The Windup Girl

17

How many nights has he gone without sleep? One night? Ten nights? Ten thousand? Jaidee cannot remember anymore. Moons have passed awake and suns have passed in dream and everything is counting, numbers spinning out in a steady accumulation of days and hopes dashed. Propitiations and offerings unanswered. Fortune tellers with their predictions. Generals with their assurances. Tomorrow. Three days, for certain. There are indications of a softening, whispers of a woman’s whereabouts.

Patience.

Jai yen.

Cool heart.

Nothing.

Apologies and humiliations in the newspapers. A personal criticism, by his own hand. More false admissions of greed and corruption. 200,000 baht that he cannot repay. Editorials and condemnations in the whisper sheets. Stories spread by his enemies that he spent stolen money on whores, on a private stock of U-Tex rice against famines, that he squirrelled it away for personal benefit. The Tiger was nothing more than another corrupt white shirt.

Fines are meted out. The last of his property confiscated. The family home burned, a funeral pyre, while his mother-in-law wails and his sons, already stripped of his name, watch somnolent.

It has been decided that he will not serve his penance in a nearby monastery. Instead he will be banished to the forests of Phra Kritipong where ivory beetle has turned the land into waste and where blister rust rewrites waft across the border from Burma. Banished to the wastelands to contemplate the damma. His eyebrows are shaved, his head is a simple pate. If he happens to return from his penance alive, he looks forward to a lifetime of guarding yellow cards in their internments down in the south: the lowest work, for the lowest white shirt.

And yet still no word of Chaya.

Is she alive? Is she dead? Was it Trade? Was it another? A jao por, incensed at Jaidee’s audacity? Was it someone within the Environment Ministry? Bhirom-bhakdi, irritated at Jaidee’s disregard for protocol? Was it meant as a kidnapping, or murder? Did she die fighting to get free? Is she still in that concrete room of the photograph, somewhere in the city, sweating in an abandoned tower, waiting for him to rescue her? Does her corpse feed cheshires in an alley? Does she float in the Chao Phraya, food now for the Boddhi Carp rev 2.3 that the Ministry has bred with such success? He has nothing but questions. He shouts into the well, but no echo returns.

And so now he sits in a barren monk’s kuti on the temple grounds of Wat Bowonniwet, waiting to hear whether Phra Kritipong’s monastery will actually accept the task of reforming him. He wears the white of a novice. He will not wear orange. Not ever. He is not a monk. He does a special penance. His eyes follow rusty water stains on the wall, the blooms of mold and rot.

On one wall, a bo tree is painted, the Buddha sitting beneath it as he seeks enlightenment.

Suffering. All is suffering. Jaidee stares at the bo tree. Just another relic of history. The Ministry has artificially preserved a few, ones that didn’t burst to kindling under the internal pressure of the ivory beetles breeding, the beetles burrowing and hatching in the tangled trunks of the bo until they burst forth, flying, and spread to their next victim and their next and their next…

All is transient. Even bo trees cannot last.

Jaidee touches his eyebrows, fingering the pale half-moons above his eyes where hair once stood. He still hasn’t gotten used to his shaven state. Everything changes. He stares up at the bo tree and the Buddha.

I was asleep. All along, I was asleep and never understood.

But now, as he stares at the relic bo tree, something shifts.

Nothing lasts forever. A kuti is a cell. This cell is a prison. He sits in a prison, while the ones who took Chaya live and drink and whore and laugh. Nothing is permanent. This is the central teaching of the Buddha. Not a career, not an institution, not a wife, not a tree… All is change; change is the only truth.

He stretches a hand toward the painting and traces the flaking paint, wondering if the man who painted it used a real living bo tree as model, if he was lucky enough to live when they lived, or if he modeled it from a photo. Copied from a copy.

In a thousand years will they even know that bo trees existed? Will Niwat and Surat’s great-grandchildren know that there were other fig trees, also all gone? Will they know that there were many many trees and that they were of many types? Not just a Gates teak, and a generipped PurCal banana, but many, many others as well?

