Intent To Kill

By Ryshia Kennie

A ruthless band of smugglers are stripping Cambodia of its priceless artifacts, including murder. Journalist Claire Linton is on the story of a lifetime. As she pursues the story, Claire finds a connection between Cambodia's killing fields and the crimes that are plaguing the country today.

Simon Trent is an Interpol agent who has been in hiding since his last case turned fatal. As artifacts disappear and tourists die, he comes out of hiding to finish the job that's haunted him. What he doesn't see coming is Claire, the beautiful and headstrong reporter.

Claire and Simon find themselves in the heart of a mystery that has secrets that impact them both. As passion builds, the danger mounts. Soon it's a question of who will come out alive.

• Language: Unknown
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Jan 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9781509240111

Ryshia Kennie

Ryshia Kennie is the award-winning author of her city’s writing award and a semi-finalist in the Kindle Book Awards. There’s never a lack of intriguing places to set an edge-of-the-seat suspense as prairie winters find her dreaming of foreign shores. Those places become the catalyst for heart-stopping stories with deadly villains threatening intrepid heroes and heroines, who battle for their right to live or even to love, in a place that neither – or both, may call home. www.ryshiakennie.com

Book preview

Chapter One

Tuesday - Near Siem Reap, Cambodia

He wanted to kill him as brutally as others had been killed.

He wanted to watch him bleed, hear him scream.

Simon Trent stilled his thoughts by sheer willpower. Revenge wouldn’t change any of it. No one lived because someone else died. He had to focus on what was real and on the danger they might face tonight.

It was after midnight on a warm February night as he crouched near the fragile ruins where the land leisurely sprawled toward the lake. He took a breath and then another. The hot Cambodian night closed around him. Ahead, the vast expanse of Lake Tonle glistened as the moon slipped from behind a cloud and temporarily lit the area. To his right, in the distance, he knew that the shadowed spires of Angkor Wat loomed and beckoned in the darkness as they had so many nights before. A cricket grated. Its rough-edged call was loud in the deceptive silence, where only the distant lapping of the lake reminded him of why they were here. And as much as he didn’t want to be here, as much as he was ready to hang it all up, it wasn’t possible, for he’d toughed out over a year in isolation for this moment. It was the most difficult assignment of his life, but he’d see it through and then it was over.

He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. It came away damp. The air was slightly dank and reminded him of how close they were to the shoreline. There was nothing but sun- bronzed soil and patches of ground-hugging brush between here and there. He could see the area clearly in his mind as he remembered the last time he’d been here, in daylight, over a year ago. It didn’t seem like much time had passed since he’d last stood on this flat, slightly sloped patch of land that fronted the lake. He could visualize the dock about seventy-five feet away. And he could see what he didn’t want to, the tragedy that had begun here.

He squinted and could only see a patch of dark, where he knew the lake would be. The lake—where all their problems seemed to begin and end.

What do you think, Trent? Arun whispered as they crawled through the rock-strewn remains of a temple long crumpled into ruins. An ancient wall was all that remained intact. Ahead, a flashlight flickered in the darkness.

I’m not sure. Simon’s voice was low. He pulled himself into a half crouch before rising. Ahead he could see the bob of lights near the water’s edge. The sound of voices was faint and seemed to be coming from near the dock.

Damn, I should have brought the night goggles, Arun said.

Night goggles, Simon muttered, shaking his head. Are you serious? Who do you think you are, 007?

I wish. No. I bought them in the night market in Bangkok last year. A toy. Men and their toys. You know … His sentence dropped off, as was his tendency.

Yeah, yeah, Simon said, only half listening. Interpol had partnered him with Arun before and he’d come to learn his quirks. Now, he was focused on why they were here—disappearing antiquities and murdered tourists. World heritage was slipping out of the country’s borders and disappearing. That garnered international attention. By the time Interpol had become involved, tourists had died. Three recently, but there’d been others before. It wasn’t until two months ago that they’d cobbled those facts together. The ones that had died earlier had originally been deemed accidents. That was no longer the case. The connection had been made but, since Interpol had been alerted, the numbers had only gone up. Within a month, an American, a Canadian and a British tourist had died. In separate incidents, they’d all been carrying an antiquity. Yet they’d already determined that in at least one case, the victim had innocently believed that the antiquity was only a replica.

