She’s wearing a ballistic vest! he thought, too late.
He fired again, twice. The first shot tore through her left thigh and blasted a path out of her calf. The second missed entirely. And then the pistol was sent flying as her left hand knifed out and struck his wrist with all the power of a sledgehammer, making his entire arm light up with pain. Manning pivoted at the waist and lashed out with his left fist, driving it into the side of her head with as much power as he could muster, which wasn’t much given his current position. He knew her target would be the knife wound. The liver was one of the most vulnerable organs in the human body, and he doubted her knife had perforated his entirely by accident.
Her body slammed into his, and the force of the impact made him stumble backwards as she wrapped her arms around his waist. Her uninjured leg scythed out, describing a brief crescent as it tangled up with one of his own legs. Manning fell onto his back, his right arm flopping uselessly at his side as he fired off another punch. Meihua’s head rocketed back under the force of the impact.
And then she punched the knife wound.
###
As the elevator reached the 45th floor, both Ryker and Terrell heard the gunshots, two fired close together, another a moment later. Ryker pulled his pistol as the doors slid open and held it in a combat stance, feet spread, crouching slightly. The elevator bay was empty, so he stepped into it, panning the pistol from left to right. There was no target for him to engage.
“What do you want me to do?” Terrell asked. He had no weapon, and he had pressed himself against one of the elevator’s walls.
“Call nine one one, tell them shots fired at this address and floor, and tell them I’m on scene. Then let the cops up here as soon as they arrive. It’s probably going to be a few minutes, though.”
“No kidding?” Terrell knew the traffic patterns of San Francisco as well as anyone.
“Where’s Lin’s office?”
“Far corner. Left out of the elevator lobby, walk to the wall, then hard right. Office suites are at the end of a hall, his is the last one. Secretary’s office outside, and then Lin’s office is past that. Here, you’ll need this.” Terrell held out a magnetic card, but did not leave the elevator. Ryker was forced to sidestep into the elevator and take it with his left hand, crossing it under his right arm to do so. It was awkward and left him momentarily vulnerable, but there was no helping that.
“Later,” Ryker said. He moved toward the glass doors that led to Lin Industries and swiped the card across the reader there. Magnetic locks clicked loudly—too loudly, he thought—and he pulled open one door with his left hand. Keeping to a crouch, he turned left and hurried toward the far wall.
Behind him, the elevator doors closed.
###
The pain was so intense that Manning had no choice but to scream. As Meihua’s fingers rammed into the slit that had been opened by her knife, she tore the wound open even further. Manning screamed again, but rocked to his right. At the same time, he wrapped his left arm around her head, cupping her chin in his hand. He made to spin her head around with all his strength; he doubted he could break her neck this way, but he would doubtless damage ligaments and tendons there. She knew what he was up to, and she released him, rolling with his arm’s motion, but her movements were slowed by her damaged leg. Manning ripped his arm out from beneath her and powered another strike at her head, and his fist caught her full in the face this time. His choices after that were to roll up on her and pin her beneath his body mass, but with one arm out of commission there wasn’t much he could do; she would doubtless immobilize his left arm and break it, leaving him mostly helpless. So he rolled away from her and sprang to his feet as quickly as he could. He reached inside his jacket and pulled the Asp from his belt and flicked it open to its full 42-inch length. At the same time, Meihua pulled herself up onto her good leg, using the secretary’s desk for support. Manning took a step back, using his peripheral vision to scan for his pistol. He didn’t see it, which meant he was either standing right over it or it was behind him. Warm wetness made the front of his shirt stick to his body, and the wound in his side throbbed sickeningly. He knew the damage to his liver was bad, and was very likely bleeding profusely into his body cavity. He didn’t have much time left before he passed out from blood loss.
Meihua sprang toward him suddenly, moving with more speed than she should have been capable of, given the damage done to her left leg. Manning swung the Asp expertly, cracking her across the right forearm with enough force to snap her radius. He then reversed the swing as she continued to close and raked her across the skull. The blow was mostly ineffectual, for at the last moment she dipped her head, and the tip of the Asp managed only a grazing strike. She kept coming, and Manning stepped forward, lifting his right leg, snap-kicking her with his knee against her chest. The force of the blow was strong enough to knock her back, and for a moment she tottered on her injured leg. Manning swung the Asp again, striking her in the chest, and she grunted in pain.
“Let me do this!” she shouted finally. “Let me do this, and I’ll let you live!”
“Not hardly,” Manning said. He swung the Asp again in a vicious backhand, and his target was her throat. The force of the strike would have shattered her larynx and promised a long, lingering death.
Despite her injuries, she spun on her damaged leg and took the strike on the back, right between the shoulder blades. At the same time, her right leg lashed out in a ferocious spin-kick that Manning couldn’t block—his right arm still hung limp at his side, the nerves tingling as if on fire. He tried to duck down, but there just wasn’t enough time—she was much faster than he could ever be.
Light exploded behind his eyes as he took the kick right to the side of the head.
