Stolen Parts By Lauren Raker

Chapter One

Ratanakiri Province, Cambodia

A drought in the jungle emits a desperate quietude, a silence of death and decay and rotting, of dreams and living things alike. That silence, undercut only by the greedy hum of malaria-ridden mosquitoes, is what spooked Dr. Landon McAllister the most about these forgotten, rural parts of Cambodia, followed closely by the unyielding despair of the patients she’d recently encountered.

The noiseless, still heat, oppressive in its unrelentingness, was soon pierced by a child’s screaming plea, in a language that was foreign to the young surgeon, but would soon be interpreted by Chan Khemera, a local translator who had accompanied the medical team for their four-day visit to the remote province of Ratanakiri.

In an instant, the air shifted, swirling around the new threat. The boy’s screams grew louder as he stumbled toward the Doctors Without Borders outpost, a thatched hut that was no more permanent than any other structure in the village. He was propped up on one side by a child whose age Landon couldn’t discern, although she guessed that both boys were young teenagers. They were each doused with an outpouring of blood, and were moving much too slow. She ran as fast as she could to meet them, and joined Khemera in heaving the child up and into the hut. It was obvious that the child had been shot in his throat and she was hit forcefully by the dour, metallic smell of the children: blood had caked and curdled as it seeped from the injured child’s wounds, fusing with the thick layer of soil that he was already covered in. The drought meant that there wasn’t enough water for people to survive, let alone worry about hygiene.

Khemera spoke quickly, frantically to the child who seemed most capable of speech as Landon carefully lifted the larger, injured child onto an aluminum table covered in a disposable paper sheet.The outpost was not equipped with an operating table, or anything resembling the equipment Landon would have traditionally used in the States, but she’d become accustomed to using creative, if unorthodox, methods when in the field. The rest of the team, which could be described as sparse at best, gathered quickly around the children. Khemera was rank with sweat, as they all were, and beads of his perspiration dripped on to the emaciated child, negotiating vehemently to get an answer. Why were they here? What happened?

Landon attempted to soothe the child on the table while inspecting his wounds; he was hyperventilating from the pain. Andy Teng, a Canadian nurse with delicate features, pressed a compress against the child’s forehead and looked for a vein, injecting a sedative before hooking the child up to a third-rate portable heart-rate monitor. The boy’s body eventually went limp, leading to a scream from his companion.

Khemera looked at the rest of the team helplessly. It was obvious he wasn’t making any headway. The child was shaking his head back and forth violently: the universal sign for no. He looked at the other boy, lying silently on the table, and ran away as fast he could manage from the outpost.

Landon took a deep breath and quelled her emotional response. The field of pediatric surgery requires a surgeon to throttle seamlessly between empathy and reserve, and this was a time for cool concentration.

I can worry about figuring out why this happened after I save this kid’s life, she thought.

She cut his shirt off to make sure there were no other bullet wounds, and found herself involuntarily stepping back from the body. She instinctively covered her mouth and nose, barely resisting the urge to vomit into her surgical mask. There were a limited number of supplies and she couldn’t afford to waste a mask. It was miraculous Andy had even managed to find a sedative.

She wiped her forehead with the tip of her sleeve. It was a far cry from her surgery uniform back home: she wore an old fishing shirt over a tank top, and her hair, drenched with sweat, was pulled into a limp ponytail, its dishwater hue having turned to a whitish blonde under the watchful jungle sun. She brushed it out of her face, squinting through the pouring sweat to inspect the child’s abdomen.

“What are these incisions?” she asked, her voice rising an octave.

There were three long incision marks present on the child’s abdomen, and they were clearly infected. The marks were swollen, pus seeping out in worm-shaped swirls. The infection was so forcible, she could taste it.

Focus. She couldn’t panic about the infection when blood was seeping from the boy’s throat. There was no telling how long the sedative would work or how long the boy could continue to breathe without immediate action. She timed her exhalations in tandem with the steady beeping of the monitor. Knowing there was no scalpel, she doused a knife with rubbing alcohol and proceeded to open up the wound. To her distraction and relief, Dr. Luke Gillis came running into the hut.

“Where were you?” Andy cried angrily.

“What’s happened?” he asked sternly, bypassing the nurse’s hysteria.

Andy quickly debriefed Dr. Gillis on the situation at hand. It was unusual that there would be two surgeons on a field mission like this, but there’d been an anomalous clerical error for this particular mission, which Landon now understood as a work of divine intervention. Their group was scheduled to be heading back to Phnom Penh tomorrow. There was no way she’d be able to handle this on her own in such a short time frame.

“The bullet⸺it’s pierced the trachea and the esophagus…” she reported, her voice shaking. “But not the spinal cord.”

The monitor began beeping at a dizzying speed. Landon felt her own heart rate rise in consequence. Luke immediately sanitized his hands and put on a mask and gloves, preparing for takeover. While Landon was a renowned pediatric surgeon in the States, Luke had been with Doctors Without Borders for 20 years and had extensive experience in the field. It was clear to everyone that he should take the lead.

