COIT TOWER
Chasing Chinatown Trilogy
Book Three
(Abby Kane FBI Thriller)
Ty Hutchinson
For my mother
Chapter 1
Team Balkan - Thessaloniki, Greece
The greasy ponytail may have hidden the hole in the back of his head, but the gushing sound of blood gave it away.
“It got in my eye!” shouted the man gripping the semi-automatic Zastava CZ99.
“What?” Drago Zoric looked over at his friend and saw him wiping at his face with the backs of his hands.
“His blood!” Branko Petrovic stopped momentarily and pointed the handgun at the man slumped over a weathered wooden table. “It splattered on my face,” he said, hurrying over to the kitchen sink in the corner of the studio apartment. The faucet handle squeaked, and yellowish water sputtered into the shallow basin before turning mostly clear.
Zoric shook his head as he shoved an assault rifle into an old guitar case and locked the cover in place. “We have to get out of here.” He bent down next to two other bodies that lay motionless on the floor and rummaged through their pockets before moving on to the one at the table.
When he finished, he made a quick survey of the decrepit apartment. The paint on the dull, white walls had bubbled and cracked. Stained linoleum curled up along the walls, revealing rotted floorboards beneath. Cobwebs draped the once-golden crown molding near the ceiling. It looked as if no one had lived there for years. Zoric let out a loud breath before walking over to the sheetless single bed against the wall and grabbing a silver briefcase off it.
“I’m sure some of that Greek pig’s blood splashed into my eye,” Petrovic ranted as he scooped water into his face.
“Let’s go.” Zoric walked toward the front door with the briefcase in one hand and the guitar case in the other. “There’s not much time. I hear sirens. We must leave now.”
Petrovic looked up. Water trickled down his face and collected in the three days’ growth along his jawline. “That’s what happens when you fire an AK-47 in a quiet neighborhood,” he spat.
“Next time, don’t stand so close when you pull the trigger,” Zoric fired back.
“You left me no choice when you started shooting the other two.”
“It’s always the same with you: Blame me for everything.”
“I thought we had a plan: tie them up and kill them quietly. Not with that cannon you lug around. Now the police are on their way.”
“Right, so let’s go.”
Petrovic wiped his hands dry on his faded blue jeans before shoving his handgun into the waistband.
The two Serbians exited the apartment and quickly made their way down three flights of narrow stairs, the heels of their boots drumming the wooden steps along the way. They continued through a semi-lit hallway on the ground floor. A paisley carpet runner, tattered and barely holding its shape, led them to a door that opened into a small parking lot behind the building.
They walked briskly to a white delivery van they had stolen from a driver on his morning route. In the back of the vehicle, between shelves full of freshly baked bread, lay his body hidden under newspaper and flattened cardboard boxes.
Within seconds, they had pulled out of the lot and sped down the tight alley behind the building. The vehicle made a right onto the main drag that would connect them with the PATHE Motorway—a straight shot out of Greece and into Macedonia if all went well.
Zoric concentrated on the road ahead, breaking his gaze only to peek at the rearview mirror. No one seemed to be following them. Petrovic sat quietly in the passenger seat, fiddling with the lock on the security briefcase.
“You have to press both of the latches at the same time to open it,” Zoric said, his eyes trained on the road.
Petrovic followed the instructions and a second later had the case open, revealing banded stacks of $100 USD. “We hit it big, Drago.” He picked one up, but as quickly as his smile had formed, it disappeared. “What the fuck?”
“What?” Zoric grunted, still focused on the highway.
Petrovic picked up another banded stack and another, revealing that underneath lay stacks of cut newspaper. “We got ripped off.” He flipped through the stack with the $100 bill. The first bill was real. The rest were scraps of newspaper. “Look at this shit,” Petrovic said, holding up the worthless paper cuttings. “Those pigs planned to fuck us.” He threw the briefcase into the back of the van.
“It’s a good thing we fucked them first,” Drago said.
“We’re screwed. We just killed three of Stefanokos’ soldiers.”
“So?” Drago threw his shoulder up a bit.
“Kostas Stefanokos? The Godfather of Greece?” Petrovic shifted in his seat. “This was your idea. I should have never agreed to it.” He dug into the front pocket of his leather jacket and removed a crumpled pack of cigarettes, plucking out a bent one. “‘It’ll be an easy score,’ you said.” The crooked smoke dangled between his lips, bobbing in sync with his words. “‘We’ll pretend to have a large shipment of cigarettes we need to unload,’ you said,” Petrovic continued, adding a wave of his hand.
“It was a good plan. We should be grateful it’s not us lying in a pool of blood back there.”
Petrovic shook his head as he exhaled loudly through his nose. “Look, these side jobs take our focus off our task.” He struck a match and cupped his hand around it. His cheeks sunk as he took a long pull.
“We need the money.”
“No, what we need to do is keep playing the game and win the prize.”
Petrovic searched the other pocket of his jacket and removed his smartphone. He navigated to the Chasing Chinatown application and tapped the icon. A few seconds later, the app chimed. “We have a message.”
Zoric glanced at Petrovic and then back at the road.
