by Marc Cameron
The group crept through the mudroom and pantry single file, padding softly into the kitchen, following the edge of a wraparound granite counter toward the stairs to the left. The front half of the second floor was open to the area below, and light from an open bedroom door above poured over the balcony, illuminating wood floors and ornamental throw rugs.
A sleepy woman’s voice carried down over the railing above. She must have heard the electronic chirp. “James. Are you up messing with the alarm?”
The boy coughed. “Huh?”
“I asked if you were messing with the alarm,” the woman said.
“It’s not me!” the boy said, hoarse with sleep.
The teenage girl spoke next. “Oh my gosh, James! It’s the middle of the night, could you just shut up?”
Kang was surprised they’d all awoken so easily. No matter.
In the hall below, Lily trained her pistol upward at the balcony, her back to the stairs. She gestured to her left, then directly in front of her, and whispered, “Girl . . . parents,” indicating who was in which room. Then, pointing over her shoulder at the bedroom that would be across the upstairs hall, she said, “Boy.”
Kang and the others signaled that they understood. The plan was to grab the parents first, specifically the pregnant woman. They would all be killed eventually, but Wu Chao insisted on questioning Peter Li, learning what he knew, what others knew—if anything—about the incursion into the “vault” computer in his office. Once the woman was under control, everyone would fall into line. Li was sure to answer any questions to save his wife and unborn baby. After that . . . Kang smiled inside. After that, the fool would realize it would have been better if everyone had died in the initial attack.
Kang raised an open hand toward the stairs. His foot had just hit the bottom step when the boy called out again. He froze.
“Something’s weird,” the boy said, half shouting so his parents could hear him. “My app is acting up. Sorry, Mom. I’ll go down and arm it at the pad.”
A light flicked on upstairs. Good. It would destroy the boy’s night vision.
Kang motioned for Wu Chao and Rose to move quickly across the hall and into the dining room. He took Lily with him to wait around the corner in the kitchen. The boy would walk directly between them to reach the security controls.
Young ears, especially those attached to the heads of youths who do not have the misfortune to live in noisy cities or places of war, have excellent hearing.
James trotted down the stairs, whistling “We Are the Champions” by Queen as he skipped every other step. He was barefoot, dressed in a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt. His bare feet hit the base of the wood floor as his whistle crescendoed. The kid spun toward the kitchen, then stopped cold.
He’d heard something.
Kang eased around the corner, allowing him to make out a narrow slice of the hall. Movement flashed in the shadows as Rose stepped out of the dining room, mere feet behind the boy, her suppressed Beretta coming up. She fired, but Wu Chao swatted the weapon away at that exact moment, deflecting the round upward, over the top of the boy’s head and into the kitchen cabinets behind Kang and Lily.
The shot was a quiet pop compared to the shattering dishes and the teenager’s terrified yowl. The spent cartridge rattled on the hardwood. To his credit, instead of freezing as so many did when confronted with sudden danger, the boy tried to flee up the stairs while he worked to make sense of it all. Wu Chao grabbed a handful of T-shirt, dragging him back. He brought his open hand down flat on top of the boy’s head, stunning him into submission.
Wu Chao glared at Rose, hissing in rapid-fire Mandarin. “Not yet! If you kill him, we lose all leverage!” He flicked his free hand up the stairs, shoving the boy ahead of him.
Rose shot a look at Kang, no doubt seeking permission to punch their impudent boss in the face—or worse.
The master bedroom light flicked on. “What was that?” Sophie Li shouted. “James? What broke? Are you okay?”
“M . . . Mom . . .” the boy stammered.
Wu Chao prodded the boy forward, following on his heels. The two women were next. Kang brought up the rear, covering the stairs with his pistol.
“Tell them to come to the balcony,” Wu Chao said, giving the boy a shove to show he meant business.
“Mom . . . Peter,” the boy said, his voice remarkably calm. “They . . . They want you to come here.”
