Dragon's Triangle (The Shipwreck Adventures Book 2) Read Online Free
Author: Christine Kling
crowd.
And that was when she felt it—that prickly, tingling sensation that creeps up the back of the neck. That feeling of being watched. Riley turned in a slow circle, surveying the station from the crowded lower floor to the elevated terraces. No one appeared to be paying any special attention to her. But she trusted her intuition.
She sniffed the air. Over the stench of train and traffic exhaust, she smelled coffee. One place did look open. The sign read B LACK M OUNTAIN C OFFEE . She headed for the stairs.
She had no appetite, so she ordered a café au lait and sat at a table next to the railing overlooking the crowds below. The few Westerners certainly stood out, clustered in little knots of backpacks around unfolded maps. Riley couldn’t tell whether they were Americans, Canadians, or Europeans, but they all fell into the category of tourist. As did she. In Phuket, she’d learned the Thai word was
farang
. The wordembodied the constant feeling of “otherness” she felt in this country. Maybe that was what had triggered that feeling of being watched earlier.
The hot, rich coffee tasted so good. She took another big gulp and held it in her mouth a few seconds, knowing the heat would make her sweat more, dampening the clean clothes she’d changed into on the train.
Riley reached up and rubbed at the scar tissue beneath the fabric of her shirt, then she rotated her arm and shoulder to loosen it up. It had been more than seven years since she’d been injured while serving as a Marine Security Guard at the embassy in Lima. When they’d told her at the Bethesda Burn Unit that it would be slow to heal, she had never imagined feeling pain all these years later.
As she stretched, she noticed a man who’d appeared at the top of the stairs. He paused and looked around the tables before he walked to the counter to order. His eyes had remained trained on her a few seconds longer than any of the others sitting around her. She was not unaccustomed to men noticing her, but there were several younger, and in her view, far more beautiful Thai women at another table, but his eyes had not lingered there at all. Perhaps it was only because she was a
farang
.
Riley looked back out across the crowds and processed the information. She went through the details she had observed as he paused at the top of the stairs. Flat nose, sharp cheekbones, and a Fu Manchu mustache. He was Southeast Asian of some sort, but she did not think he was Thai. Most men here were small, but there was something more solid about this man. He wasn’t tall—only about her height—but he seemed to take up more space. Broad shoulders, narrow waist. Long hair, mostly gray with black streaks, pulled up into an odd knot at the top of his head. She put him in his late forties. Blue jeans, leather sandals, a denim shirt with sleeves rolled partway up his forearmsshowing the blue ink of tattoos. And he carried a tooled leather satchel embossed with an exotic primitive design slung over his shoulder.
She was pleased with the number of details she had been able to recall. It was important to her to keep in training. After two tours as an MSG, some behaviors were so ingrained, she would probably not be able to give them up if she wanted to. She didn’t really think he was any threat, but her training had taught her not to make that judgment too soon.
Turning her head away from the lower terminal, she pretended to check the time on her watch. He was sitting at a table off to her left and slightly behind her. An unopened bottle of water stood on the table in front of him.
She stood and walked toward the stairs. As she passed him, the man looked up and their eyes met. His eyes looked hard and flat as black glass. Riley walked on and continued down the stairs.
As she crossed the terminal floor, following the signs that directed her to the Metro, Riley took one last glance at the second-floor coffee shop. The man was standing at the rail watching her. When she
And that was when she felt it—that prickly, tingling sensation that creeps up the back of the neck. That feeling of being watched. Riley turned in a slow circle, surveying the station from the crowded lower floor to the elevated terraces. No one appeared to be paying any special attention to her. But she trusted her intuition.
She sniffed the air. Over the stench of train and traffic exhaust, she smelled coffee. One place did look open. The sign read B LACK M OUNTAIN C OFFEE . She headed for the stairs.
She had no appetite, so she ordered a café au lait and sat at a table next to the railing overlooking the crowds below. The few Westerners certainly stood out, clustered in little knots of backpacks around unfolded maps. Riley couldn’t tell whether they were Americans, Canadians, or Europeans, but they all fell into the category of tourist. As did she. In Phuket, she’d learned the Thai word was
farang
. The wordembodied the constant feeling of “otherness” she felt in this country. Maybe that was what had triggered that feeling of being watched earlier.
The hot, rich coffee tasted so good. She took another big gulp and held it in her mouth a few seconds, knowing the heat would make her sweat more, dampening the clean clothes she’d changed into on the train.
Riley reached up and rubbed at the scar tissue beneath the fabric of her shirt, then she rotated her arm and shoulder to loosen it up. It had been more than seven years since she’d been injured while serving as a Marine Security Guard at the embassy in Lima. When they’d told her at the Bethesda Burn Unit that it would be slow to heal, she had never imagined feeling pain all these years later.
As she stretched, she noticed a man who’d appeared at the top of the stairs. He paused and looked around the tables before he walked to the counter to order. His eyes had remained trained on her a few seconds longer than any of the others sitting around her. She was not unaccustomed to men noticing her, but there were several younger, and in her view, far more beautiful Thai women at another table, but his eyes had not lingered there at all. Perhaps it was only because she was a
farang
.
Riley looked back out across the crowds and processed the information. She went through the details she had observed as he paused at the top of the stairs. Flat nose, sharp cheekbones, and a Fu Manchu mustache. He was Southeast Asian of some sort, but she did not think he was Thai. Most men here were small, but there was something more solid about this man. He wasn’t tall—only about her height—but he seemed to take up more space. Broad shoulders, narrow waist. Long hair, mostly gray with black streaks, pulled up into an odd knot at the top of his head. She put him in his late forties. Blue jeans, leather sandals, a denim shirt with sleeves rolled partway up his forearmsshowing the blue ink of tattoos. And he carried a tooled leather satchel embossed with an exotic primitive design slung over his shoulder.
She was pleased with the number of details she had been able to recall. It was important to her to keep in training. After two tours as an MSG, some behaviors were so ingrained, she would probably not be able to give them up if she wanted to. She didn’t really think he was any threat, but her training had taught her not to make that judgment too soon.
Turning her head away from the lower terminal, she pretended to check the time on her watch. He was sitting at a table off to her left and slightly behind her. An unopened bottle of water stood on the table in front of him.
She stood and walked toward the stairs. As she passed him, the man looked up and their eyes met. His eyes looked hard and flat as black glass. Riley walked on and continued down the stairs.
As she crossed the terminal floor, following the signs that directed her to the Metro, Riley took one last glance at the second-floor coffee shop. The man was standing at the rail watching her. When she
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