Chapter One
Western Thailand Jungle March 2 (Four Months Ago)
The voices in his head were back.
"You no forget blood chit."
Dante Johnson forced his swollen eyelids open, confirming he was alone in the dark basement cell. That he''d only imagined the Thai orderly Ping''s chop-chop voice.
He lifted his head, groaned. His ears rang like a couple of bell towers. A familiar calling card. He tried to move, but nearly blacked out again.
So what had hit him this time? Flashback, premonition, seizure? Or just another sucker punch courtesy of this damn malaria relapse?
As crappy as he felt, he at least knew the guards hadn''t beaten him while he was passed out. That had a totally different feel.
He sucked in a shallow breath. Relax, damn it. Think of the ocean. The sun. Think of waves lapping against his sailboat. He could practically feel it. The tropical breeze.
The sweat on his skin as he chopped up that bitch''s body and fed it to the sharks. Yeah ... that was it. The sweetness of the dream beckoned and he was almost asleep when Ping''s voice echoed in his head once more. "You no forget-"
The blood chit.
Oh, shit!
Ignoring the protest of bruised ribs, he struggled to sit up. What the hell time was it and how long had he been out? Had the guard already been by for the three o''clock cell check?
He craned his neck toward the barred window high on the wall. Even though it still looked middle-of-night dark outside, the difference between 2 a.m. and 4 was huge. Life or death huge.
Rain slashed the glass. The unseasonable monsoons that cursed the area the past week hadn''t let up. Conspicuously absent, though, was the metallic scrape-drag of a dozen shovels.
The graves were finished.
Can''t worry about that now.
"Think," he muttered. "What''s the last thing I remember?"
He struggled to focus. Earlier tonight he''d been outside, digging in the mud. Digging his own grave. Then he''d passed out, coming to just in time to receive slacker''s pay: thirty lashes.
No, after that. After he''d been returned to his cell. Ping had come by ... to consummate their deal. Their goddamned deal.
He started scratching furiously around in the dirt floor. After negotiating an escape plan that seemed to have half a chance, had he blown it mere hours before his scheduled execution? If he''d screwed this up-
The cuts crisscrossing his fingertips stung as he dug, angry recriminations continuing to ricochet helter-skelter in his head.
After what seemed like two eternities, his fingers connected with first the shackle key, then the short-bladed knife. At least he''d had enough sense to hide them when Ping left.
A sudden dizziness scrambled his stomach. Lunging for the bucket, he vomited.
When his stomach was empty, he collapsed against the wall. The pounding in his head metronomed in sync with the storm as cramps wracked his insides.
In another part of the building, a door slammed, the sound muffled and distant. Completely alert, Dante leaned forward, listening for a second slam that would confirm the guard was making rounds.
He caught himself making a deal with God, then retracted it. His prayers had long gone unanswered. Yet when the second door slammed, he silently rejoiced. Maybe he had a chance after all.
Splaying his legs out in front, he unlocked the ankle manacle, made certain it opened freely. The four-foot chain allowed movement between his bunk and the slop bucket while restricting him to one corner of the six-by-eight cell.
He slumped to one side and leaned against the foot of the bunk. Then he dropped his head to his chest, hoping he looked passed out as the longest minutes of his life ticked tortuously by.
Time stretched and skewed as one worst-case scenario after another kaleidoscoped on his mind''s IMAX, beginning with the idiotic deal with Ping.
His gut instincts about the situation had been all over the board. He couldn''t lock on to any single outcome. One moment he''d see himself free; the next he''d get a feeling that Ping was lying. Then there was a premonition of death. Ping''s death, he hoped, since the vision usually followed thoughts of the orderly. But that wasn''t always the case.
It was crazy. He was crazy.
Trusting Ping-hell, anyone, had goatfuck written all over it. The guards had set up Dante before; allowed him to break out only to be captured and tortured-for sport.
But thoughts of escape had continued to consume him. That, and payback. In fact, most days vengeance beat out survival. The idea of getting even with the woman who had done this to him, who was responsible for his capture and the death of his friends, took on epic proportions in Dante''s dreams. He lived to make sure she paid. With her life.
Down the hall, another door slammed, louder.
Footsteps shuffled closer, stopped. Perfect silence fell over the imperfect setting. This was it. He counted seconds. But nothing happened.
Perspiration pocked his forehead, his cheeks. Damn it, why hadn''t the guard come directly into the cell? Was he screwing with Dante? Preparing a surprise of his own?
Or was he waiting on a second guard? Oh, sweet Mary, no! Two would ruin everything.
More silence.
And more.
Please, God, please ...
A key grated in the lock. First time that sound had ever brought relief.
His fingers tightened around the handle of the crude knife concealed against his pant leg as the tremors began again. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat, felt his head swim.
The door swung open and banged against the wall.
"Get up, asswipe," the guard ordered in Pidgin English that made Ping sound like an aristocrat.