The illegal antiquity business was red hot. World artifacts were disappearing. That was what they knew. Interpol suspected more and were on the ground looking for answers. It was why they were here, in a situation that had leaked well beyond the borders of Cambodia.

He pushed the thoughts aside. He had to stay in the moment. But, even in the moment there was danger stirring in the ancient rocks. He could feel it on the stale, dust-filled midnight breeze that wafted up occasionally as silence filled in the spaces. They weren’t armed, and as much as he disliked firearms, he knew the lack of a weapon placed them at a serious disadvantage. But as far as Interpol was concerned, they were on an under-the-table assignment, not officially here. Not officially anything.

Interpol gave me no warning. Four hours after the alert I was on a plane here. When did they call you? Simon tensed as they inched forward.

While danger shadowed their every move, it hadn’t closed in, not yet. It was still safe to talk. They were too far from the shore for there to be danger, and it was clear that there was no one near—yet.

Yesterday. Where the Sam Hill have you been these last few days?

Like I said, I came when I got the call. Simon frowned in the darkness. Why?

This rash of deaths. I’m only guessing but if I were a betting man, Samnang again … Arun sighed heavily.

Samnang, the antiquity smuggler who, a few years ago, had gotten away.

That wasn’t the worst of the news. None of it was good. But if he had to return after more than a year in Laos as part of an Interpol Incident Response Team, there was no better partner than Arun, a native Cambodian who was fluent in more Asian languages than Simon had realized existed, and better than that, a friend.

I don’t know how the hell being a silent observer will help anything, Simon growled. Monitor the situation, he said in a sarcasm-laced whisper. They didn’t even bother to arm us.

What if they didn’t come out alive? What if only he lived? He couldn’t live with that. He couldn’t live with another death of someone close.

It’s Cambodia. We can resolve that little shortcoming fairly easily, Arun replied with a soft chuckle.

A rocket launcher or possibly another weapon of war, yeah. Those are easy enough to come by. Seriously, Arun, I just want a handgun, a revolver, something simple. He shook his head. Bad memories, he muttered.

This isn’t easy for me either, Simon. Akara meant something to both of us. In different ways but …

Arun’s unfinished sentence hung between them. Around them the night seemed thicker, more humid. They moved forward slowly, from cover to cover, one broken ruin to another, reluctant to get too close. Even their breathing required thought and every footstep screamed that they might be revealed. So far, the cloud cover was working to their advantage.

I want to get as close as we can, Simon said pushing the reminder of Akara from his mind. He couldn’t think of it, of her—none of it. It was too much especially now. He pushed his concentration and his thoughts to the moment at hand.

Find out if Samnang is still employing the Brit.

As his whispered words faded away, they both knew that there was a limit to how close they could get using the cover of this unassuming and forgotten ruin.

The grapevine says he is.

So?

I’ve heard, and the others …"

This time it was Simon who let his sentence drop midstream.

The night closed in thick and hot and yet a finger of icy premonition went through him. Had this been a mistake?

The voices ahead were coming closer, getting louder in the shadows.

They hugged the remains of the low-riding wall as the light flickered and gained strength. The night sounds merged, blurring. They strained to hear something that might be different from the lap of the waves or the occasional calls of the insects. A grating crunch, like gravel underfoot, had them pinned against the wall. They held their breath, claiming the darkness as their advantage.

It’s too early. A man’s tenor voice came from somewhere in front of them. They’ve made great progress though.

The voice was muffled, female, and familiar. Simon flattened even tighter to the wall as he now strained to hear every nuance. He glanced back at Arun and saw sweat on his brow, and he could feel the same on his.