###
Ryker heard the sounds of struggle somewhere on the floor. His Glock at the ready, he advanced toward the office suites in the far corner, glancing into cubicles as he passed by them. Through the ceiling to floor windows, he saw the sun was already below the horizon. The city of San Francisco was lighting up, ready to repel the darkness of night. In counterpoint, half the lights on the office floor switched off suddenly. Ryker cursed the lack of illumination, as now every shadow could offer cover to a potential attacker.
Only two lights were on in the dark hallway that led to the office suites. Ryker considered his chances for a moment. There were many, many places for an attacker to hide, but at the end of the hallway, a thin strip of light beckoned. Light that escaped from beneath a shut door.
And then he heard a woman shout something, and then a loud crash.
Ryker firmed his grip on the Glock. Time to join the party.
###
Meihua watched as Manning collapsed face-first to the floor in an awkward sprawl. The Asp slipped from his grasp, and the bend in his left arm told her she had indeed broken it as she had intended. His jacket and shirt were darkened by the blood pouring from the injury in his side. She hadn’t meant it to be a fatal wound, but he had rushed her; the speed at which he had pulled his weapon, turned, and fired hadn’t left her with much choice in the matter. She had hurled her knife as she had been trained to do those many, many years ago in China and Taiwan. The liver was one of the human body’s most important organs, and as such, it was incredibly vulnerable to injury. Even the smallest wound could impair its function, and of course, it bled a great deal. If she hadn’t struck him there, she knew his next shot would be to her head, and that would be that.
Convinced Manning wasn’t going anywhere, she limped toward the office suite’s inner door. She was bleeding badly, from the wound in her left leg and from her nose, which Manning had broken with his punch. And her right arm was damaged as well; in just a matter of seconds, Manning had rendered her almost combat-ineffective. It was by more luck than skill that she had persevered and overcome him, but she had known that fighting him would be a great challenge. She felt no euphoria at the victory, just a deep, hollow fatigue.
Sh
e threw open the office door and leaped inside with as much vigor as she could summon, landing in an awkward crouch, her right arm curled before her chest, her bleeding left leg extended behind her for balance. The pain was starting to mount now, interfering with her ability to concentrate, to remain focused; she used every ounce of her conditioning to hold it at bay, to short-circuit the nerve impulses carrying useless messages of pain before they reached her brain. She looked from right to left, but the office appeared to be empty. All the lights were on, but where was Lin—?
The sound of trickling water captured her attention, and she looked to her left. The sound came from behind a closed door, and she saw a strip of wan light radiating from the small gap between the door and floor. Through her damaged nose, she could still smell the lingering Chinese food, and the glance to the credenza to her right revealed the remains of a large dinner, in foil trays and white cardboard boxes. Back to her left, the trickling water beckoned to her.
He’s in there, she thought.
She rose and advanced toward the door at a slow, hobbling pace. As she walked, she reached to her waist, where the belt of blades was cinched tight around the thin, high-tech ballistic armor that protected her chest. She pulled a long, thin blade from its sheath. Its hilt was made from white pearl. White—the color of death in China.
As her fingertips touched the door knob, she sensed movement to her right. She crouched instinctively as the first pistol shot tore through the wooden door, sending splinters flying. The second shot hit her in the back, but the armor protected her from most of the damage, though she screamed as the force of the impact knocked her asprawl. She continued with the motion, rolling across the carpeted floor as Lin Yubo stepped around the desk, his pistol held before him in both hands. He squeezed off another shot. It missed, but not by a wide margin.
“Face me!” Lin shouted in Shanghainese. “Face me! Don’t hide behind your mask, show yourself, assassin!” As he spoke, he continued firing, again and again. Meihua backpedaled as quickly as she could, leaving a broken trail of blood on the carpeting from her leg, whimpering behind her mask as the shattered bones of her right arm ground against each other. A bullet struck her right hand, decimating the fine bones there. Another slammed into her chest, followed by another, but both rounds were turned by her armor. She backed into the hard, unyielding credenza behind her, and another bullet smashed through the fine wood only an inch from her left ear.
And then the Walther PPS Lin held was out of ammunition, its slide locked back. Smoke rose from its exposed breech. Lin kept the weapon trained on her, as if unaware its magazine was depleted.
Slowly, painfully, Meihua pushed herself to a half-standing, half-leaning position against the credenza. With her bleeding hand, she pulled the black hood from her head and tossed it to the floor. She wiped at the blood pouring from her nose and glared at him. For his part, Lin returned the stare, and even now his gaze was cold, reptilian.
“A woman,” he said, almost disgusted. “A woman was able to penetrate my defenses, kill my sons, and almost kill me. A woman. The gods must be laughing.”
“Do you know who I am, Lin Yubo?” she asked. Her voice was still strong and vital, even though her body was damaged and failing. But she had strength enough to overpower an old man in his 80s. She knew that. It was fate, both his and hers.
“I know you are Ren Yun’s translator.”
“My family name is Shi. My father was Shi Yue, my mother Zuo Gong, my brother Shi Tian. You and your people killed them in your purges. In Shanghai.”
