Then we were in the garden, and moving across the patio at the back of the house towards the first backdoor. But then, maybe twenty-five yards off, we hit a hitch: I stepped on a broken patio tile, and there was the sound of stone grinding stone.
Immediately, there was a response.
‘Weisang?’ came a voice near the upcoming backdoor. Tense, nervy, challenging.
I crouched low, and Ellen instinctively did the same. It was the natural response: make yourself the smallest target possible.
If this guy had thought something was wrong before, he knew it now.
But because of muzzle flash, we were in a deadlock. When you hit the trigger on a pistol – even a pistol as subtle and silent as these Walthers – the propellant charge in the slug is activated, creating a swell of gas that hurls the slug out the barrel. But this gas isn’t cool, and it ignites the atmosphere – if only briefly – just beyond the muzzle.
So if one of us took a shot, and missed, we’d generate a burst of light that’d give the other a far better chance of hitting home.
The sweat was dripping down my face.
I jumped as Ellen tapped my shoulder, and I turned to face her. We shared a brief look of deep concern. But then Ellen revealed she had a plan: she pointed to herself, then to the expanse to our left, then made a circular motion with her finger. I understood. She wanted to circle round the back of him. Catch him off-guard.
A strong idea. Risky, but strong.
I chanced a whisper. ‘In twenty seconds, I’ll take a shot. When he returns fire, use his muzzle flash to pinpoint him.’
She gave a thumbs up; then, before I knew it, she’d disappeared into the mist.
As I flattened myself to the floor and started counting, I hoped to hell there wasn’t a third man in the garden; hoped to hell she’d be quiet enough.
But though I was worried about Ellen, I was more worried about me. I had to discharge a gun to get the guy to return fire. But I was reluctant to pull the trigger myself, since the muzzle flash would leave me a sitting duck. So my plan was to lob the gun into the garden, because if I landed it right, the gun’d go off.
And while this sounded easy, it wasn’t. It was damn tricky.
But at least I had two attempts. I withdrew the second Walther.
Ten… Five… Zero.
I picked up one of the Walthers, took a deep breath, then lobbed it leftward. It hung in the air interminably. Then, at last, it hit the earth with a soft thump.
But no discharge. No flash.
Shit.
I wiped the sweat off my forehead, and grabbed the second Walther. For a second, it crossed my mind to simply fire the gun above my head. But immediately I decided against it, and, with a sharp intake of breath, again lobbed the gun…
Three seconds later, I knew with a jolt of fear the decision had spared my life. Because my gun fired, and in response, there was a burst of multiple, near-instantaneous muzzle flashes, and the area in which the gun landed was assaulted with at least fifty rounds.
He wasn’t using a pistol: he was using a goddamn submachine gun. But no sooner did the panic rise in my throat than a single further muzzle flash illuminated the scene. And when there was no further shooting, I knew – to my enormous relief – this meant Ellen had neutralized the target.
I stood; then, after managing to find only one of the two Walthers, I approached the backdoor. And though I’d expected to see it, I still felt a second huge wave of relief when Ellen came into view standing over the dead body.
I knelt and examined the weapon.
A Heckler and Koch MP5SD6: one of the most powerful silenced submachine guns around. A weapon capable of expelling thirteen 9mm slugs a second, yet whose bullets – because of thirty depressurizing punctures in the barrel – travel well shy of the sound barrier.
A death machine.
But when I stood again, I spotted something just as unnerving: the look of terror, shame, and self-loathing on Ellen’s face.
I recognized the expression. It was of someone who’d just snuffed their first life. And I knew the fact it was a fanatical thug made zero difference. These emotions were a response to her own capacity for bloodshed.
I put a hand on her shoulder. ‘The feeling’s natural. For what it’s worth, you saved our lives.’
Ellen’s eyes remained pained a moment. Then she blinked, and took hold of herself – her face went stern again.
Then, abruptly, we were reminded of the task at hand: the lights in one of the upstairs rooms went on above our heads.