The buyer’s poised.

Again, it was the woman’s voice. And something in that voice sent another chill through Simon. He breathed in slowly, the hot air so humid it was almost choking.

Quiet. The man spoke in a rough-edged whisper that carried in the cloistered darkness.

The light skipped along the rocks. Neither Simon nor Arun dared move. The lake glistened darkly as the sound of a boat engine echoed in the distance.

They’re coming. The man’s voice was rushed as he turned his attention to the water and the light danced over the rocks and away from them.

Over there. The woman’s cultured voice was distinctly loud, the British accent clear in the dead calm.

The voice was so close Simon was sure that he could have walked over and touched her. In the dark it was hard to judge distance with only the sound of their voices and the odd change in the air that their movements made.

Give me it, the man demanded, and his voice had an odd slur to it, as if English was not his first language.

No, the woman said. Do you have any idea how old it is?

Their voices were less distinct as the couple moved farther away.

Simon stiffened. Now he placed the woman’s voice and an unwanted familiarity crawled across his skin. English, it could only be … no … and even though he’d expected it, he was appalled. This was like an international orgy of death and profit. And the coolest player of all remained hidden behind a smokescreen of minions. At least that was his theory so far. For, there was nothing to pin the bastard who headed it all, not yet. He glanced at Arun, indicating with a jerk of his head that they needed to get closer.

The quarter moon slipped from behind a cloud, lighting the area, and Simon felt as if he’d stopped breathing. Behind him Arun’s breath hitched. The sound was so loud that for a minute he thought they’d been discovered. His back molars ached as his teeth clenched together and he willed his body to stillness. He leaned forward as the bit of moonlight disappeared. He held back the breath of relief that was almost instinctive and immediately tensed.

What is it? the woman asked again. Her voice was breathier, less muffled.

Vishnu, possibly one of the earliest. They have more work to do. The man spoke confidently, as if he were sure that they were alone.

Simon pressed his palms against the cracked and fractured wall and willed his body into an almost meditative stillness. He bit the inside of his lip to take away the possibility of involuntary movement.

Maybe. Let’s get moving.

Torches lit the area where the figures moved toward the water. Their movements were shadowy and hard to detect. But they were there and more ominous beneath the cloak of night.

Saturday. Three weeks from now. The man’s voice rolled gently back to them.

Saturday, Arun whispered. A shipment …

Saturday, the man replied as if he had heard Arun’s whisper. He kicked a clot of clay and dust wafted over Simon and Arun.

Arun raised his hand to his nose to suppress a sneeze.

What was that? The woman’s voice was louder, and the accent was sharp against the night’s silent backdrop.

Did you hear it? the man asked.

On the water boat lights reflected across the lake’s still surface. Voices floated ashore, rough voices that were jumbled and too distant to make out. The couple moved toward shore and away from Simon and Arun.

Where’s the Brit? Arun hissed. If the damn moon would cooperate … I’ve lost sight of her.

I don’t know, Simon whispered through gritted teeth. His fists clenched at his sides at the thought of her.

They inched forward, leaving the ruin behind and using brush and shore flotsam for cover. Before long they could make out figures framed in the boat’s bow light that reflected faintly on the water. The shadowy figures were by the dock, carrying crates to the boat. The words were still indistinguishable but something in the guttural sounds was clear.

Burmese. Shit! Simon whispered. The Burmese created their own set of problems for they worked according to laws of their own, in a manner that defied the other players.

The voices came closer.

Look! Arun pointed farther up the shore, where another boat had slid in. Two more men dropped to the sand as the first group continued an intense discussion just off the beach, their shadows blended into the darkness.

Let’s get out of here, Simon said, an edge in his voice. The urge to retreat was almost overwhelming. Not because of anything he’d seen but because of a tension that seemed to pulse through the air, and hint at an impending implosion.

They ran hunched over away from the beach and back to the wall they had so recently left. They were uncomfortably pressed against the rock and were forced to freeze in place for another voice had left the beach and come closer, too close.

