
Copyright © 2012 by John Ling
All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form, electronic or mechanical, without permission from the author or publisher.
Published by Kia Kaha Press
As a writer, I'm probably best known for my novel, The Blasphemer. It's a thriller with the highest of high concepts: a man named Abraham Khan becomes a target when he releases an e-book condemning radical Islam. And it falls on a security operator named Maya Raines to protect him from enemies both foreign and domestic.
The Blasphemer is the kind of story I've always dreamed of writing---tough, bold and factual. But it didn't come to me fully formed. Or perfectly conceived. That took work. Lots of work.
In fact, before I wrote The Blasphemer, I dabbled in other kinds of thrillers---crime, political, military. And they all served as practice sessions. Helping me understand craft and technique. And laying the groundwork for what ultimately became my first real novel.
So I've collected several of those works here. And, yes, they are an eclectic mix. Some are short fiction, while others are aborted attempts at longer stories that never saw the light of day.
But they are all my children, warts and all, and I love them in different ways. If anything, they offer insight into my journey and evolution as a writer.
Which is what Seven Bullets is all about---evolution.
Enjoy the ride.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: There was a time when I used to enjoy John Woo and Martin Scorsese films---gangster sagas about the pathos of violence and honour. And this story is a direct offshoot of that. If it doesn't seem as sharp or compelling as my latter works, well, that's because it was my first. Every writer has to start somewhere, and I'm glad I started my career with Ascension.
\*\*\*
The car reached the top of the hill and coasted to a stop. The engine died, heat dissipating with a ticking sound.
Two men stepped out.
One was tall and angular. The other was stocky with tanned features. They moved towards a ridge, the breeze tousling their hair.
The city was stretched out below, under the orange glow of the setting sun. Glass and steel sparkled. Traffic surged like tiny blurs.
'It's beautiful up here,' the tanned man said.
'It sure is,' the angular man nodded. 'When I was little, I used to play on this hill with Samuel and other kids. Things were so much simpler back then. Friends laughed together, cried together, tumbled together. Not anymore.'
'The world has changed.'
'Samuel is the only true friend I have left. I can always count on him.'
\*\*\*
Samuel daubed his clammy palms against his pants. His throat grew tight.
The five men had surrounded him.
One of them---the leader---shuffled closer, his nostrils flaring, his breath washing over Samuel.
'Where is the package, Pastor? We know he gave it to you. Where is it?'
Samuel averted his eyes, gazing at the big arched window close by. A mural was etched into the colored glass, a group of angels ascending to the heavens. Dying sunlight filtered through their forms, bathing the church's pews in an afterglow.
Samuel said nothing.
'Let's loosen your tongue.'
The leader pushed him. Samuel reeled into the waiting arms of two gangsters. They pinned him against the altar. He squirmed, his eyes widening.
The punch impacted.
Samuel's head snapped back, knocking a silver cross to the floor, his nose spraying blood on the altar's white linen cloth.
\*\*\*
Sunflowers were blooming on a grassy knoll close by. A butterfly settled on one, its wings moving gently as it fed on the nectar.
'What if Samuel betrays you?'
'I will still accept him. He has always been good to me. I will never forget the times he protected me from the bullies at school.'
'Fair enough,' the tanned man said. 'Are all thieves as honorable as you are?
The angular man smiled sadly. 'Hardly. Our world is changing so fast. Honor has become a dirty word.'
\*\*\*
Samuel was walloped in the stomach. He doubled over and wheezed.
'Pastor, you are making this difficult.'
A blow pummeled his jaw. Sweat and blood streaked the air. He crashed to the floor, trembling badly, ooze dripping from his chin.
Craning his neck, he stared at the largest figure on the window. It was Gabriel, the mighty archangel with a glowing sword, his wings outstretched.
A foot stomped down on Samuel's head, squashing his face against the floor.
Gabriel paid silent witness, staring down on the violence, his luminous face filled with compassion.
\*\*\*
'If you could live life all over again, what kind of person would you like to be?' the tanned man asked.
'A doctor. Healing people instead of hurting them. Or---' the angular man paused for a moment. '---maybe a minister of God. The straight and narrow path is the noblest. I want to be just like Samuel.'
\*\*\*
Samuel was kicked.
He somersaulted against a wall.
His eyes were so puffy that he could barely see. Welts and bruises covered his misshapen face.
A gangster hurled a fist. Samuel grimaced and ducked. The gangster's knuckles crunched against the wall.
Samuel tackled him.
They flipped over the altar and smashed into a desk. It overturned, spilling religious leaflets.
One of them glided towards Samuel.
'Greater love has no one than this, than to lay down one's life for his friends.'
A blow bashed him in the shoulder. There was a sickening crack and a jolt of agony. He crumpled to the floor, gasping, his vision dimming.
'Pastor, you are like a dog. You are so loyal to your friend, it is almost pitiful.'
Samuel's lips quivered, straining. 'Sometimes, dogs are better than men.'
'Uh huh.'
A gunshot exploded with an extended echo.
Samuel went still, a smile frozen on his bloodied face. His grip on the leaflet never loosened.
\*\*\*
The breeze ruffled the sunflowers, causing them to sway them in one direction. The butterfly took flight.
'Samuel sounds like quite a friend. He must have stashed the package someplace safe. Someplace no one would ever think to look.'
'Oh, he did. He taped it right under a pew.'
'Really? Which one?'
'The column to the left, on the second row.'
'Why, thank you.'
A silenced pistol coughed.
The angular man clutched his chest, red seeping through his shirt. He sank in disbelief.
The tanned man grinned. 'Please give my regards to Samuel when you see him. Goodbye.'
The pistol coughed again.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: In 2008, the leader of the Malaysian opposition sought sanctuary at the Turkish embassy. For twenty-four tense hours, it was hinted, but never confirmed, that an attempt had been made on his life. Was it political posturing? Anti-establishment theatrics? Or clear and present danger? We'll never know. But 'what if' is a big impetus for any writer, and it inspired me to speculate on what might have happened. This paranoid nail-biter is the result.
\*\*\*
Andrea had been watching the mark for over a month now. Staking out all his appearances, all his ceramahs. Blending in. Shadowing his every move. And she figured tonight would be the night things took a turn for the worse.
Around her, the crowd was throbbing, heaving, murmuring. Muslims. Christians. Buddhists. Hindus. Atheists. They had poured in from all across the nation, all feverish in their desire to see the man they had come to regard as their saviour---their last, best hope for change.
