Never Forget

by Richard Davis

  She looked dead at me. Her face went from calm to pure unadulterated terror. And there was surprise, too – far more surprise at the appearance of a threat than I would’ve expected from a woman who’d just been rushed to her safe house. I pointed my weapon.

  I didn’t want to hit her. Just wanted to make them realize this safe-house was a no-go. That they needed to run for the hills.

  I aimed at a window just to the left of her, and hit the trigger. As I was still squeezing, the agents enveloped her into their mass.

  Next instant, they were behind me. I heard the pop of my bullet ricocheting off the bullet-proof glass. Then I swerved to the right anticipating a second sniper’s bullet. And not only did it come, but I dodged it by only the skin of my teeth. It came from the same direction as the last, and the heat of the slug as it shuttled past singed the back of my left calf.

  A miraculous right turn appeared, and I took it. Then, working the accelerator and hitting sixty, I prayed I’d done enough to get them to abandon the safe-house. Prayed there’d be no more bullets.

  Almost in the same moment, the first of my prayers was answered: in my rear-view, the limo was hurtling in the opposite direction: west along the stretch by which it’d reached Los Ninos. Heading to Moffett Airfield, I reckoned. To put Forsyth on a flight back to DC.

  Then a moment after that, it seemed my other prayer was answered, too; because I then turned off the road transecting Los Ninos without a further shot coming my way.

  * * *

  I rejoined the main thoroughfare, and headed south.

  I felt a calm that I knew was unwarranted. I’d just saved the Secretary of State’s life; but I knew the thanks I was about to receive: I was about to be hunted like an animal. In fact, I knew that when I’d left Palo Alto, a report would have gone out to all nearby police departments, and they’ll have started placing blockades on all the major routes out of town.

  The whole Bay Area would be on lockdown.

  And now I’d just let a fresh bunch of Secret Service agents and Secretary Forsyth herself, get a good look at me.

  This was a game-changer. Although I’d been wanted by FBI Headquarters since 2013, I’d never been identified as publicly wanted. But now – now I was wanted for something else entirely. Now every cop in the goddamn area wanted to haul my ass in, and would have a detailed description of me.

  Given what Mort had said, I reckoned FBI HQ realized that the unknown suspect wanted for an attempt on Secretary Forsyth’s life was me, and that they’d be damned glad the full force of the law was now trying to bring me in. But while I was sure they’d be happy to take over my custody were I captured, I doubted they’d be keen to illuminate local law enforcement as to my identity; because an ex-FBI agent caught up in a plot to assassinate the Secretary of State was just as embarrassing as one responsible for withholding information.

  So if I could get out of the area, I had a chance of returning to my previous status.

  But if I was going to make a clean getaway, I was gonna need to improvise.

  I hit the end of the road, and spotted a road-sign telling me that one and a half miles further south was Foothill Community College – and immediately to my right was a Safeways. A vague plan of action appeared in my head.

  The first thing I needed to do was ditch the bike because a report would go out as to my mode of transport. But I couldn’t take a new vehicle from the place I’d left the bike: it’d be too easy to trace the vehicle I’d taken. So I would ditch my bike at Safeways, walk to the Community College, and go from there.

  Four minutes later, the bike was parked up in the middle of Safeways’s huge parking-lot, and I was progressing along the sidewalk on foot.

  But then, when I arrived at Foothill College another fifteen minutes down the line, I got a surprise. Since it was a Sunday, I’d expected there to be few folk about. But to the other side of the large parking lot – a hundred yards from where I stood – was a coach full of young adults. It was parked against the edge of the parking lot, with its passenger side facing onto the blacktop. The driver was speaking with an older man on the tarmac by the coach’s entrance; and I noticed that the baggage hatch, on the rear of the coach, was still open. Instantly I knew this was a golden opportunity.

