The Killing Hands

by P. D. Martin

  I sigh. “Looks like my friend stood me up.” I stand up. “Great to see you again, Emily. And nice to meet you, Mary and Beth.”

  We say our goodbyes and I head out the front door. But instead of going back to my car, I slip around to the laneway that runs alongside the double-story building. I move past Suzuki’s Mercedes and farther into the laneway until I find a spot behind a charmingly smelly Dumpster. From here I can see his car, and if I step out a bit farther I can see the back door to the bar. I lean on the Dumpster, despite the smell, with my head peering out for a clear line of sight of the door. I’ve spotted Park Ling and I should ring Petrov, but I know he’ll kill me for being out from behind my desk when I’m still recovering, so I try De Luca first.

  “De Luca.”

  “Hey, De Luca,” I whisper, “it’s Anderson.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I’ve spotted Park Ling. He’s with Takeshi Suzuki at his karaoke bar.”

  “Really!”

  “You guys wanna come back me up or what?”

  “You’re there by yourself? Injured?”

  I sigh. Maybe De Luca is going to be as bad as Petrov. “Long story. Just get your ass down here.”

  “What about Petrov? You called him?”

  “No, thought I’d leave that to you.” I disconnect. Just as I hang up, the door creaks open. I lean harder into the Dumpster, ready to crouch down or move farther behind it, but also wanting to make sure I get a good visual.

  Suzuki and Ling walk out the door, both smoking. Suzuki says something, Ling nods, and then Suzuki makes a call before getting in his car. The men don’t formally say goodbye, only the slightest nod before Suzuki drives off.

  I stand in the shadows, gun ready, safety off. Ling’s only a few feet away. I can smell his cigarette smoke, getting closer. I pin myself against the Dumpster and edge backward. Fear takes a tight grip on me. I know what the man is capable of, and even though I’m armed, if I let him get much closer, it’ll be too close for me to draw before he disarms me. His kung fu skills are too good.

  I try to steady my breath, but now I can even hear the faint tread of his footsteps. I’m not sure what shoes he’s wearing, but he’s able to walk extremely softly in them. I kneel down slowly, desperate not to make a sound. Even a crack of my ankle or knee would alert him to the fact that someone’s here, only steps away from him. Thankfully my joints are good to me. My right knee is on the ground; my left leg steadies my weight, planted out in front. My gun is aimed high, at where I estimate his chest will be. I take deep, but hopefully silent, breaths.

  The footsteps get closer so I take a breath and hold it, ready to take the shot. I can’t let him get too close, can’t give him even a split second. But just as I see his shadow on the pavement before me, he stops. A cigarette butt lands on my side of the Dumpster and Ling extinguishes it with his shoe, a black, rubber-soled shoe with a soft leather upper. The shoes of a hired killer. Next his hand reaches down. My heart beats faster—will he see me? He picks up the cigarette butt but his head doesn’t come into view, which means I’m still out of sight, too. He takes the butt with him; he wouldn’t want to leave his DNA lying around, especially near the business of his employer. The footsteps move away and, keeping low, I peek around the corner. On the street he flags down a taxi and I sprint down the laneway, catching up to him just as the taxi takes off. The traffic is slow, so I decide to make a run for my car. I force myself to jog the hundred yards, but the pounding motion takes a toll on my body.

  I ring De Luca from the car. “He’s on the move. Traveling south on Central. I’ll call you again soon.” I disconnect and concentrate on keeping Ling’s cab in my sights. I can’t afford to lose him.

  Just over five minutes later, the cab pulls over. I pass the taxi and keep Ling in my rearview mirror, before parking in an illegal space a few yards in front of him. I take out a map of L.A. that I keep in my car in case my navigation system ever goes down—today it serves as good cover. If Ling looks in the car as he passes, all he’ll see is a lost tourist. But Ling doesn’t come my way. Instead, he crosses the road and disappears into another small alleyway.

  I call De Luca with our new location.

  “We’re about five to ten minutes away. I’ll see if I can get an LAPD patrol car to you sooner, but in the meantime keep your distance.”