“Andy, get some kind of tube. This big around,” he motioned with his fingers. “We need an even supply of air so this kid can breathe. Now!”

Landon cursed her circumstances. They didn’t have the necessary tools and they were at a high risk of infecting this child all over again.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Andy appeared by their sides almost instantaneously, having fashioned a makeshift plastic tube, which Luke deemed appropriate enough, given the circumstance. They all held their breath as he inserted the tube slowly, cautiously. When it was securely in place, the heart rate monitor began to slow to an even rhythm.

“We’re going to partially detach the neck muscle to cover the wound,” Luke said matter-of factly. “And we’re going to have to leave the bullet in. There’s no way around it. I’m not going to kill this child simply because we don’t have the proper equipment.”

Landon nodded grimly in agreement and held the boy’s body still as Luke moved the child’s muscles around as if they were Play-Doh. Luke then removed the tube carefully, while Landon followed up with a quick suture that Andy had at the ready. Luke shifted back, surveying his work.

“The hard part’s over,” Luke said. “Work on these infections and Khemera and I will try to track the other kid down. Find out what happened.”

She nodded wordlessly, watching as Luke and Khemera raced into the deserted landscape. She didn’t hold much hope that they would find the boy, but agreed that it was worth the effort.

She and Andy moved seamlessly into cleaning the abdomen incisions. Andy was as intuitive as any nurse that Landon had worked with, and was immediately prepared with gauze and alcohol. They’d been assigned to distribute vaccines and clean up infections in Ratanakiri; their team was completely unprepared for surgical intervention. Besides that, the circumstances surrounding this shooting were highly unusual, as was the incision pattern before them. Landon felt a chill creep into her nerves despite the overwhelming heat.

“These are consistent with kidney surgery,” she told Andy. “And if you look closely, you can see that there were absorbable stitches used, similar to what we just used on his throat. But they’re infected and they haven’t fully dissolved. Which means he was opened up fairly recently.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Andy. “How the hell is this kid undergoing major organ surgery? We’re in the middle of the jungle, for Chrissakes.”

In better circumstances, Andy’s trademark candor brought levity to tough situations. Today, it only served to distract Landon.

“Something’s just not right here,” she muttered, turning over the possibilities in her mind.

Andy grimaced. The wound was oozing with blood and pus, and he was concerned about the amount of gauze that was available.

“This isn’t the first time we’ve seen this, is it?” she asked, draining the wound of abscess. “I remember seeing wounds just like this in a man yesterday who came to get vaccinated. Not infected to this degree, though… I didn’t put it together then, but it looks just like the incisions I’ve made myself when performing transplants.”

“You’re right,” Andy said slowly, considering the patients they’d treated over the last few days. “I’ve seen several that were similar. But we’ve seen so many patients,” he trailed off.

“Of course you wouldn’t have immediately assumed it was from surgery, given where we are in the world.”

“Exactly,” Landon replied. “It doesn’t make sense, but I’d bet money that if we could get this kid to an X-ray machine, we would find something interesting. Hand me the saline solution?”

Andy prepared a saline-soaked dressing for Landon to apply carefully to the infected incisions.

“We might not have modern technology, but we do have more time,” he said. “We need to figure out what’s going on here. Maybe he’ll be able to help us when he wakes up.”

“He’ll be able to,” Landon conceded, “but that doesn’t necessarily mean that he will.”

Dr. Luke Gillis enacted the movements of giving chase, but hung back long enough to give the boy a full start. The child had been sneaking around, wanting to make sure his friend made it out alive. Now that Luke and Khemera were tailing him, he’d gotten spooked, and quickly scurried to get out of sight. Luke could see the tops of the child’s fingers and hairline behind an old pipe. The boy was almost skinny enough to be completely hidden, but not quite. When he saw Luke approach, he snuck hastily into the forest, although Luke could see him making his way deeper into the brush. The illegal logging trade had progressively thinned out the area’s natural resources, allowing Luke a clear view of the boy’s path. The doctor positioned himself carefully in front of the translator, blocking the man’s line of sight in order to give the child room to run.

Although Luke was in his 50s, he was in incredible shape, thanks to a lifelong love of rugby. His red mane, now streaked with grey, had given the native Scot the nickname of The Lion when he’d been the star of the London Broncos 20 years ago. He was still faster and stronger than most men his age, and made sure he stayed that way with a considerate exercise regimen. But Khemera didn’t need to know that. The translator himself was a short, pudgy flab of a man, who was rarely without a worried expression.

“Damn,” he said to Khemera. “There’s no way we’ll catch him now.” Khemera gave Luke a long look from his peripheral vision.

“Okay, doc,” he answered in accented English. “Let’s get back. Perhaps we can retrieve answers from the outpost.”

