by Sheena Kamal
“That’s right.” Brazuca eyes the glass of scotch in front of him but makes no move to touch it. It hasn’t gotten any easier to push the glass away, but he manages to keep it together.
“I told you then that the Zhang family had a security guy who they used quite frequently and it’s been said he has triad ties.”
Brazuca nods. “Dao. Worked almost exclusively with Zhang for years.”
Ray Zhang was the patriarch of a wealthy family that was connected to Nora and the events of last year when Nora’s daughter, Bonnie, had gone missing, but the details were fuzzy. The only people who would know what had actually happened were Nora, who has a selective memory about the events, and Ray Zhang and Dao, who have both vanished. It was hard to forget the spectacular mess Nora had found herself in, though he had made a point not to talk about it with Lam. Nora’s privacy had been on his mind then. Her personal connection to the Zhangs, and that the deceased Kai Zhang was Bonnie’s birth father, was something that only she could discuss.
Lam continues, unaware of Brazuca’s sudden coolness. “Ray Zhang had some stink to him, but nobody questioned him about Dao when he was alive.”
Brazuca stares at him. “Nobody has seen Ray Zhang since last year. How do you know he’s dead?”
Lam, once an open book, becomes cagey. He looks at his watch. Takes a sip of his scotch and smiles without a trace of mirth. “I’ve heard rumors.” Lam turns the laptop screen to face Brazuca. He points to a photo of a shirtless Chinese man displaying his tattoos in his living room. It was a very famous photo in the Anti-Gang Unit, according to Grace’s research. “Jimmy Fang. He’s connected, through Three Phoenix, to the umbrella organization that Dao is affiliated with.”
Brazuca’s headache is back, now that the pieces have fallen into place. In one fell swoop he has gained his financial freedom and learned of a startling connection. Now he understands why Nora has become a target. Last year, when she went looking for her missing daughter, she made a powerful enemy in the Zhang family—and the head of their security detail: Dao.
Out of all the players involved in Nora’s drama, Dao was the most dangerous. A ruthless killer, with an alleged background as a mercenary.
“Are we good?” Brazuca says, standing. “This is the supply chain you were looking for?”
“Yes,” says Lam. “Thanks, buddy. I’ll take it from here.”
Brazuca opens his mouth to ask what Lam means by this, but decides that he doesn’t really want to know. It is obvious to him now that his friendship with Lam was always based on this, the fact that he is and has always been an employee to this man. A trusted employee, but one that is there on the payroll nonetheless.
“I’ll have your wire transfer ready in the morning,” Lam continues. He begins talking about his plans for vengeance against his father, drug dealers, and the world at large. But Brazuca has stopped listening. Men like Lam can afford to go on about personal vendettas and the like. Their wealth and connections will always protect them from danger. The everyday business of survival hasn’t touched them.
For people like Nora, on the other hand, that seemingly mundane task of making it through a day without someone trying to murder you isn’t as simple. Especially now, given what she’s up against. A personal vendetta by someone much more powerful than she is. A dangerous enemy, like the one he has now in Curtis Parnell, the biker who has gone to ground with a photograph of Brazuca stored on his phone.
Brazuca leaves without another word. There’s nothing more to be said. His exhaustion hasn’t left him. It has simply morphed into a kind of anxiety. In a perverse way, it hasn’t settled on him or the danger he might be facing with Parnell—if the biker hasn’t already skipped town. His own survival isn’t even on his mind. It takes him a long time to get to his car. The first reason is that he’s still in recovery. From a blow to the head, being threatened with a meat cleaver, having to chase college kids down streets, and the emotional weight of Crow’s death and insecurity about his own personal safety.
The second is sheer confusion.
He had tried, hadn’t he, to leave the past behind? There’s nothing he wants more than to get in his car and drive to Whistler. Book a cabin in the woods for a few days, test out the telescope that he’s been eyeing out there. Sleep. So why, now, does this feel like a distant dream?
