Tiger by the Tail

by John Ringo

  “Mal, we may have a situation in the main dining room.” Even as Jace spoke, the man and his two thugs followed the trembling maître d’ toward the corridor leading into the private room. “Correction, three large and angry-looking men are heading your way, ETA five seconds. What are your orders?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Issako bin Sunia was royally pissed off.

  So pissed off, in fact, that he hadn’t been able to finish his light dinner of oka, raw shark meat prepared sushi-style and served on the back of a nude whore; lu’au, a stew of taro leaves, onion, and coconut milk wrapped in taro leaves and slow-cooked over a fire; and his favorite, sea, a Samoan delicacy made from the insides of an ocean slug. Issako had his sea created specially for him by his private chef, using a traditional recipe that was almost one hundred fifty years old.

  But today, all of that normally delicious food had been like ashes in his mouth. Every succulent mouthful was bland and tasteless once he had received the news that the shipment of computer boards had been stolen from his thieves who had stolen them from the military ship in the first place.

  Until that point, Sunia had been congratulating himself on the perfect crime. Bribing a lowly quartermaster’s assistant to switch two boxes, he had looked forward to receiving the fat payment promised once the real boards had been delivered to their new destination.

  Instead, he’d received word that the transport boat had been attacked by pirates near Mangkai Island, and the box lost. He had spent every waking minute afterward, along with a large amount of cash, finding out who had taken his shipment and where they were now.

  It had taken bribes, favors, and threats to all kinds of people; from lowly street thieves all the way up to the possibility of a war with a subgroup of the Luen triad, but Sunia didn’t care. He had to get that box back at all costs. Everything he had fought for and scratched out of the glittering illusion that was Hong Kong teetered in the balance of the next few minutes.

  And if Issako bin Sunia was anything, he was a survivor. He had clawed his way out of the slums of the capital city of Alpa, on the island of Upolu, at the age of eleven. Taking to the sea, he had learned the freighter trade sailing the Pacific and Indian Oceans. But he had saved every scrap of currency he could beg, borrow, earn, or steal, all with one goal in mind—Hong Kong.

  Five years later, he had landed at the port city and swore an oath that he would either make his fortune there or die trying. That had been twenty years ago. Now his increased girth—with muscle slowly turning to fat over the past several years—tailored silk suits, and the chauffeured Rolls Royce Silver Phaeton that transported him around the city showed how far he had come.

  Unseen by anyone but the women he slept with, but just as important, was his completed P’ea, the intricate, geometric tattoos that every adult Samoan aspired to have. Once he had carved out a secure niche in the Hong Kong underworld, he had returned home and had the best tattoo artist in the nation complete the patterns from above his knees to his lower stomach.

  And now it was all in danger of being snatched away. All because his own men couldn’t fend off some two-bit pirates and protect the most valuable cargo they’d ever been entrusted with! For the tenth time, Sunia cursed himself for not following his instincts and doubling the guard on the box.

  Now, he restrained himself from throwing the maître d’ across the room with one huge arm, and brushed by him to reach for the door of the private dining room. Twisting the handle, he threw it open and strode in, followed by his two less massive but still very large bodyguards, both of whom drew their pistols as they entered.

  “Nobody move!” The scene Sunia interrupted wasn’t what he’d expected. The private room was oddly large, with the ceiling at least two stories off the floor. An exit sign dangled in midair, pointing to another door at the back of the room. Three people were seated around a square table, a man Sunia recognized, a woman he did not, and a third one who came as a complete surprise to the huge Samoan.

  “Hey, this is a private meeting—!” the third man started to say.

  “Shut up!” A white man? Who is this fool? Issako almost dismissed the woman, except that she looked like she had just swept something off the table into her lap. “Everyone put your hands on the table! Anyone pulls a gun and they die!” He studied the unassuming-looking foreigner for a second. The brown-haired man’s adam’s apple bobbed like he was gulping in fear. The gangster glared at him in even more furious anger before turning on his competitor.