Luke motioned for Khemera to proceed, following a few paces behind. When they reached the outpost, Luke could see the injured child had woken up and was in distress. The boy’s brows were wrung together, his eyes squinting in pain. With gnashing teeth, he shook his head, flinging his arms as much as his weakened body would allow. Now that he was cleaned up, Luke noticed that the boy’s arms were covered in what appeared to be self-inflicted scratches, likely the result of a methamphetamine addiction. The doctors had been briefed that the drugs locals referred to as “yuma” had made its way to even the most remote of villages here in Cambodia, and that the

migrant field workers would sell it to the children of the village under the guise of helping them become more productive. Nothing surprised Luke anymore, and he’d unfortunately seen far worse circumstances than these. At least the children didn’t appear to be armed in this village.

Khemera sped up to a jog when they joined the doctors, and immediately began his attempts to communicate with the child. Luke looked on for a moment before making his way to the other side of the hut to join Sok Bopha, a local midwife who was passing out protein shakes in exchange for villagers agreeing to receive vaccinations.

Luke found it fascinating that the villagers in Ratanakiri still found themselves so deeply steeped in tribal beliefs, even in the 21st century, even with the vast advancements in technology. They wouldn’t go into the forest at certain times, for instance, because of purported spirit activity. And they emphatically did not trust Western doctors to help provide life-saving vaccinations.

To be fair, Luke thought, I probably wouldn’t either if I were them.

It’s not as if Westerners had the best track record with these indigenous communities. Besides the well-warranted distrust of strange doctors holding needles full of God-knew-what, the genocide that had occurred here decades ago still maintained a lingering hold even on the most rural of communities in Cambodia, planting a deep-rooted suspicion of outsiders of any kind into every generation thereafter.

But there was also a rice shortage and a drought, which meant there wasn’t a single villager who wasn’t malnourished. Sacks of cornmeal, which most Westerners wouldn’t consider fit for human consumption, had become a dietary staple in the community. Even the pigs that shuffled between the stilted houses were gaunt with exhaustion, and moved at an unbothered pace, not caring what happened to them, willing it all to be over.

The elevated hut was divided into two open sections with doors on either side leading out to steps, as if it were a duplex. The two sections were separated solely by a lone wooden beam, so the Scot was easily able to go through the motions of assisting Bopha while keeping an eye on the commotion next to them. He hovered in a corner, away from the view of his fellow teammates, until he heard Khemera begin to speak very quickly, in a hushed tone, translating for the boy. It looked as if the child was finally beginning to open up to them. Luke handed a syringe haphazardly to Bopha and hurried quickly over to the group.

When he arrived, the boy’s skin became translucent as he began to shake.

“What is it?” Luke said.

Andy, Khemera, and Landon regarded the Scot curiously. Khemera then turned his attention directly to the boy, attempting to comfort him by putting his doughy hand on the boy’s arm, which was hardly wider than the handle of a tennis racket.

“What is it?” Luke repeated.

No one answered and the boy began to cry, his sobs violently contorting his angular shoulders. He uttered a singular phrase before kicking himself off the table and hobbling out of the outpost as quickly as his mangled body would allow.

“What did he say?” Landon asked urgently.

“White ghost,” Khemera responded.

Chapter Two

Phnom Penh, Cambodia

Walker Steele couldn’t quite seem to adjust to the heat. His eyes were too irritated to wear contact lenses, so prolific was the sweat that poured from his brow. At 6’4”, with a shock of blonde hair and bright blue eyes, his ruddy cheeks never browned, despite having grown up under the eternal summer skies of Charleston, South Carolina. Needless to say, he may as well have been the jolly green giant in a place like Phnom Penh. The sunscreen and bug spray he’d applied in the air-conditioned safety of Hotel Le Jardin had long since seeped into his already suffering eyes, and so he’d given up trying to protect himself from the elements.

He’d spent the morning familiarizing himself with the comings and goings from an office space located deep within a maze-like building hidden from view by the outdoor markets that inflicted themselves upon the majority of the city’s streets. Remarkably, no one had tried to rob him yet and he hadn’t encountered any trouble. Still, he’d been drawing looks and knew he needed to move on before the wrong person got wind of his whereabouts.

Walker looked at his wristwatch, an old Casio he’d gotten for less than 20 bucks in the States. Aside from his Company-issued long-lens Canon, his indulgences were spare; he’d noticed the crime rates slowly creeping up before eventually exploding over the past few years. He attributed at least part of this development to the surge in technological advances that allowed people to see just how poor they were in comparison to folks in other parts of the world. Now, when they saw a rich, young, idiot backpacker, they knew with relative certainty that they’d be worth the commensurately small risk it took to rob him. And on top of that, drugs were more prevalent today in Cambodia than they’d ever been before. Not to mention human trafficking (the reason he’d been sent there in the first place), the perils of the natural world going up in flames before everyone’s eyes, and the relentless drumbeat of late-stage capitalism pushing them all to their miserable, impoverished ends. These people were desperate. And Walker had unfortunately found through his line of work that desperation had a tendency to breed corruption.

