Stealing the Dragon

by Tim Maleeny

  By the time Sally knelt, Jun had rolled onto her back. Twin rivulets of blood ran from either side of her mouth and down her cheeks, and her eyes stared up at the ceiling. Her chest didn’t move. Sally saw that Jun’s shirt was soaked through and realized the wound on her back had started in her chest. Looking back toward the headless corpse, she saw a gun a few feet away, a small caliber semi-automatic that could easily be concealed under a man’s suit jacket.

  He had fired as she swept the katana across her body toward his neck, and her momentum carried her forward to finish the strike. He was dead but she got hit anyway. If he had used a sword, she wouldn’t even be scratched.

  Guns were the only weapon not used at the school, considered the tool of cowards, not warriors. But guns could kill just as quickly as a sword, and it took no great skill to pull a trigger. The reality of the situation hit Sally like a sledgehammer, and she felt her own breath leave her body, the flames above her roaring in anger as they tried to suck the oxygen from the room and the life from her lungs.

  She collapsed next to Jun, their faces touching. Gasping, Sally grabbed Jun’s face in her hands and turned her head so she could look into her eyes.

  Jun blinked.

  Sally propped herself up, cradling Jun’s head in her lap. Jun’s eyes lurched drunkenly in their sockets before focusing again on Sally.

  “What happened?” Sally asked, her voice hoarse from the smoke, barely audible above the flames.

  Tears sprang from Jun’s eyes and ran down her cheeks. Sally’s vision blurred and she blinked furiously, not wanting to miss an instant of what Jun was saying. As she watched, Jun’s lips moved, but Sally couldn’t hear a single word.

  “What happened?” she repeated, desperate, her mouth pressed to Jun’s ear. “What can you tell me?”

  Jun’s eyes rolled upward and closed.

  Sally stopped breathing. She shook Jun and pressed her face against her cheek, tasting the salt of blood and tears. After a long, endless second, Sally felt fresh tears running down her cheek and pulled back to see Jun looking right at her. With a surging panic, Sally put her ear to Jun’s lips.

  Every word was seconds long, a helpless agony of anticipation and dread.

  “I,” she started, then stopped again. “…love you.” Her mouth formed the words again in slow motion, as if she were carving each syllable into eternity.

  Jun’s voice was barely a rustle of fabric, with no breath to carry the words. Years later, Sally would sometimes wonder if she’d heard them at all, or if Jun’s last gift had been her final thoughts, sent to Sally in a dream.

  As Sally lifted her head to answer she saw Jun start to smile just as the life drained out of her eyes. Sally’s mouth was open but there was nothing left to say. She closed her eyes and held Jun, feeling the heat devour her as the entire house started crying out in rage.

  A massive hand grabbed Sally by the collar, yanking her upward. She heard Xan shouting her name, but her arms were still wrapped around Jun and she locked them, unwilling to let go. She felt Xan release her and watched as he bent down and grabbed Jun’s sword.

  With one fluid motion, Xan tossed the katana into the brazier, the blood sluicing across the blade and hissing as it hit the coals. And despite her shock and despair, Sally realized Xan was covering his tracks, removing any sign that the sword belonged to Jun. Erasing any connection back to him.

  Sally managed to stand, Jun’s head lolling backward, her eyes dull, the fleeting smile lost somewhere in the smoke and ashes. Xan stepped behind Sally and picked them both up, staggering through the wreckage of the house.

  The night air hit Sally like a wave as Xan laid her down in the open courtyard, the sky bright with flame and stars. A sudden roar as beams gave way and the second floor collapsed. Sally rolled onto her back, her hand still holding Jun’s, and started shaking uncontrollably. She was colder than she’d ever been, even in winter, and she knew she would never stop shivering.

  Sally lay on the ground and felt the cold night air course down her throat, fill her lungs, and squeeze her heart. Clutching Jun’s hand tightly in hers, she closed her eyes and smiled, thinking that she must be dying.

  Her old friend Death was coming, and this time, at long last, he was coming for her.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  San Francisco, present day

  “Get in the car.”