Sweat dribbled down Andrea's back, gluing her shirt to her skin, and she felt like a tiny pinball being bumped this way and that way in the human crush. Every breath was an effort. But, no, she didn't fight the crowd. Just eased up and went with the flow.
'No way he's coming,' a man said.
'Of course he is. He promised,' a woman said.
'Heard they are trying to kill him. That's why he has to hide.'
'He's not a coward. He'll come.'
Andrea inhaled, a sharp feeling rising within her, bitter as bile, pinching her throat. The feeling of being so lonely amidst so many. Everyone was here for hope and dreams and change. But she... she was here for something else entirely.
Andrea touched her left sleeve. Reassured herself that her knife was where it should be. Taped tight and ready for a quick draw. It was composite plastic---curved and serrated---and had passed through the security checks without a hitch. She figured she would get the chance to use it soon enough.
'He's coming! He's coming!' someone shouted.
Andrea blinked and craned her neck, straining to see past the swaying heads in front of her. The doors at the end of the convention centre popped open, and the crowd grew hushed. A long moment passed. Then the mark swanned in, bold, charismatic, larger than life, flanked by bodyguards. The national anthem swelled, and the crowd roared and surged, arms outstretched, boxing him in. The mood was dizzying. Thunderous. Like riding a wave of euphoria.
'Reformasi! Reformasi!'
The mark grinned and waved and shook the hands of his supporters even as his minders fought to keep him within a loose protective bubble. Some of the people broke down and wept. Others had to catch them and hold them upright.
Andrea watched, shaking her head ever so slightly. The cynical part of her mind told her that he was just another politician, adept at massaging popular sentiment. But in her heart of hearts, she knew he was different. He had languished for years in prison. Starved. Tortured. Forsaken. But he had emerged out of the darkness unbroken, unconquered, unyielding. And now... now he was ready to lead his people into a new dawn. But only if he survived tonight.
Andrea allowed the tempo of the crowd to bring her closer. The mark was exposed now. His protectors couldn't possibly cover every angle. Too many people. Too many flailing arms. This was it. The moment of moments. With her heart thudding in her ears, her breaths quick and shallow, she scanned the people around her, searching for something that didn't fit, something that would ping her radar--- That's when she saw him. The pattern that didn't fit. Stiff posture. Dark clothing. Icy intent. Like a shark cutting through the crowd, homing in on its prey. Andrea couldn't see his hands, but she sensed he had a knife just like hers. She needed to intercept him before he intercepted the mark.
Drawing her knife, adrenalin blooming hot in her gut, Andrea exhaled---one, two, three---then elbowed past the people in her way and stretched out, going for the assassin's throat. He must have sensed her coming because---damn it---he flinched and back-pedalled, and she missed. He drew his knife, going low, aiming for her kidney. She heard the blade sing, saw it dance and caught it on the outside of her arm, feeling it rip through her sleeve, slicing her flesh, and she gasped and tightened her jaw, knowing the cut was shallow, knowing the veins and tendons on the underside of her arm were safe, and she recovered and lunged, carving through the brachial artery just above the assassin's elbow, a smooth killing stroke.
The assassin froze, his eyes locked on hers, his mouth open and shivering, before he staggered and went down, blood geysering. A woman screamed. Then someone else screamed. Then everyone was screaming.
Breathing hard, Andrea turned and caught a glimpse of the mark's stricken face, his gratitude at her service, as his bodyguards lassoed around him and hustled him out the exit and into the night.
Andrea cradled her arm, applying pressure on the weeping wound as she melted into the panicking crowd. This country once had a dream of being one. Make us believe in it again.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The World War II generation has often been called the Greatest Generation. They grew up poor and hungry, but rose above their humble roots to defeat fascism and build a better world. In the words of Churchill, 'Never was so much owed by so many to so few.' This guerrilla story is my tribute to that generation's toil and sacrifice. May we never forget.
\*\*\*
Lee had been lying in the grass since the sun went down.
Watching.
Waiting.
Sweating.
But the hardest part wasn't the prickly heat or the oppressively still air. It was the mosquitoes. For hours, they had swarmed him, buzzing, biting, and now his hands were bloody from all the ones he had killed. But still they kept on coming. Insatiable. Relentless.
This is misery, he thought.
Breathing through his teeth, he couldn't help but yearn for home. How long had it been since he had left his village? Since he had last played with his dog? Since he had last tasted his mother's porridge? Two years? No. It was closer to three. An eternity.
The growl of thunder dashed his thoughts, and he blinked. The wind picked up, and around him, the vegetation rustled. Lighting streaked across the sky.
Slowly, surely, the first drops of rain plopped on his head before breaking into a drizzle. The mosquitoes stopped buzzing, and he felt better already. Cooler. Less raw. He adjusted his sub-machine gun, making sure it was beneath him, protected from the rain.
That's when lights appeared on the dirt road below, twinkling, followed by the drone of engines.
Lee felt his throat tighten, and his fingers flexed around his gun.
They were coming.
Lee looked left and right, checking on his men, and they peered back at him, only the whites of their eyes visible beneath camouflaged faces.
'Stand by,' he said. 'Stand by.'
The lights got bigger and brighter.
The droning got louder and closer.
Lee raised his hand.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait.
Now.
Lee slashed his hand down. 'Engage.'
The mortar squad behind him dropped a shell into their weapon, and it thumped, the shell arching overhead, hissing.
Lee was conscious of his heart drumming in his chest.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
On the road below, a truck at the front of the convoy exploded, flattening like a pancake.
Lee slashed his hand again. 'Engage.'
The mortar thumped once more.
This time, a jeep at the rear of the convoy exploded, snapping into two, flipping. Smoke and debris swirled, and the soldiers in the convoy leapt out, screaming as they jostled this way and that way into defensive positions. With fiery wreckage in front and fiery wreckage behind, they were now pinned down. They couldn't go forward. They couldn't go backward. No escape.
'Engage.'
The machinegun squad on Lee's right opened up on the enemy, their rapid-fire parting the grass, their tracers painting ribbons in the night, and the enemy replied with dozens of muzzle flashes, their bullets snapping and cracking against the trees all around.
'Banzai!' the enemy commander cried out.
'Banzai!' the enemy soldiers shrieked in unison.