It was ten past ten. Walker considered the best course of action. He needed to get visual confirmation that Zhang Mùchén was in the building, but he didn’t want to make himself an object of attention, which had already begun to happen, despite his best efforts. He decided to linger a few minutes more, turning his lens to the exotic fruits spilling into the streets. The sweet smells of the fruit mingled with the pungency of raw fish and meats to create a smell wholly unique to Cambodia. With the brightly colored umbrellas and throngs of tightly packed people, the result was an overload to the senses. He passed a bucket full of live frogs, crowding on top of each other to hatch an escape. He decided not to linger on the fact that they’d been skinned, instead moving on to a clothing stand, with t-shirts that read “Abercrombie & Fitch” and “BabyGirl.” A chain of tangled keychains dangled from a plastic rod.

Finally, the incessant whirring of idling motorbikes was broken up by a car–a Cadillac, no less–pushing its way through the narrow streets, its fumes lingering with the dust and dirt on the ground, sending smothering trails through the crowded streets. Walker discreetly wedged himself behind a tower of watermelons threatening to topple at any opportunity and aimed his camera somewhat indiscreetly in the direction of the car. He began to photograph its license plate, along with a profile shot of the driver and the two passengers who shot out from the backseat: one was his mark, Mùchén, dressed in a silk Versace pajama-style suit, barking to some sorry soul on the other end of his new iPhone. Behind him was a small, smartly dressed woman in a black skirt suit and a severe bun, typing quickly on a tablet. They rushed past the stalls and into the building Walker had been casing. He checked his camera’s viewfinder, double checking that he’d captured all he’d needed to. Placing Mùchén at this address was essential, and he was satisfied with what he’d shot.

He didn’t need to catch them leaving, so he decided to make himself scarce to avoid becoming a target of the wrong person’s attention. He hailed a tuk tuk and headed back to the hotel, where he went directly to his room to upload the photos to a private server in Virginia. The subject of Walker’s photographs was suspected to be the head of a multimillion dollar cyber scam operation. Mùchén lorded over hundreds of Cambodian workers who were engaged in a variety of digital cons and telescams; and they had successfully fleeced hundreds of thousands of Americans out of their retirement savings, if not their last dimes. The Cambodians pulling off the heists weren’t necessarily bad actors, and so were spared the ire of the American government, and subsequently Walker Steele’s attention. Mùchén and his associates were forcing them to work for nothing, creating imaginary debts that would never be paid off. Walker had seen it happen plenty of times in his own country with migrant farm workers and other targeted immigrant populations. Unfortunately, this style of operation was nothing new. However, because of the impact on American citizens, the CIA was now involved. And they had good reason to believe that cyber scams were only a small part of the incredibly well organized crime syndicate specializing in most forms of human trafficking. Mùchén may have been managing this part of the business, but it was Walker’s job to gain intelligence about who was above him, and exactly how far their reach extended.

He grew bored waiting for word from Virginia–the time difference was throwing them all off, he guessed–and so he decided to head down to the hotel bar for a cold drink. Walker felt like he’d traveled back to the 1930s when he entered the remarkably stylish room. Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling glass windows, landing on tropical looking trees scattered throughout the bar. A large vintage mural of the Rumduol, the iconic Cambodian flower for which the hotel was named, overlooked the bar and its several tufted leather sofas and rattan furniture. Behind a great marble slab, a compact man with bleached tipped hair and several strands of lengthy beaded necklaces sat with a smile as serene as any Buddha Walker had seen.

In any other setting, Walker was prone to ordering a bourbon, neat, but given the heat, he decided to order an ice-cold martini and positioned himself comfortably at the edge of the bar to observe the other patrons, of which there were only four. A well-composed Asian woman was seated next to a middle-aged man with Nordic features and a tangled mane of red hair that reached his shoulders. They were deep in discussion with another couple, but Walker didn’t get the feeling that it was a social gathering. The man looked stiff and nervous, while the woman was confident and striking; she was wearing a black dress that appeared to be personally tailored to accentuate her impeccable figure. Her long, black hair was worn loose, the ends of which circled beneath her shoulders, and she didn’t seem to have much makeup on other than a smear of red lipstick. Her pale skin glistened in the sun and Walker found himself staring. She looked up and caught his eye, a small smirk dancing across her face. He felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth before he looked away, feeling a bit embarrassed at being caught agape.

He opened his well-worn copy of Self Reliance to avoid any further awkwardness. Even as a child, Walker had naturally excelled at eavesdropping, which lended itself nicely to his current position as an intelligence operative. He flipped through the pages of his book slowly and scanned his eyes on the pages before him, but his focus remained solely on the conversation of the unusual quadrant. They were all speaking in English, which piqued his curiosity.

