In Pursuit of the Enemy

By A. C. Ellis

In an obituary, Brad Carpenter, a San Diego homicide detective, recognizes the North Vietnamese army officer who killed his best friend thirty years ago. Somehow, that enemy soldier had come to the U.S.when he should not have been able to, and had established himself as a respected businessman.

What was he doing here? When did he come? How did he die?

Driven by his past, Brad must find the answers to these questions. His unauthorized investigation takes him away from his family and his official duties, to Denver, Colorado, where both the killer and the police relentlessly pursue him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. C. Ellis
• Release date: Nov 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466172951

A. C. Ellis

A. C. Ellis has published short and novel length mystery/suspence and science fiction in both electronic format and traditional print format.

Book preview

Prologue

Kim woke with a start, and immediately knew something was wrong.

Goose flesh prickled his skin and his head felt as if it was stuffed with cotton. His mouth was dry. A strange bitter taste lay on his tongue.

Filling his lungs with frigid air, he tried to open his eyes, but they would not respond. A cold dampness pressed against his right cheek and he smelled rich, earthy scents: dirt… leaves… and something else, clean and fresh.

Christmas, he thought, then frowned. No, that wasn't right. But somehow the smell reminded him of Christmas.

Then, suddenly, he knew what it was—the scent of pine.

A stiff wind whistled through tree limbs high above and a gust hit him in the face. He shivered in the icy blast.

Again he tried to open his eyes. This time he succeeded, and a crust of dried mucus broke free. Still, he could see little from where he lay on the ground, his cheek pressed into the cold wet carpet of pine needles, twigs and loam.

He rolled onto his back and gazed into a sky solid gray with overcast, then propped himself up on his elbows and looked around. He was in a forest, but it was a forest totally unlike the semi-tropical one he knew. This forest was composed almost entirely of towering pines, their massive needle-covered branches standing firm against the wind. Here and there he spotted clumps of light-barked trees, their bright yellow leaves standing out against the dark green of the pines.

At first he thought he might be in the mountains east of San Diego, but somehow the pines seemed all wrong for that, totally out of place. Although the San Diego area possessed pine forests, he was sure none of them were like this one. These trees were far more massively beautiful than anything to be found in Southern California, their lower branches reaching nearly to the ground, thick with dark green needles. Yet they were not the towering Sequoias that grew farther north, up along the California coast. These trees looked like the ideal pines found only in travel brochures, or on the fronts of Christmas cards.

Within seconds it began to snow, the flakes falling large and wet, melting as soon as they hit the ground. His clothing quickly became soaked, and he shivered in the cold wind.

Now Kim knew this was nowhere near San Diego; it could not possibly be snowing this early in the season, even in the mountains east of the city. Further north, perhaps, but certainly nowhere in Southern California.

He became suddenly dizzy as he struggled to a sitting position. It seemed as if he was drunk, or perhaps he had been drugged. That would certainly explain the bitter taste and dryness in his mouth.

After a few seconds the dizziness passed, and he regained his equilibrium. He looked around again, this time carefully studying his surroundings. He was in a small grassy glade, ringed by pine trees. The glade was less than twenty feet across, and two other men inhabited it with him. The ground sloped steeply downward and to his left, toward where the others lay motionless on their stomachs, their right arms curled above their heads, their right cheeks pressed to the ground—just as Kim's had been when he had awakened. Their faces were turned away from him.

The nearest man possessed a light build and wore torn and faded blue jeans, a soiled white T-shirt and sneakers without socks. His black hair was long and not horribly clean. The man beyond him had a somewhat more massive frame. He also had black hair, but he wore it short, as did Kim. Besides jeans in considerably better condition than those worn by the man nearest to Kim, he wore a red flannel shirt and hiking boots. A pistol lay next to both of their right hands, above their heads.

Kim looked down to where his own right hand had rested only a moment before. A revolver lay on the carpet of brown pine needles and loam.

He picked the weapon up, turned it over in his hands. It was a .38 caliber police special, the wooden grip nicked and scarred by years of use and abuse, the metal pitted in spots.

The revolver's heft generated a strange feeling in Kim's mind. He hadn't held a gun in many years, not since coming to the United States. Although his son was now grown, Kim still did not allow guns in his house; he had seen too much of the damage they could do. In fact, he had caused too much of that damage himself.

What is going on here? he wondered. He remembered leaving his office at about 4:30 in the afternoon. He had stopped for a case of beer at the liquor store three blocks from his house in Linda Vista, just north of San Diego. Bottles, not cans; he didn't like the taste of beer from a can. He and his wife were entertaining friends at a barbecue in their back yard, and the six-pack in the refrigerator would not be enough.