Will they understand that we were not fast enough or smart enough to save them all? That we had to make choices?

The Grahamites who preach on the streets of Bangkok all talk of their Holy Bible and its stories of salvation. Their stories of Noah Bodhisattva, who saved all the animals and trees and flowers on his great bamboo raft and helped them cross the waters, all the broken pieces of the world piled atop his raft while he hunted for land. But there is no Noah Bodhisattva now. There is only Phra Seub who feels the pain of loss but can do little to stop it, and the little mud Buddhas of the Environment Ministry, who hold back rising waters by barest luck.

The bo tree blurs. Jaidee’s cheeks are wet with tears. Still he stares up at it and the Buddha in his pose of meditation. Who would have thought the calorie companies would attack figs? Who would have thought the bo trees would die as well? The farang have no respect for anything but money. He wipes the water off his face. It is stupid to think that anything lasts forever. Perhaps even Buddhism is transient.

He stands and gathers his white novice robes around him. He wais to the flaking paint of the Buddha under his disappeared tree.

Outside, the moon shines bright. A few green methane lamps glow, barely lighting the paths through the reengineered teak trees to the monastery gates. It is foolish to grasp for things that cannot be regained. All things die. Chaya is already lost to him. Such is change.

No one guards the gates. It is assumed that he is obedient. That he will scrape and beg for any hope of Chaya’s return. That he will allow himself to be broken. He’s not even sure if anyone cares now about his final fate. He has served his purpose. Dealt a blow to General Pracha, lost face for the entire Environment Ministry. If he stays or leaves, what of it?

He walks out onto the night streets of the City of Divine Beings and heads south, toward the river, toward the Grand Palace and the glittering lights of the city, down through streets half-populated. Toward the levees that keep the city from drowning under the curse of the farang.

The City Pillar Shrine rises ahead of him, its roofs gleaming, Buddha images alight with offerings, sweet incense pouring from them. It was here that Rama XII declared that the city of Krung Thep would not be abandoned. Would not fall to the likes of the farang the way that Ayutthaya fell to the Burmese so many centuries before.

Over the chanting of nine hundred ninety-nine monks dressed in saffron robes, the King declared that the city would be saved, and from that moment he charged the Ministry of the Environment with its defense. Charged them with the building of the great levees and the tide pools that would buffer the city against the wash of monsoon flood and the surge of typhoon waves. Krung Thep would stand.

Jaidee walks on, listening to the steady chant of monks who pray every minute of the day, summoning the power of the spirit worlds to Bangkok’s aid. There were times when he himself knelt on the cool marble of the shrine, prostrate before the city’s central pillar, begging for the help of the King and the spirits and whatever life force the city was imbued with as he went forth to do his work. The city pillar was talismanic. It gave him faith.

Now he walks past in his white robes and doesn’t look twice.

All things are transient.

He continues through the streets, makes his way into the crowded quarters along the back of Charoen Khlong. The waters lap quietly. No one poles its dark surface this late at night. But ahead, on one of the screened porches a candle flickers. He steals closer.

“Kanya!”

His old lieutenant turns, surprised. She composes her features, but not before Jaidee has a chance to read her shock at what stands before her: this forgotten man without a hair on his head, without even his eyebrows, grinning madly at her from the foot of her steps. He removes his sandals and climbs in white like a ghost up the stairs. Jaidee is aware of the appearance he presents, can’t help but enjoy the humor as he opens the screens and slips within.

“I thought you had already gone to the forests,” Kanya says.

Jaidee settles beside her, arranging his robes around him. He stares out at the stinking waters of the khlong. A mango tree’s branches reflect against the moonlight liquid silver. “It takes a long time to find a monastery willing to soil itself with my sort. Even Phra Kritipong seems to have second thoughts when it comes to enemies of Trade.”