  “Will do,” I say, but immediately get out of the car. There’s no way I’m letting Ling disappear for good. As I’m crossing the road a car turns into the alley, so I hang back, pressing myself against the corner building. The car comes to a screeching halt and someone is shoved out of the backseat before the car spins around and makes a hasty exit from the lane. What the—?

  I can’t make out who the figure is from this distance, so I quickly reach for my pocket binoculars. It’s Dan Young…beaten up. This is the drop, this is the plan. And it’s happened fast, much sooner than we were expecting. Suzuki is in a hurry and has forced Park Ling to change his usual routine.

  Then it hits me. This is the alley from the dream I had before I was shot—I was fighting someone extremely well-trained in kung fu. I must have seen it from Young’s perspective. Hopefully my presence will alter the outcome.

  Ling runs toward Young, as he’s still trying to get to his feet. But our hit man actually allows Young to stand fully before he starts his attack, a Double Back-fist aimed at Young’s eyes. Ling’s diving into the fight, into his next kill with his calling card—a Killing Hand move. Young, still obviously disorientated, moves just in time while also holding his hands up in a cross block to catch the punches. If Ling’s using dim mak strikes, any contact could be deadly for Young.

  I move in quickly, gun drawn. I know my physical fitness is below par…way below par…but Ling’s fifty yards away and no match for a gun. He can’t reach me now. “FBI, freeze.”

  Both men stop, midstrikes. Young staggers backward, out of Ling’s reach, and Ling spins around.

  “Let me guess…Agent Anderson.” Although his accent is strong, each word is enunciated perfectly. He’s well practiced in English, not surprisingly.

  “Hold it right there, Ling.”

  But Ling doesn’t hold it there. Instead he moves closer to me. “I’m going to enjoy this, Sophie.” The way he says my name, with an almost tenderness, is disturbing.

  “Stop right there, Ling. I will fire.”

  He smiles, hesitates, but keeps moving forward, holding his arms up. “You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man who’s surrendering to you, would you?”

  The answer would be no under normal circumstances, but I can’t let this man get within striking distance of me. I give him a final warning, but he doesn’t stop. I take a breath, hold it, and fire.

  Two shots, direct hits into his chest.

  Ling’s body jumps backward from the force and he falls onto the ground.

  “You all right?” I yell out to Young.

  He nods, but he’s still bent over, nursing his ribs. Just like my vision, Ling struck and broke Young’s ribs. Plus whatever else Suzuki’s thugs did to him before they dumped him in the lane.

  “Where’s Mee?” I ask.

  Young shakes his head, straightening slightly but wincing from the pain. “I don’t know. We were being held together but then they beat on me, blindfolded me and dragged me here. They would have taken her somewhere else by now.”

  We both move toward Ling’s body. Young’s still closest, at only a couple of feet away, but I’m closing the distance, fast.

  “Is he dead?” I ask, still not able to see Ling’s face and any rise and fall in his chest, in this light.

  Young bends down over him and presses his finger to Ling’s neck. “He’s alive. Pulse is very slow, though.”

  I nod, reholster my gun and bring out my BlackBerry to call for an ambulance. It may even get here before our backup. I bend down and notice it.

  “Dan, there’s—”

  But my sentence is cut short as Ling puts a foot on either side of my a
nkle and brings his legs toward his butt, upending me.

  I hear Dan wheeze out, “no blood.”

  I’m on the ground and Ling’s instantly on top of me, grabbing my gun out of its holster. But instead of shooting me he tosses it to the other side of the laneway and then rolls over onto his back. I guess shooting me wouldn’t be any fun.

  Dan straightens up as Ling rocks his weight back onto his shoulders and then pushes his legs skyward, pushing off the ground with his hands behind his head at the same time. In one fluid movement he’s standing. Yes, he’s probably got two almighty bruises from my bullets hitting his bulletproof vest, but that’s it. And slowing your heart rate is part of traditional kung fu training in China. Damn it, why didn’t I think of that?

  My shoulders aren’t up to Ling’s maneuver, so I move my legs over my body and head in a circular scissor movement before using their momentum to come to a standing position. My gun’s twenty yards away, and while I’m interested in it, Ling isn’t. He prefers to use his bare hands.

