Tiger Eye

by Marjorie M. Liu

  It was blunt, and probably unexpected so soon into the conversation—though Dela was certain she had already surprised Wen with her calm, somewhat casual, demeanor. Nerves of steel, that was what she had. Oh, yeah. And just wait until she got back home and fell apart.

  Wen blinked, his cool mask faltering for just one moment. “Thank you. We all miss Lucy very much.”

  Lucy.

  Dela swallowed hard. “I had no idea what would happen when I prepared that particular order for my client.”

  “Of course,” he said smoothly. Too smoothly, in Dela’s opinion. She, who had run herself ragged with every possible accusation, who stood ready to take responsibility for her role in the child’s murder. Wen’s gaze was curiously empty as he said, “Your associate, Adam, absolved you of the crime. He requested we … cease hostilities.”

  “And will you?” Dela asked mildly, unsure how to react to Wen’s marked lack of emotion. She reached for her glass of water.

  ::Do not drink it.:: Hari whispered urgently, and Dela merely fingered the fine crystal, tracing bored lines in the perspiration. ::The water was already at the table when you arrived. He might have poisoned it.::

  Indeed, Wen watched her with a sudden peculiar intensity that was alarming. Dela took advantage of his scrutiny and smiled. Surprise flickered through his dark eyes, quickly suppressed.

  Gently, she said, “I feel terrible about what happened, and have said as much. You know I am not directly responsible. Why am I here, Mr. Zhang? Do you and … and Lucy’s parents still want me dead?”

  Wen did not answer. He leaned back in his seat, openly inspecting her face. An odd smirk formed; a curious mix of self-righteousness and disgust. Dela remained impassive, although on the inside she was confused, seething.

  “You are a curious woman,” he finally said. “On the surface, you seem … simple, shallow. You are beautiful, wealthy, an artist for the rich. You have … what is it called? A silver spoon in your mouth? And yet, you have managed to survive three encounters with my … operators. At first, I thought it was because you surround yourself with trained bodyguards—odd enough, considering my initial impressions of you. But then, a story returned along with your letter. A very curious story, about a bullet, and a man who would not die.”

  Oh, shit.

  ::Delilah.:: Hari sounded worried.

  Dela raised her eyebrow. “A man who would not die? More than curious, Mr. Zhang. The story must have been fantastic.”

  “So I said, but the person telling the story was quite persuasive, and I wondered, what if it was true? How remarkable that would be. How … advantageous.”

  It was astonishing that Wen was so ready to believe the incredible, but Dela hid her shock with a dismissive snort. “Beneficial if you believe in fairy tales maybe.”

  Wen’s whole demeanor changed, a disconcerting meltdown from cool suavity to quiet fury. A flush stained his cheeks. The children playing at the next table stopped shoving each other. Their parents stirred uncomfortably.

  “I know what you are,” he said, deceptively gentle. “I know what your friend is. I have heard of such things. Encountered them, you might say. So no more games, Ms. Reese. No more pretend. I know who you work for, but I don’t care—not anymore. My business has been harmed, my niece is dead, and you are the only one who has not yet paid in blood. As far as I am concerned, your luck has run out. If we do not come to some beneficial agreement, you will be taken care of, as will your friend, no matter how reluctant he is to meet his maker.”

  His words sparked transformation. Sweet icy rage poured through Dela; she felt cruelty pool in her eyes, her lips. The mask was slipping, dying, gone. She smiled; a baring of teeth, one animal to another.

  “You’re right, Mr. Zhang. No more games. If you want to kill me, do it, but your problems won’t end there. I’m a well-known woman. I’m even fairly likable. There are many important people who would be mighty pissed off if I disappeared or died, and trust me, my friends know who you are, what you do, and where you live. Kill me, kill some of them—you won’t get us all, and once the blood spills, we will come for you. You think you’re the baddest badass out there? You don’t know shit.”

  Dela slowly stood, tossing her napkin on the table. “I hope I never see you or your people again, but if I do, you better be prepared.”

  Because it was one thing to threaten her. Menacing her family was something else entirely.