Kanya makes a face. “Everyone talks about how they are in ascendancy. Akkarat speaks openly of allowing windup imports.”

Jaidee startles. “I hadn’t heard of such. A few farang, but…”

Kanya makes a face. “‘All respect to the Queen, but windups do not riot.’” She forces her thumb into the hard peel of a mangosteen. Its purple skin, nearly black in the darkness, peels away. “Torapee measuring his father’s footprints.”

Jaidee shrugs. “All things change.”

Kanya grimaces. “How can one fight their money? Money is their power. Who remembers their patrons? Who remembers their obligations when money comes surging in as strong and deep as the ocean against the seawalls?” She grimaces. “We are not fighting the rising waters. We are fighting money.”

“Money is attractive.”

Kanya makes a bitter face. “Not to you. You were a monk even before they sent you to a kuti.”

“Perhaps that’s why I make such a poor novice.”

“Shouldn’t you be in your kuti now?”

Jaidee grins. “It was cramping my style.”

Kanya stills, looks hard at Jaidee. “You’re not ordaining?”

“I’m a fighter, not a monk.” He shrugs. “Sitting in a kuti and meditating will do no good. I let myself become confused about that. Losing Chaya confused me. ”

“She will return. I’m sure of it.”

Jaidee smiles sadly at his protégé, so full of hope and faith. It’s surprising that a woman who smiles so little and sees so much melancholy in the world can believe that in this case-this one exceptional case-that the world will turn in a positive direction.

“No. She will not.”

“She will!”

Jaidee shakes his head. “I always thought you were the skeptical one.”

Kanya’s face is anguished. “You’ve done everything to signal capitulation. You have no face left! They must let her go!”

“They will not. I think that she was dead within a day. I only clung to hope because I was mad for her.”

“You don’t know she’d dead. They could still be holding her.”

“As you pointed out, I have no face left. If this were a lesson, she would have returned by now. It was a different sort of message than we thought.” Jaidee contemplates the still waters of the khlong. “I need a favor from you.”

“Anything.”

“Loan me a spring gun.”

Kanya’s eyes widen. “Khun…”

“Don’t worry. I’ll bring it back. I don’t need you to come with me. I just need a good weapon.”

“I…”

Jaidee grins. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. And there’s no reason to destroy two careers.”

“You’re going after Trade.”

“Akkarat needs to understand that the Tiger still has teeth.”

“You don’t even know if it was Trade who took her.”

“Who else, really?” Jaidee shrugs. “I have made many enemies, but in the end, there is really only one.” He smiles. “There is Trade and there is me. I was foolish to let people convince me otherwise.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No. You will stay here. You will keep an eye on Niwat and Surat. That is all I ask of you, Lieutenant.”

“Please don’t do this. I will beg Pracha, I will go to—”

Jaidee cuts her off, before she speaks of ugliness. There was a time when he would have let her lose face before him, would have allowed her apologies to spill forth like a waterfall during the monsoon, but not anymore.

“I don’t wish for anything else,” he says. “I am content. I will go to Trade and I will make them pay. All of this is kamma. I was not meant to keep Chaya forever, or she to keep me. But I think there are still things we can do if we hold tight to our damma. We all have our duties, Kanya. To our patrons, to our men.” He shrugs. “I’ve had many different lives. I was a boy, and a muay thai champion, and a father, and a white shirt.” He glances down at the folds of his novice’s clothes. “A monk, even.” He grins. “Don’t worry about me. I have a few more stages yet to traverse before I give up on this life and go to meet Chaya.” He lets his voice harden. “I still have unfinished business, and I won’t stop until it is done.”

Kanya watches him, eyes anguished. “You can’t go alone.”

“No. I will take Somchai.”

Trade: the ministry that functions with impunity, that scoffs at him so easily, that steals his wife and leaves a hole in him the size of a durian.

Chaya.

Jaidee studies the building. In the face of all those blazing lights, he feels like a savage in the wilderness, like a hilltribe spirit doctor staring at the advance of a megodont army. For a moment, his sense of mission falters.