  My plan had been to steal a car. But if I could stow myself in the baggage hold of a coach that was surely headed out of town, it’d massively increase my chances of passing through any cordons. And given the nature of the parking-lot – the edges were lined with thick bushes – I reckoned if I circled around, and approached through the bushes, I could reach the baggage hatch undetected.

  I darted left, and moved to where the bushes started. Keeping low, I scurried around the edge of the parking lot, until I reckoned I’d drawn level with the back of the coach. Then, after a deep breath, I waded through the thick brambles.

  A second later, I appeared from the other side, and saw I’d judged things perfectly as the rear of the coach was within touching distance. And I scrambled into the dark hatch which, though crammed with luggage, was thankfully large enough to fit my body, too.

  As soon as I got in, I heard leisurely footsteps approaching – the driver coming to shut the hatch. I desperately shuffled further in, and shimmied luggage between me and the door.

  I’d come too goddamn far to be caught by the goddamn driver.

  The driver arrived at the hatch. I knew parts of my body were still exposed. But I got lucky: he closed it without even half a glance inside.

  The compartment was cramped as hell, pitch black, and would get very hot very fast. But as far as I was concerned, it was gift from heaven.

  But that said, I couldn’t be complacent. It wasn’t impossible someone had spotted me get in. And if they had, then any second now someone would open the hatch and expose me. Or perhaps they’d just stay put, call the police, and let them to deal with their interloper.

  I took deep, calming breaths.

  Then, three minutes later, my concerns were put to bed. The engine started and we crawled off.

  * * *

  After ten minutes the coach slowed to a crawl, and I knew we’d reached a roadblock.

  It would be local law enforcement. San Francisco Police Department. Palo Alto Police Department. San Jose Police Department.

  In a sense, the fact we’d hit the cordon was a good thing: it confirmed we were heading out of town. But at the same time, I felt an overwhelming sense of powerlessness. Because though I’d dug deeper into the hold, there was nowhere to hide if the police did rummage through. Like a rat in a trap. And not only would a show of force on my part be futile, it’d also endanger the civilians above me.

  I knew the fact that these were probably local law enforcement worked in my favor: less thorough than the Feds; more prone to error. But that said, they were after a man who they believed had just tried to assassinate the Secretary of State. And nobody wanted to be responsible for letting a big fish slip through the net.

  We crawled forward seemingly interminably – though really it was more like fifteen minutes. Then finally it was our turn: I could hear the muffled conversation of the officers and the driver, though couldn’t discern a word. Then, over the next ten minutes, I could hear their methodical progress above my ahead, as they surveyed the coach’s occupants.

  My gut was in knots. I wanted to scream. The tension – the sheer powerlessness – was killing me. I bit my tongue. The pain was preferable.

  And as it slowly played out, I grew convinced that their next move would be to open the hold, shine in their torches. Then their Glocks would be drawn, and it’d be curtains.

  But then, miraculously, they didn’t. Their voices went, the engine restarted, and we started crawling again – simple as that. I felt no happiness. Just relief. Giddy, sickening relief.

  Then – as I laid there, the engine rumbling through my aching bones – I thought darkly about the state of things. About the fact that, though I’d managed to save Forsyth’s life, I’d faile
d so many of those youngsters in the Consulate. About the fact that Yuelin still had the technology, and the grotesque power it afforded her. About the fact she had clean paperwork to get out of the country, and I had no leads whatsoever to track her down.

  Then Scott Brendan sprang to mind. I’d brought him into all this, and now he’d paid the ultimate price. And I knew I had to track Yuelin down and make her pay. That was the only way to achieve revenge and atonement. Revenge for Scott’s murder. Atonement for my having dragged him into this goddamn mess.

  A few minutes later, these thoughts fizzled out, and I slipped into a shallow sleep.

  Chapter 35

  Sunday, December 12, 3:45 p.m. – 12 Hobart Avenue, San Mateo, California.

  Backwardness incurs beatings from others.