Clearly, the other two men were in the process of surveying the upstairs – presumably the two we’d killed had been charged with combing downstairs – and the fact there’d been no attempt at contact over the walkie-talkies indicated they likely hadn’t yet realized anything was amiss. But if we wanted to catch them off-guard, we had to act fast.
I pocketed the Walther, grabbed the MP5, and approached the plate-glass backdoor. A small knife was jammed in the lock.
I gave the knife another jerk, opened the door, and whispered:
‘First, we survey the downstairs. Then we move upstairs, pronto, where I think they’re both likely to be.’
Ellen nodded. Then, splitting up, we crept speedily through the downstairs – hearts pounding, sweat oozing – before reconvening at the foot of the stairs.
I led the way up at a crouch, MP5 at the ready. We wanted to take these two alive, but that wasn’t to say I couldn’t blow their legs off if it came to it.
As we neared the top of the stairs, I could see lights on in one of the bedrooms straight ahead. I signaled to Ellen to stay put, then crept towards the room, and poked my head round the door. There was a guy with his back to me, holding a Walther in his left hand, and peering into the en suite.
I moved up behind him, and growled softly:
‘There’s a MP5 to your head.’ The guy went stiff. ‘Bend down slow, put the gun on the floor, and kick it away.’
The guy remained still a beat. Then he made a sudden jerk – as if to pivot – and I cracked the butt of my gun into his left shoulder and he fell to the carpet and I stamped on his left wrist. He groaned in pain and I kicked the Walther away.
Suddenly, the walkie-talkie in my pocket – and the one in his – came to life.
‘Everything okay?’ came a disconcerted voice. I could also faintly hear the original source of the voice down the hall.
‘Get to your feet. Any games, and these walls get a fresh lick of paint.’
The guy stood, his face creased with fear. And oddly, as I took in his thin eyebrows, big jowls, jutting chin, I was struck with a strange sense of déjà vu.
‘Walk onto the landing.’
The guy complied. The other guy – who I was now certain was in the master bedroom at the opposite end of the hallway, the door to which he’d left ajar – was out of sight, and staying put. He’d received no response, so knew something was wrong; that exiting the room would put his ass on the line.
Again, I beckoned Ellen. I removed my Walther with my free hand and handed Ellen the MP5; then, to ensure the guy was completely under control, I wrapped my left arm around him and ground the muzzle to his temple.
I took a deep breath. Ideally, we needed both alive: it’d double our chances of extracting useful information. But the other guy was undoubtedly armed – perhaps even with an MP5 – and alert.
One choice was to enter the room with the gun to the head of the guy in my arms. But I’d no idea if their concern for each other would trump their fanaticism.
But we also outnumbered the other guy, and that could be used to our advantage.
‘Ellen,’ I whispered. ‘I’m gonna enter, gun to this guy’s head, and move into the room. Five seconds later, you enter, and level the machine gun at the other guy. Can’t aim at us both at once.’
I didn’t want to elaborate with the guy in my arms listening: didn’t want him to realize his life was valuable to us. But the idea was simple enough. I w
anted to put the other guy between a rock and hard place. Shoot me, then his friend dies, and Ellen mows him down. Shoot Ellen, and her return fire ends him, and I kill his friend.
Ellen nodded. She got the gist.
I said in the guy’s ear: ‘Walk.’
We marched along the hallway. Then, after a half-second pause at the threshold, I walked the guy into the bedroom.
The bedroom was a large rectangle. We entered at a corner, and the second guy was standing in the diagonally opposite corner; the corner where the wall of the side of the house met a huge window that looked onto the road. And again, the moment I saw this guy’s face – slim, sharp, volcanically pockmarked – I felt a flash of vague recognition.
But more importantly, though he was aiming his weapon at me, it was – to my relief – a Walther. Gripping his buddy tight, I shifted along the wall, and said as I did so: ‘Shoot me, and your comrade eats lead.’