Make sure they pay immediately. The voice was rough, deep, and again too familiar. Samnang.

One of the most brutal smugglers and the most powerful in Cambodia. Also, one who had been impossible to corner. Despite everything they knew about Samnang, they had so far been unable to prove any of it.

Of course, the woman replied and then there was silence.

Arun and Simon sucked in a communal breath, fighting to keep their breathing quiet, their movements still as moonlight lit the area. Not five feet away, Samnang grasped his side and hunched over while other men who had accompanied him headed toward the beach, each carrying a crate. The woman was nowhere in sight.

The two men who had arrived on their own were now shadowing those carrying the crates from where they were stacked about twenty feet off the water. For a while there was silence. Then they could hear voices, sharp and combative and getting louder as they moved along the beach, but still indistinguishable.

They’re arguing about something, Arun said as the fickle moonlight disappeared. The sharp crack of a rifle shot filled the air and cut off his words.

Get down, Simon hissed even as he hit the ground. The shot sounded like it had come from midway between them and the water. Between those two points he knew there was only flat ground.

The perfect killing field.

Hidden in the shadow of ancient rock, he could hear their voices, Samnang, the Brit, and at least one other. They were too distant for him to make out what they were saying, though their voices seemed to be getting louder and more agitated. But Samnang was now closer to the water than to them. It was hard to see who-was-who, or where each player might be. Was Samnang in the open? Had he run? He could only guess. Not a good option in a situation like this. He swung around, peering into the dark. But he’d heard nothing behind him. Too much distance separated them from the action. His thoughts were broken as one shot followed another, reverberating in the thick air. The shots were coming from farther down the beach.

Simon drew in a breath. Shots now came from the shoreline. Possibly someone aiming at Samnang, maybe the Brit. He could only see their outlines and the flashes in the darkness, but he was sure of one thing: they were only yards away from the primary targets. There were no other options as they pressed against the ruin and waited. The cloud slipped again, allowing a glimmer of moonlight. He could see a group of people, and farther away two figures on the water’s edge.

A streak of moonlight, a shadow, a man fell under the sound of another shot. There were more shots—one, two, and then a number together. For a second, they could see clearly that a second man was down.

He squinted but the light had faded and now he could only see the dark pool of the lake. And then, out of the darkness, another shot.

Holy shit, Arun said.

Simon raised his head. Damn it, that was close. Who the hell were they shooting at?

Then everything was silent, broken only by deep, hitching breaths. Simon glanced at Arun and then realized he was hearing his own breathing. He took a deep breath and struggled to regain control.

Sounds rustled in front of them. From behind there was a sound that could have been wind whispering through the trees.

Clear, Arun whispered behind him. For the moment and then …

Get the hell out of here! Simon said in a strong whisper.

Five minutes later they reached their motorbikes.

They should have called us in sooner, Arun grumbled.

Agreed. This is out of hand. Not only is Samnang back and with Ella Malone at his side but it appears that he’s been operating for a while. Who knows what antiquities have already disappeared and not just from Cambodia. World treasures—history, gone.

And innocent people are dying. After the guy three weeks ago, there were two more deaths at Angkor Wat over the past week. Tourists, this time women, Arun said starkly. The police claimed both fell from the inner temple. Odds are high that’s a lie in both cases. Makes no sense, the falling bit, in fact …

It might be unrelated. Maybe. And those shots …

I know. That’s part of why we’re here. Simon pressed his motorbike into life. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for this. He dragged in a breath. Good chance, considering how close it was, that the last one was meant for us. He grimaced, shrugging off the disquiet, as he’d learned to do over the last decade. In the meantime, there isn’t a tourist traveling solo in this country who’s safe.

Arun slapped the palm of his hands on his thighs before starting the bike. Let’s get the hell out of here.

Minutes later only the faint smell of exhaust remained as evidence that they had been there at all.

