It was a lonely beach in Bangkok. Ban Krut by name, but it was better known by reputation. The American was sitting close to the surf, very still. This was in February. Temperatures were stretching toward their spring heights, and hotel plumbers preparing for the Thai rainy season, when snakes were known to emerge from the toilets. By then, things were long in motion. But when the American looked back, as he sometimes did, he saw crossroads in that afternoon, the point of no return. The irreversibility of spilled blood.

The American was tall and whippet lean. Gray eyes that absorbed the world without ceremony. Rough hands that looked like they'd been his way out of many a bad situation. Everything about him seemed secondhand, right down to his cigarette.

Three men were in the distance, strolling the beach toward him. The leading man was a plump Thai whose looks money had helped as much as it could. Flanking him were two squat Thais in denim cut-offs, their waistbands exposing their pubic hair owing to the weight of the guns in their belts.

The American didn't watch them approach. On the horizon, a container ship and a scattering of fishing boats were crawling across the water in the shadow of the mountains. These were the only signs of life in sight. Last year, a decapitated head had been found in this secluded cove – a groom, robbed on his way to his wedding. In the four years it had taken to discover his remains, his would-be wife had remarried. Yes, this particular nook of Ban Krut beach was where you came to make things disappear.

The American's gun was concealed in the fine white sand by him. He’d modified it, the way he’d learned in Iraq, to keep the sand out of the firing mechanism. A plunge of his hand and he'd have it.

Close now, the plump Thai motioned for the two gunmen – his bodyguards – to hang back. He continued on alone, gripping a briefcase. He was in his late thirties, the American's senior by only a few years, but his stubbly, underslept face suggested that, just lately, he'd gotten older fast. This was Somchai, the Pablo Escobar of Bangkok.

"The American?" Somchai said in stiff English, standing over him. "Kirk?"

The American shrugged. "You know that already."

"Perhaps." Somchai studied him carefully. "Welcome to Thailand. Excuse me... welcome back."

"Okay." Kirk's tone said: let's get to business.

Somchai didn't.

"Finally,” Somchai said, “I meet you. The faraway correspondent. How is it you say? The pen pal." A hint of mockery hung in the air, as did the certain relish Somchai was taking in continuing to stand.

Then Somchai sat down, and positioned the briefcase between them. He said, "You know, she never let me read your letters. Not one."

"Well," Kirk said, "They were addressed to her."

"Hmmm. Yes. She became a different person when they stopped arriving."

Kirk frowned. "I never stopped writing."

"No..." Somchai gave a small, cutting smile. "I thought best they were not passed along. They felt cruel to me. You left her like that, so sudden, with such weak explanation. But still you wanted her attention."

Kirk snorted. "You're the protective type?"

"Isn't that obvious?" Somchai tapped the briefcase. "This is no small price to pay to get her to safety. Count it, if you like."

Kirk didn't.

Somchai said, "This is not the way I would choose for her to get a green card. But she wants it, and it is a way."

Kirk thought about that. He said, "Why America? Europe's closer. Better cooking."

Somchai chugged laughter. "Cooks better! Maybe so. But prospects, they are stronger in the USA."

"You intend to continue your business there?"

"I have many plans. Business, yes. A house also. A yard. A dog. The... softer parts of the dream."

Kirk nodded awhile. "The letters of mine you held back... did you read them?"

"I am busy. Some of them."

"There was one from Fallujah. I was worried the letter would smell, because I wrote it after another soldier had died. I'd pushed his guts back in, trying to save him. No matter how many times I washed, the smell was still there on my hands."

"Hmmm. I understand."

Kirk smiled tightly. "You do?"

"Of course. War." Somchai shrugged in summary of war.

Kirk said, "Then you'll know I did that for my country. The same one you're asking me to help you get into, with your lies and your rot."

Kirk assessed their distance from the two bodyguards, his hand by the burial spot of his gun in the sand. This seemed to strum a sixth sense in Somchai. He looked at Kirk's hand on the sand, an understanding slowly forming.

With an odd calm, Somchai said, "I'm asking for Malai. Her lies and rot, you will help."

"You're so sure?"

Nodding sadly, "I read enough of your letters. You will take great pain for her. And perhaps... so will I." Somchai motioned at Kirk's hand. "Please know, if you shoot, my men are ordered not to retaliate. You will walk free, with this money. Decha, Thahan..." Somchai rattled out some Thai to the two bodyguards. Confused but obedient, they tossed down their guns to the sand, beyond the easy reach of anyone.

Kirk paused, suspecting a trick. "You'd let me shoot you?"

"I think, coming from a soldier, the shot, once decided, could not be disputed. I'm saying: no revenge. You are perhaps the only one who can help her now."

"Selfless? That's a new direction for you."

"And you wrote her, without reply, every month for seven years. It is strange, what can be brought out in us."

Their eyes met. Kirk saw real feeling. It unnerved him more than if this were some elaborate game.

Somchai said, "I wanted to meet you. I've changed her only on the outside. Her hair, clothes. Her breasts. Her smile. And, saying that, I mean her teeth, not the spirit in it. But you... the one she was loving, even as she looked back at me. That never changed."

Kirk said, "She has listed many wrongs."

Somchai faltered. "From me?"

Kirk nodded. "Severe wrongs."

"Well, that..." Somchai sat broken. "That is not accurate. Where does that come from? Maybe because I couldn't help her forget you. I wasn't enough."

Somchai's eyes edged back to Kirk's hand on the sand.

"Whatever you choose to do here," Somchai said, "I want your word. You will take Malai to America. You love her better than me, perhaps. But not more than."

Kirk was silent. Still and tight in every muscle.

Then – Kirk whipped out the gun from the sand and fired twice. A Browning 9mm, it gave the rocks of the cove plenty to broadcast, but in their solitude Kirk wasn't concerned. He snapped toward the bodyguards, trigger-ready. They stood helpless, hands in the air, murmuring, "Please, please." Kirk clocked where they had tossed their weapons. He motioned with his gun in the opposite direction.

"Go call a doctor," Kirk said, "Then think of yourselves."

The bodyguards nodded and backed away, getting started on the second part.

Kirk kept the bodyguards in line of fire until they were the size of children. Then he looked to Somchai. He was stammering incoherently, eyes wide and registering nothing, hands clawing at the sand either side of him. Sidestepping the blood, Kirk unfolded a handkerchief and pressed it to the sweat on Somchai's face.

"I'm not your friend," Kirk said quietly, "But I'll tell you this: Malai wanted you dead. So this is where you start thinking like a survivor. Forget her. Focus on yourself, on your recovery. Keep this to help you." Kirk slid the briefcase of cash back to Somchai. "But forget her." Kirk laid his hand on one of Somchai's wounds – and squeezed. "And stay out of America. If for no other reason, we have lousy healthcare. Clear?"

Somchai burbled saliva and pain. Nodded.

Kirk put his cellphone in Somchai's hand, not convinced the bodyguards would get help. The sand around Somchai's legs was a Rorschach test of blood from his obliterated kneecaps. Somchai would never walk again.

"Good luck," Kirk said, and meant it.

As Kirk walked off, he thought about Somchai's certainty that he would help Malai's lies and Malai's rot. If that were true – and it seemed that it was – all Kirk could do now was hope that side of Malai ended here. — End of Extract