The guy moved his aim to adjust for my movement, but his hand shook with indecision. The problem was: even if he managed a head-shot, my post-death spasms would work the trigger.
Ellen entered, leveled the MP5, and said calmly: ‘Gun on the floor, motherfucker.’
The guy’s head jerked over to Ellen, and his face dropped at the sight of the MP5. Sure enough, he was unable to cover us both at once.
‘Put it on the goddamn floor,’ I said.
Silence. Finally, he raised his arms in surrender, slowly bent down, and placed his gun on the floor. I said:
‘Kick it to my friend.’
He kicked it to Ellen. She picked it up.
‘Now lay on the floor.’
Again, he complied. I pushed the guy I’d been clutching away from me, and told him to do the same. He laid down next to his friend.
A profound calm washed over me, and I took a step forward to frisk the men.
The next second, all the walkie-talkies in the room crackled to life. A voice, speaking in Chinese, said something I didn’t understand. A few short sentences.
I looked at Ellen. Her face was white.
‘Saul, don’t move. There’s a sniper in the house opposite.’
‘A sniper?’ I said incredulously, staring into the thick fog.
‘Yes, he says he has a device to see through fog. Says to put our weapons down. Says he doesn’t care what threats we level against his accomplices.’
I continued to stare, slack-jawed. There was technology that could see through fog. Image intensifiers that takes a modest number of protons, converts them to electrons, and makes them visible by throwing them against a phosphorous screen. But was it possible these guys had gotten their hands on such tech?
Then I remembered how the van had paused down the road. Maybe they hadn’t got the wrong house: maybe they’d let the sniper out early, so he was less likely to be detected—
Suddenly, the huge window burst into a thousand pieces, and a bullet smashed a hole in the wall behind me. A big goddamn hole.
The voice spoke again. The pock-marked man translated.
‘You’ve got ten seconds to put your guns on the floor, and’ – he pointed at the wall that just took the bullet – ‘stand with your backs to the wall, hands behind heads.’
I glanced to the bedroom door. If I’d been by myself, I might’ve dived for the door, and stood a decent chance. But there was no way Ellen and I could both escape.
A primal fear shot through my arms and legs. We were at their mercy.
I turned to Ellen and nodded in defeat. We laid down our guns. Then we moved to the wall, and placed our hands behind our heads.
The two men stood.
Chapter 11
Saturday, December 12, 9:25 a.m. – 61035 Prescott Trail, Joshua Tree, California.
The two guys picked up the guns. Then Jowls roughly frisked us, and removed the walkie-talkie from my pocket, and the Walther from Ellen’s.
An invisible presence had turned the tables.
Pockmark spoke into his walkie-talkie in Chinese, and the sniper replied. Then Pockmark looked over at us, his eyes like thunder.
‘Apparently our driver’s missing a head.’
We said nothing.
‘Where are the other two? Did you kill them as well?’
Again, we were silent.
He went over to Ellen; then, after looking at her with an overtly sexual leer, he backhanded her quickly across the face, and she groaned involuntarily.
A surge of unbridled anger ripped through me.
‘I killed them,’ I said loudly. ‘Me, not her.’
Pockmark looked me over sneeringly. Then he approached and pistol-whipped me hard across the face and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. Then a blow to my gut, and another… then to the side of my neck, the chest.
Pain erupted through my body. But I refused to let it show.
Besides, it hurt less than watching Ellen take the blow.
Pockmark balled a fist in my hair and put his face up to mine. I returned his look with a steely, unfeeling gaze.
I had a sudden vision of me thrusting my thumbs into his eyes, and forcing them out of his skull. He was close and not expecting any resistance, and I could do it. Only, Jowls had both Ellen and me covered with the MP5, and presumably the sniper was still at the ready.
‘That’s enough,’ said Jowls, at last. Their accents, like the guys in LA, were neutral, American. ‘Let’s get instructions.’
Pockmark held me a moment longer. Then he hawked up a wad of phlegm, spat it on my cheek, then backed off.
I had a vision of me ripping off his goddamn balls.