Sophie walked out immediately, clutching the neck of the knee-length football jersey she used as a nightgown. The nylon stretched tight around her pregnant belly.
“What do you mean they?”
She stopped short, her mouth falling open, her face stricken when she saw her son with a gun to his head.
Down the hall, the girl screamed. She ran out of her room clutching a cell phone by her side but had yet to place a call. Rose rushed in and knocked the phone away. She slapped the girl hard, driving her to her knees, then spun to grab Sophie by the arm and drag her back to the landing. Peter Li was still nowhere to be seen. Coward.
A new, more vulnerable hostage under control now, the entire team advanced. Kang took possession of a trembling Sophie.
She tried to scream, but Kang planted a vicious knee in the small of her back. She winced, arching in pain, whimpering now. “Please . . . I’m begging you. Don’t hurt my baby.”
Wu Chao took a half-step forward, using the boy as a shield. He glanced sideways at Kang and Sophie, then turned toward the master bedroom.
He raised his voice. “Peter Li! If you call anyone on the phone you will force my hand.”
No answer.
“Peter!” Wu Chao barked again. “We can resolve this like men. We need to ask you some questions. Come to the door.”
The bedroom light went out.
Rose shot a look at Kang like she wanted to go in.
“No,” he hissed. “Not yet.”
Kang intertwined his fingers through Sophie’s hair, then yanked her head backward so she faced the ceiling. Her neck arched toward the door, delicate, exposed. He used the curved blade of his knife to lift the hem of the football jersey, pulling it up slowly, exposing her panties and then her swollen belly. She found her voice, screaming, trying to jerk away. One hand reflexively cradled her unborn child; the other went to the nightshirt, attempting to pull it down. Kang used the blade to slap her hand away, slashing her forearm in the process. Blood poured from the wound. The boy lunged for his injured mother, but Wu Chao slammed a fist into the back of his head, staggering him and pulling him closer.
Kang spoke now, loud but in complete control. His voice dripped with venom. “Peter Li! Come now. Stop hiding and show yourself or I will carve out your baby and paint this house with your woman’s blood.”
“Peter,” Wu Chao said. “You must listen. I will not be able to stop him if you do not—”
A massive boom shook the house at the same instant a blossom of orange fire erupted from the darkness of the master bedroom. Wu Chao’s knee burst as if he’d been shot with a cannon. He listed sideways like a felled tree. A second blast took off the side of his head, leaving him in a twitching heap behind the quivering boy.
Kang had no time to register dismay.
A third shot tore at the air to his right. Something hot slammed into the bend of his elbow, causing his hand to convulse. The blade slipped impotently from an open palm. He backpedaled, intent on keeping the pregnant woman between him and what had to be a shotgun. Sophie Li had other ideas. Screaming with rage, she spun, clawing at Kang’s face, flaying skin off his nose and cheeks with her nails. He ducked, striking out blindly, shoving the crazed woman away before he lost an eye. Another shot shook the walls, blasting a gaping hole in the Sheetrock next to Kang’s ear. He scrambled over the railing, landing halfway down the stairs. A fifth blast, followed rapidly by a sixth, sent Rose and Lily fleeing down the
steps after him. The women fired pistols over their shoulders as they fled, but hit nothing.
Kang squatted low, behind the relative cover of the landing. He’d regained the use of his hand, so the wound to his elbow couldn’t have been too bad. Probably birdshot. He ducked his head, pistol drawn now, ready to rush the stairs. They did not need to talk to Peter Li that badly. The important thing was to tie up loose ends. Li had to die. Kang would kill the family for sport. Retribution for . . . fighting back. The odor of gun smoke and urine from Wu Chao’s spilled bladder made Kang pause—which saved his life.
Rather than retreat, Peter Li advanced with the shotgun, blasting well-aimed shots down the stairwell now that his wife and stepchildren were out of the way. Lily crumpled forward, clutching her stomach. The next shot clipped away her ponytail, hitting her squarely in the back of the neck, nearly decapitating her at this close range. An anchor shot. Li was picking them off, one by one. He kept shooting, reloading from cover, then blasting away each time he topped off his weapon.