“The demand only continues to rise,” said the man with his back to Walker. Walker detected an American accent, but couldn’t place the dialect. Northern California, maybe.

“When is the next auction, and where?” pressed the woman to his right. “We have several clients who are extremely interested. Time, of course, is limited, given their circumstances.”

The gorgeous woman facing the couple nodded seriously, before speaking in a perfectly posh British accent. “Of course. We’re working with our suppliers, if you will, and soon plan to provide myriad options that will certainly exceed your clients’ expectations.”

She paused, taking a casual glance around the bar, seemingly deciding if Walker, the only other present party, could hear them or was even interested. Apparently not, as she continued on, albeit with a lowered voice.

“As always, I cannot tell you the exact details until the day of the event. But I would recommend clearing your calendar in a few weeks. And opening your travel itineraries to the City of Gold.”

Dubai, Walker thought. What exactly are they discussing?

The couple whose backs were turned to Walker nodded and stood to leave. “It was so nice connecting again,” the woman said, reaching forward to shake her associates’ hands.

“Our clients will be very glad to hear the latest updates, especially with you leading the team, Dr. Cameron,” the man said. “We are very pleased to see your involvement with the project.”

“Only the best,” the Asian woman smiled. “We’re very excited, indeed, to have a surgeon of Dr. Cameron’s caliber.”

Walker snuck a glance, noticing the red headed man’s obvious discomfort. “Enjoy your stay in Cambodia,” the woman smiled as the two Americans filed out of the bar.

Walker turned his focus back to his paperback, waiting for the group to clear out. The Americans passed him on their way out, and he was able to get a better look. They were both dressed conservatively, and frankly, a bit impractically for the heat and the fact that they were in a third world country. That Rolex won’t last long, Walker thought ruefully. Once they’d left, the woman and Dr. Cameron began to argue quietly in Mandarin, in which Walker was fluent.

“A phony name is not enough,” the doctor said. “My reputation could be at stake. I don’t feel comfortable meeting anyone in person who could connect me to this.”

“May I remind you that we are paying you to be a comforting, professional, white face. And I don’t really care about how you feel about it, Luke. After all, you seem quite comfortable accepting payment,” the woman said, in a cool, controlled tone. “Would you like that to change? I’m happy to escalate this conversation to the Guptas to determine how they feel about it.”

The doctor’s pale skin turned purple with anger and he stormed off, nearly knocking Walker off his barstool.

The woman noticed, and approached him, placing a hand gingerly on his arm. “Are you alright?” she asked in English.

“I am. Are you? He seemed a bit upset,” Walker said, playing dumb.

“Oh, that. Haven’t you ever had a temperamental coworker? In my business, most clients seem to take some finessing.”

“Unfortunately, I know exactly what you mean. May I ask what line of business you’re in?”

She made herself comfortable on the chair next to him, signaling to the bartender for a drink. A frothy pink cocktail appeared immediately before her and she slipped the bartender a generous amount of riels directly from her Hermes Kelly bag.

“Real estate,” she replied. “And you?”

“I’m a writer,” he said.

“How fascinating,” she replied, leaning toward him, placing her chin in one of her hands. It was then that he realized who she reminded him of: Audrey Hebpurn.

“Anything I would have read?”

When she edged closer, Walker inhaled her expensive-smelling perfume. It stirred a familiar feeling within him, and he was left with no choice but to admit to himself that he was deeply intrigued by this mysterious woman.

“I put together those tour guides they sell in airports and train stations. Not a very glamorous end product, but it does allow me to visit beautiful places like this.”

She smiled coyly, sharing a look with Walker that she knew he was lying. He smiled back in the same manner, and they regarded each other silently for a moment.

“Celine Chiang,” she finally said, giving him her hand.

“John Smith,” he replied, holding her gaze as he shook her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Chapter Three

Phnom Penh, Cambodia

Dr. Landon McAllister was trying–and failing–not to look as lost as she felt. A sense of claustrophobia was descending upon her. The buildings were piled ramshackle on top of each other; food was spilling into the streets; music and horns merged together to create a nightmare cacophony. And the heat! The sun had set, but it was still sweltering. She was trying to reach Harry’s, an expat bar on Bassac Lane, but she’d made a wrong turn and was now fighting the crowds of Phnom Penh’s nightlife to try to right herself. After the time they’d spent in Ratanakiri, the last thing she wanted to do was socialize, but she was anxious to learn more about her new coworkers and hear about their experiences with Doctors Without Borders.

You can always go home early, she told herself, trying unsuccessfully to locate any familiar looking landmarks.

She’d impulsively purchased a crossbody bag from a street vendor earlier that day when she’d visited Wat Ounalom, a Buddhist monastery in the heart of the city. The bag had a black leather strap and just enough room for her phone, key ring, lipstick, and cards. When she’d come across it at the card table-sized stall, she had thought it would be perfect for the rare evening that she actually left her boarding quarters–she finally had an occasion to get out and about.

