Chapter Sixteen

Vig had never been at the receiving end of a hijacking before. He saw himself more as an instigator; someone who wielded the stick in violent situations. The first signal of anything going wrong was the confusion and unpleasant shock. The situation created an air of unpredictability, a professional hate of Vig’s. To succeed it was always best to be calling the shots yourself, so to speak. Better still, to be firing them. He didn’t like this, being on the blunted end of things. One moment he was edging closer to the farang backpackers, eager to eavesdrop their idle talk for gossip and clues, the next he was thrown forward, losing his grip on the seat.

His training and instinct held little advantage. He had no better idea what was going on than the old lady chewing tobacco on the rear seat. As he lurched forward his elbow flew out, connecting with the side of a man’s head. He felt the dull thud of impact and knew that he had inflicted painful damage. There was little point in checking. Any apology would be worthless (even if he were feeling kind enough to pass on his concerns); their lives looked to be on the line as it was. If the guy walked from the bus with only a bruised head to worry about he would be doing well that day.

As he fought to gain control, his initial thoughts were that the bus had taken a corner too fast. The jarring bumps appeared to explain this. He braced himself against any collision. It took the window to implode before he realised what was happening. He needed no prompting when bullets began bouncing around the cab. With nothing to lose he drew his Glock. Any pretence at maintaining cover evaporated; this was survival. The weight of the pistol felt reassuring, though its use against AK47 firepower was strictly limited. To be at all effective he would need to be closer where short-range accuracy would favour the pistol. Getting that close would be too exciting for his current plans. His schedule did not include scoring hit points against terrorist targets; those on the other side of the law could play the lone star. Vig simply needed an exit strategy, preferably with one or more of the farang in tow.

His first task was to keep his own head from taking any bullets. He figured that by keeping low, below the height of the windows, he would stand some chance. His next goal in mind was to look out for the farang on the rear seat. By now panic was setting in all around him. Any avenue to the back was fully blocked by a sea of hysterical people. Even if he blindly waved his Glock at them, few would notice or even react. Warning shots would just as likely achieve nothing. Such a drastic gesture would be blatantly stupid anyway. He might as well scream over to the farang to tell them that they were being tailed. His best hope for the farang was for them to keep their heads down too. Once off the bus he could continue his watchful activities, for now his own ass took number one priority.

As if to reinforce his thinking, events quickly escalated for the worse. He could hear movement on top of the bus. Without any clear vision he knew that anything could be happening, all of it bad. He knew that it was time to make a fast exit. The bus could quickly become a tin coffin. Without waiting for any gilt-edged invitation, he lunged for the window. Those in his way were crudely pulled aside. He was pleased to note that the window was of the ancient sliding variety, allowing him to yank it back and produce an opening large enough to jump through. Still with the Glock drawn, he exited the bus feet first.

Although prepared for a jolt, the fall took him slightly off-guard and he lost his balance. Fearful of putting his sitting figure up as a target, he rolled forward, which further distanced him from the bus. He could now see why there was so much commotion from the bus roof. A lone figure with his head carefully wrapped in a black and white chequered scarf held a jerry can, which he was using to pour gasoline over the hijacked vehicle. Vig watched as the man jumped off, before throwing a lighted rag up. He thought about shooting him - the man was close enough for his deadly Swedish pistol - but knew that the considerable firepower held the other side of the bus would all be trained on his hunched figure. Those immediately around him paid no attention to his naked Glock. He knew it would be unlikely that the farang would spot it either. Everyone was looking elsewhere, their lives at stake.

As the bus went up in flames, a deluge of passengers fought each other in a desperate scramble to get out. Finger-nails ripped as frantic farmers fought fellow commuters for any space to squeeze out. Vig could smell the acrid sent of burning paint and feel the heat blast warm his face. The scene depicted a battlefield, confusion and bloodshed fusing together with a terrifying intensity. With the smoke and mass of panicking people he melded further into the background. He could tell from the lighted fire that soon the flames would smoulder out once the gasoline was burned through. The hijackers were looking to stir things, make some kind of big visual impact whilst ensuring that there were numerous survivors to tell the tale. A few unfortunates lay slain at the scene, but this was a fraction of the total number of passengers on the once overcrowded bus. If they had wanted it, they could have blown everyone away, burnt the coach to a cinder and make off with all personal belongings. They didn’t, which made this political.

The chaos allowed Vig to peer into the smoke and take a good look at the hijackers. Most wore their chequered head-scarves, partly to protect their eyes from the smoke, though mostly to conceal identities. The gunmen wanted witnesses, but no individual identifications. They wanted their actions as a group to be recognised. It was clear that they weren’t looking for martyrs in the process. Though not a native to Laos, Vig was up enough on things to be aware that rural spots out near the jungle were strong enclaves for the Hmong. The hijack would almost certainly be pinned on them, given their strong grievance with the establishment in Laos. The puzzling thing was why they would want to take credit for butchering a few people on a bus; it would more likely turn world opinion against them. The city dwellers would hate them for it. There again, Vig pondered the idea that less scrupulous elements within the government might wish to make it look like the Hmong were up to their old tricks of terrorising the population at large. It would certainly kick up enough dirt to release a few safety clips from the rifles stacked up at the Vientiane police HQ. A new Hmong war could be on the cards. At the very least there would be a crackdown on Hmong villages and camps, a sweep of the area backed by the sanction of outraged public opinion. Land and possessions might even be legally confiscated.

