Without A Trace

by Sandra Moore

  And the slave manager—along with the Sun Yee On soldiers who’d attacked his ship—would just have to sit in the Kowloon holding cell run by one of Johnny’s HK police buddies in the meantime.

  The club entrance’s dragon blew red neon flames against a backdrop of more neon. Nikki wished she’d had her sunglasses. Even now, at nearly two o’clock in the morning, she could have used them against all the light beating on her retinas as she and Johnny walked along the streets of Sai Ying Pun, one of the seedier-looking parts of west central Hong Kong.

  When the never-ending crowds pressed against her, she was grateful for Johnny’s calming presence. He seemed to have a sixth sense about when to reach for her hand to keep her from being swallowed up and carried away in the throngs still crowding the sidewalks.

  Now, he stood before the club’s beefy bouncer, one hip cocked in a careless stance, his black leather jacket’s lapel kicked up against his neck.

  He looked, Nikki thought with a spark of awareness, like a young Chow Yun-Fat—beautiful and masculine, sensitive and tough all at once. Nikki closed her eyes briefly against a vision of the actor sprawled bare-chested on a bed in The Killer, and gave herself a mental shake. You can take him home, she heard Jess’s voice tease her, but you can’t keep him.

  She wasn’t sure she dared try to take him home.

  Nevertheless, he was definitely the right guy in the right place, she thought as he hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her in close. The bouncer was giving her what Jess used to call the Skanky Eye and saying something to Johnny.

  She resisted the urge to glance down at the getup Johnny had given her at his place, where they’d stopped to change clothes and lose the camouflage face paint. She’d wanted to go back to her hotel to pick up her own clothing, but he’d insisted on gearing her out.

  All his girlfriends must have been tiny because, even as small as she was, the black leather bustier and black skirt he’d grabbed for her out of a closet came close to being obscene. Good thing he’d had a lightweight wrap to put over her shoulders. She’d felt a passing wave of shame—she was actually more demure than most women her age.

  But given the bouncer’s admiring glance down the shirt’s opening, not to mention the strong scent of sandalwood coming off him, the saucy clothes were a good idea, morals be damned. She looked like someone who might be a prostitute, not someone who could, or would, break his kneecaps. That made for a decent element of surprise.

  “Let’s go,” Johnny said after a few words with the bouncer. He jerked his head at the much larger man and grinned, leering a little at her.

  “Great,” she said as she strode through the door. “Meat market, eh, mal parido?”

  Johnny shrugged, still nonchalant.

  Nikki gave up wondering if he knew he’d been insulted and squeezed through the ever-present crowd into the club. This time it was her keeping a tight hold on his hand as they threaded their way to the bar. Once there, Johnny nodded to several angry-looking toughs that Nikki pegged immediately as the kind of guys you didn’t hang around with unless you were armed.

  She was pretty sure Johnny was armed, but where he kept his guns, she was afraid to wonder. His black leather pants didn’t leave room for imagination, much less firearms.

  She hoisted herself onto a just-vacated bar stool and tried to ignore the man pressing between her and the guy on the next stool. It was more togetherness than she was used to, or ever wanted to experience, but for the most part her new good friend seemed harmless, more interested in getting his drink and getting back on the dance floor than anything else.

  While Johnny spoke with a bartender, she cased the joint.

  The Electric Dragon was a happening place, packed to the gills with young men and women writhing to the pulsing beat of a techno pop band whose lead singer’s voice could strip paint off walls. The band was cloistered behind a cage, though it was hard to tell whether that was part of the band’s aesthetic sensibilities or for their protection.

  The neon was worse inside than out, and the constant movement felt like a visual beating, but Nikki managed to puzzle out a black-painted door behind the cage stage, its outline nearly hidden in shadow.

  She glanced at Johnny, who was sliding a shot glass of something clear and no doubt viciously potent in front of her.

  He smiled politely, his gaze flicking toward the stage. He leaned forward so she could hear him say, “Yes, I see it.”

