The Survivor by Sean Slater Page A

an evaporating mist, the vision dissipated. And Kim Pham stood there. The muscles of his face were tight behind his padded cheeks.
    ‘Fuck, this is bad. Bad, bad, BAD. Nothing is finished! The bosses won’t be happy.’ He paced back and forth, balled his fists against the sides of his head, then stopped. He leaned back over Red Mask and spoke in English, as he always did, for their dialects were too far apart. ‘Can you hear me? For fuck’s sake, can you hear anything ?’
    The words were too loud and too soft. But Red Mask responded. ‘I am here, I am awake.’
    Kim Pham’s voice deepened. ‘What the hell happened over there? Did you get the job done?’
    Red Mask felt the images overtake him, wave after nauseating wave. ‘A man appeared. Like a ghost. He came from nothing.’
    ‘A man? What man? What are you talking about? Was he a cop?’
    ‘A soldier, yes.’
    Kim Pham became silent. He looked up at the flat-screen monitor that hung on the far wall. The news was on. The entire focus was St Patrick’s High. The images were blunt: yellow police tape; dead kids; frantic parents; lots of cops. Pham watched for a long moment, then nodded in acknowledgement of what was happening. He turned around slowly and gave Red Mask an odd look.
    ‘Where is Tran?’
    The words hollowed out Red Mask’s heart. ‘Tran is no more.’
    ‘Stop talking in fucking riddles!’ Kim Pham yelled. He paused. ‘And what about Sherman Chan?’
    ‘Dealt with. As planned. But not . . . not Que Wong.’
    ‘Not Que.’ The words sounded flat as Kim Pham spoke them. ‘You let him get away?’
    ‘He did not show. That is why Tran had to come.’
    ‘Fuck! Another fucking failure. There’s gonna be a lot of heat over this, a lot of heat . They will not tolerate this.’ Kim Pham got on his cell, dialled and had a quick conversation in a dialect Red Mask could not understand. When he closed the flip-phone, he asked, ‘Where is Tran’s body?’
    ‘Where it fell.’
    ‘Stop talking in chicken fucking English – where did it fall ?’
    ‘Saint Patrick’s.’
    Kim Pham’s eyes took on a faraway stare. Eventually, he nodded. Gave Red Mask’s uninjured shoulder a gentle squeeze. ‘Rest, my friend. You need to heal.’ As Kim Pham turned to go, he gave the doctor a sideways glance. The old man nodded back. The movement was minimal, but Red Mask noticed the exchange.
    And he acted.
    When the doctor came towards him with the syringe, Red Mask grabbed the old man’s wrist. ‘What is name of medicine?’
    The doctor tried to pull away. ‘It’s . . . it’s an antibiotic.’
    ‘What is name?’
    ‘. . . Naxopren . . .’
    ‘Liar!’ In one quick motion, Red Mask bent the old man’s wrist back until a loud crack filled the room. The doctor screamed, fell back, and Red Mask sat up. Kim Pham turned from the door, his hand going for his gun.
    Red Mask was quicker. With his good arm, he pulled the Glock from behind his waistband and fired three times from the hip.
    Pham’s white suit exploded with redness and he let out a strangled sound; he fell forward, landing hard on the dirty green vinyl. Almost immediately, the stairwell door burst open and the two men who’d brought Red Mask downstairs raced into the room.
    Red Mask shot them both. By the time they hit the ground he was rushing across the small room. He locked the stairwell door. Spun and found the doctor. The old man was crouched in the corner, the needle still clutched in his broken right hand.
    ‘I have done nothing! Nothing !’ he whispered.
    Red Mask neared the old man. ‘Untrue. You have done much, Doctor Kieu. In Vu Nuar, and Anlong Veng. Yes, you have done much horrible things. What is name of medicine?’
    ‘Naxopren! Naxopren !’
    ‘Inject yourself.’
    The doctor’s eyes became rounder. ‘I . . . am not sick.’
    ‘Inject yourself!’
    When the doctor did not move, Red Mask snatched up the syringe and drove the needle into his shoulder.
    The old man screamed.