  Dela began to walk away. Wen’s hand shot out, clamping around her wrist.

  “We are not yet finished,” he said.

  She almost used her powers—she could feel them waiting, breathless for the chance to explode free, to teach this man a lesson for threatening her and Hari. He wore metal, and to Dela—now, more than ever before—all metal could be a weapon.

  ::Delilah, be careful.::

  Yes, be careful. There were people watching all around, and her control was fragile at best. She could not risk exposing her family and friends. Dela took a deep breath. Carefully, painstakingly, she calmed herself and tilted her head with a disdainful glare.

  “We are done,” she said, grabbing her glass of water and upending it in Wen’s face. His grip did not loosen, but suddenly Pierre was there, as were Marc and Phillip, his two largest busboys.

  “I believe the good lady wishes you to let go of her wrist,” Pierre said softly, blue eyes glittering. All joviality had left his face, and Dela imagined Pierre as a young man, full of passion and resolve, deadly in a skirmish. Resistance fighter, indeed.

  Wen hesitated; Dela could see the calculations running through his head, and she glanced about, spotting at least three other men at a nearby table who immediately stood up, poised, a question in their eyes as they focused their attention on Wen.

  “This is over,” Dela said in English. “Don’t make the mistake of underestimating me or my friends.”

  Wen’s fingers slowly lifted from her wrist; she resisted the urge to rub her throbbing bones. Wen stood and gathered his coat, the mask back in place.

  “I wish our circumstances could have been different, Ms. Reese, especially considering all you owe my family.”

  “I owe you nothing but my apologies,” she said, “which have been given, profusely, again and again.”

  “Of course,” he said, his gaze chipping at her face. “Goodbye, then.” And with a glance at Pierre, Wen made his way through the restaurant to the door. Dela noted his men did not follow. They sat, their eyes now on her. It seemed to Dela everyone watched her.

  “Dela?” Pierre touched her hand. “Come, let me take you to the kitchen and get you something to drink. What an awful man.”

  “Yes,” she said hollowly, wondering what would come next. “He is quite awful.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Crammed into a windowless van parked half a block down the street, Eddie—off his painkillers and in the driver’s seat—saw Wen Zhang leave Le Soleil, shaking water from his hair, rage clouding his face.

  “Mad dog alert,” he called back to the others.

  Blue glanced down at the monitor, watching Pierre guide Dela toward the back of Le Soleil. Three men caught his attention as Dela walked between the crowded tables. Dressed in suits, their meals untouched, they studied Dela with cold and empty eyes.

  Blue pointed at the screen. “A hundred bucks says those are Wen’s guards.”

  “They’re not following Wen,” Dean said.

  “No.” Hari put his hand on the door handle. “They are waiting for Delilah.”

  Hari and Artur quickly left the van and walked into the restaurant. At the door, a young woman greeted them with a pleasant smile that faded just a notch when they asked to be directed to Pierre.

  “He’s with a friend right now,” she said, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “There was a minor disturbance with one of our customers.”

  “Ah.” Hari tried to smile, attempting to recollect what it felt like to be charming. Artur glanced at him, raised an eyebrow, and gave a
minute shake of his head.

  “My dear,” said Artur, lowering his deep voice, smoothing out his accent, “we are looking for the friend Pierre is with. Dela Reese? Yes, her brother is not well.”

  “Oh,” she said, eyes wide. Still, she was a cautious girl, and instead of telling them to go ahead, she picked up the phone by her station.

  “Monsieur LeBlanc? There are two gentlemen here to see Ms. Reese. They say they are friends. Their names? Um, hold on … oh, uh, Artur and Hari. Yes. All right, then.”

  She smiled up at them. “Thank you for being so patient. If you’ll just walk to the back of the restaurant—see where all those waiters are going? Monsieur LeBlanc will meet you at the entrance to the kitchen and take you to Ms. Reese.”

  “Thank you.” Artur bowed his head, as did Hari, although the warrior felt far less noble, manner-wise. While he had been raised to treat others with respect, this seemed more like a potential battleground than a simple, civilized foray into a restaurant for a loved one.

