Agent Akaka joined him in the room. Max slid open a glass door and checked the lanai. No one was there either. “Clear.” The view from the lanai was only of more condos.
Max went back inside the studio. The furniture was frayed and the TV small. A tattered, green shirt was draped over a chair and some faded pictures sat on a shelf—uniformed police officers. Beside the pictures were a cluster of combat pistol marksmanship trophies—the dates on them were recent. A Honolulu Police Department plaque for distinguished service hung on the wall. On it was a picture of an older police officer who had a gold-colored band around his hat, gold leaves embellishing the visor, and four stars on his epaulets shaking hands with a younger police officer. The name on the plaque read “Shawn Lok.”
“Whoa,” Max said. “He’s Five-O.”
“The older man in the picture is the police chief,” Agent Akaka said.
“Then the other guy must be Shawn.”
Akaka nodded. “As a police officer, he’ll have access to a lot of information.”
On a table next to the foldaway rested a PC notebook. Max sat in front of it and turned it on, holding down the F8 key. Next, he selected an advanced option. Then the prompt appeared, and he entered a command to make himself the administrator. He rebooted the computer, accessing it as an administrator.
Max clicked open the web browser and logged onto Young Park’s website. Within minutes, Max lost control of the mouse pointer on the screen—now Young or one of his assistants was controlling it. They downloaded documents and installed hidden monitoring software.
Agent Akaka looked over Max’s shoulder. “I think we should definitely have a talk with Officer Shawn Lok.”
“Could you call the Honolulu Police Department discreetly and find out exactly where he is right now?” Max asked.
“Sure. We can probably go straight to him.”
While Agent Akaka called, Max resumed searching the studio, but other than some boxes of bullets, gun cleaner, and a cleaning rod, he found nothing of additional significance.
Akaka ended his call. “HPD said that Shawn just called in from the Beijing Rendezvous restaurant in Chinatown.”
“Let’s go have a chat with him.”
They left the studio and exited the building. Agent Akaka drove off the parking lot and onto Ala Moana Boulevard, which took them northwest between rows of hotels and packs of tourists strolling the sidewalks. Their Jeep passed Ala Wai Yacht Harbor, where a bride and groom dressed in white seemed to be having a party on a yacht. On a lagoon, a breeze pulled at a rainbow-colored assortment of sails on windsurfing boards that skimmed the water’s surface. Palm trees gently swayed. Max rolled down the window and sniffed.
“Is the air-conditioning too cold?” Agent Akaka asked.
“Just wanted to smell the salt air,” Max said. After the fragrance tickled his nose and the wind ran its fingers through his hair, he rolled the window back up. Sunbathers lay on the beach and groups of tourists walked the sidewalks.
“Up north is better. You have to get out of Waikiki to see the real Hawaii. I grew up on the windward side, in Kaneohe.”
“Do you surf?” Max asked.
“Can’t swim.” Agent Akaka snickered.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
Too bad. Max didn’t care if Waikiki was for tourists; if he weren’t chasing a spy, he’d probably already be in the ocean.
They stopped at a light. A pair of bone-busting beauties in bikinis strolled by. Max smiled at them, and they smiled back. “I could get used to this life,” Max said.
The light turned green, and Agent Akaka rolled forward, leaving the women behind. They waved at Max.
He waved back. “Some other time,” he said quietly.
Further down the road, on one side stood the Ala Moana Shopping Center and on the opposite side, a lush green park rested beside the sea. They passed fishing boats floating in a marina and Aloha Tower, a ten-story gothic lighthouse clock tower, before turning inland.
The appearance of Chinese characters on store signs and bilateral symmetrical architecture signaled that they were entering Chinatown. The Jeep bumped over a pothole. Recalling the combat shooting trophies in Officer Shawn Lok’s condo, Max knew this ride was bound to become bumpier. He took a deep breath and pushed the ocean out of his mind.
Agent Akaka pulled into a public parking lot. Deeper in the lot a marked HPD squad car was parked. They slowed to a stop in one of the two open spaces. Waiting for the unknown caused Max’s pulse to speed up.
They stepped out of the vehicle, and Agent Akaka listened to his phone as they walked by an exotic assortment of fruit and meat displayed in front of shops. Akaka pointed to the Beijing Rendezvous restaurant—its name written in English and Chinese. “Shawn should be in there.”
Max looked at his watch. “It’s lunch hour,” he said. “Restaurant will be pretty crowded. Better not to try confronting him in there.”
“We’ll go inside and keep an eye on him until he finishes his meal; then we’ll follow him outside and talk to him.”
“Let’s do it.”
As they entered the restaurant, adrenaline dumped into Max’s system, and his senses launched into hyperdrive, starting with his vision. Two golden-colored lions, one with its mouth open and the other with its mouth closed, guarded the vestibule. Red paper lanterns in the shape of lychee fruit shined light from above, which reflected off gilded dragons gliding across intricately designed wallpaper. Deeper inside the medium-sized restaurant, wisps of steam rose like spirits from sticky rice and teacups on circular tables. In the middle of the place, blue lights illuminated live seafood in water tanks: crabs, clams, lobsters, and eels. He scanned for exits: windows to bust through, the kitchen door, and the door they’d just come through.
