Cambodian Hellhole Read Online Free Page A

no humor in the smile. He had lived long enough with justifiable paranoia to realize that the slogan contained more than a little truth.
    They had tried to take him out before—and there was every chance that they would try again in Bangkok.
    The corridor was long, dingy, lined on either side with alternating doors. Stone glanced both ways, satisfied that he was alone in the hallway before he proceeded along to his room, midway down. The key was in his hand by the time he reached the numbered door.
    He turned the key and slipped inside, the darkness greeting him, enveloping him like a shroud. Stone reached for the light switch just inside the door . . . but he never got that far.
    A strong hand locked around his outstretched wrist and twisted, pulling him off balance. Before he could brace himself or counteract the drag, he was propelled across the darkened hotel room, colliding with the furniture in transit. He barked his shins on the low-slung coffee table, spilling ashtrays to the threadbare carpet, and rebounded, running headlong into human flesh.
    A fist slashed upward, driving hard into his solar plexus, and the air was forced out of his lungs. He doubled over, feeling like a deflated balloon, but he recovered swiftly, using every ounce of strength and will at his disposal to pivot, turning away from the second blow, which would be sure to follow. When the fist came toward his face this time, it slid through empty air.
    Stone backpedaled, seeking combat stretch, the split seconds he would need to get his wind and bearings back again.
    From somewhere close behind him he heard movement—and he realized that he was faced with no less than three adversaries.
    They had all been waiting for him in the darkness, and the knowledge that he had been set up for an ambush struck him like a fist above the heart. Worse still was the instant realization that he had allowed the enemy to take him thus, completely unawares, when he should have been prepared for an attack.
    No time to worry now if these were C.I.A. or Communists or God knew what. There was just time to save himself, and even that would take tenacity, along with fancy footwork.
    Without thinking, Stone increased his backward speed, colliding with the thug behind him, carrying his target backward with his own momentum until both of them slammed into the wall. He felt the yielding body stiffen as they hit, and took the opportunity to drive his elbows back into the sagging gut with swift precision. Someone cursed in broken English, and Stone twisted, driving one more elbow home, together with a side hand chop in the general direction of the cursing face.
    His hand connected with an invisible nose, and warm blood spurted out across his wrist. The guy went momentarily limp, and Stone forgot about him as he circled, moving out through darkness, seeking other targets now before they came to him.
    His eyes were just beginning to adjust, the pupils widely dilated, accommodating almost total darkness, but he still nearly missed the rushing body. The enemy was close upon him, and it was his breathing that betrayed him first, the heavy panting of a man not used to such resistance from human punching bags.
    Stone sidestepped and almost made it, but the slammer clotheslined him and drove him backward, gagging from the impact of a hard forearm across his windpipe. With more force, a little more precision, it might have been a killing stroke, but as it was, his chin and lower lip absorbed most of the impact. Stone could taste the salty blood inside his mouth, and he was seeing red now as he spun to face the circling enemy.
    A shadow-shape was looming close in front of him, backlit by windows with flimsy drapes, and Stone let go a flying kick in the direction of the bullet-shaped head. His heel connected with a heavy cheek, and he could feel the flesh rip, shredding, as the thug was driven over sideways, sprawling from the impact.
    Stone closed in, the third man momentarily