47
Rule number one of fleeing the country: get your passport.
There must be other rules, but it’s not like I know what they are. I would ask my mother, except she has turned out to be so good at fleeing that nobody, not even her dedicated stalker, can find her. In any case, the first rule is proving hard enough. Nate’s house is full of do-gooders. There is a meeting in full swing. Groups of people linger outside, dressed in matching neon orange T-shirts on top of their outerwear. It now occurs to me that my concept of time has yet again slipped out of my grasp. Tonight is the night before Halloween and the do-gooders are preparing to counter Devil’s Night assholery with color coordination and astonishing faith in humanity.
A group of teenagers eyes me as I linger too long on the street, debating whether or not stealing a T-shirt from someone outside will help gain me entrance to the house without anyone remarking that I’m the woman who was there when Nate got shot. “Hey,” says one of them, walking over to me. I tense. She holds out a shirt. “You got your group yet?”
I shake my head.
“That’s alright. You can walk with us if you want,” she says brightly.
“Um, I’m waiting for a friend,” I say, but put on the T-shirt to blend in better.
“Okay, good luck tonight. It’s not even sundown yet and it’s been the worst we’ve seen in years. Warning went out to be extra careful tonight. People are riled up and some of these guys just want to do some damage.” She gives me a grim smile and walks away. I wait for another twenty minutes, watching as the house empties out and several groups head off. A young man rides by on his bicycle blasting music. He’s wearing one of the neon T-shirts, but doesn’t seem attached to any particular group. It takes me several seconds to recognize the song. And even then, only because it’s my own voice pouring like dark honey from the speakers. He’s playing our song. Mine and Nate’s. Hearing it shakes me to my core. The last time I listened to it, I was in the basement of the house I’m standing in front of now, being cared for by the man whose voice is now trailing away. The man on the bicycle rides off down the street, taking the music with him.
In this state of internal chaos I enter the house and, surprisingly, am able to do it without being seen.
My backpack is not in the studio downstairs, the door to which has been removed. Nate’s recording equipment and guitars are also missing, but whoever has taken them has thoughtfully left behind the love seat for whoever wants to sit and contemplate an empty room. There are no takers except for me.
Another hour passes before all the voices die out. The makeshift soundproofing has been stripped from the room for some reason, so I can hear everything going on upstairs. The house goes quiet and I am finally able to search it properly.
I reach an upstairs bedroom toward the rear of the house, protected by a lock that any amateur lock picker who has access to Internet tutorials can pick. It takes me about a minute to get inside what I presume to be Kev’s bedroom, from the framed photos of Malcolm X and Assata Shakur on the wall. Perversely, there is also the Lord of the Rings trilogy on the desk immediately to my right, and the Game of Thrones collection as a hard juxtaposition. I move past these quickly. I’ve never been much of a fantasy fan myself. Reality is hard enough for me to wrap my head around.
I’m tempted to salute the photos on the wall when I find my pack in the closet. People who don’t trust the police are predictable. I know, because I’m one of them. Somehow I figured that Kev must have taken my pack away before the authorities came. Still, I wonder if Kev knows that he has buried a tangible link to his brother’s attack under some T-shirts and a pair of pink sweatpants with the wo
rd ANGEL stamped on the seat.
I take my passport out of the bag and slip it into a zippered pocket of my jacket, next to my wallet. As I’m about to leave, I pause, hearing a noise from inside the house, and retreat farther into the room. There’s not far to go. Damned if I’m going to hide in a closet, so I step behind the door and listen carefully. I slip the backpack off my shoulder and rest it carefully at my feet. I hear only footsteps on the stairs. Quiet footsteps. More than one set, maybe two. My phone is in my hands, so I dial the number on Sanchez’s card, the one that I’d put on speed dial, just in case. I don’t listen for him to answer, I just turn the volume down and slip the phone into my pocket.
There is no way to listen for intentions, so I’m going to assume the worst.