They were preparing to charge up the hill, preparing to overrun Lee and his guerrillas, but he had already anticipated this. Rising from his position, keeping his head down, he led his shooters---those armed with rifles and sub-machine guns---to the left. He would orbit around. Catch the enemy in the middle in a pincer movement. Outmanoeuvre them with two criss-crossing fields of fire from the front and the left.
With his legs pumping, he skidded behind a tree, taking up position just as the enemy roared over the crest of the hill, their boots kicking up a dust storm and---yes---this was the moment of moments, the pincer picture-perfect as he sighted and tracked his targets and, with a long exhale, he opened up on them, spent casings spiralling from his weapon, his shoulder bucking from the recoil, his ears ringing, and it was a scene straight out of hell with men convulsing, flesh tearing, blood pluming.
Dear God.
It was over in seconds.
Soon there was nothing left to shoot.
Panting, shaking, Lee leaned against the tree, taking in the smell of cordite and sweat and death, the adrenalin still churning in his gut. Nothing moved except the bloody grass. He surveyed the carnage, the bodies, and he felt sick. Bile crawled up the back of his throat, and he wanted to vomit.
Dear God.
They had won.
Yes, they had won.
But how much longer would the killing have to continue?
That's when someone stepped up behind him.
Jittery, Lee turned and raised his weapon, almost squeezing the trigger before he recognised the man as a messenger from base camp.
He was laughing, dancing. 'It's over!'
Lee shook his head, confused. 'What?'
'The war, the occupation---it's over! The Americans have dropped a new bomb on the enemy. Destroyed two entire cities if you can believe that. It's over. It's over!'
Lee froze, his lips quivering, his gun slipping from his grasp, not knowing what to think, how to feel.
No more killing.
No more killing.
At long last, he was going home.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: 'When the favoured son of the Chang family dies, it is up to his outcast sister to unravel the truth.' I originally submitted this for a first-chapter contest, and I won an honourable mention. It even led to a publisher asking to take a look at the full manuscript. However, I aborted the story early on because I felt it didn't have the legs to go the full distance as a novel.
\*\*\*
Benjamin Chang died suddenly, violently.
It happened when his tyre blew out and went flat on the way home. He stopped at the side of the road and got down, braving the growl of passing vehicles, blinking away the grogginess in his eyes.
'Benjy?' His wife Emma lowered her window, yawning as she did. 'It's not safe, dear. Come back inside. We'll call for a tow truck.'
He knelt and fumbled with the tyre. 'No, it's alright. I think I can handle---'
And that's when he got sideswiped by a drifting SUV.
In the predawn darkness, Emma never saw its number plate or its model. All she saw was poor Benjy being flung by the bone cracking impact, his arms and legs twisting.
Emma screamed and screamed.
\*\*\*
Benjy looked peaceful in his coffin---his face finely powdered, his hair slicked back, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips---when they closed and sealed the lid for the last time. Dried autumn leaves fell in shades of brown and yellow.
The pastor recited the closing verses, 'In my Father's house, there are many rooms. If it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you.'
Sara Chang breathed in the smell of freshly dug soil, the crisp morning breeze chilling her tear-stained cheeks. Digging her nails into her palms, she watched her big brother being lowered into the grave by creaking ropes and pulleys.
Mum sobbed quietly. Dad remained stoic, his face grey. Benjy had been an overachiever, a businessman, a treasured first-born son. For them, it was as if they had died along with him.
There was a soft crunch.
The coffin touched bottom.
'Thomas said to him, Lord, we do not know where you are going, so how can we know the way?'
Emma clutched her face, breaking into a long tormented wail. Sara reached out and caught her just before she collapsed.
'Jesus answered, I am the way and the truth and the life. No one goes to the Father except through me.'
Everyone shuffled forward to drop roses, blood red roses, into the grave. It was a bitter farewell.
\*\*\*
Mum was still snivelling when they pulled away from the cemetery with Dad at the wheel. In the back seat, Sara stared out at the hilly landscape with tombstones flying by.
'You shouldn't have caught her.' Mum blew her nose into a tissue, the golden bracelet on her arm jiggling. 'It was embarrassing.'
'What?' Sara emerged from her stupor.
'I'm talking about Emma. You shouldn't have caught her.'
'But she was falling---'
'You are being silly. She had her brothers to take care of her.'
'But I was closest to Emma.'
'Didn't we already talk about throwing in the roses together? The three of us together? As a family? But look what happened. You left your Dad and me to do it by ourselves.'
'Look, Emma was so distraught and I had to---'
'Damn it!' Mum slammed her hand on the dashboard, cracking one of her pink fingernails. Her mascara was smudged. Despite her recent face lift, she suddenly looked twenty years older. 'You have no respect for your brother and no respect for your parents.'
'Respect? Respect!' Sara seethed, her throat burning, her jaw clenching. 'You are obsessed about saving face. That's all you care about, isn't it?'
Sara stopped herself when she noticed Dad's eyes glaring at her through the rear view mirror.
'Sara, that's quite enough.' His tone was flat and matter-of-fact. 'You need to shut up.'
\*\*\*
It was an aching memory.
She was ten at the time.
Benjy was sixteen.
And it happened to be report card day.
Sara trembled as Mum scanned her grades. They were mostly B's. The only A she received was for English.
Mum squeezed the edges of the report card until they crumpled. 'We work day and night to put you in a private school. And you think you are being fair to us by giving us this?'
Mum pitched the report card into her face and slapped her. She fell. Her ears buzzed. Blood trickled down her lips. Terrified, she scooted backwards, the carpet searing her buttocks through her skirt.
'I'm sorry, Mummy, I'm sorry.'
Mum grabbed a snakeskin belt from the wardrobe and closed in on her.
Sara bumped against the wall, cowering. Her throat contracted. Her heart felt like it would burst. If only she had been smarter, if only--- 'Mummy!'
'You're useless.'
The belt snapped again and again. Sara howled in agony, her arms turning black and blue, so swollen and numb she couldn't feel anything anymore. She curled up into a ball, her eyes growing foggy, her head almost splitting.
Oh God, when would this end?
She became faintly aware of Benjy coming into the room, yelling, his voice clashing with Mum's. The blows stopped. They sounded garbled, hollow, distant, like a dream. Everything was a kaleidoscope of blurs.
Sara hated herself. Hated herself so much. She deserved this, didn't she? She needed to get away. Needed to be safe.
She crawled, struggled to stand, and lurched towards her room. She barely made it, crashing into her bed, reaching for her favourite plush toy---a cat named Fluffy. She clasped it against her chest before passing out with silent sobs.