  “Arun Than! I should have known you were dipping your fingers into my business!” Issako spat in Cantonese.

  The tall Thai spread his hands, as if trying to implore the huge Samoan to realize his mistake. “I have no idea what you are talking about, Mr. Issako. Yeung Tony contacted me three days ago saying that he had a very valuable package he needed to sell. He did not volunteer where it had come from, nor did I ask—”

  Issako cut him off by slamming his large fist on the table. “I do not care what was said! The box is mine, and I will have it back right now!” he thundered. Spying the small case on the table, he grabbed it and flipped the catches. Opening it, Issako’s face darkened even more when he saw a piece of his lost prize within.

  The white man shrugged. “Hey, I don’t care who buys it, as long as your money’s good—”

  Issako cut him off as well. “I told you to shut up, pukio! You and this pa’u mumuku are already dead, you just do not know it yet!” Snapping his fingers, he switched to Cantonese. “Search all of them, and then take them out the back way. I will question each one myself—in private.”

  He saw the white man swallow again as he was made to stand and suffer the indignity of being searched by Sunia’s henchmen. The second one took his time with the Chinese woman, who grimaced but stayed silent as he pawed at her breasts and between her legs. He turned to his boss and tossed him a velvet bag with a leer on his face.

  “They are all clean. The whore was hiding this.”

  Sunia opened the bag and smiled at the glittering fire of the gems inside it. “This is more like it,” he said in English again. “All right, let’s get the hell out of here.”

  * * *

  “Team River, hold your position,” Mike said in Jace’s ear as the Samoan and his two goons disappeared down the hallway. “Team Jayne, you are green. River One, do you recognize the new guy?”

  “Yeah, he’s a local gangster named Issako Sunia. Samoan, mid-level player in the Hong Kong underworld. Usually deals in cigarettes, drugs, women, or cars—high-tech stuff isn’t his M.O. Your box must be worth quite a bit if he’s willing to stray this far outside his comfort zone—”

  Jace was cut off by an angry shout. “Translate,” Mike ordered.

  “. . . He’s pissed at Than for muscling in on his action. He’s going to take all of you to a location where you can be interrogated in private. Shall we take them out?”

  “Negative, too much collateral nearby to risk it. Follow us and cut off their escape route. The assault team will take the three tangos in the garage. I want Sunia alive. Copy that, Jayne Leader?”

  * * *

  One hundred and five stories below the restaurant, Oleg Kulcyanov wiped his sweating brow as he listened to the Kildar’s orders. The air-conditioning in the van had been on when they’d entered the underground parking structure, but the five-man squad had been sitting for a half-hour with the engine off, and it was getting more than a bit ripe now.

  “Understood, Kildar,” He said into his headset. “Three tangos incoming with you and the girl. Eliminate the others, but take the one called Sunia alive. Firefly, we need photo identification of the one who is not to be killed.”

  “Isolating and sending to you now,” Vanner replied. “Also sending their projected route down to the garage to you.”

  Oleg felt his pocket vibrate and pulled out his smartphone to see a texted photo of a large, curly haired man in a black suit and carrying a cane. “ID received.” He waited to get the route
the gangsters were taking the Kildar out, his eyes widening in surprise. “Team Jayne taking positions now.”

  Oleg clapped their driver on the shoulder. “Givi, they are heading to another parking area. Get us there now!”

  * * *

  “They’re moving the Kildar and Soon Yi out the back. Come on.” Jace rose and strode toward the passageway, scanning left and right in case anyone tried to detain him. No one got in his way, and he reached the door to the private room without incident. “Are they clear, Firefly?”

  “Yes, River One, everyone has left the room.”

  “Copy that.” Even with the confirmation, Jace turned the handle, shoved the door hard, and slipped into the room fast, going down the right side wall while searching for any tangos. He saw Katya moving down the left side without being told, checking under the table and everywhere else while closing in on the fire exit door.

  “No alarm. They must have disabled it.” Jace turned to Katya and found her slipping off her heels. “Good girl.”