When the door eases open and a hooded figure enters, gun first, I shove the door back toward him. He shouts and his hand gets caught in the frame. I open it and slam it back again until he howls in pain and falls back into the hall. I grab the gun off the ground and follow him into the hallway where a stomping kick to the groin doubles him over with a groan. Another hooded figure bursts out of the first bedroom by the staircase with his gun drawn. I have only a split second, so I grab his hand, tug it toward me at the same time that I extend my lower leg. He trips and falls toward the stairs, and a push with my free hand sends him flying down. His gun goes clattering past him. I run down the stairs and grab the gun on the landing just as his hand closes around my ankle, pulling me down.
I twist, turn the gun on the hoodie upstairs and take the second out of my waistband. I’m on my ass now but I’ve got the two weapons in my hands. I turn the second pistol on the hoodie on the stairs. The bandage is still on his nose. It’s my friend from the motel. The one who shot Nate. I’m furious enough for my finger to hover over the trigger, but what I need now are answers. “Who hired you to kill me?”
“Like I fucking know,” he says. His voice is strangely high-pitched and nasal. His leg is twisted behind him and a look of intense agony crosses his face as he tries to move it.
“Was it Ryan Russo?”
“Who’s that?” He seems to be in so much pain, he can’t be lying. But I have to know.
“Tell me who hired you.” My eyes flick from him to his friend at the top of the stairs. I’ve been told that a full contact blow to the groin is the worst possible feeling for a man. I hope so, and that it keeps him down for a while.
My old friend on the stairs grimaces. “Order didn’t come to me, bitch.”
“Who does know?” I say, when I’ve finally got my feet under me.
I crouch next to him and put the gun to his head. My hand is steady, like it always is when handling a weapon. Truth is, I used to like guns.
Gun control is a big deal in Canada, everywhere but at my friend Wallace’s house. Wallace had a dad who not only thought the name Wallace was appropriate in the twentieth century, but also drank Tennessee whiskey, wore a cowboy hat, kept a large gun collection locked away in his basement, and gave Wallace the key. After we’d fooled around and drank some of the whiskey we would take one of the guns out for target practice. For a couple of years during high school, I lived at Wallace’s house when his dad was away on business. I shot a lot, too, because Wallace got itchy being inside too much and I can be competitive even when the stakes are low. I’m a good shot. I had a lot of practice in a previous life.
The young man at the other end of the gun laughs. He presses his temple deeper into the muzzle. “Yeah? You go ahead. Do it. Ain’t no hell that’s worse than Detroit. Do it.” His eyes are dead serious. He’s not lying and there is no bluster to him now. This kid with a broken nose and a broken leg isn’t afraid to die. His friend upstairs gets up on his hands and knees.
The desire to exact revenge is overwhelming. There’s a man lying on a hospital bed because of these desperate young men. Because one of them is a terrible shot who should never have had his hands on a weapon.
I see my father’s face in my mind. His quiet smile. And I remember that this is how he died.
I can’t pull the trigger.
Dania Nasri spoke of hell, too. In relation to the place that she was from. I guess hell is a matter of perspective. “I hope this was worth fifteen grand, asshole. Don’t move.”
Then I take off out the front door and run as fast as I can. I run as though I’m being chased. Which, of course, I am. For what seems, truly, to be a paltry sum. I had shrugged it off when Sanchez mentioned how much it costs to drop a body in Detroit.
Fifteen thousand dollars isn’t nearly enough.
48
My phone is dead again. I don’t know if Sanchez caught any of my little chat with the young men inside the house, but it doesn’t matter now. What does is that I get the hell out of here as quickly as possible.
I run past a group of neon shirts without stopping to warn them about what’s back at the house. “There’s a fire that way!” one of them shouts to me, so I veer off to a side street. I smell the smoke from the fire, and for a brief moment wonder if I’m back in Vancouver. A crescent moon hovers above me, giving more illumination than the meager streetlights. I can see flashes of revolving light in the distance and hear the squeals of fire trucks or ambulances. It would make the most sense to head in that direction, toward the people, so I don’t. There’s a loud crack in the air. Fireworks blaze across the night sky. I am unsure of what to do with the two guns I have on me now. I’m sick of seeing guns everywhere in this open-carry state. They even make appearances in my dreams.
