The Khmer Kill: A Dox Short Story (Kindle Single)

wasn’t like he didn’t see plenty of the same in Bali. Chantrea, he supposed. Her story about her family’s hardships was making it more personal for him. He was annoyed with himself for the reaction—he didn’t want to be distracted. And anyway, maybe she was just shining him on about all that, he couldn’t really know. But shit, what was he going to do, pretend the hardship around him wasn’t so bad because maybe Chantrea was exaggerating about her own? Sometimes you had to act as if something was real, even if it might not be.
    He shook it off and kept going. When he was satisfied he was sufficiently far from even the squatter’s shacks, he pulled over, killed the engine, and wandered down into the weeds at the edge of the shallow lake. The bike had kicked up a long line of dust in the airless heat, and he waited patiently until it had dissipated and there was no remaining sign of his passage.
    He unzipped the duffle. The SR-25 and its components were wrapped in rags, and he laid out each piece carefully along a cloth until he had it all in front of him. He noted the weapon was equipped with a Magpul PRS adjustable butt stock, a nice touch. He assembled everything, mounting the optics, screwing in the suppressor, working the stock knobs, all the while admiring the weapon’s clean lines but still feeling a little disappointed he wasn’t going to get to play with the XM 2010. Well, another time, for sure. He zeroed it at one hundred yards, the suppressor keeping the sound of his shots to a muted crack. When his groups were under a half-inch, he dialed in corrections for a 500-yard shot, and then started shooting at the longer distance. In no time, his groups were all sub-three inches. Okay. He wrapped the weapon carefully and placed it in the bag without disassembling it. Then he headed back to the hotel to wait for darkness and Gant’s call.
    At just after seven, his mobile buzzed. He picked up. “Hello.”
    “We’re on our way to dinner. A place called Khmer Borane, 389 Sisowath Quay. In front of the Royal Palace, with an open-air patio right on the riverfront. So I think you’ll want to set up on the other side of—”
    “Don’t you worry about where I set up. That’s my end.”
    “Right. I can’t guarantee we’ll be seated outside, but the weather’s good and I’ll suggest it. If we’re not, the restaurant is small and you should still have a clear view of most of the inside. Worst case, you can take care of it when we leave.”
    “You want me to buzz you just beforehand?”
    “Yes. I’ll excuse myself to take the call.”
    “It’s just going to be the two of you? I don’t want to send my very best to the wrong address.”
    “Just the two of us. There’ll be a couple of bodyguards, but they won’t be at our table. And they’ll be fore and aft when we exit. The principal and I will be side-by-side.”
    “Good enough. I’ll call when I’m ready.”
    He clicked off and headed out. The hotel staff had thoughtfully parked the Honda right out front, and it took him less than twenty minutes to make sure he wasn’t being followed and then to cross the Friendship Bridge to the east side of the Tonlé Sap River. He buzzed briskly along the pavement, past gated two-story riverfront residences, the lights inside warm and glowing. Evening insects flew spot-lit through the beam of the bike’s headlight and occasionally smacked invisibly into his facemask. Farther along, the houses grew more modest and the road tapered off to dirt. He slowed and rode along until he reached the water’s edge. A hotel construction site, which he’d seen earlier in the week, was to his right, its skeletal framework of I-beams looming against the night sky. The good news was, the developers had obviously chased off any squatters who might have been living in shacks here. The bad news was, the site was guarded at night.
    He cut clockwise around the site and put-putted along an even narrower and more rutted dirt road, swerving periodically to avoid a crater or a broken cinder block, the river now to his left. To his right were giant mounds of dirt, most of them covered in weeds, and he assumed the dirt was dumped here after being excavated for the hotel’s foundation. Unlike the site itself, this area wasn’t guarded because even in Cambodia, nobody was going to steal dirt. And none of it was inhabited, because by day the developers would shoo squatters away. From the top of any of the mounds, he’d be