Plausible Denial Read Online Free Page A

fucking little maggot? Who sent you
here?”
    Charly
Blackburn got there in time to hear the terrorist wheeze; hands held out in
front of his face, “Please, please, no, no shoot” he begged, “Khun Ut is boss.
Please not shoot...”
    Charly
put a hand on the Marine’s arm. “Don’t kill him Corporal. He’s more valuable to
us alive.”
    The
Marine lowered his rifle. “I understand what you’re saying Ms. Blackburn, but
I’d really rather kill the dirty little sonofabitch right here and now. Anyway,
probably don’t matter none anyway, the way the little shit’s wheezing and
oozing blood like he is. He won’t last long from that chest wound anyway. Fuck
the little maggot. Let him die, real slow and painful like.” 
    Nothing
in Charly Blackburn’s background had prepared her for this moment. She was now
the thirty-five year old Acting Chief of a decimated CIA base amidst a ruined
consulate general. It would be her job to pick up the pieces and bury the dead,
including her lover, Marvin Sadosky.
    She
would have to get on with the business of collecting intelligence on the
narcotics business in the region and bringing down Khun Ut. She steeled
herself; she could do it. She would get that sonofabitch.
     
     
    Chapter Five
     
     
    T he
Cambodian’s white mini-vans sped out of the area. One turned right on Thywang
Road and headed west toward the outskirts of town. The other continued down
Wichatanon Road before crossing the Mai Ping River heading east. When their
drivers were certain they weren’t being followed, they slowed to the posted
speed limit and took circuitous routes out of town before heading north toward
Khun Ut’s main warehouse, in a forested area north of Chiang Rai.
    There
were nine of them left, including the Cambodian. Two received minor gunshot
injuries. One took a .380 round in the right buttocks as he was running toward
the mini-van. Three were left behind in the courtyard and presumed dead. One
had been shot by the Cambodian during their retreat because he didn’t have time
to drag out the wounded man. The Cambodian was not aware that a third man was
left alive in the courtyard.
    They
joined up at Khun Ut’s heavily guarded warehouse. After driving their vans
inside, they stood in the middle, surrounded by bales of marijuana and pallets
of heroin and raw opium.
    Khun
Ut, dressed handsomely in his signature uniform—a grey, short sleeved safari
suit, starched and tailored to perfection—surveyed the remaining nine fighters,
two of whom were on cots receiving medical first aid.
    The
one who had been shot in the buttocks moaned loudly on a cot as a medic probed
the wound and retrieved the .380 round from his right butt cheek. A dozen
members of the security staff and warehouse workers surrounded the group,
listening intently to Khun Ut’s words.
    “I
am very proud of what you men accomplished today.” His voice echoed through the
vast room and he liked the sound of it. “We have taught the Americans a
well-deserved lesson. They will think twice before meddling in our affairs
again.
    “You
have struck a huge blow against the DEA and the CIA who have tried to disrupt our
business. And they have no way to retaliate against us. They are impotent. The
United States is tied down fighting wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, and their
erstwhile allies, the Burmese and Laotians no longer fear them or support them.
    “And
as for the Thais,” he paused for emphasis, “the Thais have been bought and paid
for by us. We own them. There is nothing they can do, or will do, to stop us.
They will ring their hands and cry foul. But they will stop meddling in our
business.”
    He
paced among his troops, chin up and limping on a stiff right leg, drawing
strength from their presence. “Before my dear father died in that stinking
Burmese prison, he had built an empire in these hills. Twenty years ago Khun Sa
was responsible for seventy percent of the heroin consumed in the U.S. But
pushed from behind by the