“Do you think I care?” Lin asked, his voice pitched low. “Do you think I even knew their names? Do you think you would have done any differently? You want revenge, Shi Meihua? Find the ghost of Mao Zedong. Take it up with him.” As he spoke, Lin ejected the Walther’s spent magazine and pulled another from his pocket.
Meihua screamed and lurched toward him, her blade glittering in her left hand. Lin’s eyes registered something other than cold calculation for the first time as an expression of surprise befell his face. It was clear he hadn’t expected such vitality from her, that he had been convinced her time was over. He stepped back at the very last moment to avoid her blade, but it slashed open the back of his right hand. Lin cried out and dropped the Walther to the floor as he backpedaled, steadying himself against the expanse of his desk as she continued her advance. Meihua grinned. At last, she had her quarry cornered—
She was rammed against the desk as Manning charged into her like a bull, using his superior weight to pin her against it. The wind rushed from her lungs, but still she twisted and elbowed him in the face. Manning grunted but did not relent, so she buried her blade to its hilt into his chest twice. Manning gave her a head-butt in return that made her see stars, and she felt at least two teeth break when her jaws slammed together. But Manning did fall back slightly, and she kneed him in the groin and elbowed him in the face again. His jaw dislocated with a brief pop! and he staggered backward. Blood poured from his nose, and his eyes looked wild, unfocused.
But his gaze never left her.
Meihua reached behind her with her good hand and groped about Lin’s desk. Her fingers contacted something smooth, hard, cold; she seized it and hurled it at Manning as he charged toward her again, his left arm already shooting out from his body. The glass paperweight she had thrown smashed against his forehead, and Manning lurched to his right drunkenly, then collapsed to the floor on his back. His eyes rolled up in his head as he passed out, and Meihua limped over to him and yanked her knife from his body. She turned back to Lin, who stared at her with wide eyes.
“Lin Yubo,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, “you’ve troubled humanity for long enough. I’ve killed your bloodline, and now, I shall kill you.” She rose and advanced upon him, blade held high.
“I don’t think so, lady.”
The voice was a total surprise, catching her off guard at the moment as surely as a delivery of flowers from FTD would have. She turned and saw the policeman, Ryker, crouching in the doorway, his gun trained on her. His grip was steady, and there was nothing to indicate he would have trouble gunning her down. And he was over twenty feet away; too far for her to get to him before his bullets got to her.
“And before you decide to try and take me on, I know you’re wearing body armor,” Ryker said. “And believe me, I’m good enough to put a round in your head before you can take a single step.”
“Do…do not interfere!” she said, almost pleadingly. “Lin Yubo must pay for his crimes! He killed thousands!”
“I get that,” Ryker said. “But no, you can’t kill him. I can’t let you, even though I know he’s one dirty motherfucker. I’d put down the knife, lady. And I’d do it right now.”
Meihua hesitated, then looked back at Lin. He still fairly cowered before her, only a few feet away, holding his cut hand in the other. But now there was hope in his eyes, hope that the policeman would be able to save him from his just fate. Hope that he would once again escape the punishment he so deserved, punishment for ordering the blood of thousands spilled—
No.
Using every bit of speed she could summon, using every ounce of energy she had left, she lunged toward Lin Yubo. The tip of her blade caught the office light, reflecting it for a moment like a bright jewel. And then the tip found Lin Yubo’s flesh.
Light exploded behind Meihua’s eyes as a loud report filled her ears, and then she knew nothing more.
CHAPTER 26
Manning awoke in the bright hospital to the visage of a rough Hispanic nurse taking his vitals. She looked down at him without an ounce of compassion and said, “Welcome back.”
“Where am I?”
“In a bed in Saint Francis Memorial Hospital.”
“Where’s—where’s—”
“It’s nine hundred Hyde Street.”
“No. No, that’s not what I meant. Where’s Lin Yubo?”
“Don’t know who that is.” The nurse finished taking his vital
s and turned toward the door. “People will want to talk with you, now that you’re awake. Glad you’re feeling better.”
“I feel like shit,” Manning said.
“Better than the alternative.”
Better than feeling good? Manning wanted to ask, but he knew she was talking about heading the other way: feeling like shit was better than waking up dead.
He must have fallen asleep, because when he woke up, the room was semi-dark. His mouth and throat were as dry as the Sahara desert in high summer. He sighed and tried to sit up, but the wound in his side reminded him he might want to be careful. Manning gasped at the sudden pain, and a chill sweat broke out across his entire body. He slowly relaxed, muscle by muscle until the pain abated. He looked to his right and found the call button clipped to the rail of the hospital bed. He reached for it with his left hand, mindful of the intravenous lines that were plugged into him there. His right arm was in a cast from wrist to elbow.
“You need something?” said a gruff voice from nearby.
Manning almost jumped out of his skin. He turned to find Ryker sitting in the chair near the window, a newspaper folded on his lap. The homicide detective looked haggard, but all in all, he seemed to be in better shape than Manning at the moment.
“Some water,” Manning said. Even his voice sounded dusty.
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