'Hey. Wake up. Hey.'
Sara struggled to crank open her eyes.
Her mouth felt parched, terribly parched.
It seemed like only a split-second had passed, when it had really been hours. Her skin prickled as if covered by pins and needles. She felt a straw being pressed past her shivering lips. She sucked long and hard, tasting orange juice, taking big swallows.
A face came into focus. Benjy's smiling face. Sleek and rugged in all the right places, he reminded her of Cary Grant.
'You're getting too heavy.'
'Wha---?' her voice rasped.
'I had to carry you to the bathroom, clean and bandage you, change the
bed sheets, and then carry you all the way back. Poor me.' Benjy scrunched up his face and faked a pained expression. 'You got to go on a diet, sis. Lose some weight for my sake. Please?'
Despite her soreness, she laughed, spilling drops of juice. 'I'm not fat.'
He winked. 'Sure.'
'Why...why did you stand up to Mummy?'
'Because you're my sis, that's why.'
'But I'm useless.'
'No, you're not. I know you're not.'
She started to cry, feeling almost sorry that he had to protect her. 'You're the best big brother.' She hugged him. 'Best big brother, ever.'
\*\*\*
Sara stroked Fluffy slowly, thoughtfully.
Outside her window, nearly-bare tree branches shifted and crackled, like bony fingers silhouetted against the dimming sunlight. The skies turned steel-grey. Thunder growled.
She leaned her forehead against the glass, her breath hazing it.
Benjy was a straight-A student, an outgoing guy, Mum and Dad's favourite, the one they always introduced to strangers first.
Why can't you be more like your brother? Just look at how many hours ofstudy he puts in. What about you? You're wasting your time with your silly stories and poems and sports. You think they are going to get you anywhere in life? Your father's an engineer. I'm a lawyer. And your brother's going to be an economist. What about you? You're just content to continue dreaming. I'm ashamed to have you as a daughter. If I could, I would disown you. That's right. Disown you.
Sara groaned.
Maybe it might have been better if she had died instead of Benjy. Then Mum and Dad wouldn't be so miserable. After all, she was expendable, wasn't she? Benjy wasn't.
Behind her, the door opened, and the voices of family and friends drifted in from downstairs. She turned away from the window.
'I thought I'd find you in here.' Emma strained to smile, shutting the door behind her. 'It's all pretty overwhelming, huh?'
'Yeah.' Mrya shrugged, setting Fluffy down on the bed. 'Overwhelming is the word.'
'Thank you for helping me just now, back during the funeral.'
'Don't mention it.' Sara gave a thumb up. 'It's what every wholesome
sister-in-law does, right?'
They stood in lingering silence.
Emma reached for the bedpost to support herself.
Even in grief, she looked so beautiful---almond eyes, wavy hair, and radiant skin. A striking young widow.
'I'm pregnant,' Emma said simply.
Sara's world tilted. 'Excuse me?'
'I'm going to have a baby.'
'Jesus.'
'I was going to tell Benjy. But, you know, I thought---' She bit her lip. 'I thought of waiting until his birthday. It was supposed to be yesterday. That's when I was going to tell him.' She sank slowly down on the bed, shaking her head. 'No one else knows, Sara. This whole thing is my fault. I shouldn't have let him drive back so early in the morning. We had already checked into a motel. But he got some call on his cell and suddenly he said we had to go home right away. That's when it happened.'
\*\*\*
Sara hurried downstairs.
At the bottom, Dad froze in mid -conversation, his hand flexing around his iced lemon tea. 'Where have you been? You're supposed to be down here entertaining the guests.'
Sara smirked and glided past. Around her, people stole glances, murmuring in hushed tones. She snatched her coat off the rack and was already out the front door when Dad caught her by the shoulder.
'Sara, don't you turn your back on me. I'm talking to you. Where are you going?'
'It's about Benjy.'
'What about Benjy?'
'You know how we thought he was coming back late from that business trip because he couldn't get a motel room? Well, turns out he did get a room.'
'Sara---'
'But there was this phone call.'
'Sara---'
'He drove back because of it.'
'Sara.' Dad's grip tightened. 'I don't want you running off right now. Don't you realise how much you've upset your mother?'
Sara gently loosened his hand and pushed it away. 'Emma is pregnant.'
'Excuse me?'
'You're going to be grandparents. That's right. Grandparents.'
She unlocked her car and got in, her fingers drumming the steering wheel. Lightning reflected off the hood.
She hesitated. 'Daddy, tell me something. Would it have made you happy if I had died instead of Benjy?'
He half-chuckled and turned away, sauntering back into the house.
The wind grew stronger.
Droplets of rain drizzled.
And in that moment of moments, Sara felt her heart break. She had her answer. Slamming her door shut, she keyed the ignition, reversing out the driveway.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: A techno-thriller that I started but never finished. It goes like this: a group of UN diplomats have grown tired of seeing war criminals escape justice, so they take it upon themselves to form a death squad. Their target? A man known as The General, inspired by real-life despots Charles Taylor and Robert Mugabe. In the end, though, I felt the story was too cynical to ever see publication. The fact that it kicks off with an omniscient viewpoint was also an issue for me. But have a read and decide for yourself.
\*\*\*
A conspiracy was in motion.
With stiff smiles and a handshake, two men met in the lobby of the General Assembly building. Hundreds of footsteps and voices echoed, the air heavy with urgency and purpose.
The older man had a sad, ancient face weathered by a lifetime of having seen it all. Bent and fragile, he walked with a cane. The younger man, sashaying with all the confidence of youth, clutched his arm, helping him along as one would do for a grandfather.
Like specks in a human ocean, they moved towards the rest area, where the smells of coffee and bread were strong. Above them, curving balconies floated, and close by, a plate glass window rose fifty feet high, dominating the scene.
This was the headquarters of the United Nations. Neutral ground. The building was swept several times a day by electronics and sniffer dogs.
Even so, the men were careful.
By choosing this spot to meet, they hoped the crowd would interfere with covert listening devices. That is, if anyone actually dared to use such things here.
They settled into adjacent cushioned chairs.
A waitress approached, but the younger man waved her away. Inching closer to his companion, he leaned over his armrest. 'I am afraid the ICC is not keen on pushing for prosecution. They seem to think the evidence is shaky, insufficient.'