  Just as Nikki was marveling over how in sync they were, he ruined the effect by pointedly staring down her cleavage. Then he pulled her bar stool against him where he stood.

  “Relax,” he said, rubbing his hand over her back in an almost brotherly way. “We’re being watched.”

  “And that should relax me,” she remarked, but masked her nervousness by leveling her gaze on him in what she hoped would appear knowing and sophisticated to a Wo Shing Wo thug.

  “Yes, it should. They know who I am.” He leaned close. “They know who they think I am.”

  “Undercover work?” she breathed into his neck.

  His assent sounded more like a groan than a word.

  “What if they really know who you are?”

  “Then we wouldn’t have got in.” He leaned back and grinned, cocky as ever. “I’m sorry, though.”

  “About?”

  “Claiming territory.” His shrug looked apologetic. His hand, dropping below her waist and resting there, was not.

  Her abrupt, unconscious inhale caught a bit of everything: the curious sweetness of burning foliage, the dark musk of hot bodies, the tang of spilled alcohol, a woman’s cologne that had worn off her body long ago but still lingered in the air. But it was the strong sandalwood surrounding them—raw sexual attraction—that plucked at her nerves. Problem was, she couldn’t tell if it was both of them or just her.

  It’d taken her years to learn the difference between a true scent and one that pointed to an emotion. In the deluge of smells around her, the merely physical odors seemed to stop where they were, hanging in the air. The emotional “odors” lingered and teased. In this crush of dancers and partiers, those scents mingled until she found it hard to pinpoint their sources.

  The sandalwood was almost overwhelming. Johnny might just be “claiming territory,” but he’d provoked a swirl of scent she couldn’t place.

  “Is that necessary?” she snapped, unnerved at her physical response to his possessive gesture.

  “Yes,” he replied with the air of a man exercising patience with a child. “These men think nothing of a pretty woman’s virtue. I do. Now drink up. It won’t affect you.” He waited until she sipped from the shot glass to add, “Much.”

  Nikki set the glass down on the ebony bar in the exact wet circle it had inhabited. He was right. The drink didn’t taste of anything; the club must be watering down the booze.

  Like most Western-style bars, this one had a mirror stretching the length of the wall. While Johnny stood close and looked over her shoulder toward that black door, she concentrated on studying which of the men pacing the room behind her might be Wo Shing Wo. Didn’t most gangs have colors or tattoos or some other signal of their affiliation? What was the point of being in a gang if you didn’t appear to be part of the group? But then, Johnny had likened them to a loosely connected mafia, so maybe the triads were generally uninterested by the idea of overt affiliation.

  These thoughts did nothing to lessen her awareness of the broad hand resting solidly on the curve of her hip. Or of the distinct sandalwood that threatened to choke off her air completely.

  That couldn’t be just her.

  She shook her head slightly to toss her curly hair, loose now and flowing over her bare shoulders, back off her arm. When she did, she caught a flash of gold—a series of studs and rings climbing up the earlobe of the man pressing against her between the stools. He smiled and said something in Chinese, and she did what many people do in a foreign country when faced with words they don’t understand: she smiled and
shook her head.

  The man, apparently encouraged despite her silent protestation, leaned his elbow against the bar and settled in for a chat. He was kind of cute in his blue silk shirt and black jeans, eager to talk with her, but his words were lost to the music. That didn’t stop him from openly admiring her thighs in the too-short skirt now hiked almost to her ass where she sat on the bar stool. He reeked of sandalwood.

  So it wasn’t just her. It just wasn’t Johnny, whose reflection in the bar’s mirror showed a man interested in watching the girls in their tight tops rub against the men they danced with. Nikki glanced at the dance floor. Where’d she been when torso groping became a legitimate dance move? Wasn’t China supposed to be a socially conservative country? Or were things different here in Hong Kong?

  Her new friend smiled engagingly and squeezed her leg just above her knee.