Knowing that he should move, Vig took a glance around to see where his farang might be. Happily he noted that they were making moves to escape the bus. The girl was already being lowered out through the sliding window. He could see that she was zombiefied by the unravelling events around her. If a stray bullet came her way she would probably swallow the thing without realising. He saw an opening whereby he could cut in and aid the girl whilst perhaps having a dig at what Kae’s true intent was at the same time. He felt sure she would lucidly tell all she knew to a kindly ear. It could be a two-in-one deal, so to speak. For all he knew, the welcoming committee hijacking the bus could be there solely to intercept the farang. He needed to know what Kae’s interest in them was. Currently he had no idea and he hated that. He was really being kept in the dark over this one. Besides, he reasoned if he took no action in helping out with the girl there was a very good chance that she would soon be toast. A dead farang would be no use to anyone, especially to Kae. He hoped that bastard knew nothing of the hijack. Without a second thought he made his way over and stretched out his arm.

“Hello. Follow me. You must get away from here.” It was hard not to shout, with all the choking carnage surrounding them.

He could see that she was not responding, so took her hand. She complied, without any general realisation as to what she was doing. He expected this. If she looked up she would see that the man taking her hand had old scars running up his arm, darkened tattoos bringing the tongue of a large snake down to taste his wrist, a nose long broken, and a piercing gaze that would normally see her running. Instead she went with him.

Vig led Jean along the coach, sheltering them from much of the shooting, high velocity bullets generating a pinging noise as they passed out of sight. Her two companions were too busy saving themselves to realise that Jean was no longer seated nearby. With his Glock still drawn, Vig moved on with the determination that anyone getting near them would take a bullet. He was prepared to make no distinction between either fellow passenger or hijacker. At any cost he now needed to evacuate his newfound care and get her off in one piece. The two of them went virtually unnoticed. The layers of blackening smoke and ensuing chaos helped wrap them in a cloak of invisibility. He thought they were nearly clear. The nearest trees and relative safety were tantalisingly close. He was so focused on reaching this goal that he nearly missed seeing one of the hijackers walking out of the smoke to their left. If the assailant’s gun had not been out of ammo they would both have been torn apart for target practice. He was hastily removing the magazine of his Kalashnikov, ready to discard it and replace it with the familiar curved one from a canvas bag hanging at his side. There was a distinct urban guerilla look in the way he appeared, a black bandana pushing strands of black thin hair back from his pimpled forehead. Vig mused that even terrorists followed the fashion houses. The Hmong would never go to such trouble. They were rural terrorists, living and fighting from the jungle. These terrorists had urban chic, the revolutionary style shown on news programmes throughout the world. With this being a strong Hmong enclave, it was becoming crystal clear to Vig that someone out there, someone big, wanted this to resemble a Hmong attack. They wanted the world to take notice, to be horrified at what they saw. A long and vengeful finger would then be pointed firmly in the direction of the Hmong.

As the terrorist’s eyes met his, Vig instantly realised that the other had seen his Glock. A spark of doubt passed, the assailant caught off guard and in the open. There was a split second of indecision. Knowing that he could not reload in time, the man charged. Keeping his eyes fixed on the charging figure, Vig raised the gun and fired. He sensed a distortion around his personal space as time slowed, a one-dimensional sensation that it was only the two of them. He savoured the gladiatorial feel as all else faded except him and the man before him. He watched the bullet as it pierced the man’s mouth. Every sense was now razor sharp. The terrorist fell five feet from where Vig stood. At no time had either man shown fear. A man able to run at an armed adversary with no panic was a pure professional. Only someone trained to the highest standards could keep their nerve. These guys would surely have seen time in the army, some elite unit rather than running logistics in a rear guard. It puzzled Vig all the more.

Knowing that more danger lay all around, Vig clasped Jean’s arm all the harder and pressed on. He quickly made the tree-line. A few feet in, he checked back over his shoulder. All attention was still firmly fixed on the bus. No one had noticed them move into the trees. He allowed the girl to briefly flop onto the ground, all energy spent from the terrifying ordeal that she had endured. Her body was probably still in deep shock, shutting down to prevent further emotional damage and the onset of panic. Vig decided to allow her a few moments of downtime, though knew that they were still far from safety. He judged that the pantomime would be ending very soon. With their point made the terrorists would scatter back into the jungle long before any government troops could be mobilised. The coast would soon be clear. It would take an entire army to search the area, which was possibly what they were after. If he kept their heads down he could get the girl back up on the road and wait for the eventual arrival of the cavalry. The authorities would be quick to jump on this one. He very much hoped that her two friends were nimble and fast enough to outrun their armed pursuers. His benevolent attitude towards their fate came more from the fact that Kae was keen on them and attached enough importance to place him on their tail. He felt that he didn’t know them to care otherwise. Their only attachment to his life was that he was being paid to follow them. Long ago he had made the promise not to get in any way involved with those he was employed to keep an eye on. Such human concerns could put missions in jeopardy. Other factors that dangerously upset missions included taking a strong interest in what was going on. Kae always insisted that Vig ask for no details. He claimed that it kept you safer. Vig was quickly deciding that this one case was going to be different. He was consumed by a burning curiosity. Kae was especially keen on the farang. Although he knew not to probe further he was at a loose end. With the girl at his side it would be too tempting not to ask a few carefully concealed questions. He only intended to scratch at the surface, though instinctively knew that this whole thing ran very deep. He sensed he had plenty of time to discover why a young backpacking New Zealander could possibly be of such great interest to a ruthless Thai racketeer.