Petrovic had to reread it twice to be sure he understood it.
“What?” Zoric inquired.
“They changed the game.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Now there is only one Attraction, and the first team to complete it wins ten million dollars.”
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Team Kitty Kat - Antwerp, Belgium
The slim woman wore a black latex one-piece and knee-high boots with chunky heels that escalated her stature to a towering six feet two inches. Her long red hair popped against her outfit, as did her slender ivory neck and hands. She stood in front of the floor mirror admiring herself while she applied more gloss to her already ruby-red lips before practicing her pout.
“Mistress,” a timid voice called out, “I’m waiting to serve you.”
Mistress Kitty was the persona that Adaira Kilduff had adopted for her playdates. Through the mirror, she could see a man on his knees behind her, naked except for a silicone chastity belt.
Kilduff had agreed to meet with the man, a banker working in Belgium. He had spent the last half hour licking her boots, but she had grown bored and decided to spend time admiring herself. She did love the way she looked when in costume—the only type of dress-up the Scottish beauty preferred.
He was the first man she had decided to see while visiting Antwerp. He had gained access to an appointment by sending two thousand euros to her PayPal account. To be considered, she required a tribute to gauge the seriousness of all applicants who wanted a shot at being her pay pig.
Kilduff specialized in a very specific sort of play, one that very few men could afford to dabble in: financial dominatrix. The banker was in the process of auditioning to be h
er human ATM. She still hadn’t given him an answer.
“I’m not sure you can afford to serve me.”
“But I can. I will,” he begged. “What do you want?”
The dominatrix spun around on her heels. “You know damn well what I want,” she said in an elevated voice. “You do read, I presume. I made my wish list available before our meeting, and yet,” she said, looking around the hotel room, “I see nothing from it.”
“The Gucci purse.” He motioned to the desk. “Don’t you like it? I personally picked it—”
Crack! His head swung to the side from the force of her hand. Red welts in the shapes of her fingers rose on his cheek. “It’s. Not. From. The. List.”
Kilduff’s patience had grown thin. She had neither the time nor the inclination to waste one more second with his disobedience. His application seemed so promising, she thought. Every now and then, even with her due diligence, she would end up with a pig who hadn’t the means to meet her demands.
Kilduff differed from other financial dominatrices in that she would cross the line and threaten to out them to their wives, even make their fetish public, if their generosity faltered. She demanded tributes be in the form of cash or gifts from a specific wish list. But the biggest differentiating factor with Kilduff was how she dealt with the occasional problematic pig. She would eliminate them through strangulation disguised as autoerotic asphyxiation. Money drove her, and killing was just a means to an end.
Kilduff looked down at the whimpering man before her, debating whether to cut the session short. If she had been wrong about his financial situation, there really was no need to continue. She was irritated, of course, but not enough to dispatch him. She didn’t kill out of anger. It was always for money.
“Please, let me try again. I promise to please you,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
“Fine. If you can pleasure me with your tongue, I’ll reconsider.” Kilduff snapped her finger, and the pig followed her on his knees. She grabbed her cell phone off the mantel above the small fireplace before plopping herself down on a white leather sofa. She propped up one leg onto the cushion and left the other resting on the carpeted floor. This revealed the open slit in her latex suit. “Get to work.”
Kilduff busied herself with her phone, uninspired thus far by the efforts of her pig. Sadly, her bank account was nearing depletion, and she had hoped this pig could provide the boost she needed to complete the game in Antwerp.
She watched as an animated Chinese dragon appeared on the screen of her phone. It snorted fire and danced around before morphing into the Chasing Chinatown logo. She thought about the inevitable, having to vet yet another potential, as the game finished loading. A few seconds later, she had a different thought.
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Team Lucky - Halfway between Melbourne and Sydney, Australia
Richie Pritcher brought the plastic-foil bag up to his chin and sent the remaining chips tumbling into his open mouth. He chewed and swallowed as he balled up the bag and aimed for a large plastic cup on top of a small table. He bricked his trash-ball off to the right against the window of the RV, sending it rolling off the table and under one of the pull-down sofas. Next time.
Pritcher couldn’t be bothered with picking up the bag, which crackled as it un-balled itself; he had rented the motorhome. Instead, he shrugged off his free-throwing abilities and wiped his hands on his T-shirt, completely oblivious to the orange smudges left behind.
Having successfully completed all of the Chasing Chinatown Attractions in Melbourne, Pritcher’s next destination turned out to be Sydney. He thought a road trip would be a fun way to see the countryside. As his eyes searched the old RV, he scratched at the reddish-orange growth around his chin. His other hand dipped into his khaki cargo shorts and did the same with his flabby behind.
He stopped grooming himself only when he saw the wooden handle of the butcher knife he’d been looking for. It was partially hidden under a large bag of chocolate-covered raisins on the vehicle’s kitchen counter.
Pritcher had one foot on the dry forest floor and the other still in the RV when he stopped. He looked back at the chocolate snack. He had already devoured half the bag earlier that morning and promised himself he would save the rest for later that night. He shifted his weight from foot to foot as his conscience did its best to fight his grumbling belly. A beat later, he grabbed the bag and exited the vehicle.