I should see the boys, he tells himself. I could go home.

And yet here he is in the darkness, watching the lights of the Ministry of Trade, where they burn their coal allocation as though the Contraction never happened, as though there are no seawalls needed to keep back the ocean.

Somewhere in there a man squats and plans. The man who watched him at the anchor pads so long ago. Who spat betel and sauntered away as if Jaidee were nothing more than a cockroach to be crushed. Who sat beside Akkarat and observed silently as Jaidee was thrown down. That man will lead to Chaya’s resting place. That man is the key. Somewhere inside those glowing windows.

Jaidee ducks back into the darkness. He and Somchai wear dark street clothes, stripped of all identifiers, the better to blend with the night. Somchai is a fast one. One of the best. Dangerous close in, and quiet. He knows his way around a lock, and, like Jaidee, he is motivated.

Somchai’s face is serious as he studies the building. Almost as serious as Kanya, when Jaidee considers it. The demeanor seems to creep up on all of them, eventually. Seems to come with the work. Jaidee wonders if the Thai ever really smiled as he has heard in legends. Every time he hears his boys laugh, it is as if some beautiful orchid has blossomed in the forest.

“They sell themselves cheaply,” Somchai murmurs.

Jaidee nods shortly. “I remember when Trade was just a bit portfolio under Agriculture, and now look at it.”

“You’re showing your age. Trade was always a big ministry.”

“No. Just a tiny department. A joke.” Jaidee waves at the new complex with its high-tech convection vents, with its awnings and porticos. “It’s a new world, once again.”

As if to taunt him, a pair of cheshires jump up on a balustrade to preen and wash. They molt in and out of view, careless of discovery. Jaidee pulls out his spring gun and takes aim. “That’s what Trade has given us. Cheshires should be on their badge.”

“Please don’t.”

He looks at Somchai. “It carries no karmic cost. They have no soul.”

“They bleed like any other animal.”

“You could say the same of ivory beetles.”

Somchai ducks his head, but doesn’t say anything more. Jaidee scowls and puts his spring gun back in its holster. It would be waste of ammunition anyway. There are always more.

“I used to be on the poison details for cheshires,” Somchai says finally.

“Now it’s you who shows your age.”

Somchai shrugs. “I had a family then.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Cibiscosis.118.Aa. It was quick.”

“I remember. My father died with that one as well. A bad iteration.”

Somchai nods. “I miss them. I hope they reincarnated well.”

“I’m sure they did.”

He shrugs. “One can hope. I became a monk for them. Ordained for a full year. I prayed. Did many offerings.” He says again, “One can hope.”

The cheshires yowl again as Somchai watches. “I’ve killed thousands of them. Thousands. I’ve killed six men in my life and never regretted any of them, but I’ve killed thousands of cheshires and have never felt at ease.” He pauses, scratches behind his ear at a bloom of arrested fa’ gan fringe. “I sometimes wonder if my family’s cibiscosis was karmic retribution for all those cheshires.”

“It couldn’t be. They’re not natural.”

Somchai shrugs. “They breed. They eat. They live. They breathe.” He smiles slightly. “If you pet them, they will purr.”

Jaidee makes a face of disgust.

“It’s true. I have touched them. They are real. As much as you or I.”

“They’re just empty vessels. No soul fills them.”

Somchai shrugs. “Maybe even the worst monstrosities of the Japanese live in some way. I worry that Noi and Chart and Malee and Prem have been reborn in windup bodies. Not all of us are good enough to become Contraction phii. Maybe some of us become windups, in Japanese factories, working working working, you know? We’re so few in comparison to the past, where did all the souls go? Maybe to the Japanese? Maybe into windups?”

Jaidee masks his uneasiness at the direction of Somchai’s words. “It’s impossible.”

Somchai shrugs again. “Still. I could not bear to hunt a cheshire again.”

“Then let’s hunt men.”

