The Second Bat Guano War: a Hard-Boiled Spy Thriller by J. M. Porup Page A

Camels. Put the pack to his mouth, kissed it, came away with a cigarette between his lips. From a side pocket, a box of wooden matches. He rattled it, removed a match. Scratched the red tip against the box, the smell of sulfur floating across at me. He held the flame to the tip of the white paper.
    “Let me ask you something, Horace,” he said, exhaling smoke. “Do you just say that? Or do you really mean it? Are you prepared to die?”
    “Prepared to—” My tongue refused to finish the thought.
    I had almost died in that bucket of shit. And I realized I was not prepared. That I didn’t want to die.
    “Because I’m not,” he continued. “At least not yet.”
    He puffed deep, holding the smoke in his lungs. Settled into the swivel chair. The frame creaked under his weight. The tip of the cigarette glowed orange in the dim light. He held it at arm’s length.
    “No,” he said. “This is not how I want to die.” He looked at me again, and I struggled to endure his battering gaze. “But I can see why it appeals to you.”
    God. I began to wish I hadn’t told him. I looked at the floor. “I don’t know what you mean.”
    Ambo sat forward, his great bulk now resting on his elbows. He blew smoke through his nose. His broad shoulders hunched over, head dangling loose, a buzzard drawn to carrion.
    “You know,” he said, “I understand you better than you think.”
    “You understand,” I said, and sneered. “What do you think you understand? You sound like Lynn now.”
    He ignored the reference to my affair with his wife. “It wasn’t the money,” he went on. “You aren’t the type who can be bought.”
    “Yeah, OK, we know that.”
    “And you’re not a patriot.”
    I shrugged. “Land of the slaves and the home of the fearful.”
    “So I’m guessing,” he said, and he cocked his head, fist at his ear, the cigarette smoldering orange at his temple, my vision of devil’s horns returning in a rush that made me gasp, “I’m guessing it’s for love.”
    “Love?” I said. I laughed. “The fuck you talking about?”
    “Was there a woman there? Is that it?”
    “What woman? Where?”
    “Guangzhou Higher Polytechnic.”
    “For fuck’s sake. That was how many years ago?”
    “We read your email, you know.”
    I’d spent a year teaching English in China. This was ten years ago, before my ex-wife, before South America, before Peru, before Kate, before La Paz. Back in the days when life was good, the world was simple and I was happy. I’d dated one of my students for a while. Ping Ping. Still sent me naked pictures by email, hoping I would return.
    “So?”
    “So…” He crossed his arms. “You got a big drug habit. Where’s the money come from, pay for that?”
    “Let me get this straight,” I said. “You think I’m working for the Chinese? What are you, crazy?”
    “Let’s skip the denials,” he said. “I don’t have time. I need to know where Pitt is and how to stop him.”
    I held my hands out wide, gaped at the ceiling. “Fuck if I know.”
    “Are they blackmailing you? Is that it?”
    “What blackmail? What are you talking about?”
    “Maybe they tell the Peruvians you’re here. An illegal immigrant. Get you deported back to the States.” He spoke around his cigarette. “Is that it? So you can work pumping gas to pay back child support for the rest of your life?”
    A rare moment of calm settled on my soul. I had pondered on many late drug-addled nights how to respond to such a threat, should it happen again. I was ready. I blew my nose in my palm and wiped it on my pants.
    “I have a rule,” I said. “A no-suicide rule. It’s the only rule I have. No. Let me finish.” I spoke slower now, to make sure he heard ever word. “I’m allowed to self-destruct in any way I want to. I deserve to suffer in this life. But I’m not allowed to die.” I held up an index finger. “There is one exception to this rule.” I moved close to his face and whispered, “Anyone tries