Cambodian Hellhole by Stephen Mertz Read Free Book Online Page A

the old man offered to him, wringing it warmly as they parted.
    Fortune would have damned little to do with their mission, he knew, whatever An Khom might believe. A soldier made his own luck in the field—or most of it, at any rate.
    Stone climbed into the truck's cab, nodding to Hog Wiley in the driver's seat. Hog fired the heavy engine up and took them out of there without a backward glance. No ties, and no regrets. Not this time.
    The window that connected the cab with the covered bed of the truck had been cleared of glass, allowing them to keep in constant voice communication with Loughlin. It was a simple enough precaution—and one that Stone had viewed as absolutely necessary in the circumstances.
    He had briefed them both on his encounter with the C.I.A. team under Carruthers, about the nature of their mission and the likelihood that U.S. agents would attempt to interfere at some point prior to jump off at the border. Stone was hoping he was wrong, but at the same time, he had rubbed Carruthers's nose in shit last night, and the C.I.A. man would be aching—literally—for revenge. If nothing else, his ego might compel him to get even; if there were really orders coming down, "straight from the top" as he had said, then the pursuit would be that much more compelling.
    They had traveled half a dozen crowded blocks before Hog saw the tail and tipped Stone to it. Mark checked out his rearview mirror, readily identifying the black sedan that seemed to be de rigueur for "secret" agents in the Orient.
    No emphasis on originality there , he thought. The C.I.A. team stood out sharply in the crush; they might as well have come with flashing lights and sirens.
    "Lose them if you can," he told Hog.
    Hog's response was a muted growl—and sudden pressure on the truck's accelerator. They surged forward, brushing past the lines of rickshaws and battered taxis that were abroad even at this hour of the morning in Bangkok. One of the rickshaw drivers shouted at them, a Thai curse, and others were shaking their fists ineffectually at the speeding half-ton.
    The chase wound on through Bangkok's narrow labyrinth of streets, sometimes veering up onto the sidewalk, speeding up and down blind alleys. Hog was grinning through the flyspecked windshield, whistling to himself, but Stone clung to his armrest, bracing himself with each new twist and turn for what seemed to be the inevitable collision that would bring them grinding to a halt.
    In the rearview mirror, Stone could see one of the occupants of the chase car babbling excitedly into a radio mouthpiece, beaming out a message to other pursuers. They might be anywhere—ahead of the truck or behind it, perhaps running parallel, unseen, on other streets—but one thing was certain: Carruthers and his crew had not taken any chances this time on being surprised or outsmarted by Stone's team.
    Still, there might be a way . . .
    The trap was closing then, before the thought had half a chance to run its course. From out of a narrow side street on their right, Stone's side, a crash car gunned its engine, screeching out to cut them off. It was another of the identical dark sedans— They must get some kind of discount , Mark thought—and the face behind the wheel was instantly familiar to Stone.
    It was Carruthers, yes, his face a battered mosaic of bandages and bruises, growling silently behind the screen of safety glass. His hands were locked, white-knuckled, on the steering wheel, and Stone could almost read his lips as the gap between them dwindled down to nothing.
    He would cut them off, unless—
    "Hang on, Cap!" Wiley grated, and he held the half-ton steady, never even considering a change of course.
    They roared ahead—and struck the government sedan a crushing broadside. For an instant it appeared that they would not get through, but then their weight and hurtling momentum turned the trick. The dark sedan was swept aside—first running parallel to