The man knew how to fight.
Kang and Rose fled the house, bursting out the back door at a dead run. Both were heaving from frustration and adrenaline by the time they crashed into the dark wood line above the lake. The police were surely on their way.
Crouching behind a clump of scrub oak, Kang turned to give this place of utter failure one last look. To his astonishment, bright flashes lit the second-floor windows. Li was still shooting. He didn’t know the intruders were gone, or how many were in his house. Amazingly, the shots inside the brick house were inaudible from just a few dozen yards away. It was as if Li were watching a John Wick movie inside with the sound off. The neighbors would not have heard anything, certainly nothing that would make them call 911.
“Lily . . .” Rose whispered. “That bastard killed Lily . . .”
“And he will pay for it,” Kang said. “He will pay dearly.”
“We must report in,” Rose said.
“We will,” Kang said. “When the mission is complete. Go down to the boat and get the RPG. The pregnant woman is injured. The police will transport her to the hospital. When Li comes out to ride with her . . .”
“But the police will search the grounds—”
The garage door flew off its tracks and a gray Mercedes SUV burst out, shooting down the driveway carrying the door on the bumper for several dozen yards before it fell away. Taillights flashed and tires squealed as the vehicle fishtailed through the darkness, rounding the bend toward Leonard Wood Avenue.
“This is shit!” Rose spat.
“No,” Kang said. “This is good. This is very good. I do not think they called the police.”
“Lily is dead!” Rose said, seething. “Wu Chao is dead! The man we came to kill still lives. His fat cow wife still lives. This can only be called a disaster.”
“But we are not dead.” Kang tipped his head toward the road where the SUV had disappeared. His lip trembled as the reality of what had just occurred crashed down on his shoulders. “It does not matter where Li runs. Do not forget that we still have the means to track him. Neither he nor his precious family will live to see nightfall.”
40
Ding’s tracker was still active at Suparman Games headquarters when John Clark parked a block away, in the back lot of a car dealership along Sam Ratulangi Road. The rented Toyota van blended in better on the lot than it would have on the side of the relatively sleepy divided four-lane. Making his approach from any closer meant that he might be up on exterior cameras. Any farther away and he risked exposure to passersby or people simply trying to cool off on their porches. As far as he’d been able to see, there was no distinct line between residential and business districts. A dirt-floor hovel might occupy the lot next to a high-end grocery, or the owners of a mansion might look out the window to the roof of a convenience store.
Suparman was wise indeed if he’d been thinking in terms of a neighborhood watch when he planned where to put his headquarters. The street had plenty of private residences to sound the alarm if anything or anyone looked out of the ordinary.
Clark kept out of sight on the west side of the road, opposite Suparman’s, cutting through a wooded lot that ran behind a row of ramshackle shops that made up a sort of Third World–looking strip mall. It was dark, and he was able to use the shadows of a large guava tree directly across from the gaming company offices as cover.
A waist-high concrete block wall, whitewashed to match the Suparman building, ran the length of the property in front, ending in a sliding metal gate at the north end. Behind the gate, piles of gravel and concrete block marked an area of new construction to an open carport below what would be more offices. The face of the primarily glass building with bright white eaves and roof stood out in stark contrast to the surrounding greenery. This wall of windows made it easy for Clark to see the guards in the lobby, but would also leave him visible on approach.
The plans Gavin found online had not been labeled, but it was a safe bet that Suparman’s office would be on the second floor in the southeast corner. Indonesia was a veritable sauna, making showering multiple times a day a national pastime. There were three washrooms in the building, but the architect’s drawing of the one that adjoined the office in the southeast corner was plumbed for an American-style toilet, bidet, and a palatial shower. The reinforced walls indicated that the vault was in that office as well.
