Chapter 6
BANGKOK
Kevin Koebler didn’t like surprises. Taking a meeting with the people who had hired him was highly unusual. It was also incredibly dangerous.
The plan was for him to lay low after the bombings.
Airports, trains, bus and ferry stations were all out of the question, as was any travel out of the city by car, truck, or motorcycle.
There was no telling what checkpoints the police and military had already established.
The best way to stay off someone’s radar was to stay under it.
His handler, Matías, however, was of a different opinion.
The client had made it clear that money wasn’t a problem. They were willing to pay for a face-to-face and to do so in advance.
While usually just as cautious as Koebler, Matías believed it was too lucrative an opportunity to pass up. The client wanted to discuss extending his contract.
Against his better judgment, Koebler agreed to the meeting, which took place just off Yaowarat Road, on the edge of the crowded Samphanthawong district—also known as Bangkok’s historic Chinatown neighborhood.
It was behind two thick wooden doors, in the back room of a seedy gin bar with an even seedier name—Teens of Thailand.
Teens, as it was referred to by locals, had no connection to underage patrons, but the name lent the place a deliberately illicit aura, which drew throngs of Thai hipsters lured by its taboo air and rakish swagger.
As was common in his line of work, Koebler knew next to nothing about the client. It was Matías’s responsibility to vet the job, make sure it was legitimate, and do everything he possibly could to be certain he wasn’t being led into a trap.
Anonymity had always been his greatest protection. Only Matías knew who he was and what he looked like.
Once a client knew you and you them, it complicated things—in a big way. That’s what had happened with the cartel boss in Mexico. He liked having a Navy SEAL around. Thought it made him look tough. Invincible.
He got way too chummy for Koebler’s taste and started wanting him around all the time. Koebler couldn’t stand the guy. He was tasteless, crude, and dumb as a bag of hammers. Even worse, the guy loved to stay up late drinking and expected Koebler to do the same.
While all of that was a pain in the ass, Koebler could put up with it as long as the money was good. Which it was. Until it wasn’t.
As the old saying goes, familiarity breeds contempt, and eventually the cartel boss began to take Koebler for granted.
He greatly expanded his duties, demanding that he accompany him to all his meetings, including his doctor appointments, of which there were many because the man was so overweight and in such poor health.
Never once, however, was there a commensurate bump in pay.
Not that it would have mattered. The more ridiculous his boss’s demands became, the more ridiculous the work seemed.
The Mexican and South American cartels were worse than the Muslim fundamentalists, in his opinion.
He stopped caring who they were at war with, and once the bloom was off that rose, there was no putting it back.
Like his operation to avenge his fallen SEAL comrades, he had put together a plan to take out not just his cartel boss, but also his sons and the top players in his organization—anyone that he might have to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder for.
Luckily for the cartel, however, Matías figured it out and channeled Koebler in a different direction.
Which all brought him to where he was now.
In all fairness, Koebler had done repeat work in the past. But he always charged more because repeat clients meant that authorities would have, at least in theory, a common thread connecting him to previous attacks.
He referred to it as an insurance premium, and none of the clients ever complained. They were all satisfied customers and they all paid on time. Just like this client had.
Once the cryptocurrency had hit his digital wallet, Matías notified Koebler that the funds had been received and that the meeting was a go.
Having shaved his beard and dyed his hair, the ex?Navy SEAL wore sunglasses and a ball cap, as well as dark jeans and a shirt with long sleeves to cover up his tattoos.
In his backpack he carried multiple changes of clothes to further alter his appearance, if need be. He also carried a collapsible rifle with six magazines, as well as two smoke and two fragmentation grenades, along with a Vietnam-era Claymore mine.
On his person, he had secreted a jet-black, razor-sharp knife made from polymer, while a 9mm Glock pistol was tucked into a neoprene holster and wedged inside his waistband, just in front of his appendix. If the SEALs had taught him anything, it was to be prepared for everything.
That lesson was no less relevant now than it had been then. In fact, his SEAL training—though he was loath to admit it—was what continued to keep him alive.
Another lesson was to do your homework, which, in advance of a rendezvous like this, meant to do your own reconnaissance.
The client, however, also knew what they were doing and hadn’t released the meeting location until the last minute. That put Koebler at a distinct disadvantage and didn’t give him much time to get the lay of the land.
Cycling through his different disguises, he made as many passes as he dared, both along the sidewalk in front of Teens, which wasn’t open for business for another four hours, as well as the narrow warren of pedestrian alleyways behind it.
In his pockets, he carried over a dozen miniature video cameras. They were smaller than Ping-Pong balls, with magnetic backing, and were all synced to his phone.
Each time he found a metal surface that afforded an optimal view, he stuck one in place.
While he might not be able to field his own countersurveillance team, the network of cameras and the live feed they would provide were the next best thing.
As soon as he was done, he found a café up the road, ordered a Thai iced tea, also known as Cha Yen, took out his phone, and monitored who was coming and going.
For the fifteen minutes he was monitoring the foot traffic, he didn’t see anyone enter or leave Teens. Whoever he was supposed to meet, he had a feeling they were already inside.
Finishing his drink, he exited the café and snuck back into the labyrinth of passageways behind the gin bar. It was still morning, and there wasn’t a lot of activity yet.
One of the adjacent buildings was under construction, and he had picked out the perfect spot to hide his backpack. The construction crew hadn’t turned up yet, and he had no problem, after tucking his phone inside, putting it exactly where he wanted.
With that task complete, he retraced his steps back to the sidewalk, walked down to Teens, the facade of which was plastered with stickers, and knocked on the wooden front doors as he had been instructed.
The doors were opened by a tiny old man in traditional peasant clothing. With bright, crinkled eyes and a toothless grin, he looked to be at least eighty if he was a day.
A broom was set against the wall behind him, and obviously having been told to expect a guest, he beckoned Koebler inside and pointed him toward a door in the back, just beyond the bar.
To be honest, Koebler didn’t know what he had been expecting.
It was a gin bar, so maybe a group of Al Capone?style mafiosos arrayed in a line, waiting for him to step in off the street?
Maybe a more Wild West feel, with a row of black hats knocking back whiskeys, one boot each upon a brass footrail?
The poster child for brushing at least twice a day with his two-dollar broom was definitely not it.
At the door by the bar, he looked up and noticed a cleverly, but not perfectly, hidden camera and realized he was being watched.
The client knew he had arrived. If they were going to take a shot at him, they would have already done it.
One man, hidden behind the bar with a shotgun, would have easily beaten him to the draw.
He took it as a positive sign that the client didn’t see him as a loose end that needed tying up and actually did want to extend his contract.
Taking a deep breath, he turned the knob, opened the door, and stepped into the back room.