Chapter Two

Tuesday late afternoon, somewhere over the Pacific Ocean

Antiquity smuggling in Cambodia is on the rise. There have been three reported tourist deaths in less than a month with one being a Colorado man. Two weeks ago, a British college student died after a fall at Angkor Wat and shortly after that, a Canadian. There have been reports that none of these deaths were accidental. A 900-year-old artifact found in the British woman’s knapsack led one local authority to speculate that the bleed of Cambodia’s heritage may have taken a new turn.

Claire Linton folded the worn newspaper article and slipped it into her bag. After eight years as a small mid-western journalist where the most exciting story was a weather threat or a series of petty thefts, she was ready for more. She wanted the excitement of chasing a bigger-than-life story, the intoxicating feeling of being her own boss, of freelancing, if not full-time than at least part-time. She could hardly wait to begin asking questions, to build on the notes she’d already collected, but mixed with all of that was trepidation. This was her first trip of any duration, and she was alone. She glanced at her watch and then out the plane’s window, where city lights covered the ground for as far as she could see. Bangkok, City of Angels.

It was that newspaper article that had convinced her to use up her precious vacation time to come here. It had arrived mysteriously with only a Cambodian postmark. But, from the first word, Claire had known that it had the potential to be the story of a lifetime. Admittedly, stripping historic sites in Cambodia wasn’t news. But a possible tie to a tourist death and implications of tourist thefts of artifacts had her intrigued. And the article had hinted at something else, an association with the Khmer Rouge. The Democratic Kampuchea and its followers, the Khmer Rouge, had terrorized a generation. That association might be a long shot, but it had Claire’s attention. She’d contacted the newspaper but was unable to reach the writer of the article. With extra vacation days looming, she’d made the decision to fly over. An article like this was intriguing, especially coming out of Cambodia, a country her uncle had fled. In a way, it was a story that she’d been primed to tell since the first day her uncle had walked into her life. The day that he’d married her aunt in a late marriage that spanned cultures and exposed her to a history that she had never imagined. In a way, this story was for him as well as herself.

The story of a lifetime would begin and end in just under three weeks.

It was a thought that wouldn’t leave her because it was as much fantasy as reality. Three weeks was the amount of time she had to prove that her story idea was worthwhile. The fantasy was that she could pull it off—that the story would command the interest needed in the United States. She knew the odds, she’d outlined them to her boss, while carefully hiding doubts. The question remained, could she launch a freelance career one column at a time?

In the midst of her earlier dilemma, she’d spoken to a friend who she’d roomed with through college. Lauren was Cambodian and had been more than encouraging and openly admitted that half her enthusiasm was that the trip posed a chance to get together again in real time rather than through electronics.

She agreed. She was looking forward to seeing Lauren, who had returned to Cambodia after graduation, but that meeting was for later in this trip. There was research to be done first and it was that research that had her second guessing herself.

She unzipped her day pack and took out aspirin. She swallowed one and then two, hoping that would squelch the headache. She unfurled the thin airline blanket then folded it into a perfect square. She ran her finger along each fold, flattening it as if the straight neat lines would dispel any doubts about this trip.

First trip? her seat mate asked as they touched down. He was a slim, middle-aged Asian man who, with the exception of a few pleasantries, she had not spoken to the entire flight. In fact, he’d slept for most of it.

Overseas, yes. I’m heading to Bangkok for a day and then on to Cambodia.

Traveling alone?

She smiled. Yes. I’m a journalist.

She couldn’t help saying that last with a touch of pride. It hadn’t been easy, but she’d known she wanted to be a journalist since she was a child. But her mother hadn’t had much money nor much faith in higher education and there’d been no help there. She’d saved every dime she’d earned through high school and worked for two years after before heading to college. She’d been able to save enough to sign the lease on a tiny rent-to-own condo. A part-time job and a small inheritance from her father had funded the remainder of her education and taking a roommate had helped her pay for the condo.

Cambodia, he said, breaking into her thoughts. "Things