The only hiccup was that it was about to be snatched. Landon felt a tug at her waist and a current of warm air moving from the cyclist who was leaning down to grab it. He was slight, with long, shaggy, black hair that bore no trace of a helmet. His shirt blew back, exposing his lean torso underneath.

For a brief and fleeting moment, she experienced complete clarity and attempted to rip the bag back from the thief, ultimately breaking the flimsy strap and sending the contents of the bag flying into the street. The cyclist successfully managed to grab her phone from the tussle before pedaling with more gumption than a bat out of hell into the crowds overtaking the street.

Before she could take off after him, Landon was passed by a tall, broad shouldered man with a muss of hair so light that it appeared to her–just for a moment–that it was glowing in the dark. His muscles were clearly defined through the outline of his lightweight t-shirt, and it took Landon a moment to stop focusing on his physique long enough to realize that she knew him. He chased down the cyclist in what seemed like a few, effortless steps, easily knocked him off his bike, and retrieved her phone as if by chance. He was at least a foot taller than the thief, and had a good hundred pounds on him. He clearly didn’t fear retaliation, jogging back to Landon with his back turned to the cyclist, who had disappeared back into the throng of tourists and native Cambodians crowding Phnom Penh.

“Landon McAllister?” he called.

“Is that you? Walker Steele?” Landon laughed, clutching her belongings in her fists.

When he reached her, Landon instinctively reached out to wrap an arm around him. She had never felt more relieved to see someone she knew. She couldn’t explain how, exactly, but he smelled like Charleston, which left her with a pang of homesickness.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, pulling out of her grasp and handing over her cell phone. “Being rescued?”

“Besides that,” he laughed.

“Well, I was trying to find Harry’s. Have you heard of it? I’m supposed to meet some of my colleagues tonight for dinner. But I made a wrong turn and…”

Walker smiled easily. He hadn’t seen Landon in years, and she looked the same as she had when she was a kid. Freckles, green eyes, a mess of hair that never seemed to be fully combed. His mind flashed to a crabbing competition back in Charleston. They couldn’t have been more than ten. She’d whipped his tail, but that was to be expected. Back then, Landon always came out on top. He was willing to bet that much hadn’t changed.

“First time in Phnom Penh, I’m guessing?”

“That obvious?”

He grinned, placing his warm hand on her shoulder. She felt a melting sensation seep through her body from the place where his hand made contact.

“Luckily, I’ve been to Harry’s a time or two.”

“Buy you a drink for some honest directions?”

“You’ve got a deal. But I’ll let you in on a little secret. Stay far away from The Golden Dragon. It’s delicious. And lethal.”

“What would I do without you?” Landon grinned up at him, linking arms conspiratorially. “Now you’ll have saved me twice.”

They leaned against each other as if they’d been together for years, Walker steering them easily around the crowded streets.

“Clearly, this isn’t your first visit to Cambodia.” Landon said. “I believe Patricia said you’re some kind of international business tycoon? A tech boy wonder or something like that?”

“Ah, good ol’ Pat. You know she and my mother are in the same book club? Paula says it’s the hottest social event in town.”

“You must be referring to the very book club in which they buy the hottest bestseller on the market and then shamelessly drink and gossip instead of ever deigning to crack the cover. Is that the one?”

“That sounds about right,” Walker chuckled. His Southern accent began to creep its way back into his cadence. He purposely began to take the long way to Harry’s so they could continue talking.

“So what do you do, then?” Landon asked. “Apps?”

Walker smirked. “No, nothing that interesting. I work for a company that specializes in data gathering, more or less. It’d bore you to tears to hear more, trust me. I’ve lost plenty of dates before the first course ever arrived.”

Landon smirked. “I highly doubt that. And you’re in luck, because this isn’t a date. A rescue mission, maybe.”

Walker met her eyes and smiled, taking her in. She hadn’t lost any of the spitfire that had left an impression on him when they were children.

“Anyway, if it isn’t in the realm of medicine or children, I’m probably about 10 years too late to fully understand it. Mary Grace tells me I’m essentially out to pasture when it comes to technology.”

Walker had completely forgotten about Landon’s younger sister. He remembered both girls looking just alike, although Mary Grace was the younger of the two. She was the same age as his little sister, Katherine, and the girls were lifelong friends. He tried to remember the last time he’d called his sister. It’d been too long.

“I didn’t realize you had children. But I did know you became a doctor, of course. Thanks to the book club circuit, obviously. And you’re in D.C.?”

“Boston. And I’m a pediatric surgeon,” Landon replied. “No kids of my own, but maybe one day. For now, I’m content with being Ellis and Janie’s favorite aunt.”

“Of course you’re a surgeon. The Landon I knew never did anything halfway.”

“That much hasn’t changed,” she winked. “Do you ever play baseball anymore? Weren’t you headed to the Major Leagues?”

