Slash and Burn

it concern you that you’re behaving like trained monkeys, dancing to the tune of the American dollar? We’re all of the same blood, you and us, yet you point your guns at your relatives. Would you do this to your own mother? Your—”
    The shot exploded through the happy crowd like a split in the atmosphere. Civilai reached for his left ear just as the blood started to spurt. It was only a nick but there was no denying the fact that his brain was only a few centimeters from his earlobe.
    “Ooh!” said someone in the audience. One of the sleepers awoke and asked what was happening. Emiliano, the Filipino, had fired his pistol left-handed from his hip. Whether he was related to Annie Oakley or merely couldn’t care less whether he hit the old man in the forehead, nobody would ever know. But it was an impressive shot. The young man, still holding his AK47 in his right hand, leaned back against the wooden beams and rolled his cigarette with his tongue. He had almost everybody’s attention which pleased him. Mr. Geung, holding his stomach, got to his feet and ran to the door. It appeared he was about to throw up. The smiling guard decided to let him go and laughed as he ran past. He was just another harmless moron.
    “Now perhaps you’ll all shut up,” said Emiliano.
    “Typical,” said Siri, glaring directly at the marksman but talking to Civilai. “I lose an earlobe so what do you do? Rush out to get your own earlobe shot off. When is this jealousy going to end?”
    Civilai was apparently feeling no pain.
    “Did it come out the other side?” he asked Cousin Vinai.
    Emiliano had raised his pistol again, this time taking aim.
    “Did somebody ask a question?” Civilai shouted. “You’ll have to speak up. This isn’t my good side any more.” He too smiled at the gunman.
    It was just a question of discipline. Was the Filipino angry enough to override orders? Was he a soldier or a psychopath? Cool, cold—unable to take a joke. The pistol moved through the air from Civilai, to Siri, to Civilai.
    “Please. After him.” Siri gestured to Civilai.
    “No, I insist. After him,” Civilai replied.
    Siri felt Daeng squeeze his hand just as Senator Vogal walked into the room. His hair was wet. He’d taken a shower, perhaps a few belts of coffee, and some downers or uppers or whatever it is that negates cannabis because he seemed more in control of himself than he had been.
    “What’s going on?” he shouted.
    “Just playing with the locals,” Emiliano smiled.
    “Plenty of time for that,” said Vogal. He had hold of Ethel Chin’s wrist. He was squeezing and it was hurting. “Miss Chin here has decided to join the party.” He dragged her across the room and threw her to the ground.
    “What? You can’t do this to me,” she screamed. “After all I’ve done for you. After all you said. Our plans.”
    “Oh, do stop it,” said Vogal. “You never could hold your drugs. Did you honestly think this was all going to have a happy ending?”
    “You bastard.”
    “See? No control over your mouth. Never could keep it shut. Once a noisy chink, always a noisy chink.”
    “I didn’t. I didn’t tell them anything.”
    Vogal nodded to Emiliano.
    “If anything else comes out of this mouth,” he said. “Shoot it off.”
    “My pleasure,” said the marksman.
    The Lao had no idea what the couple was talking about but it seemed quite obvious they weren’t getting along that well. Nobody bothered to translate and nobody really cared. But then it was Siri’s turn.
    “You!” said the senator.
    “Moi?” said Siri.
    Vogal called for one of the Thais to translate.
    “You tell him he’s the one,” he said. “You tell him what’s about to happen in this room is all down to him. It should have all been really simple. We find the pilot’s body, make sure everything in the chopper was destroyed, the MIA story’s a hoax, Potter kills himself but nobody’s game to report it. We all go home. Everybody’s alive at the end of it apart from some annoying drunk. You weren’t supposed to spoil all that, old man. You know why we insisted on having you on the team? I’ll tell you. Because you’re a flake. Yeah, really. Ghosts and ghouls and travels through hell and back. Yeah, we get to hear about all that. We aren’t completely without intel. You were supposed to be the coroner who knows nothing. You and the team of misfits your minister recommended were supposed to party your way through the week and not have