As he walked back to his car carrying the case of beer, he suddenly felt a sharp prick on the back of his neck. Before he could turn around a flush of weakness washed over him and he dropped the beer in the street. He heard the bottles shatter on the asphalt as he went down. That was all he remembered.

The prick on the back of his neck had felt like a needle. He brought his free hand up and felt along the bristles of a recent haircut. There was a slightly raised bump there, but it wasn't as swollen as he had thought it would be. He thumbed his jaw. A full day's growth of beard, maybe more. And he was still dressed in his business suit—brown, conservative, well tailored, but now mud-splattered and wrinkled.

Kim wondered why anyone would want to stick him in the back of the neck with a needle. Twelve, maybe fifteen years ago he had read in the newspaper about something similar happening. Someone had been using darts to inflict wounds on innocent pedestrians on the crowded sidewalks of New York City. He couldn't remember if the attacker had been caught or not, and it really didn't matter; this hadn't felt like a dart, and it certainly hadn't happened in New York.

The longhaired man down the hill groaned and stirred. Kim tucked the revolver behind his belt, then got to his hands and knees and crawled to where the man was coming awake. He was young—Kim guessed no older than twenty.

As the youth gained his senses, Kim sat beside him and watched. He knew the boy could have trouble coming awake; there was no way to determine what drug had been used on them, and everyone had different tolerances to different chemicals, but it had seemed like a rather powerful drug.

The boy's breathing was shallow yet regular, and he sniffed several times, as if testing the air. Then he jerked and his eyes snapped open. He lay perfectly still for nearly half a minute, staring into the overcast sky. Finally, he turned his head toward Kim and gazed intently at him.

Where am I? the young man said after a few seconds. His accent sounded Southern. Like Kim, he was Vietnamese.

I don't know, Kim answered in his native tongue. I just came to myself.

The youth's gaze became blank; he didn't understand what Kim was saying. Kim repeated his statement in English.

The other sat up and tasted his mouth. He made a face. I feel like shit, he said. What's that taste?

Kim nodded. I think we have been drugged.

Drugged? Why?

I do not know.

The young man gingerly picked up the pistol lying beside him. It was a semi-automatic. He held it between his thumb and index finger, as if he was afraid it might go off.

Nine millimeter, Kim said.

What's it for?

Kim shrugged, then looked at his own weapon tucked behind his belt. I found one, too.

The boy gingerly put the gun down beside him. Who are you? he asked.

Kim told him, careful not to give his family name. You never know, he thought. The boy might be one of those responsible for what was happening here, placed in the clearing to gain Kim's confidence. If nothing else, Kim had learned a certain amount of caution all those years ago, in the Vietnamese jungle.

My name's Peter… uh, Pete, the boy responded, Pete Pham. Kim noticed the boy was not so cautious; he had given his family name. And he had given it last—his name was westernized.

What is the last thing you remember, before waking up? Kim asked.

I was waiting for the bus, on my way to class at U. of A., Peter answered.

Alabama, Kim thought, again listening to the boy's accent, not Arizona or Alaska. To Peter he said, And you felt something on the back of your neck.

The boy reached up and rubbed under his hair. That's right. How did you know?

The same thing happened to me. May I have a look?

Peter twisted at the waist, turned his head and lifted his hair. In the dim light Kim could just make out the needle mark.

The boy turned back, then hooked a thumb toward the short-haired man laying unconscious a few feet away. Do you know who he is?

I have no idea, Kim answered. I had hoped perhaps you could tell me.

Peter shook his head, then picked up the nine millimeter lying beside him. They stood and Peter tucked the weapon into his belt as they went to the other man. Peter squatted, took the man by the shoulder and shook him. The man did not respond. Peter shook him again, harder. There was still no response.

Kim squatted beside Peter and rolled the man over. The man was Korean, between thirty-five and forty years old. His lips were blue. Kim gazed at the man's chest, but he could detect no movement; the man was not breathing.

Kim checked the man's pulse at his neck. After a few minutes he removed his fingers and stared into Peter's eyes.

The boy stood, took a step back. Jesus Christ! he said. Is he…? He couldn't finish.

He is dead, Kim supplied. The boy swallowed hard several times, his eyes wide with fear.

Kim took the pistol lying beside the dead man's body. It was a .45 semi-automatic, considerably newer than the .38 tucked behind Kim's belt.

He stood and faced downhill. I guess we may assume civilization is down there, somewhere.

The boy nodded.

They started down the slope in silence, the .45 swinging loosely against Kim's leg.

***

They remained silent for nearly half an hour, making slow progress through the thick brush and over uneven ground. Kim used the time to take stock of his surroundings.

He was now positive that this was nowhere near San Diego. It couldn't possibly be this cold anywhere in Southern California. Not this time of the year, at any rate.

It had become considerably colder than when he had awakened, and the snowflakes were beginning to stick. They fell thick and nearly straight down, and although the wind had stopped blowing, it looked as if it would be a heavy storm.