  This phrase went through Yuelin’s mind as she assessed the carnage in the lobby of the Hobart Avenue safe-house: her three comrades’ dead bodies unceremoniously strewn on the floor; blood everywhere. It was a phrase that harked back to colonial humiliation at the hands of the West. A phrase Chinese schoolchildren have in their blood.

  She’d set out to repay the injustice. But now her own backwardness – her own lack of judgment – had incurred a beating.

  It wasn’t just the deaths of her more-than-brothers. It was the undermining of a revenge plot that’d been a lifetime in the making. Forsyth had escaped unscathed.

  One of the men responsible was among the bodies on the floor. The yang guizi, Scott Brendan. A man who she’d naïvely brought on side because she thought he was naïve. Who she’d brought on side because she was convinced there was no way he could hurt her, and because she had zero intention of honoring the bargain.

  And what really stung was that he’d used a weapon that was, unbeknown to her, in her possession the whole time.

  A weapon that was now smashed to pieces on the floor besides Scott’s corpse.

  A mad urge to kick his body rose in her chest, but she squashed it. Whereas the bodies of her comrades could be incinerated – nobody in America would miss them, or notice they were gone – the body of Scott Brendan needed to be dealt with more thoroughly. No loose ends. That was at the heart of the mission.

  With this thought, her mouth twisted into an ironic smile. The whole point of using information as the primary tool for blackmail was not only to allow her to extend her influence far and wide, but also to ensure things stayed nice and clean.

  But now, despite her efforts, things were looking messy as ever. Loose ends all over.

  Flexibility was the credo she lived by. And she knew her flexibility had already helped her on countless occasions. For instance, it’d led to the decision to have Liang burnt alive, and thrown in with the Consulate fire, when it became clear he was a liability. She of course knew that Liang’s body might be identified (though she hadn’t imagined it’d happen so fast); and that in this eventuality – after the attempt on the Secretary – folk would find it hard to believe his death was an accident. But while she’d wanted the Consulate to look like an accident for her own vanity, ultimately it didn’t matter, since Mannford would simply take the fall for both.

  But then she’d gone a step too far with the flexibility. She’d decided to make a deal with Brendan, and it’d blown up in her face.

  However, though things seemed to be fraying at the edges, Yuelin knew they could be solved with flexibility. Flexibility in her approach to Scott’s body. Flexibility in managing the fact that Minxin and Hao had been publicly kidnapped, then had seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth for a number of hours. And if she could deal with all that, she might be able to weather the storm.

  Yet there was also the issue of the video confession Scott had undoubtedly recorded…

  ‘What do we do?’ Jantzen said, jogging her from her thoughts. She’d half-forgotten he was at her side. She could see that he was also moved by his fallen comrades.

  ‘Let’s see what they’ve done with Hao.’

  She led the way to the kitchen door.

  She wanted to find Hao alive. She didn’t know what Scott had done with the video confession. But if Hao was still alive, there was a good chance this meant Scott had left it someplace nobody was likely to find it – and so knew Hao needed to be kept alive as one of the few people able to testify against her.

  Then there was the more obvious reason Yuelin wanted to him alive: she could use him to cover up the mess Saul and Scott had created.

  It’d also crossed Yuelin’s mind that before he’d finished himself off, Scott might’ve called the police, and told them this address. As a result, she’d cased out the house for a good half hour before entering, just to be safe. But on the whole, she thought this was an unlikely move. After all, he would’ve known that Hao was far more likely to incriminate Saul than testify against Yuelin; that he’d still be under Yuelin’s thumb.

  Then again, perhaps he’d simply not called the police, or killed Hao, because he’d been too exhausted to do anything but die.

  Yuelin opened the door. Hao, still tied up, looked at her with traumatized eyes.

  ‘Yuelin. Thank God.’

  For a moment, Yuelin felt a glimmer of relief. But then, an almighty anger erupted behind her eyes. Hao had been loose with his lips, and it’d been fatal.