Across the street, a door is opening and a Ministry worker steps outside. Jaidee is already crossing the street, sprinting to catch the man. Their target strides to a rack of bicycles and bends down to unlock a wheel. Jaidee’s club slides free. The man looks up and gasps and then Jaidee is on top of him, baton swinging. The man has time to raise an arm. Jaidee swats it aside and then he is inside the man’s reach and clubs him across the head.

Somchai catches up. “You’re fast for an old man.”

Jaidee smiles. “Take his feet.”

They lug the body back across the street, slipping into the puddled blackness between the methane lamps. Jaidee goes through his pockets. Keys jingle. He grins and raises them to show the prize. He ties the man quickly, blindfolds and gags him. A cheshire drifts close, watching, a molting of calico and shadow and stone.

“Will the cheshires eat him?” Somchai wonders.

“If you cared, you would have let me kill them.”

Somchai ponders this, but doesn’t say anything. Jaidee finishes binding the man. “Come on.” They jog back across the street, slip to the door. The key enters easily, and they are inside.

In the glare of electricity, Jaidee stifles the urge to locate light switches and plunge the Ministry into darkness. “Stupid to have people working so late. Burning all this carbon.”

Somchai shrugs. “Our man may be here in the building, even now.”

“Not if he’s lucky.” But Jaidee has the same thought. He wonders if he will be able to restrain himself if he catches Chaya’s killer. Wonders why he should.

They slip through more lighted halls. A few people are still present, but no one gives them a second glance as they stride by. Both of them walk with authority, have the air of men others must defer to. Jaidee acknowledges others with a quick inclination of his head as he walks past. Eventually he finds the records offices he requires. Somchai and Jaidee pause in front of glass doors. Jaidee hefts his baton.

“Glass.” Somchai notes.

“You want to try?”

Somchai examines the lock, pulls out a set of tools, sets to work probing the aperture, massaging its tumblers. Jaidee stands beside him, waiting impatiently. The corridor blazes with light.

Somchai fiddles with the locks.

“Eh. Never mind.” Jaidee hefts his baton. “Move aside.”

The shattering is quick; the sound echoes and fades. They wait for footsteps but there are none. They both slip inside and proceed to rifle through the cabinets. Eventually Jaidee finds the personnel files, and then there is a long period of examining poor photographs, of setting aside ones that seem familiar, sifting, sorting.

“He knew me.” Jaidee mutters. “He looked right at me.”

“Everyone knows you,” Somchai observes. “You are famous.”

Jaidee grimaces. “You think he was at the anchor pads to collect something? Or just there for the inspections themselves?”

“Or perhaps they wanted whatever was in Carlyle’s holds. Or some other dirigible that aborted arrival and dropped in Occupied Lanna, instead. There are a thousand possibilities, no?”

“Here!” Jaidee points. “This is the one.”

“You’re sure? His face was narrower, I thought.”

“I’m sure of it.”

Somchai frowns as he scans the file over Jaidee’s shoulder. “A low-level man. Not important at all. No one with influence.”

Jaidee shakes his head. “No. He has power. I saw the way he looked at me. He was at the ceremony when I was demoted.” He frowns. “There is no address information from him. Just Krung Thep.”

The sound of scuffling comes from outside. A pair of men stand in the broken doorway with their spring guns drawn. “Hold!”

Jaidee grimaces. Clasps the file behind his back. “Yes? There is a difficulty?” The guards step through the door, survey the office.

“Who are you?”

Jaidee looks at Somchai. “I thought you said I was famous.”

Somchai shrugs. “Not everyone loves muay thai.”

“But still, everyone gambles. They should have at least placed bets on my fights.”

The guards come closer. They order Jaidee and Somchai onto their knees. As the guards come around to secure them, Jaidee lashes out with an elbow. Catches one guard in the gut. Whirls with a knee that slams the man in the head. The other guard fires a stream of blades before Somchai hits him in the throat. The man falls, dropping his pistol, gurgling through a broken windpipe.