But Kim didn't really know what to expect from such weather. He had only seen snow storms on television and in the movies. He told Peter as much.

Where are you from? the boy asked.

Kim told him.

You get snow in the mountains, don't you?

Yes, but not this early in the season. Besides, I do not go into the mountains.

Why not?

I do not ski. Nor do I hunt or fish. I simply do not have a reason to go into the mountains. I have not been in the mountains since I came to the United States.

No wonder you're excited about snow, Peter said.

You do not have snow in Alabama, either.

"No, but I ski—I've been to Utah twice, and Colorado once. And my older brother, Jimmy, lives in Bangor. I go out there to see him once a year. In Maine, they get snow."

Could this be somewhere near Maine? Kim asked.

Peter stopped, looked up the hill the way they had come. Then he turned and looked back down the slope.

I don't think so, he said. These mountains are too rugged to be anywhere back east. And the trees aren't right, either—both the pines and the aspens. I'd say this is Colorado.

Aspens?

The boy nodded. They're all over the mountains in Colorado.

Then you think this could be Colorado?

The boy nodded. Could be. At least a western state—Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, maybe even Utah—somewhere around there.

Kim nodded, and again they fell silent. They continued down the slope.

After only a few minutes Kim spotted movement to their left, in his peripheral vision. He stopped and snapped his head around. A small Caucasian man in a camouflage uniform stood behind a tree. The man wore a boonie hat and held a pistol in his right hand, pointed up, at the ready.

Something about the way he stood didn't seem right. Instinct took over.

Down! Kim shouted as he dropped to the ground and burrowed into the underbrush.

Peter's gaze darted about and he waved his weapon uncontrollably. A round slammed into the tree trunk to the right of the boy's head.

I said, get down! Kim whispered hoarsely. He reached out, trying to grab Peter's pant leg, but it was too late. The second round tore into Peter's left shoulder, spinning him around and throwing him to the ground. He cried out in shock and pain.

I'm shot! Peter screamed. God damn it, someone shot me!

Kim crawled to his side. He tried to hold Peter down, but the boy thrashed about in the dense brush.

Quiet! Kim whispered. Keep still!

But it did no good. Peter continued to yell and kick, throwing his arms about with abandon. In spite of his light build, he was amazingly strong, and he pulled free of Kim's grasp, got to his feet and ran.

In his fear and confusion, he ran straight toward the man who had shot him.

Kim could not watch; he was too busy crawling. He crawled down the slope, away from the direction Peter ran—away from the man in camouflage.

In less than three seconds he heard another shot, and immediately a scream. Then yet another shot and the sound of Peter's body hitting the ground. Then nothing.

Kim crawled on, weaving through the brush—not because he thought that might confuse the man in camouflage, but because the underbrush would permit nothing else.

Fear crested in his thoughts like a monstrous wave, and only after several tries did he succeed in pushing it down. He knew he must remain calm; it was the only way he could possibly hope to stay alive. Only if he kept his wits about him could he elude the man in camouflage.

He crawled on for what seemed like hours, but was actually only minutes. He knew he must put as much distance as possible between himself and the man hunting him, while making as little noise as he could.

He was surprised by how much he remembered from that other life so many years ago, in the jungle half the world away. That knowledge came flooding back now, all of the small habits and behaviors that had kept him alive then. He needed that knowledge now more than he had at any other time since coming to the United States. Hopefully, that same knowledge would keep him alive today.

Thorns and pine needles tore at his hands as he crawled. Sharp stones ripped his trousers at the knees and slashed at the flesh beneath until it became raw. His breath rasped in his lungs. In spite of the cold, his body was bathed in a sheet of slick perspiration.

I'm too damned old for this, Kim told himself. Although he exercised regularly, it had been many years since he had done anything remotely similar.

And suddenly he felt his age. He wanted to stop, to give up. Of course, he knew he could not do that. If he didn't keep moving, if he didn't put as much distance as possible between himself and the man who hunted him, he would die—just as Peter Pham most certainly had died.

All the time he crawled, he kept the .45 caliber pistol clutched tightly in his hand, and occasionally he made certain the revolver was still tucked behind his belt. Those two weapons were his only hope, the only things standing between him and what had happened to the boy. He kept telling himself that as he crawled.

Why does the man in camouflage wish to kill me? he wondered. Could it be because of his past life? Was the man someone who had known him in Vietnam, all those years ago?

But that made no sense. If the man was after him because of his past, why had he killed Peter Pham? The boy was too young to have had anything to do with any of that.

So, why were they being hunted?

He did not know.

After a while, Kim stopped crawling. He remained perfectly still, listening, straining his hearing for the slightest hint of the man following. He heard nothing but the rasp of his own breath in the icy air, and the soft hiss of falling snow.

