Emerald Buddha (Drake Ramsey Book 2) Read online

  Emerald Buddha

  †

  Russell Blake

  Copyright © 2015 by Russell Blake. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact:

  [email protected]

  Published by

  Contents

  Books by Russell Blake

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Epilogue

  Books by Russell Blake

  Co-authored with Clive Cussler

  THE EYE OF HEAVEN

  THE SOLOMON CURSE

  Thrillers

  FATAL EXCHANGE

  THE GERONIMO BREACH

  ZERO SUM

  THE DELPHI CHRONICLE TRILOGY

  THE VOYNICH CYPHER

  SILVER JUSTICE

  UPON A PALE HORSE

  DEADLY CALM

  RAMSEY’S GOLD

  EMERALD BUDDHA

  The Assassin Series

  KING OF SWORDS

  NIGHT OF THE ASSASSIN

  RETURN OF THE ASSASSIN

  REVENGE OF THE ASSASSIN

  BLOOD OF THE ASSASSIN

  REQUIEM FOR THE ASSASSIN

  The JET Series

  JET

  JET II – BETRAYAL

  JET III – VENGEANCE

  JET IV – RECKONING

  JET V – LEGACY

  JET VI – JUSTICE

  JET VII – SANCTUARY

  JET VIII – SURVIVAL

  JET IX – ESCAPE

  JET – OPS FILES (prequel)

  JET – OPS FILES; TERROR ALERT

  The BLACK Series

  BLACK

  BLACK IS BACK

  BLACK IS THE NEW BLACK

  BLACK TO REALITY

  Non Fiction

  AN ANGEL WITH FUR

  HOW TO SELL A GAZILLION EBOOKS

  (while drunk, high or incarcerated)

  About the Author

  Featured in The Wall Street Journal, The Times, and The Chicago Tribune, Russell Blake is The NY Times and USA Today bestselling author of over forty novels, including Fatal Exchange, The Geronimo Breach, Zero Sum, King of Swords, Night of the Assassin, Revenge of the Assassin, Return of the Assassin, Blood of the Assassin, Requiem for the Assassin, The Delphi Chronicle trilogy, The Voynich Cypher, Silver Justice, JET, JET – Ops Files, JET – Ops Files: Terror Alert, JET II – Betrayal, JET III – Vengeance, JET IV – Reckoning, JET V – Legacy, JET VI – Justice, JET VII – Sanctuary, JET VIII – Survival, JET IX – Escape, Upon a Pale Horse, BLACK, BLACK is Back, BLACK is The New Black, BLACK to Reality, Deadly Calm, Ramsey’s Gold, and Emerald Buddha.

  Non-fiction includes the international bestseller An Angel With Fur (animal biography) and How To Sell A Gazillion eBooks In No Time (even if drunk, high or incarcerated), a parody of all things writing-related.

  Blake is co-author of The Eye of Heaven and The Solomon Curse, with legendary author Clive Cussler. Blake’s novel King of Swords has been translated into German, The Voynich Cypher into Bulgarian, and his JET novels into Spanish, German, and Czech.

  Blake writes under the moniker R.E. Blake in the NA/YA/Contemporary Romance genres. Novels include Less Than Nothing, More Than Anything, and Best Of Everything.

  Having resided in Mexico for a dozen years, Blake enjoys his dogs, fishing, boating, tequila and writing, while battling world domination by clowns. His thoughts, such as they are, can be found at his blog: RussellBlake.com

  To get your free copy,

  just join my readers’ group here:

  http://bit.ly/rb-jet

  Prologue

  1431 A.D., near the Laos-Burma border

  Birdcalls echoed through the hidden valley as the jungle awakened to a new day. Twenty Khmer warriors stirred to life on the riverbank, blinking in the dense fog that had seeped through a nearby pair of towering karst formations overnight. A team of fatigued oxen grazed a dozen yards from the water, where a ranking member of the royal court sat atop a wooden cart, deep circles shadowing his eyes from many sleepless hours on the long journey into the uncharted wilds.

  Inside the ungainly conveyance rested chests containing the Khmer Empire’s treasure – holy relics, gold cups and icons, and gems of immeasurable value. But the most priceless possession was wrapped in a thick blanket: the legendary Emerald Buddha, whose smaller twin resided with the royal family in Thailand, now at war with the Khmers.

  The Khmer Empire had been no match for its rival from the south, and only weeks ago the elaborate temple complex of Angkor Wat had fallen to the Thai army, which had sacked it and taken its inhabitants captive. King Ponhea Yat had made a summary decision when he’d heard from his spies that the Thais were approaching the beloved landmark, and had entrusted the nation’s riches to his deputy, Chey, as the rest of the Khmer court retreated north to safety.