“Good memory,” he said. “I ended up going in a different direction, clearly. But I do miss it sometimes.”

His vague response led her to worry that she’d offended him by bringing it up. She wasn’t sure what had happened with his career; he could have been injured or maybe he wasn’t fit to make the cut. Although their sisters remained close, she and Walker had lost touch as time had ushered them down separate paths, both leaving Charleston at a young age. Of course, she had no way of knowing that Walker had only abandoned baseball to become one of the leading intelligence operatives for the CIA.

“Listen,” she said, looking around. “I’m having the best time, but surely we’re close by now?”

He took a look at his watch. “You’re definitely late,” he said, with a look that was clearly meant to tempt her to blow off her plans.

She considered it for a moment, but she was anxious to get back to the group. Seeing Walker had provided a welcome distraction from the endless loop that had been playing in her mind since they’d left Ratanakiri: the terrified child, all the scars they’d seen.

“I’ve really got to get back to the group…” she said.

“Sick of me already? I didn’t even get to the sleep-inducing details of my job yet.”

Landon laughed at that. “Actually, I’m really glad we ran into each other. This has been–” magical, she thought, although there was no way in hell she was going to divulge that. “–great. But I have a lot to discuss with my team. We just got back from Ratanakiri and we still have quite a bit of debriefing to do…”

Landon wasn’t prone to spinning out on conspiracy theories, but what she had seen in Ratanakiri led her to fear that organs were being taken from the desperate, starving people of the quiet jungle village, either unwillingly, or at the very least, unethically. She’d done some research earlier that day, and it had turned up plenty of stories of organ trafficking in third-world countries. It felt like they’d briefed her for everything during her onboarding with Doctors Without Borders, but she felt wholly unprepared to deal with something of this magnitude. For the moments they were together, Walker had absorbed her attention long enough for her to think about something other than what she’d been spinning around in her mind all day.

He seemed to understand the urgency in her tone, sensing that there was a depth of things left unsaid. He gently took her hand off his arm and took her shoulders, spinning her around to see a flashing neon sign emblazoned with the name of the bar.

“Harry’s awaits,” he said.

“Why don’t you join us?” Landon asked. It was unplanned, but now that he was leaving, she was short of begging him not to go. “I’m sure there’s plenty of room.”

Walker smiled, shaking his head. “I’d better not. You may think you don’t know much about tech, but I wouldn’t be able to sound like anything but a bumpkin with your crowd. How long are you here for? Maybe we could meet intentionally next time.”

“I’d love that, but we’re actually just–”

“McAllister!” Dr. Gillis burst from the busy restaurant and into the street in a cloud of smoke and booze. He wobbled on his feet before leaning on her shoulder and clapping her back roughly.

“Dr. Luke! I see Harry’s has been good to you,” Landon laughed. She squirmed around to catch a breath of fresh air and introduce her colleague to Walker.

“You look familiar,” Luke slurred.

Walker wore an imperceptible expression, but Landon felt something had shifted. He held out his hand. “Walker Steele,” he said.

“Hell of a name!” Luke said, and gave Walker a very loose shake.

“Walker, this is my colleague, Dr. Luke Gillis,” Landon said, looking embarrassed. Walker smiled, although his teeth were concealed.

“It was great seeing you again,” Walker said, turning his focus to Landon. “Be safe, okay?” He looked pointedly at Luke.

“No Golden Dragons for me,” she winked. “Scout’s honor.”

Andy came out next, looking worried until he spotted Luke and Landon. “There you are,” he said. “I was worried he’d gone off on his own.” “Oh please,” Luke slobbered. “Don’t be ridiculoush.”

Andy and Landon exchanged a look before Andy caught sight of Walker. “Hi there,” he said, stretching out his hand. “Andy Teng.”

“Nice to meet you. Walker Steele.”

The look Andy gave Landon was plain enough for everyone to read and she felt adequately mortified.

“Let’s get Dr. Luke in, shall we? It was great seeing you, Walker.” He frowned slightly as he watched Andy lead the trio into the restaurant.

Landon brought up the rear, in case Luke were to lose his footing, and the three of them passed a long bar that took up the length of the building. Red bar stools covered in hard, cracked plastic were lined up shoddily and filled with what appeared to be tourists. Landon was surprised by how very American it all looked. She heard snippets of conversations as they passed, all in English. American Top 40 music played at an uncomfortable decibel. It smelled like Bud Light and the sickly saccharinity of imported vape pens.

Eventually, they reached the back patio, where string lights swooped over the tables and plants lined the perimeter. Khemera waved them over to an empty table.

“I’m glad you found him! And Dr. Landon!” he reached out, giving her a quick hug. As she pulled back, she noticed quite a few empty cocktail glasses on the table. She wondered if she’d made the right decision, leaving Walker for this. But Andy and Khemera seemed to have their wits about them. She was sure Luke would sober up with a few coffees and some carbs.