Dante forced himself not to react.
"You not look so hot," the guard went on. "Maybe you need treatment. Me get doctor."
The guard laughed at his own sick joke. During his prior escape, Dante had noted the building''s sign translated to medical asylum. Right.
On the upside, since the facility wasn''t technically a prison, security was Neanderthal; the guards used shackles, drugs, and just plain viciousness to keep order. They expected token resistance but not an outright fight since the prisoners were always subdued.
Through slitted eyes, Dante watched a beam of light bounce along the floor, knew the guard swept the cell with a megamillion-watt spotlight, a favored trick to temporarily blind and disorient a prisoner.
He heard a scraping noise and guessed the guard had set his light on the ledge near the door. Next came a hollow, slapping sound, like wood striking a fleshy palm. The guard had brought in the long pole used to shove food trays closer. A sizable, sharp nail protruded from one end of the pole.
At Dante''s continued silence, the guard made a tsk sound. Dante''s muscles clenched as he sensed the guard moving in close enough to jab.
Now.
Jesus! The nail punctured deep into his thigh. Ignoring the pain, he sprang to life and grabbed the pole. Then he rammed it straight back into the guard''s spleen, before jerking it up and into the Adam''s apple in a swift one-two. The guard doubled over as he dropped to his knees, trying to suck in enough air to shout.
Dante regretted that the sorry-ass knife wasn''t sharp enough to slit the man''s throat. Acting quickly, he tackled the guard, taking him the rest of the way to the floor while plunging the shank into his gut and twisting it. The handle broke, leaving the blade embedded beneath the ribcage.
The guard coughed, spitting up blood as Dante maneuvered more fully across the man''s back, half-straddling, half-lying on him.
The guard tried to buck, only to cry out as the shank cut deeper.
"I fucking kill you!" The words were barely a hiss as the guard struggled for breath.
"Go ahead. Try." Dante purposely egged him on, framing the guard''s head between his hands and twisting to the left.
Attempting to counter the move, the guard yanked his head sharply to the right.
Just like I wanted. Swiftly going right, too, Dante jerked his wrists and used the guard''s own momentum to break his neck. Vertebrae cracked as the guard''s muscles contracted and released.
Rolling away, he climbed to his feet. The urge to puke left him pitching to one side. Damn it, he didn''t have time to be sick. It wouldn''t be long before someone noticed the guard hadn''t returned and came to investigate.
Gritting his teeth, he lurched out of the cell and down the dimly lit hall toward the rickety ladder at the far end. According to Ping, the cellar''s crude exit was used to smuggle in prostitutes to service the guards.
Halfway there, the hallway narrowed. His vision tunneled crookedly the way it did before he had a flashback. Jesus, not now.
He struggled to stay in the present moment. Sometimes he had episodes that blacked out entire days. Weeks. Based on dates Ping gave, he estimated he''d been held eighteen months. But where had all that time gone?
Doesn''t matter. Stay focused. If he lost it now, he was as good as dead.
But what about the others? Voices boomed in his head as two faces swam before his eyes.
Max.
Harry.
He''d been told his two partners-men who were like brothers-had died in the ambush. And he''d believed it. He''d seen their dead bodies, recalled the stench of burnt flesh.
But recently ... the flashbacks, the incoherent memories. They made him doubt everything he''d believed to be true. Beginning with his capture. He''d been in Cambodia, right? How the fuck had he ended up in Thailand? And Max. He remembered Max. They''d been in adjoining cells-somewhere. Not here, though.
Here, Dante had been kept isolated in the basement cell, allowed outside only recently to dig graves. According to Ping, his fellow gravediggers were political prisoners, Burmese militiamen captured in border disputes. Ping had insisted Dante was the only American there.
But what if the orderly had lied?
What if Max and Harry were alive? Were here, but held elsewhere? Perhaps another floor of this building?
The possibility tore at Dante, but he couldn''t be stupid. If they had survived, then he was their only hope at a rescue. And that meant he needed to get the hell out of here.
"I''ll be back for you," he swore.
At the top of the ladder, he opened the trap door and crawled out. The rain came down in translucent walls as he flattened himself to the stone foundation.
Squinting, he got his bearings. During his last ill-fated attempt, he''d memorized the facility''s grounds. Little appeared to have changed. A single guard would be hunkered down inside the front gate''s shack, trying to stay dry.
The area surrounding the main gate was well lit, but the rest of the compound was blanketed in uneven shadows.
Staying low, he rushed across the yard toward the rear of the property. A twelve-foot-high chain link fence topped with barbed wire surrounded the perimeter.
He headed straight for the delivery gate tucked in the far corner, right next to a maintenance shed. As Ping had promised, the light above the gate was out.
The short sprint left Dante winded. He cursed his lack of strength, knew it was more than the malaria relapse. A primary objective during his captivity, to keep in shape to escape, had been nearly impossible here. The guards had caught him doing push-ups once and broken his wrist. Now pushie up.