  A tall man in battle-scarred armor stood and approached the cart, a perpetual frown creasing the hard lines of his face. Sihanouk was one of the fiercest fighters in the entire kingdom, and clearly resented having been assigned to this duty when there was battle to be joined against the Thai invaders. It had not been his choosing to skulk around in the jungle like an old woman. But orders were orders, and he had followed them, whatever his feelings. He had escorted Chey, the royal appointee, deep into unfamiliar territory, and they’d finally arrived at a suitable location, where they would hide the king’s riches until it was safe to return it to the royal court.

  “This valley is as well concealed and desolate as any I’ve seen,” Sihanouk began. “But I’m not sure that the treasure will be any safer at the end of the earth than it would be at home, surrounded by loyal warriors.”

  “Our job was to find an auspicious location. From here it is out of our hands,” Chey said.

  “Fate has been kind to us so far,” Sihanouk agreed. “Let’s hope that the cursed Hill People le
ave us be until we’re able to finish our work.”

  “Have faith that all will turn out well.”

  Sihanouk eyed Chey skeptically. “While I appreciate your optimism, I’ll still keep my sword close at hand.”

  Chey nodded. “I would expect nothing less.”

  There was no love lost between Chey, widely considered by the soldiers to be a schemer and sycophant, and Sihanouk, who had distinguished himself with valor. The king’s choice of confidants was irritating to the warrior, but in the end Sihanouk served at the king’s pleasure, and if he had to comply with Chey’s instructions, he would. But the slimy royal court eel gave Sihanouk doubts, and he would be glad when this mission was over and he could defend his people honorably.

  “Do you have a location in mind?” Sihanouk asked.

  Chey offered a sly smile. “I have some ideas.”

  “We will be hard-pressed to find anything in this soup.”

  “It will lift before long. Have the men do something useful while we wait. Set out lines and see if there are fish to be had for breakfast. We will go in search of a suitable spot after we’ve filled our bellies.”

  The fog burned off by late morning, and Chey led Sihanouk along the river’s course in search of an auspicious cave. As he’d hoped, there were several; though the water’s erosion of the limestone had been inconsistent over millions of years, and all but one proved too shallow for their purposes. But the final depression was perfect – a narrow opening practically impossible to see from the river’s present course, with a passage into a larger cavern that fed into several smaller chambers.

  A month went by, the days long as the men carved the soft stone to suit their needs. On the final morning, Chey supervised the unloading of the cart and the placement of the chests inside. The last item to be situated in the newly created temple was the Emerald Buddha, which glowed in the torchlight, its golden robe dazzling even in the dim light of the cave.

  The following morning the soldiers retraced their steps. The cart had been dismantled and its beams sent adrift down the river to obliterate any trace of their passage. Chey followed the column rather than heading it; he’d discharged his obligation and found a haven for the treasure, and was happy to trail the men as Sihanouk led the way.

  They spent the evening at the base of the mountain they’d descended to enter the hidden valley. After eating his fill of the fish they’d packed for the return trip, Chey stood near their small fire and removed a cask from his bag.

  “My friends, congratulations. The king authorized me to offer you this, the Khmer’s finest rice wine, as a reward for a job well done. Gentlemen, I salute and honor each of you for your part.” Chey broke the seal on the cask, took a long draft, and then handed it to Sihanouk to pass around to the men. In no time the vessel was drained, each man having eagerly taken a brimming mouthful and savored the liquor’s pleasant burn. Chey excused himself and went to relieve himself in the brush. When he was finished, he rejoined the men, lingering at the edge of the small clearing, watching the dance of the orange flames.

  Half an hour later the fire was little more than glowing embers and the soldiers were passed out, the sleeping agent in the wine having worked its magic. Chey had taken an antidote before he’d drunk, but the rest of the men were lost to the world, sprawled around the fire pit, snoring.

  Chey approached Sihanouk and drew the warrior’s sword. He paused as he inspected the wicked blade, and then, without hesitation, thrust the point through his throat. Sihanouk stiffened as his appendages twitched, and he gurgled a strangled moan before falling still. Chey stepped back from the lifeless body and repeated the act with the others until he’d slaughtered all the men in their sleep. He glanced around at the corpses, his face impassive, and nodded once to himself before he retrieved Sihanouk’s belt and scabbard and cinched the wide leather strap around his waist.

  He moved to the bag with the provisions and tested its weight. It was heavy, but he could always jettison food if he tired of carrying it. Better to have too much than too little, he reasoned, as he shouldered the sack and set off by moonlight for the trail that would lead him back to an uncertain future and to his king, who’d authorized the murder of his loyal men in order to keep the treasure’s hiding place secret.

  Now, only Chey knew the truth. And Chey was a survivor. Whatever awaited him in his homeland, he would fulfill his oath and bring to the king the location of the temple, for which he was sure he would be rewarded lavishly.

  All he had to do was make it back alive.