“I didn’t just find these two,” Andy said, with a wicked grin. “Who exactly was your gentleman friend, Dr. McAllister?”

Landon laughed. Andy may have been naturally flirtatious–and naturally handsome, although a bit too polished for her taste–but she knew she wasn’t his type. He’d shown her a sampling of the people he’d been seeing in Toronto, and they were, without exception, just as adventurous as he seemed to be. Andy had shared with Landon that his last relationship had been as a part of a throuple, with a nonbinary biker with gauges and a mohawk and a dominatrix whose wardrobe didn’t seem to stray too far from the basics: leather, chains, and latex. Landon didn’t pry too far into the sexual dynamics at play after Andy had revealed that the whole thing had ended in literal flames.

“Walker is a friend from childhood, actually. I can’t believe we ran into each other here. He saved me from being mugged, if you can believe it.”

Before she could explain further, a cocktail waitress with the face of a catalog model came to take their order. Landon quickly ordered a round of Angkors for the group and a carafe of water for Luke. She’d developed a taste for the light Cambodian beer and wasn’t willing to chance a cocktail after seeing the state Luke was in.

“So he’s your knight in shining armor?” Khemera grinned after the waitress left. “I know why he looks familiar!” Luke cried suddenly.

The three of them turned sharply at the outburst. “He was at Le Jardin today.”

“Le Jardin? At The Rumduol? Wait, why were you at Le Jardin? I know you’re a tenured doctor, but surely your digs aren’t that much nicer than ours.” Andy sassed.

Dr. Luke paused for a moment. “No, no. I had a meeting with my teeeam in Scotland and I thought I’d use their internet. Loverly place.”

“But wouldn’t it be nighttime in Scotland? Isn’t it reversed?” Khemera asked.

“Oh, you know, always have to be on call and all of that,” Luke mumbled, reaching for the water.

Landon assessed the doctor. He wasn’t making any sense, but she supposed that could be chalked up to the amount of alcohol he’d consumed.

“Walker must be staying there,” Landon said. “I think he’s here for work.”

Luke leaned back in his chair, his eyes half closed. Landon’s amusement with the doctor was quickly turning to annoyance and she shifted to small talk with Andy and Khemera, who were much more pleasant dining companions.

It wasn’t long, however, before she steered the conversation to what had been nagging at her since they’d left Ratanakiri.

“You know, something’s just not sitting right with me about that kid,” she said, picking at an undercooked truffle fry.

Khemera nodded with excitement. “I agree. The way he wouldn’t tell us anything, even after you had essentially just saved his life… I can’t wrap my head around it.”

“It’s all my fault,” Luke cut in. Landon was glad to see that he was finally beginning to sober up.

“It seemed like you were starting to get somewhere before I showed up and ruined the whole thing.”

“Not really,” Landon said. “He was still very hesitant, although he did say that he couldn’t remember how he got the incisions, that he woke up that way.”

“That seems important,” said Andy. “Maybe he was drugged? It certainly wouldn’t take much. I don’t think we met a single person over a hundred pounds in Ratanakiri.”

“It might have even been a voluntary trade,” said Khemera. “Yuma has taken over many rural villages here.”

Landon took this in, considering the next appropriate action.

“And nothing about the gunshot?” Luke ventured.

“On that subject, he staunchly refused,” said Khemera.

“But why did he call me that? ‘White ghost’? I know the mug isn’t what it used to be, but surely these whiskers aren’t that scary,” said Luke, who seemed to be regaining his wits.

“It’s a spirit,” replied Khemera. “For a long time, it’s been associated with the woods. In this village, they believe that white, the absence of color, is a sign that death is present or on its way.

The fact that you’re a doctor and a bit of a Highlander… Well, he may not have ever seen anyone who looks like you before. It may have been a reaction borne of superstition.”

“And here I thought I was getting quite tan,” Luke joked. The table laughed, and he started to change the subject. “Has anyone been—”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Landon said. “I’m just really stuck on this. I think the right thing to do is report our findings to Medicins Sans Frontieres. We’ve all heard of organs being sold on the black market. What if the child was drugged, like Andy said? And what if it’s endemic within the village? We need to find out what’s going on. This could be a small part of a much larger problem.”

“I agree with you,” said Khemera, surreptitiously shooting a look in Luke’s direction, “but now isn’t the time. We need to do more research before making a report. If you’re right, this is a serious crime and is much bigger than anything we should be directly involved in.”

Luke nodded. “In the morning, we can get online and make a plan. But for now, let’s use this time to relax and enjoy ourselves. What do you say?”

“I guess you’re right,” Landon conceded, and finished her beer, “although I think you’ve hit the cap on enjoying yourself, Dr. Luke.”

There was no way she’d be able to stop thinking about that boy and the other villagers, but Khemera and Luke had a point. There was nothing she could do about it tonight. She may as well try to get to know the people she was here with. In four short weeks, they’d all be returning to their separate map dots.