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

everywhere, and food was apparently dear enough that an overweight Khmer was nowhere to be seen. But despite all this, the place thrummed with optimism and hope. The Cambodians had been sodomized for centuries—the Vietnamese, the French, and most of all, the homegrown Khmer Rouge—but no matter how life beat them down, they kept getting back up. They hustled at work, strolled with their children along the river quay, and never stopped smiling. He’d read somewhere how a wild thing never felt sorry for itself, no matter how bad its circumstances, and that seemed to describe Cambodia, too. Certainly it described Chantrea.
    Gant showed at twelve o’clock sharp, a novice move. Either he wasn’t particularly tactical, or he wasn’t particularly concerned. Hard to know on short acquaintance. The man was unremarkable in every way: Caucasian; thinning brown hair, neatly cut; average size and build; a crisply pressed shirt, khaki pants, canvas shoes; expensive-looking sunglasses; a camera hanging around his neck. Dox looked more closely, and saw the camera was an older model digital Olympus, which he’d been told to watch for.
    Dox stood as the man approached—for courtesy, of course, but also because he preferred to be on his feet and mobile when greeting a stranger like this one. Gant’s hands were empty and his shirt was tucked, but Dox knew plenty of places a man could conceal a weapon besides around his waist.
    “This wouldn’t be Wat Phnom, would it?” the man said, the bona fides Dox had been told to expect.
    “No, you’ll probably want to get a tuk-tuk for that,” Dox replied, the other half of the prearranged exchange.
    The man held out his hand. “Dox?”
    They shook. Dox noted a reasonably firm grip that told him little about the man on the other end of it. “And you would be…?”
    The man smiled, apparently in amusement at the additional precaution. “Gant,” he said. “Why don’t we sit?”
    They did. Dox kept his tactical seat and Gant made no protest about having his back put toward the approach to the table. Again, Dox was struck by the man’s confidence. Whoever this guy was, he must have been exceptionally connected to carry himself like no one would ever dare make a run at him.
    “Enjoying Phnom Penh?” Gant asked, pleasantly enough.
    Dox couldn’t place his accent. American, and not from anywhere in Texas, where Dox had grown up, and nowhere else in the south, either. But beyond that, it could have been from anywhere, much like Gant himself.
    “Sure, I like it fine. How about you?”
    Gant waved an insect away. “I get tired of these third-world pissholes. I keep waiting for a problem to crop up in London, or the Côte d’Azur. Someplace where the tap water won’t kill you and they know how to make a proper martini.”
    Not that a proper martini wasn’t important, but Dox thought the guy sounded like a dipshit. “Well, you’ve got your priorities,” he said, wanting to stay noncommittal.
    Gant raised his eyebrows. “What about you?”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Your priorities.”
    “Oh, I don’t know. Paid and laid, and I’m usually pretty happy.”
    Gant smiled. “A simple man.”
    Dox smiled back. “That’s what people say.” He could have added,
That’s what I like them to think.
    “In Phnom Penh, I doubt you’ll need my help getting laid. As for getting paid, you’ve received the deposit?”
    Dox nodded. “Twenty percent, plus travel expenses.”
    “Good. Now let’s talk about getting you the balance. What do you need from me?”
    “Well, unless you’re carrying a thumb drive or something, I assume you’ve uploaded the file to the secure site?”
    “I don’t think you’ll need a file.”
    “How am I going to find the subject?”
    “I can tell you exactly where he’ll be, and when he’ll be there.”
    “How am I going to recognize him?”
    “It shouldn’t be hard. He’ll be sitting next to me.”
    Dox looked at Gant, wondering if he was serious.