  Chapter 1

  Islamabad, Pakistan

  Stars glimmered through a light haze of smog over Rawal Lake. Traffic had slowed to a trickle from the city, the raucous noise of poorly muffled vehicles fading as darkness fell. Now the air was filled with the sound of televisions blasting from open windows and the dissonant keen of polyrhythmic music from radios as the suburb of Bhara Kahu settled in for the night. Largely working class, the area was only five miles from Islamabad, connected via a highway that skirted the lake.

  A garbage truck rumbled down a dusty street on its way to the communal neighborhood dumping spot, piled high with contributions from local residents and passersby. A lone dog trotted stiffly behind it, a hopeful look in its haunted eyes. Lights glowed behind the iron-barred windows of small homes encircled by high walls topped with broken glass.

  Four local men sat outside a tiny café at a circular glass table, playing cards and smoking strong cigarettes from which serpentine coils of pungent smoke corkscrewed into the air before dispersing into the light breeze. A boy no older than ten carried out to the men a red enamel tray loaded with four cups of coffee the consistency of crude oil. He set each down carefully before scuttling back inside. The men laughed at a joke, toasted, and resumed their betting, insulting one another good-naturedly as they traded coins back and forth.

  A battered Nissan sedan with glass tinted so dark it was nearly opaque crept down the street and slowed as it approached the café. The men visibly stiffened, and one reached beneath his baggy shirt; and then relaxed when the passenger-side window rolled down and one of his friends waved and called out a greeting.

  Jack Rollins watched the exchange through night vision goggles from the second-floor window of a house at the end of the block. He was wearing a balaclava and head-to-toe black, invisible in the darkened interior. Next to him lay a Kalashnikov AKM with a collapsible wire stock and a satchel that housed six magazines. Beside it was a .50-caliber sniper rifle with a compact night vision scope – a weapon that fired hand-loaded explosive rounds that would vaporize a man’s head at a thousand yards.

  He tapped his earbud and waited for a click to signal that all was still well. The answering pop came a second later. The target hadn’t shown himself since returning from the nearby mosque for Isha salat, the last prayer of the day, intended to carry the faithful from dusk until dawn. Jack had wanted to take the man out right on the street, but that wasn’t the mission, so instead he was waiting patiently.

  “See anything on that side?” he murmured. A voice crackled in his ear almost immediately.

  “Nothing’s changed. Lights are on inside the house. Couple of goons outside with assault rifles. AKs, of course.”

  “Of course.” AK-47s were ubiquitous in the Punjab area of Pakistan, as common as flies after decades of nonstop warring in nearby Afghanistan – something Jack knew all too well after two tours of duty there. The Afghans were mean as striped snakes and lived to fight, most having grown up battling the Russians and then the Americans.

  Not my problem, Jack thought. We all do what we must to survive.

  “Any signs from the surrounding houses?” Jack asked.

  “Negative. All’s quiet. Except for Saddam, of course. He never sleeps.”

  Saddam was the nickname they’d given the shooter on the roof of the adjacent home, part of the target’s security precautions. Hamal Qureshi was a moderate voice in the debate with more extreme interpretations of the
Koran, a devout cleric respected by many – so much so that his views on the non-orthodoxy of the latest terrorist groups disrupting the Middle East were shaping the dialog on whether they were legitimate or a false-flag operation for Western imperialist interests. Dangerous questions to ask, which would be rewarded with a death sentence.

  “Probably has a guilty conscience,” Jack mused, “or he’s daydreaming about those fifty-five virgins.”

  “I think the number’s seventy-two.”

  “Whatever.” Jack checked his watch. “We go live in twenty minutes. Got the flash bangs and the ack-acks ready?”

  “You bet. And in this outfit I look like Omar the Tentmaker, so they’ll never see me coming.” Jack’s crew had been outfitted with local garb, in keeping with the clandestine nature of the assignment. They were to look like locals, terrorists out for a vocal dissenter’s blood. The assassination would create outrage in the community and hopefully dampen enthusiasm for criticism. Whether it would work or not was above Jack’s pay grade; he was just the hired help. And good at his job.

  “All right. Let’s maintain radio silence until we’re ready to rock. Won’t be long now. Watch your backs.”

  Jack signed off and watched the decrepit Nissan roll away, trailing exhaust from inadequate combustion. He’d been in town for three days with his crew, reconnoitering. Finally it was time – the waiting was the hardest part. He knew from experience that once the shooting started it would be over in a blink; hundreds of thousands of dollars of preparation, arms, fake papers, all for the two minutes he’d estimated it would take to neutralize Qureshi’s guard and take out the great man himself.

  The four card players were accounted for – if they tried to get in the mix, he’d off them like a bad habit. Collateral damage was unavoidable in these sorts of incursions. Nature of the beast, Jack thought, and he silently wished them winning hands and the good sense to duck for cover instead of trying to help the cleric.