  ‘Thank God. Thank God.’ Hao had suddenly descended into hysterical tears.

  Yuelin powered over, and smashed the back of her hand across his face. Then she balled a fist in his hair.

  ‘You fall into their hands for a minute, and squeal like a pig. I thought I could trust you. That, because you’re Chinese, you could be treated with some respect. But you’ve betrayed your race. Because of you, my brothers – your brothers – have died. You do not deserve to be considered Chinese.’

  Tears of fear and destitution continued down his face. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll do anything to make this up.’

  ‘You will,’ she snarled. ‘But first, you must meet justice. We must mark the fact that you’re no longer to be considered truly Chinese. We must mark you – and though we can’t do it in a way that others’ll see, it must be permanent.’

  ‘Please, have mercy.’

  ‘Justice is mercy. There’s nothing more sacred than the Chinese race. It’d be merciless to our people were you not punished.’

  She let go of his hair. Then she undid one of his shoes.

  ‘Get me a kitchen knife,’ she said to Jantzen.

  He moved about the kitchen, and produced a large bread knife.

  ‘Please no. Please.’

  She ignored him. ‘Three of your toes – one for each of my men. We’ll do it slow, so you can feel their suffering. Then, whenever you see your foot, you’ll remember that you’re no longer fully Chinese. You’re one of them. A guizi.’

  Hao no longer spoke. He merely whinnied under his breath. He knew the die was cast.

  Yuelin stood, and took the knife from Jantzen.

  She didn’t take pleasure from this – that wasn’t the right word. She took satisfaction –satisfaction that came from honoring her nation. She was proud to be avenging China, and her brothers. Proud that she had the opportunity to manifest Chinese justice.

  This man had humiliated China. Now he had to pay.

  She picked up a dishcloth, and shoved it in Hao’s mouth.

  Then she bent down and, with the overwhelming will of a nation coursing through her veins, put the blade to flesh.

  * * *

  Yuelin came out the kitchen buzzing with pride. Rocking foot to foot.

  She’d left the sobbing, pathetic worm tied to the chair to contemplate what he’d done. But the job she’d just carried out had made her realize that her duty was far from finished. That she couldn’t allow her setbacks to deflate her.

  The Chinese nation had experienced a hundred years of humiliation and set-backs. But still it came fighting back. And so too would she.

  Yes, her plot against Secretary Forsyth had been foiled. Yes, her plot on the Consulate had been b
otched – only fifteen parasites killed. But she was going to adapt her plan to make sure she still hit these yangguizi hard. And she would achieve justice.

  She turned to Jantzen.

  ‘Send the team here to clean up. Our fallen comrades will need to be incinerated. Brendan’s body – preserve it. Also, have them clear Hao up. He’s still vital.’

  Jantzen nodded.

  ‘But there’s more,’ she continued. ‘That target in Sacramento – the one we’ve been monitoring? He’s back on the agenda.’

  Jantzen’s mouth rounded in surprise.

  ‘But I thought we agreed to leave him—’

  She broke in. ‘Nothing’s off the table any more. We’ve got the technology, so we’re calling the shots. Justice for China must not be denied.’

  Chapter 36

  Sunday, December 12, 9:00 p.m. – Kings Canyon Motel, 4770 East Kings Canyon Road, Fresno, California.

  It was just gone 9 p.m. when I knocked on Ellen’s door at the Kings Canyon Motel – a small L-shaped two-story structure, hugging two sides of a square of tarmac that doubled as its car-park, and whose rooms all opened directly onto the outside.

  I’d escaped the coach’s baggage hold when the vehicle made a stop in Santa Maria to let the occupants stretch their legs, and the driver took the empty vehicle round the corner to fill up on gas: I’d slipped out unnoticed into the near empty gas-station forecourt. Then, once I’d bought an oversized coat to hide the bite wounds, and a long overdue sandwich, I caught a four hour greyhound to Fresno.