Jaidee grabs the surviving guard, drags him close. “Do you know this man?” He holds up the picture of his target. The guard’s eyes widen and he shakes his head, tries to crawl away towards his pistol. Jaidee kicks it out of reach, then kicks the man in his ribs. “Tell me everything about him! He’s yours. Akkarat’s.”

The guard shakes his head. “No!”

Jaidee kicks him in the face, drawing blood. Gets down beside the mewling man. “Tell me, or you follow your friend.”

Both their eyes travel to the gurgling man, strangling on his own crushed airway.

“Tell me,” Jaidee says.

“No need for that.”

At the door, the object of Jaidee’s hunger stands.

Men pour in through the door ahead of him. Jaidee draws his pistol, but they fire and blades slash into his gun arm. He drops the pistol. Blood pours. He turns to run for the office’s windows, but men tackle him, skidding on the wet marble. Everyone goes down in a tangle of limbs. Somewhere far away, Jaidee hears Somchai bellowing. His arms are yanked behind him. Zip straps bind his wrists in rattan bonds.

“Tourniquet that!” the man orders. “I don’t want him bleeding to death.”

Jaidee looks down. Blood is welling out of his arm. His captors staunch the flow. He’s not sure if he’s lightheaded from blood loss or the sudden lust he has for his enemy’s death. They yank him upright. Somchai joins him, his nose pouring blood, his eye closed. Teeth red. Behind him on the floor, two men lie still.

The man studies the two of them. Jaidee returns the gaze, refusing to look away.

“Captain Jaidee. You were supposed to have entered the monkhood.”

Jaidee tries to shrug. “My kuti didn’t have enough light. I thought I’d do my penance here, instead.”

The man smiles slightly. “We can arrange that.” He nods to his men. “Take them upstairs.”

The men yank him and Somchai out of the room, drag them down the corridor. They reach an elevator. A real electric elevator, with dials that glow and designs of the Ramakin on the walls. Each button a small demon’s mouth, and busty women playing saw duang and jakae around the edges. The doors close.

“What is your name?” Jaidee asks the man.

The man shrugs. “It’s not important.”

“You’re Akkarat’s creature.”

The man doesn’t answer.

The doors open. They come out on the roof. Fifteen stories into the air. The men shove him and Somchai toward the lip of the building.

“Go on,” says the man. “You wait up here. Over by the edge, where we can see you.”

They point their spring guns and order him forward until he and Somchai stand at the lip, looking down on the faint glows of the methane lamps. Jaidee studies the plunge.

So this is what it is to face death. He stares down into the depths. The street far below. The air waiting for him.

“What did you do with Chaya?” he calls back to the man.

The man smiles. “Is that why you are here? Because we didn’t return her to you soon enough?”

Jaidee feels a thrill of hope. Could he have been wrong? “You can do what you want with me. But let her go.”

The man seems to falter. Is it guilt that makes him hesitate? Jaidee cannot tell. He is too far away. Is Chaya dead then, for certain? “Just let her go. Do what you want with me.”

The man doesn’t say anything.

Jaidee wonders if there is anything he should have done differently. It was brash of him to come here. But she was lost already. And the man has made no promises, no taunts to suggest she is alive. Was he foolish?

“Is she alive or not?” he asks.

The man smiles slightly. “I suppose it hurts not to know.”

“Let her go.”

“It wasn’t personal, Jaidee. If there had been another way…” The man shrugs.

She is dead. Jaidee is sure of it. All part of some plan. He shouldn’t have let Pracha convince him otherwise. He should have attacked immediately with the full power of his men, taught Trade a lesson in retribution. He turns to Somchai. “I’m sorry about this.”

Somchai shrugs. “You were always a tiger. It’s in your nature. I knew that when I came with you.”

“Still, Somchai, if we die here…”

Somchai smiles. “Then you will come back as a cheshire.”