  Ling smiles. “I’m going to enjoy this. I understand from my research that you both study kung fu.”

  I don’t wait for the formalities normally observed in traditional kung fu fighting. I strike. I keep it simple and sharp, going for a low side kick to Ling’s knee. He checks the kick by effortlessly picking up the target leg so my strike lands on his shin, which is rock hard, even harder than Sifu Lee’s shins. Luckily I used the hard, side part of the sole of my foot and there’s no serious pain, but I certainly don’t want to make contact with Ling’s shins again if I can avoid it.

  “It’s not really fair, I know,” he says, repositioning himself backward slightly so he can target both Young and me, “given you’re both injured.”

  “It’s two against one, Ling, don’t be so cocky.” Young does a fast side step toward Ling and delivers a side kick like mine, but his is aimed higher, at Ling’s ribs.

  Ling uses a lower gate block to deflect the kick. “Time to get down to business.” He targets Dan first, delivering a powerful and super-fast combination of strikes and kicks. As Dan’s on the defense, I’m on the offence, but Ling’s superior skill is able to keep me at bay with a few well-timed strikes while he keeps the pressure on Young. At least Ling hasn’t gone for any dim mak strikes…yet.

  My adrenaline kicks in, and the searing pain in my left shoulder from all the movement begins to subside. That, and the sight of Dan wavering, sends my senses into overdrive. But instead of lunging at Ling, I accept the inevitable and go for the gun. No sense fooling myself—Ling’s better than me by a long shot, even if I was uninjured. My gun’s only twenty yards away, but that’s a long way against an opponent like this. Ling’s better than me and Young put together and in top form.

  I hear Ling’s footsteps behind me, at least giving Dan a break. I only make it just over half the distance before I feel the weight of Ling as he launches himself at me. I come to the ground with a thud, Ling on top of me. I brace the fall by putting my arms out, with my fists clenched and arms bent so I’m taking the impact on my forearms, not on my hands, which would snap my wrists clean. Even so, our combined weight overshadows my adrenaline surge and I scream in pain as my wounded shoulder jolts from the impact. I try to scramble forward when Ling gets off me. I can see the gun, it’s only a few yards away. But he starts to hit me and I have to abandon the gun to defend myself. I curl into a ball, fetal position, fists clenched and arms protecting my head so any kicks or strikes will hit the bony part of my forearm. At the same time, I peer around my arms and look for any openings in Ling’s defenses. He comes to standing and is close enough for me to bring him toppling down. I quickly anchor his ankle with my left foot and kick at his knee with all my might with my right leg. He was on the move backward to escape the leg lock, but I did make contact and I can tell from an ever-so-slight wince on his face that it wasn’t exactly pain-free. A small victory, I suppose.

  Dan’s moving toward us, but he’s in no condition to fight—not for much longer anyway. Even so, he brings his guard up and delivers a roundhouse kick. It comes quickly enough after my own kick that it catches Ling off guard. While Ling regroups, I commando-crawl toward the gun. It’s at my fingertips when I hear the unmistakable crunch of bone breaking and a yelp of pain. I hope it’s Ling. I know it’s more likely Dan.

  I don’t look back, instead I grasp the gun, rolling as my fingers close around its butt. I wind up on my back, gun pointing toward the incoming figure of Ling.

  As he leaps onto me, I fire four shots.

  My aim’s off, affected by the pain in my shoulder and the fact that I didn’t have enough time to properly prepare. But even so, one shot hits Ling in the neck. He lands on top of me, his eyes wide. I quickly roll him off me and scramble to my feet.

  Young’s on the ground, not moving, and Ling’s rolling around in agony and bleeding, but still alive. I doubt even he would be able to slow his pulse now. Keeping my eyes and gun trained on Ling, I back up to Dan and kneel down beside him.

  “Dan?” I say, glancing at him for a second.

  He manages a grunt. I take a second quick look at him. His face is bloodied and bruised, and even from this angle I can tell his elbow’s badly broken.

  I grab my BlackBerry and call 911, just as I hear the sirens and then see the flashing blue of an LAPD patrol car.