  Her smile froze. In the split second between registering his touch and her impulse to give the guy an edge-hand to the throat, her survival instinct kicked in. The edge-hand became a girlish swipe at his arm as she said, “Back off!”

  He grinned widely and squeezed again, his hand moving higher up her thigh.

  No scene, she ordered herself. Make no move that would give the game away. Yet.

  Nikki leaned away from her new friend just as Johnny angled his broad shoulders between her and the grabber. His expression’s ferocity drove the sensitivity from his face, and Nikki thought he looked ready to bite.

  Still, he smelled mostly of soap to her. He was putting on an act to protect her from the guy.

  The guy smiled and shrugged. Making nice, Nikki thought.

  Johnny was having none of it. He jerked his head toward the door and barked something in Cantonese. The guy drew himself up, as if to square off against Johnny, but suddenly a stocky, middle-aged man materialized from the roiling dancers.

  His thin, yellow tie glowed in the black light that strobed onto his navy-blue business suit. A genial smile filled his round face as he spoke quickly to both men in a conciliatory tone.

  Johnny made a show of relaxing. Several times during the ensuing conversation he said something like, “Sure,” which Nikki remembered from her movie-watching meant “Yes.” Her friendly groper started to look a little green around the gills.

  The business guy nodded and gave a little shoulder-deep bow to Johnny and then to her. “My apologies for my employee’s distasteful behavior,” he said. “It will not happen again.”

  Finally, he frowned at the friendly man, who now faintly resembled a well-whipped dog. The two men headed back to the black door.

  Johnny’s arm came around her waist again as he turned toward her. “You’re brilliant. We’re in.”

  Nikki shrugged. “My mother always thought I was a prodigy, but even she had to explain things to me occasionally. Care to share?”

  “Your little friend is a Sai Gou Zai, a low-level Wo soldier. He’s supposed to work security, not admire the patrons.” Johnny’s gaze lingered on her low neckline before flicking away. “The Red Pole was not pleased.”

  “Red Pole? The guy in the suit is in charge?”

  Johnny nodded. “Of this club, yes. Most of the young men you see standing around are Sai Gou Zai working security.” He reeled her in closer and bent to say into her ear, “The security gathering is strong tonight. I think the Fu Shan Chu must be here doing business.”

  She lifted her cheek from his to ask, but he anticipated her question before she could form the words.

  “The Fu Shan Chu is the Deputy Mountain Master. He runs operations in this part of the city.”

  “Including the port?”

  “Perhaps. But he’s only a step down from the Dragon Head, the Boss.”

  “The big cheese,” Nikki said under her breath.

  “Getting to the Deputy Mountain Master will not be easy. But the Red Pole’s honor has been threatened by his soldier’s incorrect behavior, so he has offered us a gift to prove he’s a good host.”

  Nikki’s eyes narrowed. “A gift. Is your undercover identity that high up the food chain?”

  “I dropped a few names and got his attention. Now he must save face and we must accept his hospitality. If you’re willing to take him up on his offer, we can get inside and see if the Fu Shan Chu—the deputy—is here.”

  “Couldn’t you just tell the Red Pole that we have one of the deputy’s head guys?”

  “Red Poles are ambitious men. What if he wants that position for himself?” Johnny shook his head. “No, we go inside, see how the land lies, and then confront the Deputy.”

  “If he’s even here.”

  Nikki fought down the unease rising in her stomach. It didn’t sound right to her—none of it did—but she knew her discomfort might simply have its roots in the unfamiliar situation. Besides, even though she had to rely on Johnny Zhao, she wasn’t sure he was being entirely straight with her.

  If only the guy put off a consistent scent, she’d know for sure. Only that once, when he’d felt regret for Regina Woo’s death, had he emoted in any significant way she could intuit. But it was like he almost didn’t exist on some level—personal or emotional—and she couldn’t read him like she could everyone else.