Cautiously, he raised his head above the undergrowth and looked around. He saw no one.

Standing slowly, he waited a few seconds. He expected a bullet to buzz past his head, or shatter the back of his skull, but none did. Nothing happened.

It was snowing harder now, and shadows gathered around him as night began to fall. Kim knew he had to find a place to hide before it became too dark to see. He needed shelter that would keep the snow off him throughout the night and keep him relatively warm.

He walked south, cutting across the mountain's slope and down—not because he thought he might find shelter in that direction, but because it was the opposite direction from where he and Peter had encountered the man in camouflage. Kim knew that whatever else he did, he must avoid that man.

Within ten minutes he found what he was looking for. At one time it had been a huge tree, but years ago lightning had blasted it, sheering it off less than six feet above the ground. The lightning had split it open at its base, and an animal had taken advantage of that weakness and hollowed it out.

Kim poked a stick into the hollow. Nothing. He got down on his hands and knees and felt inside. Dung littered the floor. Something had lived in there at one time, but it had not been recently; the dung was hard and cold.

A musty smell filled his nose. He nearly sneezed, but stopped himself, stifling it against the sleeve of his suit coat. He knew if he did sneeze, if he made even the slightest noise, the man in camouflage would be alerted to his location. He would be on Kim in an instant.

Kim did not know what kind of animal might have used the tree as a burrow, and he did not much care. He was simply too tired to care. Almost without thought, he crawled inside.

Positioned himself facing the burrow's opening, the rough wood at his back gnawing into his spine, he drew his knees up tight against his chin. Then he pulled the revolver from his belt and laid it down beside him on the wood-chip and dung floor. He held the .45 in both hands, resting it on one knee.

Shivering as his wet clothing froze in the growing cold, he pointed the weapon toward the opening and waited.

***

A sudden noise jerked him awake. He opened his eyes—it was still dark.

Kim hadn't meant to sleep. In that other life, in the jungle of Vietnam so many years ago, he would not have fallen asleep. His senses would have remained sharp, his concentration focused, his mind alert. But it had been too many years now since he had been in a similar situation. Since then, he had lost keen abilities: a near-animal cunning learned through years of hunting and being hunted, cat-like reflexes, a rodent's instinct for the nearness of a predator. His survival skills had been dulled by too many years of soft living.

And here I am again, he thought, being hunted, just as I had been hunted in Vietnam those many years ago. But it shouldn't be happening. Not here, not in the United States of America. He had left all that behind, in a jungle half a world and half a life away. Yet here it all was, just like before.

The noise came again—the snap of a twig under foot. Then another, and the subtle scrape of brush against a pant leg, followed by soft footfalls.

Whoever they were, they were near. And they weren't being particularly quiet.

Kim held his breath and listened. More than one man stalked him now, out beyond the tree's opening—three, maybe four.

Damn it, Walt. came a rough, low voice, he has to be around here somewhere. You let him slip past. How could you let him get past you?

Another voice, high-pitched, with a strong Southern accent: Don't you worry none, we'll find him. He couldn't have gone far. Not in this brush, he couldn't.

Again the rough voice: He'd damned well better not have. The Colonel will be pissed. Besides, it's starting to snow harder, and I'm getting cold.

A flashlight beam arced through the falling snow several feet in front of the tree's opening, then passed on. Kim let out his breath slowly, quietly.

A few minutes passed in silence. Suddenly, the crack of a gunshot filled the still, dense air, and Kim jumped. His heart raced in his ears.

What the hell did you do that for? a new voice said. It was just a damned rabbit.

'Cause I wanted to, said the high-pitched Southern voice.

After a few seconds, the low voice again: Put that knife away.

Gotta get my trophy, don't I?

You damned fuckin' pervert!

Then they were again quiet.

Kim's heartbeat slowly came down to almost normal—almost. The next time he heard the high Southern drawl it was nearer, and his heart raced again.

He has to be around here somewhere. God damned gook!

Fear flooded Kim's mind with the mental equivalent of bile. His hands, holding the pistol, began to shake.

He took a deep breath and steadied his hands as best he could. Maybe I can get one of them before they get me, he thought.

There had been a time when he might have been a match for the entire group, but that time was long past. He knew that now he would be lucky to get just one.

The flashlight beam arced back the opposite way it had before, and Kim caught a glimpse of a camouflaged pant leg.

God damned gook! the high-pitched Southern voice said again, and Kim readied himself for the confrontation he knew would come.

The old scar above his left eyebrow throbbed with a dull ache, as it always did when he was under stress. He rubbed it, then again clutched the pistol in both hands.

Pointing the weapon at the opening, he continued to wait.

Chapter 1

Brad Carpenter flipped past the photograph in the obituaries, not consciously aware it