'Insufficient evidence is not a reason.' The older man's nostrils flared. 'It is an excuse. Red tape strangling justice.'
'We could give it more time.'
'More time? Heavens, no. That monster is about to lobby his cause on the world stage. Seeking legitimacy. Signing trade agreements. Inviting corporations to come set up shop. God knows what will happen next!'
'Very well. Since you feel so strongly'---the younger man prodded the armrest, his finger like a scalpel---'I can have a team prepared for deployment within sixteen hours. We'll move ahead with your green light.'
Furrowing his lips, the older man stared out the huge window.
Many flags flapped in the wind, their poles catching the sunlight, representing the member states of the United Nations. How insignificant Project Solidarity seemed to be in the grand scheme of things. Five tiny nations stepping up to the plate, trying to fill the moral void left behind by the superpowers. Admirable, noble even, if one could look past the distasteful gray areas.
'I take no joy in this, you understand?' His eyes grew pensive. 'When you get to be as old as I am---closer to the end rather than the beginning---you start thinking about your legacy.'
'Legacy?'
'That's right. Legacy. I used to be out there on the front lines---fighting the Cold War---while my children were still playing with their Lego. You have no idea how much they resent me for being an absent father.' He chuckled. 'My grandchildren, on the other hand, think of me as some sort of... hero... an old knight, perhaps.' His chuckle became a snort. 'I am proud of what I did during the Cold War. That was for my children and their generation. But Solidarity is like writing my last will and testament in blood. Is this what I really want to be giving my grandchildren?'
The younger man studied him, nodding. 'Your grandchildren are starting their new school term very soon, I believe?'
'Yes, quite so.'
'Legacy or not'---the younger man jabbed the armrest, harder this time---'the things we do will never enter the history books they study. That shouldn't trouble you. We do what we do because it is moral... genuine justice... something the world has forgotten. Do you remember how clear our vision was when we first started?'
'I do.' The older man fiddled with his tie, smoothing it. His gaze returned to the younger man, his expression hardening. 'I'm not senile yet.'
'Good. Now do I have your green light?'
\*\*\*
The moon was a silvery crescent as Abdi moved across the field, the night alive with screeching insects and a whistling breeze. The flashlight on his AK-47 swept across the tall grass, reflecting off the small animals scampering through the shrubbery.
The humidity felt oppressive.
Under the beret he wore, his face was weary, his dark skin glistening with sweat. His uniform was two sizes too big, doing a lousy job of disguising his youth. In the West, he would have been too young to drink.
Pushing on, Abdi entered a clearing with a small tree ahead, its branches skeletal and its leaves few, marking the end of his patrol route. It was time for a break. Bending under the tree, he switched off his flashlight, sinking down on a protruding root.
He struck a match, lit a cigarette, and sucked long and deep. Savoring it, he exhaled, watching the vapor curl before being carried away by the wind. Plowing his boots in the soil, he tried to relax, tried to calm his nerves.
But he couldn't relax.
Going without sleep for three days now, the insomnia ate at him, like termites burrowing through his skull. It was like being trapped in a permanent state of fatigue, a permanent state of depression.
Butchered bodies stretching out as far as the eye could see. The coppery stench of blood and burning flesh. The wailing of children being pulled from the arms of their parents and finished off with machetes and axes.
It wasn't always like this.
He remembered better times.
What little education he had had been given to him by missionaries in a school in his village. It only had one classroom, where the smell of chalk peppered the air, and colorful alphabets and numbers lined the dirt-specked walls. He could still hear his classmates giggling, their hands leaping up each time their pale-skinned teachers asked a question.
His teachers had taught him not only to read and write and count, but also to respect what they called the sanctity of life. They insisted---oh, how they had insisted---that tribal warfare was wrong. In other lands, people resolved their disputes through dialogue and understanding.
He had found it difficult to wrap his mind around such a concept.
What about defending the pride of one's clan?
What about punishing the enemies who spat on one's honor?
His teachers had chosen an unusual way of demonstrating their point. Along with the other children, they had given him a rabbit to look after, a white one with black spots and a sniffling nose. It was to be his pet, something he found odd. He had never known animals to be anything other than a source of food or a source of labor.
In time, his views changed.
He noticed how the rabbit would amble towards him with a twinkle in its eye whenever he fed it. It even played a mischievous game---chewing on his finger before darting away, long ears swaying, daring him to give chase.
Oh, how it made him laugh.
Looking after it no longer felt like a chore. It became a delight. His teachers used this as a lesson---if a boy and an animal could grow to love each other, why couldn't all tribes do so?
He was in awe of their wisdom.
Soon, they promised to introduce him to something called the Internet. They told him it would widen his horizons; allow him to communicate with other children across the sea. He had never been so excited in his life. He had no idea how this Internet worked, but he had absolute trust in his teachers.
But it never happened.
One day, an artillery shell came shrieking into the school's courtyard, slamming into the enclosure where the children kept their rabbits. The blast ripped them apart, disassembling them into chunks of flesh and bone.
Petrified, his teachers had packed their bags and piled into an old jeep. Before pulling away, they passed out candy and tearfully promised to come back as soon as the fighting died down.
For some reason, he knew better.
He knew they would never come back.
Soon, explosions pockmarked the landscape and machinegun fire streaked back and forth. Government and rebel forces clashed. Bewildered, he had huddled under his desk, cupping his ears, hoping against hope that his rabbit had survived.
Hours later, when the sounds of battle finally tapered away, he summoned up the courage to venture out into the courtyard. Under the dying sunlight, he had found nothing but lumpy remains. Melting into tears, almost screaming, he had scooped them up and slid them into his schoolbag.
He felt deathly sick.
Why? Why did this have to happen? Why?
Vomiting, staggering, he had peered past what remained of a collapsed wall. He watched as rebels streamed into his village, their faces leathery, their weapons caked with mud, as they chanted slogans about socialism, liberation, and land reform.
But the man leading them was cut from a different cloth. He stood tall and regal with a compassionate gaze that could pierce the soul.
Abdi had often heard the women of the village speak breathlessly of him. They called him The General. A myth made flesh. An ordinary village boy who---through pure force of will---had become something more.
The General strode towards him.
'Young boy,' he had said, his voice rising barely above a whisper. 'Are you hurt?'
Abdi struggled to say something, anything, but words simply did not come.
Instead he fell sobbing into The General's arms.
'You poor, poor boy. The artillery of the government tyrants hit your school. Where are your teachers? It is okay. Speak to me.'