  Her powerlessness hit her head-on and for the first time in her life, she felt truly afraid for herself. This place, these people who stood too close, their voices and the language the mafia types used, the new customs, the new scents, her not being able to carry a weapon, Johnny’s complete lack of scent ninety percent of the time: all these things threatened her feeling of security.

  “I need a sidearm,” she muttered to herself. Her outfit left room only for the Athena phone in its belt holster and absolutely none for a weapon. She’d kicked herself most of the way to the Electric Dragon for not figuring out a way to carry in her skintight clothing, but it couldn’t be helped now.

  Besides, she had no other way to get this job done—and help the Athena Academy—except to trust a man she couldn’t read. She gritted her teeth in frustration.

  Johnny smiled and released her waist to take her hand. “Come. I will protect you.”

  “Like you did Regina Woo?” she asked, suddenly angry.

  His face darkened and she was enveloped in a heady mix of old books of regret and wet pennies of anger. “Come on.”

  His grip tightened and he hauled her toward the dance floor. Her startled protest was silenced when he spun her in place and clamped her against his hard body amid the writhing dancers. His strength caused fear to flutter lightly in her stomach. “I’m keeping you safe,” he growled.

  He ground his pelvis into hers as the music swung into an erotic, pounding beat. Of all the things that she associated with “safe,” his move wasn’t one of them. Around them, dancers who’d been waving their arms and jumping up and down in place paired—or tripled—off.

  “You don’t understand,” he murmured into her ear as his hands cupped her bottom. “The soldier assumed you were a fair target. I was not doing enough to claim you.”

  “I’m not a whore!” Nikki bit out.

  “No, you aren’t. You’re a gwai-poh. A foreign woman.” One hand slipped down to toy with the hem of her skirt, his fingertips brushing her skin as he moved against her. “But we have to convince them that you’re my gwai-poh . I’m sorry.”

  His lips, warm—no, hot—on her neck had her body tingling in places she couldn’t afford to think about. You can take him home, she heard Jess’s voice again. Oh, yes, Nikki thought. She could definitely take him home.

  If she trusted him. Which she didn’t.

  She pressed her fingers against his back. It was as rock-solid as his chest and abs. The man was nothing but bone and muscle and sinew.

  “Make it real,” he said against her ear. “How would you dance with a lover at home?”

  Nothing like this, at least not in public. She wasn’t totally inexperienced—she’d lost her virginity in college—but parading around like this just wasn’t her style.

/>   She leaned her chin on his shoulder and through slitted lids looked at the men lining the club’s walls and guarding its doorways. Some of them looked bored, but more than one had his gaze glued to her and Johnny.

  Fighting down the feeling of being trapped, Nikki leaned away from him to slip her fingers up his torso. His arms held her lower body prisoner. She curved a hand around his neck and tried to breathe without being overwhelmed by the scents lingering over the dance floor. His hair was remarkably soft.

  “Relax,” he coaxed.

  “Why can’t we get on with it?” she asked his collarbone.

  “I know you are impatient to find Diviner, but in this we must trust to someone else’s timing. The Red Pole will tell us when he is ready to present his gift.”

  She pulled back to look him in the eye. “What do you think it will be?”

  “Drugs, probably.” He bent his head to brush the corner of her mouth with his lips. To the spectators, the gesture would look erotic. Then he said, “Can’t you smell it?”

  Nikki bit back a retort and turned her attention away from how good, how raw, it felt to be held so possessively. Instead, she concentrated on singling out the aromas that filled the space, sifting through the scents of bodies, perfumes and clothing detergents; then through the various kinds of alcohol and fruit juices; and finally past the club itself, the smoke-dampened walls, the scuffed floor, the reek of yesterday’s ammonia and citrus-based cleaners.

  A sweet, pungent, pleasing scent—like burning leaves—pervaded it all.

  Opium.

  “When we get inside, stay close to me,” Johnny said in a low voice. “The smoke may affect you even if you do not take a pipe.”