  Before Cape could answer, a tan Buick pulled in front of the GASP building and idled at the curb. Cape could see a lone driver, his features obscured by the shadows cutting across the street.

  “Now.”

  Cape felt the barrel of the gun pressing against his back, urging him onward. He didn’t turn around, but he shifted his weight and braced his feet against the sidewalk, letting the man behind him know this wasn’t going to be easy.

  The man’s feet shuffled as he stopped short, surprised that Cape wasn’t skipping across the curb. The voice came again but sounded uncertain, not as profane as Cape would have expected.

  “I’m not bluffing here.”

  “That cinches it,” said Cape, turning around slowly. “Anyone who says they’re not bluffing usually is.”

  A young man of about thirty stood before Cape holding a Glock at waist height, his index finger straight along the barrel and not curled around the trigger. The way they taught you at the bureau, not the way hired muscle held their guns. The man’s blond hair was combed neatly and parted on the side, his blue eyes masked by his wire-rim glasses. His fair skin was turning red as he struggled to maintain his composure.

  Cape smiled, holding his hands out from his sides. “How long you been with the FBI?” he asked pleasantly.

  The man’s jaw started to drop but he caught it, his eyes narrowing. “I told you to get in the car,” he said testily.

  “I heard you,” replied Cape. “What do you want?”

  “I could detain you,” said the man, gesturing vaguely with the gun.

  Cape looked from the Glock to the young man and gave him the once-over before shaking his head.

  “I don’t think so,” he said matter-of-factly.

  The young man’s jaw tensed but he holstered the gun, his eyes darting toward the waiting car. It was one thing to jam a gun into a man’s back for a quick snatch-and-grab; it was another to stand in the middle of the sidewalk in broad daylight having a conversation.

  “I could arrest you,” he said.

  “For what?”

  The man squared his feet with an expression of frustration and anger, looking as if he might take a swing at Cape at any moment.

  Cape held up his hand. “While you figure out your next move, I’m going to breakfast,” he said, pointing down the street. “See that restaurant with the green awning on the next block? It’s called Delancey Street, in case you’re not from around here. I’m going to walk there right now and get a table. You and your friend can join me if you want. If you want to arrest me after I eat, that’s up to you.”

  Cape turned without waiting for a response. When he was almost ten feet away, he heard the man behind him curse, not quite under his breath.

  Five minutes later Cape was looking over a menu when the man with the glasses walked into Delancey Street behind his partner.

  The man in the lead was older. He was black, his hair shaved close and peppered gray at the temples. He was taller than Cape, maybe six-two, with broad shoulders under a tan blazer. Cape put him at one-ninety. His eyes were dark brown and his smile relaxed. He held out a hand as he slid into the booth across from Cape, a knowing look passing between them.

  Cape shook his hand. “Cape Weathers,” he said. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  “John Williams,” came the reply. “And this here’s—”

  The younger man jumped in. “Special Agent Dickerson,” he said as he lowered himself into the booth. He didn’t offer to shake hands.

  Cape glanced briefly at Dickerson but brought his eyes back to Williams.

  “How come yo
u guys are always Special Agents?” he asked. “Aren’t there any regular agents at the FBI?”

  Williams shrugged. “Guess the bureau figures it might impress law-abiding taxpayers.”

  “I’m definitely impressed,” replied Cape, glancing over at Dickerson.

  Williams started to laugh but gracefully turned it into a cough. Turning to Dickerson, he reached into his pocket and passed over a handful of coins.

  “I forgot to put money in the meter,” he said amiably, but something in his tone said he didn’t expect an argument. “Wouldn’t look right, two government agents getting a parking ticket on the taxpayer’s dime.”

  The muscles in Dickerson’s jaw flexed, but he took the money and stalked out of the restaurant. Williams watched him leave, then turned back to Cape.

  “Getting you in the car was Jimmy’s idea,” he said simply. “Jimmy, Special Agent Dickerson, just graduated law school. Hasn’t spent much time on the street yet.”

