Colin Cotterill - Slash and Burn

“Did you see me mowed down in a hail of bullets?” Siri asked Bpoo in a whisper.

“Stop it.”

“Or that you’d be going with me?”

“I don’t want to discuss it. All right?”

“What? You’re the one who predicted all this. It’s brilliant.”

“Let’s focus all our attention on getting out of it, shall we?”

“You may have noticed the odds have swung against us. I think you and I might have overpowered Miss Chin-just-and her short-fingered boss. But now I’m tempted to say they have the upper hand. And, no offence intended here, but if I’m about to be massacred, I’d rather like to be with my wife.”

Siri stood and four gun muzzles swung in his direction. All the guards yelled.

“Siri, sit down,” said Bpoo.

“Sorry.”

Siri raised his hands as one does in such circumstances. The guards were now yelling in a frenzied version of their own languages. He ignored them and picked his way through the seated and sleeping bodies to where Madame Daeng resided. He smiled at her and, even though no Lao in any conditions under any circumstances would think of doing such a thing, he kissed her on the cheek as he sat. The hostages who noticed clapped and cheered. All the guards had assumed firing positions. They obviously wanted to kill someone. But, just as obviously, they were under orders to desist. Judge Haeng, who sat shuddering in front of Siri, was apparently unaware of this directive. There was a puddle beneath him which presumably did not originate from a burst water pipe under the flooring. Dr. Yamaguchi yelled something which caused the Americans to laugh, but Peach was deep in thought and didn’t translate it. The guards were clearly out of their depth in such company. The fact that none of the hostages seemed to appreciate the awesome power they wielded made them look a lot like little boys playing soldier. There was no fear to feed off.

Civilai, who probably didn’t need two and a half cups of marijuana tea to be cantankerous, called to the Thai- and Lao-speaking guards.

“Brothers,” he said, “doesn’t it concern you that you’re behaving like trained monkeys, dancing to the tune of the American dollar? We’re all of the same blood, you and us, yet you point your guns at your relatives. Would you do this to your own mother? Your-”

The shot exploded through the happy crowd like a split in the atmosphere. Civilai reached for his left ear just as the blood started to spurt. It was only a nick but there was no denying the fact that his brain was only a few centimeters from his earlobe.

“Ooh!” said someone in the audience. One of the sleepers awoke and asked what was happening. Emiliano, the Filipino, had fired his pistol left-handed from his hip. Whether he was related to Annie Oakley or merely couldn’t care less whether he hit the old man in the forehead, nobody would ever know. But it was an impressive shot. The young man, still holding his AK47 in his right hand, leaned back against the wooden beams and rolled his cigarette with his tongue. He had almost everybody’s attention which pleased him. Mr. Geung, holding his stomach, got to his feet and ran to the door. It appeared he was about to throw up. The smiling guard decided to let him go and laughed as he ran past. He was just another harmless moron.

“Now perhaps you’ll all shut up,” said Emiliano.

“Typical,” said Siri, glaring directly at the marksman but talking to Civilai. “I lose an earlobe so what do you do? Rush out to get your own earlobe shot off. When is this jealousy going to end?”

Civilai was apparently feeling no pain.

“Did it come out the other side?” he asked Cousin Vinai.

Emiliano had raised his pistol again, this time taking aim.

“Did somebody ask a question?” Civilai shouted. “You’ll have to speak up. This isn’t my good side any more.” He too smiled at the gunman.

It was just a question of discipline. Was the Filipino angry enough to override orders? Was he a soldier or a psychopath? Cool, cold-unable to take a joke. The pistol moved through the air from Civilai, to Siri, to Civilai.

“Please. After him.” Siri gestured to Civilai.

“No, I insist. After him,” Civilai replied.

Siri felt Daeng squeeze his hand just as Senator Vogal walked into the room. His hair was wet. He’d taken a shower, perhaps a few belts of coffee, and some downers or uppers or whatever it is that negates cannabis because he seemed more in control of himself than he had been.

“What’s going on?” he shouted.

“Just playing with the locals,” Emiliano smiled.

“Plenty of time for that,” said Vogal. He had hold of Ethel Chin’s wrist. He was squeezing and it was hurting. “Miss Chin here has decided to join the party.” He dragged her across the room and threw her to the ground.

“What? You can’t do this to me,” she screamed. “After all I’ve done for you. After all you said. Our plans.”

“Oh, do stop it,” said Vogal. “You never could hold your drugs. Did you honestly think this was all going to have a happy ending?”

“You bastard.”

“See? No control over your mouth. Never could keep it shut. Once a noisy chink, always a noisy chink.”

“I didn’t. I didn’t tell them anything.”

Vogal nodded to Emiliano.

“If anything else comes out of this mouth,” he said. “Shoot it off.”

“My pleasure,” said the marksman.

The Lao had no idea what the couple was talking about but it seemed quite obvious they weren’t getting along that well. Nobody bothered to translate and nobody really cared. But then it was Siri’s turn.

“You!” said the senator.

“Moi?” said Siri.

Vogal called for one of the Thais to translate.

“You tell him he’s the one,” he said. “You tell him what’s about to happen in this room is all down to him. It should have all been really simple. We find the pilot’s body, make sure everything in the chopper was destroyed, the MIA story’s a hoax, Potter kills himself but nobody’s game to report it. We all go home. Everybody’s alive at the end of it apart from some annoying drunk. You weren’t supposed to spoil all that, old man. You know why we insisted on having you on the team? I’ll tell you. Because you’re a flake. Yeah, really. Ghosts and ghouls and travels through hell and back. Yeah, we get to hear about all that. We aren’t completely without intel. You were supposed to be the coroner who knows nothing. You and the team of misfits your minister recommended were supposed to party your way through the week and not have a clue what it was all about. But you get your own team together, don’t you? And you get nosy and you screw it all up. You’re a serious disappointment. I don’t usually like to get blood on my own hands but I’m really pissed at you. None of you other folks need to worry. I don’t want anyone to panic. I’ll just shoot the doctor here to make myself feel better then you can all go home.”

No room was less likely to break out in a panic than the restaurant of the Friendship Hotel. Those who had a clue what was going on were watching it like a movie. They weren’t in it. But Vogal was right about Ethel Chin. She really didn’t know when to keep her mouth shut.

“Yeah? How stupid do you think they are?” she yelled. “They’re all dead. Tell them wh-”

Like its predecessor, the bullet that silenced Ethel Chin sliced through the room and confused everyone. Toua and his wife had been sitting behind her and they were splattered with blood. They knew. But everyone else seemed mystified. Chin dropped onto her side, dead, and Emiliano put down his pistol, resisting the temptation to blow smoke out of the barrel. He looked proud, fulfilled.

“Ah! Peace,” said Vogal. “You know? Murder is such a wonderful tool for discipline. I’m surprised high schools haven’t cottoned on to the concept. Shoot the smart ass in the back row and you’re guaranteed cooperation for the rest of the semester. It’s on my next budget recommendation to the senate.”