Jaidee can’t help a bark of surprised laughter. It feels good, this bubbling noise. He finds he can’t stop. The laughter fills him up, lifting him. Even the guards snicker. Jaidee catches another glimpse of Somchai’s widening smile, and his mirth redoubles.

Behind them, footsteps. A voice. “Such a humorous party. So much laughter for a pair of thieves.”

Jaidee can barely master himself. He gasps for breath. “There must be a mistake. We just work here.”

“I think not. Turn around.”

Jaidee turns. The Trade Minister stands before him. Akkarat in the flesh. And beside him… Jaidee’s hilarity leaves him like hydrogen gusting from a dirigible. Akkarat is flanked by bodyguards. Black Panthers. Royal Elites, a sign of the palace’s esteem to have them on his leash. Jaidee’s heart goes cold. No one in the Environment Ministry is so protected. Not even General Pracha himself.

Akkarat smiles slightly at Jaidee’s shock. He surveys Jaidee and Somchai as though examining tilapia in the market but Jaidee does not care. His eyes are on the nameless man behind him. The unassuming one. The one… Puzzle pieces click into place. “You’re not Trade at all.” He murmurs. “You’re with the palace.”

The man shrugs.

Akkarat speaks. “You’re not so bold now, are you Captain Jaidee?”

“There, I told you you were famous,” Somchai murmurs.

Jaidee almost laughs again, though the implications of this new understanding are deeply troubling. “You truly have the palace’s backing?”

Akkarat shrugs. “Trade is in ascendancy. The Somdet Chaopraya favors an open policy.”

Jaidee measures the distance between them. Too far. “I’m surprised a heeya like you would dare come so close to your dirty work.”

Akkarat smiles. “I wouldn’t miss this. You’ve been an expensive thorn.”

“Do you intend to push us yourself, then?” Jaidee taunts. “Will you stain your own kamma with my death, heeya?” He nods at the men around them. “Or will you try to put the stain on your men? See them come back as cockroaches in their next life to be squashed ten thousand times before a decent rebirth? Blood on their hands for killing in cold blood. For the sake of profit?”

The men shift nervously and glance at one another. Akkarat scowls. “You’re the one who will come back as a cockroach.”

Jaidee grins. “Come then. Prove your manhood. Push the defenseless man to his death.”

Akkarat hesitates.

“Are you a paper tiger?” Jaidee goads. “Come on then. Hurry up! I’m getting dizzy, waiting so close to the edge.”

Akkarat studies him. “You’ve gone too far, white shirt. This time, you’ve gone too far.” He strides forward.

Jaidee whirls. His knee rises, slams into the Trade Minister’s ribs. The men are all shouting. Jaidee leaps again, moving as smoothly as he ever did in the stadiums. It’s almost as though he never left Lumphini. Never left the crowds and the roar of gamblers. His knee crushes the Trade Minister’s leg.

Fire crackles in Jaidee’s joints, unused to these contortions, but even with his hands tied behind his back, his knees still fly with the efficiency of a champion’s. He kicks again. The Trade Minister grunts and stumbles to the building’s edge.

Jaidee raises his foot to drive Akkarat over the precipice but pain blossoms in his back. He stumbles. Blood mists in the air. Spring gun disks rip through him. Jaidee loses his rhythm. The building’s edge surges toward him. He glimpses Black Panthers grabbing their patron, yanking him away.

Jaidee kicks again, trying for a lucky strike, but he hears the whine of more blades in the air, the whir of pistol springs unwinding as they spit disks into his flesh. The blooms of pain are hot and deep. He slams against the edge of the building. Falls to his knees. He tries to rise again, but now the spring gun whine is steady-many men firing; the high-pitched squeal of releasing energy fills his ears. He can’t get his legs under him. Akkarat is wiping blood off his face. Somchai is struggling with another pair of Panthers.

Jaidee doesn’t even feel the shove that sends him over the edge.

The fall is shorter than he expected.