Wildcase - [Rail Black 02]

by Neil Russell

  “The police towed the taxi. It looked like they brought the entire department.”

  “Then I’m glad we called.”

  I could tell she wanted to tell me to cut the crap, but she was too polite. If you treat people like children, sooner or later, they’ll act like it. I tried to make nice. “Look, Regina, you’re a thorough professional, but I don’t know what I’m dealing with, and if I stir up a hornets’ nest, I’ll be gone, and you won’t.”

  “May I speak freely, Mr. Black?”

  “Of course.”

  “China is a Communist country run by a brutal regime. There’s no Bill of Rights or presumption of innocence. Not far from here is a building where they use cattle prods and branding irons to interrogate dissidents. Most are young people caught drawing graffiti. You can hear their screams while you’re eating lunch in the park. That’s by design. Whether you tell me or not, I’m still going to have to clean up your mess. If I know some things ahead of time, I can divert attention. Bureaucrats are lazy. If there’s a reasonable explanation, they’ll take it.”

  She looked like she wanted to say something else, so I waited. “Did Mr. Fleetwood tell you about my parents?”

  “He did.”

  “Then you will appreciate I have my own reasons as well.”

  “I’m going to need a car. Four doors, black and fast. Can you drive? I mean, really drive?”

  “Very well.”

  “Good, dress in dark clothes that you can run in if you have to.”

  “Anything else?”

  “A roll of duct tape. Can you buy that here?”

  “Are you kidding? The city would grind to a halt without it.”

  “Now for the hard part. A gun.”

  She didn’t bat an eye. “What caliber?”

  I liked this girl. “Something heavier than a nine, but if that’s all you can come up with, I’ll make do. And the noisier the better.”

  “It’ll be heavy and noisy. How much ammunition?”

  “If I need more than a clip, I’m in trouble. Last item. Is there a way to get in and out of this place without being seen? I’ve got something I have to do this afternoon; then you and I will be going out this evening. Around nine thirty.”

  She looked me up and down, then stepped forward and put her arms around my waist. She was warm and smelled like jasmine, which reminded of Suzanne Chang. Only this woman wasn’t a whiner or a coward. “Shall I put on some music?” I smiled.

  She stepped back without acknowledging the remark. “There’s a tunnel. From the war. I’ve heard many rumors about what it was used for, but no one really knows. I think you’ll fit, but it’s going to be tight.”

  “Tight I can handle.”

  Her businesslike demeanor suddenly disappeared. “May I ask you a question?”

  “Please.”

  “This Birdy you have come for. Is she your lover?”

  “We have made love.”

  “There is a difference.”

  “I don’t discuss relationships.”

  She pondered that for a moment. “Very well, then would you mind very much if I made love to you?”

  “I don’t know what Brice told you, but that’s not necessary.”

  “I do not share my body because it is necessary. Ever.”

  She put her head down, and I realized I had shamed her. I reached out and tilted her chit up. “I apologize. No excuses.”

  She came into my arms in a rush. She was so much smaller than I was, I had to bend to kiss her. It was worth the effort. Her diminutive mouth was warm and willing, and our tongues found each other. She pulled back slightly, “What do you like from your women?”

  “Mostly, I just like to know when they come.”

  A slight smile crossed her lips. “Then you will not be disappointed.”

  She unclipped a band of gold from a snug chain around her neck, pulled her long hair back and threaded it through into a tight ponytail. Her small face was now completely exposed, and I kissed her again as she began unbuttoning my shirt. I reached out to do the same for her, but she pushed my hands away. “I will do everything.”

  She kissed each part of my body as she uncovered it, lingering over my nipples and the underside of my penis while she made small murmuring noises in her throat. When we were both undressed, she stood, and I rolled her nipples between my fingers. She put her hands over mine and made me pinch them harder, her head lolling back as she sucked in her breath.

  She took my manhood in both hands, her fingertips doing things I couldn’t describe. I reached for the tiny strip of hair between her legs, and she moaned. She stopped what she was doing to me and watched my hand work. Then she looked into my eyes, and said, “Do you like my cunt?”

  I had my first sexual experience in my teens and quite a few since, and no woman had ever asked that. I didn’t think the head of my cock could get any larger, but it did its best. As an answer, I let my thumb part her folds, then gently massaged the throbbing button between them. She shuddered and came without trying.

  A few moments later, she took my hand and placed it on the top of her head. She put her own fingers into what was now a very wet vagina until they glistened with her juices, then she drew them across her lips and flicked her tongue to get some on its tip.

  She knelt. I closed my eyes and waited to feel the warmth of her mouth engulf me. Instead, she put the tiny tip of her velvety tongue in the hole of my penis, gently swirled, then drew it out. The second time she did it, I exploded onto her lips. It was so unexpected, I felt my knees buckle slightly and realized why she had put my hand where it was. I steadied myself while she took the rest of my pumping orgasm in her mouth.