I shy away from the crowds that may or may not be armed, like I am. I am done with human beings right now and long for Whisper to be at my side. But she is busy with Leo, who I refuse to think about because then I’d have to spare a thought or two about Seb. And if I’m off people right now, the death of one of my favorites isn’t going to help much.
Soon enough, the problem I run up against is that there’s no place to go. Every time I see smoke or a neon shirt, I veer in another direction—but this isn’t much of a plan. I don’t blame myself, though, because I don’t know this city well enough to have any kind of strategy. I’m doing what I have been since I got here. Running around in circles. Where there are no circles there are dead ends, and this is no exception.
Soon enough, there’s nowhere left to run.
I reach the bottom of the street. On one side is a field of tall grass. On the other, and to my right, is a boarded-up warehouse, one of the few buildings on the block that’s been left standing. I have come to the end of the road, and am regretting my earlier decision to run away from the sounds of civilization. I feel exposed. Coming off the adrenaline rush I’d felt back at Nate’s house, I’m now shivering.
In the distance there is a figure at the top of the road, backlit by a streetlight. The figure pauses, looks in my direction. This could mean nothing, but after running into my would-be executors at Nate’s house I don’t want to chance it. The need to be indoors, have my back against a wall, is urgent. The building to my right doesn’t look that old. I wonder if it’s only been recently abandoned and begin to think that it might give me a moment to stop and think. To burrow for a while, just until I collect my thoughts.
There is a door around the side that is slightly ajar. I slip in, making sure to close it behind me. The quick glimpse that I’ve gotten before shutting the door showed a large room, one that once served as a lobby maybe, with two corridors branching off from either side.
There are only a few short seconds of blessed silence before footsteps approach from the corridor farthest away from me. So the building isn’t abandoned after all.
“Who shut the door?” says an angry voice. A young man, by the sounds of it, one who has been kicked out of several prep schools before taking up residence here. It’s amazing what you can hear in people’s voices when you are frightened and in the dark. Somebody slightly less articulate mumbles something in response about another door being around back. I pick up my speed, hoping to get to the back door b
efore them. Now I know that the building isn’t empty, I no longer crave the comfort of walls around me. I just want to escape. I go down the corridor closest to me, and away from the voices. I have no desire to make conversation with a couple of frat boys in an abandoned warehouse on Devil’s Night. Their presence here isn’t exactly comforting.
Since Nate brought it up, I’ve spent some time looking into it. Its roots are in the Detroit race riots, three of which were so devastating that the army had to be called in to put a stop to the fires that blazed through the city. Detroit became an arsonist’s playground, the situation escalating in the eighties to the point that the city had to take action. Angel’s Night was created to counter the worst of the vandalism and violence, but pyros still flock here to set things on fire. I have a feeling that these young men, whoever they are, don’t have the city’s best interests at heart. Funny, sneaking around in an abandoned warehouse at night can leave that impression.
A faint, acrid scent reaches my nostrils. A trace of something that requires a moment to place. It’s odd that it takes me this long to notice the smell of gasoline, then I’m running back down the hallway toward the door I came in through. It’s shut firmly. The scent is stronger in here now, making me think they doused this room last. I can’t get the door open. I bang on it with my fists and shout “Help” until I’m hoarse. If I shout “Fire,” well, that’s just what they want to happen, isn’t it? To use the cover of Devil’s Night as an excuse to watch things burn.
Maybe it’s because I cried wolf back at the motel, but this time nobody comes to my rescue. I stop pounding my fist against the door and am about to go back to the corridor when I hear movement from the opposite end of the room. I freeze.
“Hey there, Nora,” says Ryan Russo.