Inside the shed was the small metal table Ping had described. Dante felt along the underside, but found nothing. He bent lower to peer beneath, seeing little.
Ping was to have left a flashlight and a gate key. Damn it, where were they? Had the orderly been unable to get here? Or had he been caught by one of the guards? Were they on to both of them already?
The thought was terrifying. Was this like the last time? Was Dante about to be fucked over again?
He checked outside, but the stormy darkness was impervious. What did it hide? Just go for it. If it was over, then so be it. Bring on the bullets.
He jogged to the gate hoping Ping had left it unlocked. But the padlock held fast. His hands shook as he yanked on it again. Christ, didn''t he deserve even the smallest break?
He looked straight up, rain stinging his eyes. From here the fence looked fifty feet high. The barbed wire on top mocked him.
"Yeah, well, fuck you, too. I''m not quitting."
Grabbing the chain links, he hooked his fingers into the spaces above his head. Getting a toehold, he started climbing.
His muscles felt like melted putty, as if they didn''t want to work. His battered sides screamed in agony. Doesn''t matter. Keep going. He concentrated on moving six inches at a time. Up. Stop. Up.
Almost there.
Near the top, his foot slipped. He battled to hold on as the fence buckled and swayed. Dizziness had him seeing double. Grunting, he caught his toe once more and shoved upright, steadied. He was now eye level with the barbed wire.
He closed his fists over it. The razor edges bit into his palms. Ignoring the pain, he tried to dive over it. Instead he tumbled full into the wire.
Barbs ripped into his shoulder and arms, and then chewed up his back, slicing away skin as he rolled across and fell straight down.
He slammed flat on the ground, knocking the air from his lungs. Pain gyrated down his back. His legs refused to move and for a moment he thought he was paralyzed.
Funneling his anger, he managed to catch his breath and roll onto his side. From there he pushed onto his hands and knees.
He crawled, desperate to make the jungle. The thick foul mud sucked at his hands, swallowing up to his wrists, making ten yards feel like ten miles.
Would he make it? Or would the guards find him bogged down in this godforsaken field?
The rain let up just as he reached the trees. He pulled himself up as the moon broke free and illuminated a path. A tiny spark of hope swelled as he shoved off. Maybe. Just maybe he''d win this round.
He pushed on. Vines snagged his bare feet, tripping him as he headed deeper into the jungle. Cover was crucial.
"Move it, move it," he chanted, concentrating on putting distance between him and the prison.
When another wave of nausea swamped him, he grabbed for a branch, using it for support as he threw up.
Done, he straightened. He was shaking so bad, he had to lift his knees with his hands. His muscles were giving out now.
That''s when he heard them.
Dogs baying.
Shit! They were after him!
He tried to run and nearly collapsed when something sharp sliced into his foot, jamming straight up his heel. He pressed on.
Ahead he could hear water thundering. The river. Ping had warned it would be flooded beyond its banks. Crossing would be treacherous, if not impossible.
Behind him, the sound of the dogs remained steady.
The animals would have a problem tracking in the rain, but by now there were likely four or five guards searching, too. Guards who were more familiar with the area and who didn''t have to stop to puke every eight feet.
Unexpectedly, he hit a clearing. Dante stumbled back, chest heaving. One more step and he''d have fallen into the floodwaters.
The ebony river roared as if hungry. He looked up. The moon, which had moments before seemed a blessing, now worked only in the guards'' favor.
He scrambled toward a bush and tried to study the crumbling bank.
Hearing a noise, he glanced back over his shoulder. A flashlight beam stabbed the night. He''d been spotted.
Dante ducked, half-expecting to be hit with a barrage of bullets. Except the guards would consider that too humane.
Undoubtedly, they had found the man he''d killed. Which meant the rest of the guards wanted him alive. So they could kill him very slowly.
Two shots sounded, both fired into the air. A signal to move in.
Game over.
The dogs circled in closer, their snarling growls a living, breathing surround sound. Though the beasts still couldn''t pick up his scent, the guards taunted them into a frenzy, keeping them ready for a savage release.
As Dante edged away, the guard shouted, "Ng?t!" Halt!
"Never." Dante plunged into the river.
Rapid-fire shots chased him. Muddy water rushed up his nose. Exhausted muscles locked up in the frigid water. The current claimed him, spinning him in circles.
He heard shouting, followed by a splash. One of the dogs had jumped in to pursue him. Or had been thrown in. The animal''s howl faded as the water sucked Dante under a second time.
He kicked, managing to break the surface long enough to gasp air.
There was no fighting this. His only hope was to remain buoyant until he was downriver and could get to the bank again.
But could he survive that long? The guards would fan out and-
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Dead Rightby CATE NOBLE Copyright © 2009 by Kathleen Holzapfel. Excerpted by permission.
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