Jowls took up one of the walkie-talkies and changed the frequency – though I couldn’t see what he’d changed it to. He said into it:
‘Are you there?’
A lengthy silence. Finally, a female voice said: ‘What have you got?’
Again, a neutral American accent; but this time unusually hard-edged and brutal. My gut said this was their ringleader.
Jowls paused. He was clearly nervous to break the news.
‘We’ve got the girl and the Good Samaritan. They’re under control. But…’
Jowls went silent.
‘But?’
‘But we’ve sustained some casualties.’ Jowls’s Adam’s apple trembled.
‘Who? What happened?’ The voice was livid. And the tone told me unequivocally that these folk did care about one another. They were brothers in arms.
‘We were ambushed. It seems Deng is definitely dead, and Weisang and Ruxin may be, too.’
A long pause.
‘Collect the bodies, clean up any mess, and update me on anything of interest. Then transport the bodies and the hostages to the Holding Area. Once there, incinerate the bodies. Tomorrow morning, burn the two captives alive, but keep their bodies intact.’
Pockmark broke into a sadistic grin.
Burning alive. An exceptionally painful way to kick the bucket.
‘Anything else?’ asked Jowls.
‘Yes, be careful with this Good Samaritan – he’s dangerous. Although I’d ideally like him burnt, put a bullet in his head if he gives you too much trouble.’ She paused. ‘That said, you can put a bullet in his leg if need be, and the fire will cover that up. Same goes for the bitch. That all understood?’
‘Yes.’
Jowls switched off the walkie-talkie. Then he took charge: he withdrew a pair of handcuffs, and – while covering us with the MP5 – handed them to Pockmark, who fastened my right-hand to Ellen’s left. Then Jowls goose-marched us out the house and into the hold of the van; after which, he located another pair of cuffs, and secured our hands individually.
Jowls had been easy to subdue when off-guard. But now, he was proving unexpectedly professional.
The door was closed, and Ellen and I were left in defeated silence. Five minutes later, the door opened again, and the driver’s body – now completely naked – was thrown in. Fifteen minutes after that, the naked bodies of the two others also joined the party.
Then the remaining men went back to work.
I wondered if they’d find the bags in the bushes, and decided they would. Wondered if they’d move the Saab, and remove its number plates, and decided they would…
Eventually – maybe thirty minutes after we’d been joined by the two further bodies – the three remaining men got in front. The engine started and we moved away.
Chapter 12
Saturday, December 12, 10:20 a.m. – 33 Calvert Court, Oakland, California.
Yuelin pulled over on Calvert Court, and studied the march of wealthy, suburban homes.
It’d been a ten-hour drive from Beaverton to Oakland – the city east across the bay from San Francisco. But Yuelin wasn’t tired: she was fired-up.
In large part, her mood was a result of the news she’d received not an hour ago. Yes, she was relieved that Pro-Tibet whore and her white knight had finally been brought under wraps. And if their execution went to plan, their deaths would be accounted for, and deniability would remain intact. But she still wasn’t happy: not only should they have been dealt with long ago, but she’d also lost three siblings. And that hurt. That made her hungry to ensure their deaths weren’t in vain.
Yuelin closed her eyes, and imagined the purging flames scorching Ellen and the Samaritan’s flesh – their shrieks of pain. It made her feel better. But it wasn’t enough.
Her eyes shot open, and she glanced at Shuai and Jantzen.
‘You ready? You know the signal?’
Both nodded.
Yuelin put on her dark aviators, stepped onto the curb, then walked up the drive of 33. As she’d expected, his Jaguar was parked outside. And she was pretty damn sure he’d be home alone this Saturday morning. He always was.
Yuelin knocked on the door.
Footsteps approached. Then irritably through the door: ‘Who’s there?’
‘Is that Special Agent Toby McVries, Deputy in Charge of the San Francisco Secret Service Field Office?’
A long pause.
‘How did you find this address?’ He was still irritated, but also standoffish. His address was not known to the public.
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