  “So the bureau teamed him up with you.”

  “Yeah,” said Williams, leaning back against the booth and sighing. “Something like that—so I’m letting him learn from his mistakes, one day at a time.”

  “Must make for some long days,” said Cape.

  Williams nodded. “He’s a smart kid, wants to do the right thing—we’ll see. The bureau goes for those young, gung-ho types, and Jimmy’s better than most. Long as no one gets hurt, I got the time.”

  A waiter came up to the table and stood expectantly, pad and pen in hand. He had a worn, heavily creased face—as if he’d spent many long years someplace much less pleasant than this restaurant. His thickly muscled arms sported tattoos on both forearms.

  “I’ll have two eggs, scrambled, with bacon and wheat toast,” said Cape. “And iced tea.”

  Williams looked up at the waiter and nodded. “Same, but with rye toast. And coffee.” He glanced at the menu. “And some French toast for my friend—and coffee.”

  The waiter nodded and collected the menus, then left for the kitchen.

  Williams turned his gaze on Cape. “Iced tea?”

  Cape shrugged. “I could use the caffeine, but I don’t drink coffee.”

  “Why not?”

  “I like the idea of coffee,” said Cape, “more than I like the coffee itself. When I was younger I’d try it every once in a while, see if it tasted any different than the last time. Finally gave up.”

  “You shoulda tried it at an inflection point,” said Williams.

  “What?”

  “Inflection point,” repeated Williams. “That’s how addiction starts. You experience something at a time of personal change. You ask people when they started smoking, smoking pot, drinking coffee—you name it—the answer’s always when they changed schools, started dating, went to college…some shit like that. Me, I started drinking coffee when I was ten.”

  “You had an inflection point?” asked Cape.

  Williams nodded. “My Dad died,” he said simply. “That man sure loved his coffee. Day after he died, Mom put his cup down in front of me, right on the kitchen table. Didn’t say nothin’, just filled the cup. Guess it was her way of sayin’ I was the man of the house.”

  Cape nodded but stayed quiet. Williams looked at him for a long minute before saying, “You know why I told you that story?”

  Cape shook his head.

  “Me neither,” replied Williams, shrugging.

  “How long you been with the feds?” asked Cape.

  “A long time, but not long enough to forget I was a beat cop first,” replied Williams. “I got recruited by the bureau when I was in my twenties.”

  “That must have been flattering.”

  Williams shrugged. “It was during one of their color drives.”

  Cape arched an eyebrow. “Promoting and encouraging diversity?”

  Williams smiled. “Something like that. For me, it meant a better paycheck, maybe a better class of criminal.”

  “Is there such a thing?”

  Williams shook his head. “Nah, a scumbag’s a scumbag, white collar or not.” He held Cape’s gaze for a minute before blinking, letting him know he was serious about his job. They were talking, but they weren’t friends.

  Cape nodded.

  “Anything else you want to know?” asked Williams. “’Cause, you see, I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions.”

  “I just figured you already know all that’s interesting about me.”

  “No offense,” said Williams, “but you ain’t all that interesting. Used to be a reporter—supposedly a good one, whatever that means these days. Did some time overseas, right? Then came back and worked the local crime beat.”

  Cape nodded.

  “Got involved in an investigation into a missing girl, sister of one of your friends, found her before the cops did. Figured maybe you could do that for a living. Work standard cases—credit checks, skip tracing, insurance fraud, the usual. Still do some reporting, freelance, when you have to pay the rent. But mostly you find people, am I right?”

  “When I can.”

  “That’s it, in a nutshell,” said Williams. “Other than you got a funny name.”

  “We can’t all be named John.”

  Williams smiled. “Read it was short for Capon—that true?”

  “Yup,” said Cape. “A castrated rooster. But I never really went by my given name.”

  “Can’t say I blame you.”

  Cape shrugged. “Mom sold capons every day. She worked as a butcher.”

  “Who didn’t like men very much?”

  “Not at the time,” said Cape. “She was in labor thirty-six hours.”