'They... ran... away,' Abdi croaked.
'Unforgivable. These neo-colonialists are selfish. They tried to instruct you in their ways and trample on our good traditions, didn't they?' The General dabbed away Abdi's tears. 'I will take care of you now.'
Abdi had served The General ever since.
Thinking of it now, his eyes grew misty.
The emotions of the past remained fresh.
He felt indebted to The General, just as so many other youngsters did. He had given them so much and expected so little in return. Or did he expect so little in return?
Abdi shivered.
Butchered bodies stretching out as far as the eye could see. The coppery stench of blood and burning flesh. The wailing of children being pulled from the arms of their parents and finished off with machetes and axes.
That excruciating experience one month ago had left him with nightmares that were growing more frequent. They suffocated his psyche, forcing him to wake up several times a night, gasping and shaking, turning him haggard, giving him bloodshot eyes. Now the only duty he was fit for was sentry duty.
He slipped off his beret, wiping his clammy forehead.
With trembling fingers, he touched his hair. It felt wispy, like spider strands, having dropped so much this past week.
How he longed for sleep.
Yet he shunned sleep.
He could no longer serve The General. These nightmares were affecting his health. As hard as it was, he would go back to his village. He would eke out a new life as a farmer. He would exchange his rifle for a scythe.
Yes, tonight's crescent moon looked very much like a scythe, didn't it?
He heard a rustle.
Startled, he looked over his shoulder, just as a blurry figure came bursting out from the undergrowth. A switchblade hissed. Black steel glinted under the moonshine. In that split-second, he could have sworn that his attacker wasn't human---the face rushing towards him had two robotic eyes.
He fumbled for his AK-47.
Too little, too late.
His hair was grabbed, his head yanked.
The knife entered the back of his neck.
It felt icy cold.
Then blazing hot.
Then something cracked.
The sound of his brain stem disintegrating.
He jerked, going rigid.
His eyes went wide.
His breath wheezed.
His cigarette fell from his lips, hitting the ground, spreading embers. He tumbled and slumped, trailing blood on the tree, his mouth frozen in a silent scream.
\*\*\*
Haider stamped out the cigarette with his boot.
Steadied his heavy breaths.
Allowed his racing heart to slow.
The sentry was only a kid, no older than his own son. The most difficult part about killing at close range was not the physical effort but the emotional detachment. He had passed that threshold a long time ago.
Wiping his blade against the sentry's hair, he retracted his knife and dropped to one knee, bracing his SIG carbine against his shoulder. He was cloaked in woodland camouflage, his face blackened by carbon. With night vision goggles clasped over his eyes, he saw everything in ghostly green, the moonlight amplified many times over.
His skin prickled.
His uniform felt scratchy.
He tugged at the curve of his collar, even though he did not sweat. Special pills had suppressed his perspiration. Only practical, since he did not want his body odor to give him away. But still, damn, the sticky heat made him uncomfortable.
Behind him, five commandos emerged in a duck-walk, sighting down their weapons, sweeping for targets. They were alert. Special pills had adjusted their circadian rhythms.
He knew his men wouldn't falter.
With a hand signal, he split them into two teams---Alpha and Bravo.
Then, leading Alpha, he rose, sprinting with his head tucked low and his body bent over. The wind started to howl, the grass around him hissing.
After thirty metres, he slowed and crouched, covering for threats, allowing Bravo to leapfrog forward. Then, after another thirty metres, it was Bravo's turn to stop and cover, allowing Alpha to leapfrog forward.
They kept going like this---Alpha, Bravo, Alpha, Bravo---their symbiosis precise, their movements smooth as liquid.
Until Haider detected a glow ahead.
A flashlight.
Clenching his teeth, feeling the adrenaline heighten his senses, he signaled for his men to go prone. The laser on his weapon sparkled to life, visible only on his night vision goggles. Around him, other lasers sparkled.
The rules of engagement were simple---anyone glimpsing the target first had permission to take him down.
Haider waited.
The glow grew brighter.
The salty smell of sweat approached.
The grass heaved and parted.
Slowly, surely, the sentry came into view.
Watching him through narrowed eyes, Haider remembered something his commanding officer had told him years ago---you have never really hunted until you have hunted man.
From his left, silenced gunshots whispered.
Bullets riddled the sentry's chest, mushrooming on entry.
He buckled.
More bullets tore his skull open.
His rifle fell, its flashlight shattering.
There was no twitching, no cry of pain.
It was a clean kill.
Nodding, Haider acknowledged the man who had taken the shot. He was a believer in positive reinforcement. It kept the men on their toes.
Haider got moving once more, cutting a swathe through the field until he reached a slope. Half-running, half-sliding, he descended, kicking up dust, reaching the embankment below. He dived into the mud beside a stream with croaking frogs, feeling the temperature cool.
Looming ahead was a white mansion with oval windows, its Mediterranean appearance strangely out of place in this African savannah. Rising three stories high, its red terracotta rooftop shimmered in the moonlight. Its entrance was guarded by heavy iron gates and its compound was surrounded by a limestone wall topped with barbwire.
The area around the wall was protected by pressure sensors buried under the soil. Not terribly high-tech, but effective nonetheless. They were programmed to ignore wandering animals, but would be set off by the weight of a human being. To make things more interesting, the barbwire on the wall was electrified. Enough to deter anyone who managed to get past the sensors.
Tricky.
But Haider had come prepared.
One of his men took aim with a grenade launcher, triggering it with a hollow thump. A projectile the size of a baseball arched skywards, dropping over the mansion's wall, disappearing into the compound.
Haider thumbed a remote control.
There was no explosion.
Instead he ignited an electromagnetic pulse---knocking out the power generator, the alarm system, and everything else that had electronic circuitry.
All the windows went black in a chorus.
Their mark wouldn't know.
He had retired to his bedroom, having instructed his staff and his guards not to wake him for any reason at all. What an arrogant fool.
Surging to his feet and splashing across the stream, Haider orbited around the mansion, closing in from the rear. Reaching the wall, his men boosted the lightest commando to the top. He sliced through the barbwire and secured a rope, uncoiling it.
Haider climbed first, his arms straining, his boots scraping the limestone as he hauled himself up and over the wall, dropping into the compound.
It was almost like dropping into another world.
The lawn felt soft and smooth beneath him. Flowering bushes were everywhere, trimmed into globes and cubes and other interesting shapes. He breathed in fragrances so sweet, he could taste them on his tongue.