Clark had still not been able to figure out how Suparman’s men had gotten to Ding. He must have done something to make them suspicious at the storefront. If it had been local police, or drug dealers, or even spur-of-the-moment kidnappers looking to make a quick buck ransoming a rich American, Clark could have gotten his head wrapped around it. But Suparman? He couldn’t have known what they were up to. Ackerman was dead. Noonan was presumed dead—though this was not certain. There could be a link here . . . Clark shook off that idea. Noonan wouldn’t know Ding Chavez from Adam. Chinese intelligence was supposedly involved, but he doubted they knew the gaming company had a copy of Calliope—not yet, anyway.
That left Ding’s visit to the storefront . . . It made no sense at all, and yet here they were.
Clark’s orders were to grab the tech at all costs. He hated that term. “At all costs” sounded great when you were a young punk operative—a license to kill, real 007 shit. The rules of engagement were relaxed to the point of being nearly nonexistent. But in reality, “at all costs” meant “at the cost of everything,” even your team members. Make it happen or die in the attempt. There had been a time when Clark was gung ho enough to do just that, but he wasn’t going there now. They’d all die together or they’d all come home.
Jack Junior came over the radio—Midas had rekeyed the encryption when they’d linked up at the Blessing Jesus statue, so Ding’s radio was now unable to listen in.
“I’ve got a light in the back corner office,” Ryan said. “North end, bottom floor.”
“Copy,” Clark said.
Dom was with Jack, but Adara and Midas responded as well.
Clark took a PVS-14 night-vision monocular to peer at the grounds across the street. No patrols, but he located the exterior cameras over the door and at each corner of the building. The guard in the lobby, maybe thirty years old from the looks of him, was still alone, playing a game on his phone. He talked to someone on his radio every now and again.
Clark looked right and left, up and down the dark street. No lights, no signs of bicycles or pedestrians. He trotted across the street, moving diagonally to reach a small princess palm tree. It was skinny and only about twice his height but provided a vertical object for him to stand beside. As long as he was still, a casual glance out the window might not draw attention. Maybe. In any case, he didn’t intend to be there long.
“Three males visible in the northeast office,” Jack said. “I can’t see Ding, but I don’t have a very good view. They’re talking to someo
ne in the back corner.”
“Weapons?” Clark asked.
“At least one has a pistol shoved down his waistband. Another has a length of what looks like steel cable.”
“My guy’s talking on the radio,” Clark said. “Are they?”
“Affirm,” Ryan said. “The guy with the gun is carrying on a conversation with someone.” Ryan paused, then came back more agitated. “Looks like he’s getting ready to use that cable on somebody out of our view. We need to go in soon.”
“Hold there!” Clark said. “We’ll all go in at once. Adara, Midas?”
“We’re at the southwest corner,” Adara said. “Ready to take out the camera on your mark.”
“Copy,” Clark said. “Stand by.”
Everyone carried a Heckler & Koch MP5 now, along with their sidearms and two extra mags per weapon. Not ideal for an armed assault, but it was what they had. Clark doubted the guards inside had half that, but he made it a point never to underestimate a situation. Each firearm was outfitted with a Gemtech suppressor. As a rule, Clark didn’t care for the subsonic ammo needed to remove the easily identifiable snap from each shot, but they would be operating in close quarters, so the reduced ballistics wouldn’t be too much of a factor. Adara carried a Ruger Mark IV .22 with an integral suppressor that was exponentially quieter than the nines, even with their subsonic rounds. She was deadly accurate with the setup out to fifty yards, farther if the need arose. Clark had used slingshots that were louder. Her job was to take out the cameras in front of the building, then follow Clark in once he breached the front door. Dom had an identical weapon for any cameras—or sentries in back. Once inside, both would revert to the SMGs. The suppressed .22 was so quiet that people shot with it sometimes didn’t realize they were dead, and kept up return fire longer than they would have had they been hit with something a little louder. In addition to the digital images of Suparman’s retina, Midas carried the Halligan and other breaching equipment. Ryan and Clark completed their loadouts with three percussion grenades each.