  “I did not fall off goddamn turnip truck yesterday!” she hissed back.

  “Right, sorry. Where are they now, Firefly?”

  “Five floors down and moving fast,” Vanner replied. “No one’s hanging back—they’re all di di mauing out of there.”

  “All right, we’re in pursuit.” Jace slowly eased the fire door open and slipped into the bare, concrete stairwell. He could hear the slap of multiple footfalls several floors below. He let Katya enter behind him, then quietly closed the door. “Let’s go.”

  Just as he was about to descend, he heard a hiss from the landing above them. Waving Katya to stay back, Jace edged to the middle of the landing and peeked up.

  Standing at the top of the stairs was Creata, holding two pistols with their muzzles pointing skyward. She flipped the guns in her small hands and held them out butt-first.

  “Hell, yes!” Jace leaped up the stairs and grabbed the pair of SIG-Sauer P229s out of her hands. “Thank you!” he whispered.

  “Is nothing,” she whispered back, drawing two spare magazines from her pocket and handing them over. “Go help the Kildar.”

  “We’re on it.” Jace’s leather-soled slip-ons made little noise as he crept back down the stairs. He gave Katya the other pistol and spare magazine and together they began descending after the Kildar and the gangster holding him hostage.

  They caught up to within three floors of the group. Then it was all about staying both silent and out of sight of the group ahead of them. That, and trying not to get dizzy going around and around and around the endless squares of steps . . .

  * * *

  “Problem, Oleg,” Dmitri Devlich, Oleg’s second, said from the passenger seat as they approached the ramp leading up and out of the parking structure.

  “What now?” Oleg swiveled around to look through the windshield at what their driver was pointing at.

  “Sign says to go left only, when we need to turn right to reach other parking space. Is short distance—”

  “Then go right. That is no problem at all.” Oleg turned back to making sure the other three members were ready to go. The van swerved into a hard right turn, pushing the massive Keldara against the wall. A horn blared from straight ahead, and for a second the entire interior of the van was filled with blazing white light. Then Givi cranked the wheel hard left and they were plunged into the relative darkness of another ramp leading down.

  “I think the driver of that oncoming car thought it might be a problem,” Givi said with a chuckle.

  “Oleg?”

  “What now, Dmitri?”

  “We are not tenants here, correct?”

  “Of course not! Why do you ask such a question?”

  “Because—” The driver pointed to the automated gate blocking their entrance into the garage, and the small box next to it. “—only tenants can enter here.”

  “Father of All!” Oleg pressed on his earpiece. “Firefly, this is Jayne Leader. We have a barrier to the garage, can you override?” He listened for a few moments, then looked back at the gate. “That is good point.”

  Opening the door, he got out and ran to the bar, trying to ignore the hot, still air and the stink of exhaust. Bending under it, he lifted up with his legs, mustering all the force he could into wrenching the bar upward.

  It was no contest. With a squeal of protesting gears and a flash of sparks from the control box, the gate flew skyward. Oleg held it up long with one arm and waved the van through with the other. Once they were clear, he let the gate go, ran for the passenger door, and jumped in.

  “Firefly, this is Jayne Leader. Problem eliminated. We are moving to intercept now.”

  * * *

  Jace had been tracking the floor numbers as they descended, and held up a fist when they reached the third floor, making Katya stop behind him. He strained to hear what was going on below—there was a muffled conversation, then what sounded like a door opening.

  “Firefly, where is Team Jayne, over?” Jace asked.

  “Team Jayne is in position,” the same intel girl—Jace thought her name was Xatia—said. “Close off rear escape route now.”

  “Roger.” Jace waved Katya over to the left side of the stairwell, and he took the right side. Without words, he told her to cover the right side, as she would have the better point of view, and he would cover the left in a crossfire. Together, they silently continued down after their boss.

  * * *

  Oleg smiled as he shrank into the shadows of the nearby concrete wall. He was not thrilled to be working in the city; it was hot, noisy, and stank like nothing he’d ever smelled before, not even the annual pig slaughter back home. However, the one thing he did like about doing urban ops was the incredible amount of cover available.