Voices drifted.
Laughter.
He skulked towards the sounds, careful to keep himself concealed within the darkest shadows. His motions fluid and economical, he took up position behind a water fountain, perching his rifle on its edge.
Through the cascading water, he watched two sentries laughing and gesturing. They reeked of alcohol. Their lack of discipline disgusted him. Weren't they concerned about the lights going out? How could they even drink at a time like this?
This was almost too easy.
He steadied his breaths and flipped his selector switch to full automatic. Squeezing his trigger, he pivoted, firing controlled bursts. The men twitched in mid-laugh, collapsing like marionette puppets whose strings had been cut.
The water in the fountain swirled red.
With a hand signal, Haider ordered Alpha to sweep the compound's perimeter clockwise, while Bravo would do so counter-clockwise. His plan was to catch the remaining sentries in a pincer maneuver, scissoring them as quickly as possible.
Leading Alpha, he got moving, dashing past Greek statues that stood twice his height, their nude ceramic bodies rippling with perfection.
He heard footsteps.
Approaching footsteps.
He took up position behind a statue, cautiously peeping sideways.
Three sentries came into view.
Once again, he was disgusted.
They were strolling almost leisurely with their rifles hanging from their shoulders. How could they be so incompetent?
Having faith that his men were already in position, he tapped his throat microphone twice. The crossfire came like book pages being shuffled.
The sentries jerked and heaved and collapsed.
Beautiful, he thought with a smile. Just beautiful.
His men were well-oiled machines.
He ought to know. He had trained them himself.
Skipping over the bodies and linking up with Bravo, he entered a patio with potted plants, lawn chairs, and garden tables. Finding the right door, one of his men opened it with a motorised lock pick, and they slipped into the kitchen.
The smell of herbs and spices tickled Haider's nostrils.
Even in darkness, the pots, pans, stoves, and ovens gleamed from polish. He padded slowly across the tiled floor and passed through a swiveling door.
He entered the dining room. It was magnificent. Crystal chandeliers hung from a dome ceiling and the long table had a dozen high-back chairs. The polished marble floor was so glossy he could see his own reflection.
Fine dining, indeed.
Beyond the next door, he stepped into a hallway with oil paintings of scenic landscapes. A strong woody aroma hung in the air, the type that only came from expensive furniture. Somewhere close by, a grandfather clock tick-tocked, its pendulum unaffected by the electromagnetic pulse.
Haider clucked his tongue and shook his head. Their mark lived here in opulence, enriched by cash, jewelry, and property stolen from thousands of his murdered victims. Grotesque. Disgusting.
At the end of the hallway, he located a door leading down to the basement.
He descended, the wooden steps creaking ever so slightly.
Reaching another door at the bottom, one of his men snaked a fiber optic camera under it. The camera transmitted grainy images to an LCD monitor. With a thumbs-up, he confirmed that there were no active threats on the other side.
They were good to go.
Opening the door, Haider crept in, welcoming the chill of air conditioning. His men fanned out before a row of double-level bunks containing the sleeping forms of servants who worked here in this mansion.
Haider studied their tranquil faces, their chests rising and falling.
He felt a touch of regret for what he was about to do. But the rules of engagement were quite clear---no one, absolutely no one, could be allowed to interfere with their mission.
They took aim.
Their lasers glittered.
They opened fire.
The servants convulsed from hundreds of bullet impacts, their bedsprings squeaking. Blood geysered against the walls. Stuffing from mattresses and pillows rippled and burst.
It was over in seconds.
Haider eased his finger off his trigger, the last of his spent casings clinking on the floor. His weapon continued to smoke. The air was thick with cordite, as if they had set off fireworks in here. Slowly, very slowly, two of his men prodded each bleeding body, making sure their targets were dead.
Haider heard a gasp.
He spun.
A female servant stood in the doorway to the bathroom, her hands clutching her mouth. Petite and fragile, her bulging belly told him that she was pregnant.
Pregnant?
He froze.
What the bloody hell was this?
Their intelligence had mentioned nothing about a pregnant woman.
This was wrong. There must have been some mistake---
She turned, as if breaking into a run. Before Haider could stop them, his men reacted, their guns snapping up and tracking her with gunfire. In nightmarish slow motion, he watched her crash against a sink before rolling to the floor.
His throat knotted up.
He choked.
Seconds stretched.
Good God. What have we done?
His men bowed their heads, reloading their weapons. Anger swelled up inside him, scalding like acid in his stomach. But he held it back.
They had reacted exactly like the well-oiled machines that they were.
He ought to know.
He had trained them himself, hadn't he?
Damn it.
Chewing his lip, he moved to check the woman's carotid artery. No pulse. Almost as an afterthought, he lowered his ear towards her belly. Nothing. They had terminated both mother and child.
He tightened his jaw, bottling up his feelings.
Now wasn't the time to waver. He signaled his men to perform a quick sweep of the bathroom---making sure no one else was hiding---before exiting the servants' quarters and creeping back up the stairs.
He continued navigating the mansion until he found a spiral staircase with banisters made of ivory. Touching a banister, he took in its cold smoothness, noticing how badly his hand trembled. He gripped it to stop the tremors from getting worse. He felt like... almost like... something inside him had shriveled up and gone poisonous.
Climbing to the top, he stepped onto a floor carpeted with a cushy fabric. A huge oak door lay just ahead, flanked by the masks of the gods Apollo and Mercury, their vacant eyes staring sternly at him.
His men arranged themselves around the door, their faces brimming with intensity, their hands flexing on their weapons. The fiber optic camera was used once more, and Haider squinted at the monitor, studying the image of their mark---The General---sleeping on a king-sized bed. Because of the low angle, they could only see his feet.
At last. At last.
The irony was not lost on Haider.
They had come to put him to sleep for good.
One of them picked the lock and turned the knob.
He pushed the door in slowly.
Something clicked.
A tripwire, hidden at the top of the door.
In a heartbeat, a blinding flash engulfed them. Like multiple suns. Then came a roar, absolutely volcanic. From the bottom up, the mansion's windows exploded outwards, glass flowering, flames surging. The shockwave smashed through the roof, sending tiles rocketing into the night.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yet another thriller that I snuffed out. In this one, a covert unit of the Special Branch (Malaysia's Gestapo) carries out surveillance to gather dirt on an important figure. However, I found the plot too sordid and misogynistic, so I killed the story. But it turned out to be eerily prescient. Several months later, Malaysian Health Minister Chua Soi Lek was forced to resign under circumstances that were remarkably similar to my story. Imagine that.