  “You should work on your smile,” Artur commented, with a casual grin that did not reach his cool darting eyes. Hari followed his gaze, examining the three suited men who had watched Dela. They seemed to recognize Hari and Artur, and shifted uncomfortably.

  “I save my smiles for Delilah,” Hari responded, suppressing a low growl.

  “That is why I like you,” Artur replied, inclining his head at Wen’s bodyguards. The two groups of men could have touched each other—a finger, outstretched—but Artur and Hari passed them in three steps, entered a sun-yellow corridor, and found Pierre LeBlanc waiting for them in front of the steaming kitchen.

  “So you are Dela’s friends,” the Frenchman said, after a quiet moment of scrutiny. “I suppose there is a reason two strong men allowed Dela to meet with that bâtard all by herself? He hurt her wrist.”

  Hari’s jaw ached. “I assure you,” he said tightly, “it was not our desire to allow Delilah anywhere near that man.”

  Pierre grunted. “She speaks highly of you two. I suppose she knows what she is talking about.”

  Clearly, Pierre LeBlanc did not share her glowing assessment. Hari did not blame him. He himself could not think of a single reason to respect any man who allowed his friends and loved ones to face danger alone. Unfortunately, Dela was very good at convincing him to do things he would normally never consider.

  This is the last time, he promised himself. My heart cannot take. any more. I would rather have Delilah angry with me than alone, where she can be hurt.

  Artur and Hari found Dela perched on a stool in a quiet corner of the kitchen, a bag of ice on her wrist and a cup of steaming hot chocolate in her hand. She was trying very hard not to shake, and Hari wrapped his arms around her.

  “Dela.” Pierre touched her shoulder. “Are you in some sort of trouble?”

  Dela reluctantly pulled away from Hari. “No, Pierre. Mr. Zhang is simply a client who has been very difficult to satisfy. His demands are unreasonable; he is rude and inconsiderate. After tonight, I plan on cutting off all contact with him.”

  “As you say,” Pierre murmured, though his eyes were sharp and canny. He lightly patted her knee. “Try to be more careful the next time you take a project, eh?”

  And with a piercing glance at Artur and Hari, he ambled off to check on the rest of his kitchen.

  Hari gently lifted the ice off Dela’s wrist and sucked in his breath. Slightly swollen, a dark mottled band had already appeared against her pale skin. A murderous rage settled in the pit of Hari’s stomach—that, and guilt for not being at Dela’s side when she had faced Wen.

  “I will never allow you to do something like this again,” he said quietly, replacing the ice over her wrist. When her eyes flashed, he held up his hand. “If I am to remain in your life, Delilah, you will have to compromise with me on some things. This is one of them.”

  She wanted to say no—he could hear the automatic refusal on her lips—and he knew if she were any other person, he would be on his knees by now, brought low by a command, slave to his mistress. But Dela was not like anyone else, and he saw her eyes grow dark with acceptance.

  “Okay,” she said, and then touched her ear. “Blue said if we want to leave, now would be a good time.”

  Rather than walk through the restaurant again, they left through the back door, which emptied into a narrow alley that stank with garbage. The alley was poorly lit, but Hari’s eyes adjusted instantly, the shadows revealing their secrets to him.

  “Come,” he said, taking Dela’s hand. He led them down the alley, pausing just before the unevenly pitted concrete met the sidewalk. He peered around the wall, and found the windowless white van nearby. No sign of anyone suspicious; men and women strolled down the street, laughing, talking.

  Hari signaled Dela and Artur, and they jogged across the sidewalk up the street, Dela murmuring something under her breath. It must have been a warning to the others, because the van door slid open as they approached, and Dean and Blue helped them inside. Eddie pulled away from the curb.

  “Well,” said Dean. “We’ve established one thing tonight. Never piss off Dela.”

  “Ha,” she muttered darkly. “I may have just gotten all of us killed.”

  “Perhaps not,” Hari said, tucking her close, sensing the fine tremors still running through her body. “You may have bought us time.”