  Scanning the deserted parking lot, even he couldn’t see where the rest of his team was concealed. The dozens of cars around, not to mention the thick concrete columns and sloping ramps, afforded plenty of protection. He might have even been able to bring the MGL-140 without anyone being the wiser. But surely that would be overkill, he mused.

  The stairwell door the team was arrayed around creaked open. “Jayne Leader to Team, stand ready. Targets are coming out.”

  Four radio clicks answered him.

  “Jayne Leader, this is Firefly. Team River is in position behind targets, over.”

  “Roger.” Oleg sat between two cars, a silver Mercedes-Benz sedan and a black BMW coupe, and steadied his HK416C, with the stock fully extended and snugged into his shoulder. Eye to the sight, he watched the operation unfold.

  One of the hired thugs came out first, pistol at his side, sweeping right and left, looking for any signs of life. Oleg grinned; the man would find none. Sure enough, after a few seconds he waved the rest of the party forward. The Kildar came out next, with Soon Yi on his heels, and Arun Than emerging last. They were followed by a very large man in a black suit and carrying a black cane under one arm, and the silver case in the other. He had shoulder-length, curly black hair, and was followed by another man who was obviously more hired muscle.

  “Targets designated. Curly hair is to be taken alive, repeat, alive. Execute.”

  * * *

  In the shadows underneath a chromed out, canary-yellow Humvee H3, Givi Kulcyanov watched and waited, silenced pistol held in both hands ahead of him.

  With no way of knowing how professional the guards accompanying their target were, each team member had selected the cover that made the most sense for his assigned position. Since Givi was to be the closest to the target door, he figured they would be the most observant in checking the spaces between the cars around the concrete entranceway. But Oleg doubted that they would take the time to do even a cursory sweep under the cars themselves, and he was right. Even if they had, two bullets to the face would have been their only reward, giving the Keldara the element of a much different kind of surprise.

  Upon hearing the order to begin the operation, Givi rolled left. The moment he was clear of
the vehicle’s underbody, he got to his feet, but stayed bent over, concealed behind the Humvee’s bulk.

  Three . . . two . . . one, he counted in his head, then took a step forward and aimed around the corner at his designated target.

  * * *

  There was silence for a few seconds after Oleg’s order, then the ripping-cloth-and-metal sound of four silenced pistol shots echoed through the garage. One moment the two bodyguards were walking, the next they had dropped out of sight, taken down by chest shots from less than five meters away. The shooters had positioned themselves and aimed their shots so as not to risk coming close to the Kildar, the woman, or Than. As Oleg watched, each Jayne member emerged from their hiding place, cleared the pistols from the dying men’s hands, and finished each with a shot to the head.

  Meanwhile, Mike was working on the big guy. He’d stripped him of his cane and disarmed him when the Samoan had gone for his own pistol, breaking his arm in the process. As the big man clutched his useless limb, Mike toppled him with a heel kick to the knee. The gangster howled in agony as he rolled on the ground, trying to clutch his ruined leg with his remaining hand.

  Oleg kept watching from his vantage point as his team members reported in. “Jayne Two, clear.”

  “Jayne Three, clear.”

  “Jayne Four, clear.”

  “Jayne Five, clear.”

  The stairwell door opened again. Oleg swept his rifle over to cover it, then lowered his weapon as Jace and Katya emerged from the stairwell. Standing, the big man went to meet them, still keeping an eye out for other tangos or civilians.

  Having relieved Sunia of the case, Mike was kneeling on the big man’s chest, holding a silenced pistol to his forehead. Oleg noted with satisfaction that the rest of his team had come out to both cover the remaining tango and ensure that neither Soon Yi nor Arun Than tried to slip away. Hearing a slight squeal of tires, he glanced at the concrete ceiling of the level above, trying to figure out if the vehicle was coming their way. Keeping one ear on it, he turned back to cover the Kildar as he interrogated the wounded man.