\*\*\*
The woman in the hotel room upstairs was going to be raped.
Ava watched the scene play out on the four monitors in front of her. Each covered a different angle. The feeds were live and accompanied by sound.
Whimpering, shaking, the woman backed up against a wall, its wood creaking. 'Tolong. Jangan.' Please. Don't.
But her attacker only moved closer, boxing her in. At least ten kilos overweight, he stared at the woman through owlish glasses.
Ava bit her lip, trying not to cringe.
The evening sun had heated up her room and her blouse was stuck to her skin. The air smelled of kretek and arrack---cheap cigarettes and cheap liquor; the stink of past occupants. But Ava was so absorbed, she barely noticed any of that.
With her were two members of her cell.
The first was Omar, lean and angular. He operated the hidden cameras with a console, panning and tilting and zooming where needed.
The second was Kumaran, heavyset with a narrow moustache. He received the feeds on his laptop, working to condense them into a single, seamless recording.
Right now, the woman was screaming.
The man had grabbed her by her shoulders, pulling at the straps of her tank top. When she tried to break free, he slammed her against the wall.
Once.
Twice.
Until she fell.
Then he dragged her by the arm towards the bed.
The woman was so small, she didn't stand a chance.
Ava took a breath, puffed her cheeks, and exhaled. Her throat felt like a screw being tightened. She had seen enough. Averting her eyes, she looked at Omar, then Kumaran, before making for the door.
'I will be downstairs,' Ava said. 'Send the footage to my phone.'
\*\*\*
Ava made her way into the lobby, walking past the hotel's sad-eyed, ancient-faced proprietor. He sat behind the reception, hunched over a Chinese newspaper, with a table fan oscillating beside him.
Ava took a look and figured he was reading the Oriental Daily News, a left-wing publication well-known for its conspiracy theories.
The headline on the page was about a government minister threatening to soak the keris---the traditional Malay dagger---in Chinese blood.
Same old shit, Ava thought. The politics of race and fear.
She stepped out of the hotel's entrance and into the open-air parking lot, the ground sandy and unpaved. The main streets were close by and the traffic was thunderous. The dust and the exhaust made her nose twitch.
Ava paused and scanned her surroundings, trying to pick out anything that didn't belong, anything that might pose a threat. But the only thing she saw was a flock of crows feasting on rubbish from an overflowing dumpster. They cawed and flapped their wings, as if warning her to stay away.
Fair enough.
Ava walked towards a Proton on the far end of the lot, approaching it from the rear. She opened the passenger's side door and got in.
Chen, the third member of her cell, was on the driver's side. Broad-shouldered but small-jawed, he rested his hands on the steering wheel.
'Is he coming down?' Chen asked.
'Not yet,' Ava said. 'Let's wait a while.'
She pulled out her phone and held it, her fingers flexing.
The man they had under surveillance was Jonathan Foo Yen Ling, a familiar face with a familiar routine in this part of town. He usually swung by on Mondays and Fridays, just after five o'clock, looking to have some fun before going home.
Because Foo was a judge, he knew the consequences of rape. But that didn't stop him from being thrilled by it. So he paid prostitutes to indulge in his fantasy. And he paid well. Usually twice the going rate. Sometimes triple.
Ava's phone chimed and vibrated.
She raised it, opening a file from Kumaran.
It was a snippet of Foo thrusting into the woman, the bed beneath them squeaking. The editing was first-rate, offering close-ups and wide-shots, from the top, from the left, from the right.
Chen craned his neck. 'Looks good.'
Ava said nothing, clicking off the file, her stomach feeling acidic.
They continued to wait.
Then she received a text message from Omar.
Ava read it. 'The subject is on his way. Get ready.'
Chen slid his key into the ignition.
Soon enough, Foo emerged from the hotel with his hair slick and combed back. He had obviously taken a shower. Ambling towards his Toyota, he unlocked it and got in without so much as a look around.
He started his engine.
When he pulled out of the parking lot, they followed him.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: A tale with a high concept. A writer returns home from abroad, expecting to see his family at the airport. But what he gets instead is the Special Branch waiting for him. This one had the potential to be a suspenseful story in the vein of Six Days of the Condor. But I found myself questioning the first-person viewpoint. When you have a protagonist narrating a story, what's to stop him from lying or exaggerating? I couldn't get past the issue of the unreliable narrator, and I assumed my readers wouldn't either.
\*\*\*
When I stepped into the airport's arrival hall, I expected to see my family, but what I got instead was the police. Dressed in plainclothes, they peeled away from the crowd and zeroed in on me.
From the front.
From the left.
From the right.
Then one of the officers jammed his foot against my baggage trolley, bringing it to a stop. 'Selamat pulang ke Malaysia.' Welcome back to Malaysia.
Another flashed me his identification. 'You are Mr Samuel Wu?'
I blinked, my throat feeling like a screw being tightened.
They belonged to the Special Branch.
Malaysia's very own Gestapo.
Lying wouldn't help, so I went with the truth. 'Yes, I am, but---'
'You must come with us.'
They clutched my arms, pulling me away from the trolley, and hustling me towards the exit. My feet swam; everything was happening too fast. As I craned my neck, I saw the third officer taking hold of the trolley and pushing it along. All around us, people were staring, murmuring, pointing. Oh God.
'Please, sir.' I turned to the officer on my right. 'What is this about?'
He didn't even look at me. 'Quiet.'
I turned to the officer on my left. 'Am I being arrested?'
'Quiet.'
The automatic doors at the exit swished open and I felt the full blast of the humidity outside. It was strong enough to make my head hurt, even though it was ten o'clock at night. I broke out in sweat and my shirt became glued to my skin.
Just beyond the taxi queue ahead, a Toyota SUV was waiting.
The two officers pressed me into the backseat and sandwiched me on either side, while the third tossed my luggage into the boot. When he was done, he got into the passenger seat up front.
He nodded at the driver. 'Kita jalan sekarang.' We move now.
John Ling graduated from the University of Otago in 2007 and currently lives and works in Auckland, New Zealand.
He balances his day job as a television captioner with editorial duties at Kia Kaha Press, a publishing imprint.
Visit his website at www.johnling.net
Table of Contents
Table of Contents