  “Time for what? So maybe they don’t want me dead, but this is almost worse. You and I working for the mob?”

  “I would laugh if it wasn’t so scary,” Dean said.

  Artur frowned. “He said he knew who you work for, but that does not make sense. We have not been compromised.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Hari asked. Dela stirred in his arms.

  “Roland. He’s one of the most powerful psi-talents I’ve ever met. Besides being clairvoyant, he’s also a telepath. A very strong telepath. A long time ago he developed this trick, sort of an alarm system. When someone is ready to be recruited into the agency, Roland—with the individual’s permission—enters his mind and creates a link, a connection between all the agency’s secret information and the emotional center of the brain. Roland is also part of this link, but in a superficial way. If any member of Dirk & Steele discusses the agency to someone who isn’t part of the link, Roland knows—but he only hears the emotions behind the discussion. Guilt, greed, anger, hate—those are red flags. Calmer emotions, or no emotion at all, is safer; but Roland investigates every single occurrence.”

  “He phoned me the afternoon I picked you and Hari up from the airport,” Eddie said. “Apparently, I said enough to trigger the link.”

  “Blabbermouth,” Dean said.

  Blue began removing Dela’s wires. “So what? Does that mean he’s just making guesses, or is there some other group out there, with people like us?”

  “People someone like Wen would know?” Dela frowned. “That’s scary.”

  “Enough,” said Artur. “I will inform Roland and let him conduct his own investigation. For now, we have only one concern, and that is Wen Zhang. Men like Wen are driven by profit. His subordinates will be the same—their allegiance is economic. If you disrupt the flow of cash, Wen will lose face. He will become distracted and sloppy. There may be a power struggle.”

  “You can take the boy out of the mob, but you can’t take the mob out of the boy, huh?” Dean smirked.

  Artur did not smile. “My former bosses had many dealings with the triads and tongs, but what Wen represents is different. His is a true enterprise, a business. In the triads and tongs, loyalty is to the organization. In the criminal enterprise, loyalty is to profit, and to the man who can make the most money for his backers. If Wen loses the money, he loses everything, and Wen and his family—as far as we know—are the only ones who want Dela dead.”

  “Someone is following us,” Eddie announced. “A Jeep. The driver pulled out of his parking space the same time we left, and he’s been close ever since.”

  “On it,”
said Blue, crab-walking through the surveillance equipment to the back of the van. Everyone watched as he carefully peered through the tinted rear window. Moments later, they heard brakes squealing.

  “Sent a surge through the battery and spark plugs,” Blue said, blowing on his fingers with a sly smile. “Over loaded the car’s computer chip, too. Couldn’t see much of the driver, though. Too much glare from the headlights.”

  “Where there is one, there will be others,” Artur said calmly, with a zenlike air that made Dela roll her eyes.

  “So what’s the plan? It seems like the only way to cut into Wen’s profits is to disrupt his human money tree. The typical smuggler earns up to $30,000 a head on illegals, and that’s not including prostitution.”

  “And from what I understand, there’s no shortage of takers who want to get out of China,” Dean said. “He’s got supply and demand, Artur.”

  “But we can find the transport,” Artur countered. “These people are not simply poofing into this country. They are taking ships, or overland routes through South America and Mexico. A few carefully placed tips to the U.S. Coastguard or border patrol, and Wen’s enterprise will begin to crumble.”

  “You said ‘poofing’.” Blue grinned. “Are you finally succumbing to American slang, Artur?”

  “I am succumbing to many things,” he said. “Not the least of which is your wit.”

  They ate dinner when they got home. Paper plates were passed around the table, filled with sandwiches. When Artur went to find silverware, Dela told him to wait. She looked at the drawer he opened, and a moment later, a fork and knife floated into the air.

  Everyone was silent for a moment. Blue reached for some chips.

  “We need to have a talk about these new abilities,” he said mildly, as Artur plucked the utensils out of the air and returned to the table. “The powers we develop when we’re kids are usually the ones we’re stuck with, give or take some extra training. You seem to be doing something a little different, Dela.”

  “No shit,” Dean muttered.