by Ed Kovacs
Because they were standing right next to the locked airlock door, and only because of that, they heard the loud, distinctive sound of the air-blowers engage from inside the airlock. Someone was coming. He grabbed Grant and pressed her flat against the wall. Hernandez pivoted to face the door and squatted slightly just as Director Tang entered.
Tang was turning his head toward him when Hernandez slammed his full weight into the thin man in the brown shirt, the man in his forties with black-framed eyeglasses, the man who had murdered his brother at the Foggy Bottom Metro Station. The screeching fire alarm seemed to fade away as he entered his own personal killing zone of consciousness and used his last ounces of strength to ram Tang's face into the wall, knocking out two teeth and shattering his nose, while simultaneously stripping the gun from Tang's hand. He pressed the gun barrel into the back of the MSS man's neck.
“Director Tang!” yelled Hernandez, his voice muffled by the respirator. “You killed my brother, Willie Taveras in Washington D.C. So here's a little something from me to you.”
Red blood splattered the wall in front of Tang as rounds tore into the lower rear of his skull and blew out through the front. Hernandez watched as Tang blinked in shock, and then collapsed.
As Hernandez teetered over Tang's body, he fought tears because at this moment he felt the spirit of his brother Willie was with him. Tang had murdered Willie in cold blood, and now payback had been delivered. But there was no feeling of satisfaction, no joyful glee, no gloating. There was only tremendous sadness for the huge hole that had been created in his family, a hole that could never be filled.
###
Grant took Hernandez by the hand and led him into the airlock. The air blowers came on and they ripped off their respirators. She closed the inner door behind them and saw the door's locking latch. Just as she tripped it, Zhao's enraged face appeared in the window as his body slammed into the door. He tried the door, but she'd just locked it. He was trapped in the supercomputer room, unless he could make it to the front airlock.
Zhao threw his jammed gun against the window, but it bounced off the thick glass. Did he know he was about to be asphyxiated? He lasered Grant with his fiery eyes. He weakly pounded on the glass as he cursed her, and since she read lips, it was as if she heard every ugly word.
You cheap tart! You whore with a bloody vagina! I'll bloody your vagina! Open this door, woman! Open it, slut! We Han are better than your ilk This century is our century, the Pacific Century, the Chinese Century, my century I will make you all crawl on your knees...
Grant stood fast, her eyes locked on Zhao’s. She sensed his hate, his laser-sharp wrath. Hernandez put his hand in hers and gently squeezed her fingers, but didn't intervene, didn't say a word. She looked at Zhao with no pity, no remorse, no guilt. Even though, my God, she was killing a human being. She could simply open the door and Hernandez would gladly do the deed. But instead, she watched with righteous satisfaction as Zhao faded. His eyes rolled up in his head and he dropped to the floor, unconscious. Unless someone came to his aid right now, his nomination was withdrawn.
Rapist, killer, world leader. To die like this... he was getting off easy.
###
Grant and Hernandez slammed against the pushbars of heavy steel crash-out doors—emergency exits for fire or haz-mat situations—and darted out into the night air. They raced across the lawn, crossed the double-lane roadway and disappeared into the dark trees on the banks of the meandering Pearl River.
Hernandez had spotted a dock and boats when they were coming in for a landing in Ma's helicopter. As they approached it now, it appeared the small dock was for student use. Kayaks, ratty-looking skiffs, and a few two-person plastic canoes floated loosely tied to the dock. Since plastic canoes were virtually unsinkable, Hernandez selected a dark-colored one.
In less than a minute, with Grant in the front seat, they'd silently slipped into the inky waters, each holding a plastic paddle as the current drew them swiftly toward the sea. Not that they were going that far. With luck, Jaffir would pick them up long before they reached Jinxing Bay and the ocean beyond.
They stayed quiet, bent over low in the canoe to reduce their profile. In a matter of minutes they glided below a massive bridge and skirted the creaking, rusting hulks of ocean-going cargo ships docked on the river banks. The current inexorably drew them toward the heart of the city and sounds of street traffic, snippets of Cantonese music from riverside karaoke bars, and shards of laughter from fisherman trolling the black water. Musky scents of garbage and sewage and dead fish mixed with the tickling aroma of pork and garlic frying in palm oil from open air stalls on the bank. Life, they had found life, leaving the university killing ground far behind.
“You okay to steer this thing, Grant?” asked Hernandez, weakly.
“I am, and my friends call me Nicole. What's your real first name, Mr. Taveras?”
“Nicole, my real first name is Manny.”
“Manny, after we get you to a doctor and when you've had time to recover, I'd like to take you out for dinner and drinks and dancing, although, as I've said before, I don't know how to dance.”
“You're a fast learner. I'll teach you.”
“I'd like that.” There wasn't much wiggle room in the canoe. She placed the paddle across her lap and reached blindly behind her with her right hand.
He leaned forward, gently took her hand in his, and laced their fingers together.
ABOUT ED KOVACS
Ed Kovacs is the author of the critically-acclaimed Cliff St. James mystery / crime series, as well as stand-alone espionage and action thrillers. Ed has studied martial arts, holds many weapons-related licenses, certifications and permits, and is a certified medical First Responder. Using various pen names, he has worked professionally around the world as a screenwriter, journalist, and media consultant. He is a member of the Association of Former Intelligence Officers, American Legion Post 299, the International Thriller Writers association, and Mystery Writers of America.
Mr. Kovacs graduated from Southern Illinois University, having paid his tuition by working in a steel mill, driving a truck, and spinning records as a late-night jazz DJ on local radio. He splits his time between his aircraft hanger home at a Southern California airport, and his home in Asia.
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COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
PRINTING HISTORY
First edition e-book: The Phoenix Group August 2016
ISBN: 978-0-9976788-2-6 (e-book edition)
LOCKED DOWN, Copyright © 2016 by Ed Kovacs
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Cover design: Bookdesign
Photo of Ed Kovacs © Neungreuthai Chanphonsean
Graphics courtesy Pacific Place; Carnegie-Mellon University