Completing the Attractions in Melbourne had been difficult for Pritcher. It had taken double the time he’d spent in Lima, Peru. Nothing seemed to go his way; he’d even had one of his submissions rejected for lack of creativity. He had considered giving up in Melbourne, but the five-million-dollar prize was too much to pass up.
He’d rubbed his lucky rabbit’s foot, purchased another horseshoe for the camper, refused to travel on Friday the thirteenth, avoided black cats, and continued to cross his fingers before every kill. Pritcher believed in those silly superstitions. He swore those were the reasons luck followed him in life. It was that belief that prevented him from actually quitting. I’m the luckiest man alive, he thought to himself. Surely my lucky ways will prevail and make me rich.
He tucked the knife under his left armpit, munched on a few raisins, and walked to the rear of the vehicle. There he rejoined the female hitchhiker he had picked up a few hours ago. She didn’t serve a purpose for the game. She was merely for pleasure.
Earlier, he had tied her wrists to the rear bumper with an electrical cord and stuffed an old handkerchief into her mouth to keep her from screaming. He had spent twenty minutes talking to her and fondling her breasts through her shirt before nature called and forced him to the toilet in the RV.
Upon his return, her eyes widened, and he watched a tear escape from the corner of her left eye. She kicked her legs out in an effort to move away from him. She couldn’t. Her white shorts were stained with the brown dirt that made up most of the surrounding terrain.
Pritcher smiled at the woman and asked in a friendly tone, “Would you like some raisins?”
She responded with a muffled cry.
Before he could say anything else, the front of his shorts buzzed. “Excuse me.” He placed the knife and the bag of treats on the bumper and removed his cell phone from his pocket. He had a message from the game. Good news, I hope.
He almost choked on the last handful of raisins he had popped into his mouth. No way! He spun around in delight as laughter and a few chewed raisins spewed forth from his mouth. “I can’t believe it. Ten million dollars.”
Pritcher read the message again and again while walking absentmindedly in a circle. When he turned back to the girl to share the news, six inches of stainless steel were driven into his chest.
He pulled in a sharp breath as he stared at the handle of the knife. He felt no pain, only pressure where it had been driven into him. How? His eyes darted to the bumper; the electric cord lay in the dirt below it.
The woman stood in front of him. Her tears had cut through the dirt on her face, leaving prominent streaks. Her breathing erratic, her eyes fastened on the knife. She let go of the wooden handle and backed away slowly, eventually turning and running from him as fast as she could. Her bare feet kicked up puffs of dirt behind her as she disappeared into a patch of trees.
Pritcher, still confused by what had just happened, lowered himself to the ground and leaned against the RV’s bumper. The front of his shirt grew heavy and warm. With each breath, the knife moved up and down. Slowly he placed his hand around the handle, careful not to disturb it. He then held his breath, counted to three, and yanked.
Chapter 2
That day, the temperature in San Francisco was unseasonably high—eighty degrees Fahrenheit. Special Agent Scott Reilly had both of his hands resting on his waist. He had removed his suit jacket earlier and loosened his tie. He stared at the cloudless sky, lost in thought. I kept an eye on the two agents from the bureau as they performed a perimeter walk around my property. Only when they disappeare
d along the side of my home, heading toward the backyard, did I interrupt my supervisor’s daydream.
“Is this really necessary?” I asked.
“Huh?” It took a few seconds for my question to break through the cloud in his head. “Abby, look, we have to take precautions. It’s a credible threat. I can’t let it go.”
A week ago, Reilly and I had found out that the mastermind behind the Chasing Chinatown game had placed a bounty on my head worth ten million dollars. Every sicko playing the game had been given a final task—winner-take-all—with a sizeable jackpot providing the incentive to travel to San Francisco and deliver my noggin.
“I realize that, but do you really think you need to embed two agents in my home?”
“Don’t fight it. Until we can better assess what we’re up against, this is how it’ll be. You’re lucky I’m not placing an agent on you. By the way, where are we on an active team count?”
“In the last week or so, the dragonheads of five Chinatowns were arrested. All have been confirmed to be managing the game in their respective city. That leaves nine cities, but word about the new Attraction had already been made when they were shut down. So technically, any team with access to the game app probably got the message. I’m guessing somewhere between nine and fourteen.”
Reilly ran a hand over his face. “Christ, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. We don’t know how many teams are active and will come after you. Team Carlson and Team Creeper are the only ones confirmed to be inactive, and that’s because they’re dead.”
I couldn’t argue with Reilly. Our entire strategy of shutting the game down had moved away from catching the players to disrupting the gameplay itself by removing the ones responsible for managing it.
I spied my mother-in-law, Po Po, peering at us from the dining room window. Even though I had only been married to her son Peng for a short time, his death actually made me feel closer to her, maybe because a part of him existed within her. I had always considered her family, even if she didn’t approve of me. She shook her head and disappeared behind the curtain.
Coit Tower (Abby Kane FBI Thriller - Chasing Chinatown Trilogy Book 3) Page 1