“Bummer,” Court said after another cough.
“How much dope did they catch you with?”
Court closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cold brick wall. He shrugged. “I wasn’t running drugs.”
“Sure you weren’t, homes. Just tell them it was a misunderstanding.”
“Actually I came to rescue some dipshit DEA dumbass who got himself captured by the boneheads running this place.”
An extremely long pause. Then a fresh chuckle. Then a hearty laugh that seemed utterly out of place in this black dungeon. Then the sound of movement in the dark. In the low light close to Court’s face, a bearded man appeared. He looked Mexican, late twenties, and several inches shorter than Court. He wore baby blue pajamas, and the skin around both of his eyes was tainted with fading bruises, obvious even in the deep shadow. He stuck out a hand. “Eddie Gamble. DEA, Phoenix Field Office, on special assignment to the Bangkok Field Division.”
Court shook the hand weakly. “Hey, Gamble? How’s that special assignment of yours working out?”
“How’s
Court smiled; the muscles in his jaw hurt. “No better than yours, I guess.”
“So you are here to save me, huh?”
Gentry nodded.
Eddie Gamble swatted a bug from his forehead. “Is this the part where the rest of your unit rappels down from the rafters and we all blast out of here with jet packs?”
Court looked up towards the low ceiling. “God, I hope so.” Nothing happened. He looked back to Gamble. Shrugged. “Guess not.”
Eddie asked, “Who are you with?”
“Can’t say.”
“I’m cleared top secret.”
“Chicks dig that, don’t they?” quipped Gentry; his eyes were becoming accustomed to the low light, so he scanned the cell now, found nothing but a shit bucket and a water trough and a couple of tattered blankets as furniture.
“I mean . . . I’m sure you can tell me who you’re with.”
“Sorry, stud. I’m codeword-classified.”
“I bet chicks dig
“They would if I could tell them, but they’d have to know the codeword.”
Gamble laughed at this, and at the situation. “You can come rescue me, but you can’t tell me who you work for?”
“The DEA is looking for you. I just happened to be in the area, sort of, so I was sent by my people to nose around.”
“And then?”
Court shrugged. “Bad luck. I got sick. I was meeting with some contacts, and I passed out. I woke up in the hospital. I had cover for status only; my papers weren’t good enough for the scrutiny of the hospital, so they called the cops. My papers weren’t even close to good enough for the cops, so they called military intelligence. Military intelligence wiped their asses with my papers, basically, so here I am.”
Gamble reached out and put his hand on Gentry’s forehead. “You get stung by any mosquitoes?”
“I crossed over the Mekong about a week and a half ago. Damn bugs ate my ass up. Guess they don’t get a lot of white meat around here.”
“Backache, muscle aches, stomach cramps, dizziness?”
“Fatigue, joint pain, vomiting,” Court finished his list of symptoms.
“You have malaria,” Eddie said gravely.
“Thanks, doc, but I already figured that out.”
Gamble looked at Gentry a long time before saying, “Brother, that’s a death sentence in a place like this. You need meds. Clean water. Solid food that doesn’t have
Court shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll be okay.”
Eddie stood quickly, so quickly Gentry flinched. Gamble moved to the bars and started shouting for the guards up the stairs. Court couldn’t understand a word of it. The guards did not come down, and after a moment Gamble sat back down, visibly angry.
“We gotta get you to a hospital.”
“They just pulled me
“What does that mean?”
“It’s Spanish. It’s kinda like ...
Court nodded. “And that was Laotian you were speaking to the guards?”
“Thai. Not exactly the same, but close enough for government work.”
“Figured a DEA agent with Mexican roots would be sent to Latin America. I guess if you speak Thai, you get sent here.”
“I get sent everywhere. Before this gig I was in the Navy for six years, in the Teams. I went all over, picked up some language on the way.”
“The Teams? You were a SEAL?”
“Team Three.”
Court nodded, as respectfully as one can while resting his head on a wall. “You’ve been here two weeks. You should have escaped by now, spent a week banging beach bunnies on the coast, and then made it back home with time to spare.”
Gamble bristled in the dark. Court could tell the man did not like the suggestion that he was soft. “Sure, I could get out of here. Two guards come down to take me to the interrogation shack every morning. I
“But you just stay because you like the food?”
Gamble’s facial expression showed incredulity. “Bro . . . I’m
Court nodded slowly. He worked under quite different rules of engagement, but he wasn’t going to admit that to Eddie.
Gamble asked, “What about you? Can you tell me your background? I mean, you weren’t
“I forgot everything before this job.”
“Shit, the CIA winds you singleton operators up tight, don’t they?”
Court didn’t bite on the comment. Didn’t admit he was CIA.
Gamble gave him a moment, and then said, “Okay. How bout a name? You got a name?”
Another shrug from the sick American against the wall. “My cover is blown. You can make one up for me. Anything you like.”
Gamble shook his head. Shrugged. “Okay, amigo. I think I’ll call you Sally.”
Court laughed until he wheezed and coughed until he rolled into the fetal position, wracked with pain.
EIGHT
Gentry’s mind left ancient history in Laos, came back to the here and now, and he looked down at the grave of Eduardo Gamboa, the freshly dug earth dry and crumbled around the tombstone.
Major Gamboa had been dead for eight days, it took three days to fish his remains from the Pacific Ocean, his
