receiver. A glance around, then her eyes narrowed, settling on the dead man lying there.

  A single word. Probably a curse, and then, “Tyler, if you’re in here—you’re dead. I don’t give a fuck what they’re offering. You hear me?”

  She threw the phone so that the plug came out of the wall, then spun, pistol raised as if expecting me to pop up right there. Naturally, I didn’t. And to my relief, she was facing away from me, toward the other door where the broken ashtray lay.

  She started moving in that direction, creeping across the room. Turning the corner, she muttered, “Or maybe I’ll shoot you in the side of your face. Leave a hole from one cheek through to the other, so that every time you smile, people will see your broken teeth through the holes in your face. That sounds better,
doesn’t it? Then I can still hand you over, for whatever the fuck they want with you.” Then she was out of sight.

  With my ID and some shoes that almost fit but would do for now, nothing was keeping me there. I studied the path from where I stood to the window. Blood was pooling over the ground from the messy work of hacking up the body. Not enough blood for me to worry about slipping on, if I was cautious and careful of my footing.

  Another glance toward the door told me the woman was still searching in the opposite direction. From what I had seen outside, though, this place wasn’t huge. My window of opportunity was growing small, so I cautiously moved, stepping between lines of blood, and then I was at the window. The man had opened it since fresh air made sense when chopping up a body.

  I reached the windowsill, looked out to see a little garden, and quickly tossed my weapons through before pushing myself up and over in one quick motion. A shout sounded from behind. I fell over the other side, figuring she had spotted me. The shot that exploded through the open window a split second later confirmed this, but then I was up, going for the hatchet, and turning to run.

  Out of the corner of my eyes I saw her there, pistol aimed but slipping as she screamed and fell with a thud. The blood had gotten her! I wanted to laugh, hoping the fall had left her unconscious or with something broken. Judging by her shouting, though, the first was a no-go. And I couldn’t take a chance with the second, not when she had the gun.

  All I could do was book it out of there as fast as my legs would take me. I was on the other side of the house from where I had been, and this time, I headed for the open water I’d spotted on the way in. Or started to, but changed course when I saw a dark shape in the water coming toward the shore. A small yacht, by my guess. My next guess was that these were the people who had come to collect me.

  My mind went to that note in my shoe. Damn, I wanted to know what it said. Unfortunately, I didn’t know Thai, and this wasn’t the time for reading. I had to keep running and get past the large rocks, into more jungle, and hope the woman with the pistol would be distracted by her guests long enough for me to escape.