  Thirty-Five

  I check Dan’s pulse. It’s extremely slow, especially given he’s just been fighting for his life. Ling must have attacked at least one of the dim mak points. I think back to my dim mak reading and how to reverse an attack on the parasympathetic nervous system…I need to apply pressure to one of the points that stimulates the sympathetic nervous system. That’ll get his heart rate and blood pressure back up. It’s also possible Young suffered a dim mak knockout. But first, I go for a carotid massage in case Ling used the pressure points that will induce a fatal heart arrhythmia. I rub the side of Young’s neck, hard, hoping I’ve caught him in time.

  An LAPD officer rushes out of the car and toward me, gun out and pointed at me, his partner quickly coming to his side.

  “I’m FBI,” I shout as I place my gun slowly on the pavement next to Young. “Let me get my ID.” I slowly reach my right hand inside my jacket and pull out my ID. The cop comes closer to examine it and his trigger finger relaxes.

  “We’ve got a DEA agent down here. I’ve just called 911.”

  “Okay.” They take the information in quickly.

  “That’s our suspect.” I motion my head toward Park Ling. “Be careful, he’s dangerous even in that condition.”

  One officer trains his gun on Ling, but keeps his distance, while the other bends down to me. “Is he going to be okay?”

  I don’t bother explaining dim mak—it’d take too long and be met with too much skepticism. Instead, I just say, “I think so.”

  “I’ll radio for a second ambulance.”

  I nod, and move from Young’s carotid artery to gall bladder 20, a pressure point on the back of his head, near the base of his skull.

  I look up at Ling—he’s losing a lot of blood. “You better apply pressure,” I say to the officers.

  One of them applies pressure to the throat wound, while the other keeps his gun on Ling. After a minute, I check Dan’s pulse and notice it does seem to have increased somewhat.

  He moans, coming around. “Pressure-point knockout?” he manages. He’s definitely with it now.

  “I think so.” Many of the dim mak points cause an instant faint or knockout, and according to the medical explanation it’s a vasovagal faint, caused by a sudden drop in blood pressure.

  “Where is he?”

  “Down. Shot.”

  Young nods. “Good.” He pushes himself to sitting and looks around, clutching his elbow in pain. He winces. “Man, this hurts.”

  “An ambulance is on its way.”

  He nods, but the wince doesn’t go away. It will hurt even more when his adrenaline wears off.

 
“I also did a quick carotid massage, in case he targeted other heart points.”

  Young gives me a weak smile. “Thanks. I think I’ll go to a Chinese doctor in the next few days, just to be on the safe side.”

  The first ambulance arrives and as much as I want the paramedics to check out Young first, now that he’s conscious he has to be their second priority. Ling’s bleeding, profusely, and if they don’t control it quickly he’ll die. So even though the paramedics are directed to us first, Young sends them over to Ling.

  “Was Mee okay the last time you saw her?”

  “Yes.” Young’s face crumples. “But I’ve got no idea where she is now—or if she’s all right.” He pauses. “I know what this is about now.”

  “Suzuki’s sister,” I state.

  Young furrows his brow. “I don’t know anything about Suzuki’s sister, but I know Suzuki’s running drugs on the side, skimming a large chunk off of Moto’s business.”

  “So he doesn’t know you’re DEA?”

  Young shakes his head. “No. But I overheard him talking to his driver about how the Feds were getting close, had names of hit men, and that they needed to secure their source and isolate her from Moto.”

  “Her?” I notice that this time the gender of the mole has been revealed. “Hana?”

  Young shrugs. “I still don’t know.”

  It has to be Hana. If Suzuki knew we had the hit man’s name, it can only be Hana or Williams, and with the gender confirmed…

  “Damn.” I drop my head. “Why’d it have to be Hana?” I like…liked Hana. Even though the evidence implicated her, I couldn’t bring myself to believe that Hana was capable of betraying us and the law. Obviously she’s a better actor than I thought.

  “Sorry,” Young says.

  I blow out a heavy sigh and the deep breath sends a sharp pain across my shoulder. By fighting Ling I’ve undone some of the past two and a half weeks of healing and I can feel it.

  “How is he?” I ask the paramedics lifting Ling into the ambulance.

  “He’s lost a ton of blood, but he should make it.”