  She never took her lips away, and shortly I went from indecision to even harder than before. After a while, she led me by the hand to the bedroom and turned down the sheets. She got onto the bed, turned and knelt on its edge. I stepped forward, and she clutched my buttocks with both hands and pulled me into her mouth again.

  This time, as I was about to go, she turned quickly and impaled herself on me, coming again and again as she groaned and gasped for breath. She reached up and pushed her pony-tail into my hand, and I grabbed it, pulling her head back. “Yes!” she grunted. “Pull it! Make me your cunt. Make me your cunt!” I put my other hand on her shoulder and jammed her hard rear against me with such force that she momentarily lost her breath, then I pounded into her so ruthlessly I thought I might break her.

  Suddenly, I felt her body tense like it had not before, and my heart reached the same rhythm as my thrusts. “Yes!” she screamed. “YES!” When we came together, she made a bestial sound that was exceeded in wantonness only by my own.

  I remember falling into bed, still coupled, and her pressing her back into my chest. I reached down and pulled up the sheet, but I don’t remember letting go.

  * * * *

  Regina didn’t have to worry about the plane. Buddy Leeds was a sixtysomething Brit holdover with a 1941 DC-3. A forty-year expat, the Chinese had let him continue operating his charter service, Buddy Leeds, You Follow, as long as he made himself available to ferry government functionaries back and forth to the provinces.

  “They all got a piece of ass somewhere, so mostly, I just fly guys with a hard-on. Not that I got anything against a little toss, mate, but these cheap cocksuckers fight me over every buck and don’t even slip me a bottle of gin. Day I feel the big one comin’ on, I’m gonna aim my baby here right into Government Hill. Those pricks can’t die fast enough for my taste.”

  Of all the aircraft ever conceived, nothing comes close to the “Three.” Thousands were built and won countless wars and opened markets from Abilene to Zanzibar. Most of the last generation took their first flights watching twin Cyclones and six blades bite reliably into the sky. It was a real joy to be up in one again.

  Buddy had the cabin decked out in all its antique beauty, but I rode up front with him. When a couple of fighters appeared, he grinned and waved. The jets held position long e
nough for their cameras to get what they wanted, then waggled their wings and blasted away, giving us a substantial slipstream jolt in the process.

  “Assholes. The jerk on the left is fuckin’ his general’s wife, and the general’s fuckin’ some nurse upriver. I can’t tell you who the prime minister is anymore, but I know who can’t get it up without a dildo in his ass.”

  “Maybe you should put out a newsletter.” I laughed.

  “Oh, I got it written down, all right.”

  In his line of work, probably a smart idea. “What do you know about the Peak?”

  “If you’re lookin’ for real estate, you gotta spread some big money around before they’ll even let you inside one.”

  “Right now, I’m just interested in a house with a butterfly on the gate.”

  He was silent for a moment. “You here to kill somebody?”

  That wasn’t exactly the response I was expecting. “Why? Does it need doing?”

  “People been goin’ in there and not comin’ out for a long time now. Somebody was bound to come along with a grudge and the skill. You look to me like you got both.”

  I didn’t answer, and he turned into the sun. Ahead was the Peak.

  “It’s not a butterfly. It’s a moth. A silk moth to be exact. They call the place the Silk House because everything inside is supposed to be made of the stuff.”

  “Whose is it?” I asked.

  “American guy. Wired all the way to Zhongnanhai— that’s the private city in Beijing where the elected murderers live, in case you didn’t know.”

  I did.

  “Owner’s name is Kingdom. Markus Kingdom.”

  According to Buddy, everybody in Hong Kong knew he worked for the government, so he could wander back and forth over the Peak as long as he liked without somebody complaining. On the flip side, the old DC-3 wasn’t particularly nimble, and Buddy babied it, so after we made a pass, he’d run out a few miles before making a wide, sweeping turn and coming back.

  On our first approach, I got a look at where I’d spent the last two nights and was glad I hadn’t been able to see much before I started climbing. Buddy noticed me staring. “They lose about ten cars a year over that. Sometimes they get a body out, but mostly not.” It reinforced what I’d thought. Right now, Crimson was getting comfortable with my being dead. She’d stay put.

  The Silk House gate wasn’t visible from the air, but the white Rolls was parked next to a freestanding, four-car garage. The sprawling one-story house was built of massive redwood beams with the corners curved dramatically skyward like the bow of a Heyerdahl ship. That this uniquely American wood, much romanticized by poets and politicians, had been carted across the Pacific to create a weekend getaway for a billionaire trading partner seemed appropriate. Beijing now controlled the Panama Canal, most of our manufacturing and the majority of our money. Why not our forests?

  The house was set thirty feet from the ridge with a hundred-foot-wide wall of glass overlooking the distant city and harbor. Guests would surely be awestruck. The combination of altitude and deep eaves prevented my seeing inside, but it was probably just as well. I was powerless.

  On a second pad, well down the mountain, sat an infinity pool and tennis court. I looked for stairs and saw none. On our next pass, I was able to pick out a small recess in the green hill near the pool and guessed there was an elevator between the two levels.