  Williams, who had been shot twice in the line of duty, grimaced and squirmed in his seat. “Ugh. I couldn’t imagine.”

  “I doubt she was in the right frame of mind to be naming anybody,” said Cape.

  “You ever think of changing it?”

  “Why bother?” asked Cape. “By the time you’re old enough, you’ve already taken all the shit. Plus, the short version’s not so bad.”

  “Makes me think of Superman.”

  “I wish,” said Cape. “So tell me, Agent Williams—if I’m not that interesting, why are you buying me breakfast?”

  Williams chuckled. “That was smooth,” he said. “OK, I’ll get the tab if you answer some questions.”

  “Go ahead and ask,” replied Cape amiably. “But I can’t make any promises.”

  “You’ve been talking to Freddie Wang,” said Williams matter-of-factly.

  Cape didn’t say anything at first, his face deadpan. An image of the corpse in his trunk flashed into his mind.

  “Since that was a statement and not a question,” said Cape slowly, “I’m not really sure what you’re asking.”

  Before Williams could answer, Special Agent Dickerson and the waiter arrived simultaneously. The scowl on Dickerson’s face suggested he didn’t approve of dining with suspected felons, but Williams gestured toward the chair next to Cape.

  “Got you French toast,” he said amiably.

  Dickerson’s scowl faltered as he sat down. It was hard to stay mad in the face of French toast.

  Williams nodded toward Cape but looked at Dickerson. “Mister Weathers here was just telling me what he and Freddie Wang had to discuss.”

  “Freddie’s a bookie,” said Cape tentatively.

  “Among other things,” replied Williams, clearly not taking the bait. “You saying you’re placing bets with Freddie?”

  “What?” said Cape. “You don’t think I’m a gambler?”

  “Oh, I’d say you’re a gambler, all right,” replied Williams, “otherwise we wouldn’t be havin’ breakfast together. But I doubt you’re placing any bets with Freddie.” He smiled before adding, “But you didn’t expect me to believe that, did you?”

  Dickerson shifted in his chair, clearly uncomfortable with the friendly tone of the conversation, but said nothing. His mouth was full of French toast.

  Cape spr
ead his hands. “I was talking to him about the refugee ship,” he said simply. “But you already figured that, too, right?”

  Dickerson coughed, turning in his chair to face Cape. He swallowed rapidly and tried to clear his throat, but Williams held his hand up, palm out.

  “Eat your breakfast, Jimmy,” he said, his eyes never leaving Cape’s. “Go on.”

  Cape shrugged again. “I want to know what happened on that ship.”

  “You got a client?”

  “Sure,” said Cape, holding Williams’ gaze. Liars always blink, and they always look away.

  “Who?” demanded Dickerson, having recovered from his near-death experience with the French toast.

  Williams cut him off again. “Doesn’t matter, Jimmy. Besides, I doubt even Mr. Weathers is that cooperative.”

  Cape smiled.

  “So here’s the deal,” said Williams, leaning forward to sip at his coffee. “This is a federal case, with lots of important people expecting guys like us,” he jutted his chin forward, indicating Dickerson, “to find the bad guys, quick. In case you’re not up on current events, the State Department has an interest in keeping things nice and friendly with the Chinese.”

  “I read the paper,” replied Cape, “and, despite my view of most politicians, I even pay my taxes. So why don’t we move past the foreplay and you tell me what you have in mind.”

  Williams leaned back in his chair and nodded. “What did Freddie have to say for himself?”

  “You don’t have his place bugged?” asked Cape.

  Williams didn’t respond.

  “He didn’t say anything directly,” replied Cape, “but he suggested I follow up on the cargo.”

  “And you did?”

  “That’s why I was next door,” said Cape, “visiting Michael Long of GASP jeans. It was his shipment, his cargo.”

  Williams nodded. “Another pair of agents is going to see him later today.”

  “I doubt it,” replied Cape. “The cops are headed this way to pick him up.”

  Williams sat forward in disbelief. “What did he tell you?”

  “It wasn’t exactly a confession,” replied Cape, “but it was enough.”