  Three sides of the residence were windowless, and a line of narrow fence posts delimited the interior property line. I pointed to a long, narrow structure partially obscured by trees. “Any idea what that is?”

  Buddy banked the plane and took a look. “No, it’s new. Within the last couple of months.”

  We came around one more time and ran parallel to the cliff so I could get a look at the neighbors. None were closer than a quarter mile.

  I saw a line of black Mercedes coming up the mountain. I pointed. “Somebody’s getting some important company.”

  Buddy craned his neck. “Not company, the owner.”

  Moments later, the lead car turned into the Silk House drive and disappeared under the trees. The entourage followed.

  * * * *

  42

  Rowland Rounds and Red Hands

  Regina, dressed in a black leotard, black Nikes and a black baseball cap, led me into the company offices, then down several flights to the basement for the second time that day. Her long, raven ponytail protruded out the back of her cap, and as I watched it bounce, I tried to keep my mind on the stairs. I noticed an athleticism in her gait that hadn’t been evident in heels, which told me I wasn’t going to have to worry about how she’d react if she broke a nail.

  I was wearing black cargo pants, a long-sleeved black T-shirt and a pair of black deck shoes. She’d brought me an artist’s charcoal stick I’d use later.

  The tunnel was behind a false wall in a fireplace, and when I’d seen it earlier on my way to meet Buddy Leeds, I didn’t think there was a ghost of a chance I would fit. “It widens once you get in,” she’d said. Then she’d smiled, and added, “But you’ve probably heard that before.”

  The Shecky Greene neighborhood of my brain had flashed something drop-dead clever, but I kept it to myself. This time, there was no banter. I took the flashlight she’d brought and went in first. That way, there’d be somebody to tell the coroner whose feet he was looking at.

  It seemed even narrower than before, and I scraped both shoulders wedging myself in. The shaft angled down slightly, and the combination of gravity and my willingness to ignore what was happening to the wounds on my back, allowed me to pull myself thorough the sixty or so feet. Eventually, I broke into another basement, turned and helped Regina out.

  She led me through the maze of passageways until we came to a rickety stairway flanked by stacks of boxes labeled in Chinese. Earlier, it had been dead quiet down there, and we had continued straight to door that opened onto an alley. This time, I smelled food and heard dishes clattering and people shouting.

  Regina stopped. “At night, the security people take their breaks in the alley.” She pointed up. “We go this way. Act like an owner.”

  “What do I own?”

  “The Ritz-Carlton,” she said.

  At the top of the stairs, we walked out into an industrial kitchen in full operation. People stared at us. I picked up a wok, looked at the fish frying in it, frowned and said something in gibberish to the chef. He winced, and everybody else quickly went back to their tasks.

  The car was a new, midnight blue, right-hand-drive Maserati, and it was parked against the wall in the valet section of the garage. “Sorry about the color. It was the best I could do.”

  “It’s fine.”

  A handsome young Chinese man in a Ritz uniform appeared out of the shadows and held the keys just out of Regina’s reach until she jabbed him in the solar plexus, and she took them while he was trying to get his breath. He glared at me, then said something in rapid Mandarin to Regina.

  She wasn’t interested. “Give it a rest, Tommy. Who I’m with is none of your business. You want to fuck around, I’ll tell Mr. Fleetwood we need to put our guests somewhere else.”

  Tommy held out his hands in mock supplication then spoke English. “Always with the threats. You owe me a movie, remember. I’m not letting you off the hook.”

  She waved him off dismissively, and we got in the car. “If you listen to those old fuckers in Beijing, there are 20 percent too few women in China. In my age group, it’s thirty to one.”

  “Sounds like a marketing opportunity.”

  “That would presuppose a semblance of intelligence. No, they’ll do it the old-fashioned way. They’ll start a war.”

  Unfortunately, she was probably right, and as she burned the Quattroporte past Tommy without looking at him, I felt sorry for the kid.

  I’m not a Maserati fan. The styling’s too much like Buick and not enough like Pininfarina. However, I have no complaint about the power plant. Only Ferrari has a better roa
r, and as Regina shot toward the Peak, I was able to appreciate the car’s performance in the hands of someone who knew how to show it off.

  Fog and a slight mist had rolled in, keeping the sightseers home and leaving the road empty. We didn’t talk as she wheeled the Quattro through the hairpins and hammered it on the straightaways. I didn’t tell her where we were going, so she blew past the Silk House driveway doing sixty. It’s human nature to slow as you approach a target, and modern surveillance systems pick up variances in speed and send a first alarm.

  Half a mile farther up, I saw another drive, this one illuminated by a coach light on a stone pillar. I pointed, and Regina slowed and pulled over. “I’ll get out here. Find someplace to get a cup of coffee and come back in an hour and a half. Stop up the hill and stay dark. Flash your lights every sixty seconds, and if I’m not here after fifteen flashes, go home and forget you ever met me.”