Most of the surrounding customers appeared to be Chinese, and their chatter sounded Chinese, but none of them looked like the younger man in the photo on the plaque in Shawn’s little condo. Max ignored the few elderly men and examined the younger ones, searching for anyone seated by himself. He checked their hands for signs of weapons and their eyes for hints of malice. Then he proceeded to calculate how he could kill each and every one of them—preparing for menace before it materialized.
Plastic chopsticks clicked and ice cubes in water glasses clinked, and the noise of clanking dishes came from the kitchen. An attractive Chinese hostess wearing a body-hugging black dress greeted them, but Max couldn’t make out what she said. Agent Akaka responded to her in Chinese.
The aroma of pork, ginger root, and pepper made Max salivate. A customer on her way out lightly brushed against Max’s shoulder, but he wasn’t hunting women, and he paid her little attention. The hair on the back of his neck rose, but it wasn’t caused by the cool air-conditioning—something bad was about to happen.
Max’s phone rumbled. His first thought was to ignore it. But then he realized it might be an important call from Tom. He pulled out his phone and checked the caller ID—Tom.
A woman with long black hair strolled out from an area marked “Restrooms.” Her legs were pretty, but her walk wasn’t—bigger and more linear than the smaller steps and graceful hip swinging of other women. From around the corner appeared a uniformed police officer who looked like the man in Shawn’s photos. Shawn’s hand went to the pistol on his utility belt as he walked up behind the odd woman.
Max didn’t know why Shawn was focused on the woman, but he discreetly slipped his pistol hand under his shirt and gripped the handle of his weapon.
Shawn drew his service pistol and pointed it at the woman.
Agent Akaka drew his pistol and aimed at Shawn. “FBI, Shawn, drop the weapon!”
There was a scream, followed by another.
Max drew his pistol, too, but the hostess stood between him and Shawn, blocking Max’s line of fire. “Get out of the restaurant,” Max growled at her.
The hostess stood petrified, staring at him.
Max grabbed her by the
arm and tugged her out of the way. “Get out now.” He aimed at Shawn.
“Can’t you see I’m a cop?” Shawn asked indignantly.
“Can’t you see I’m FBI?” Agent Akaka said.
“This woman is not a woman,” Shawn said.
The odd woman remained still with her back to them.
“Cross-dressing isn’t a crime. Put your weapon down, and we can talk about this,” Agent Akaka said.
“You’re making a big mistake,” Shawn said. “This man is dangerous.”
“Right now, you’re the one who’s dangerous,” Agent Akaka said. “Both of you, put your hands in the air.”
Neither Shawn nor the woman budged.
Agent Akaka spoke in Chinese, but Shawn and the woman remained still.
Some of the customers had the good sense to evacuate the restaurant.
Agent Akaka aimed at the pair with one hand and made a phone call for backup with the other.
Unlike a full frontal silhouette at the shooting range, this was the real world, where only Shawn’s side faced Max, presenting a narrow target. Even so, Max aimed at his arm, planning to shoot through it to his heart.
Shawn’s shoulder moved slightly.
Max clenched his teeth and said, “Shawn, using that shooting range bullshit on us is going to get real expensive.”
The movement in Shawn’s shoulder paused. “You’re making a big mistake,” he said.
“I’m on America’s side. You’re the one who’s making a mistake,” Max said.
“This man is a rogue spy named Zhao Ye,” Shawn said. “He killed an American admiral in Japan. He’s killed before, and he’ll kill again unless you let me stop him.”
Hearing Zhao Ye’s name pumped Max’s pistons into overdrive. Max shifted his aim from Shawn to Zhao, then alternated his aim at both targets. “Shawn, I don’t care if you shoot Zhao, but I will care if you try to shoot Agent Akaka or me. I won’t shoot a cop, but I will shoot a spy. If you’re truly a cop, better to put your weapon in its holster and let Agent Akaka and me sort this out.”
Police sirens wailed, their sound coming closer.
Shawn’s voice filled with anger. “I don’t work for Zhao. He thinks he’s above the law—Chinese law—but he’s not. I hate living in this sewer called America. You try to hold China back. I can’t stand the stench anymore. Every night when I go home it gets harder to clean off. It disgusts me. My orders are to kill Zhao. And I won’t allow you to imprison me here.” Shawn’s shoulder shifted swiftly, and his hips popped around—both in Max’s direction.
So much adrenaline blasted through Max’s body that he couldn’t comprehend whether Shawn’s movements were slow, or his own mind was racing so much faster. The restaurant around him blurred, sounds faded, and the smell of pork disappeared as Shawn became clearer in his sights and Max’s finger pulled the slack out of his trigger. Without thinking, he stopped breathing, pausing the rise and fall of his lungs. The throbbing of his heart inside his chest stopped.
Shawn’s pistol pointed at Max.
Max’s trigger finger only moved a fraction, but the recoil that rippled through his arms was significant. His first shot struck Shawn’s arm and likely entered his upper body. As Shawn turned, Agent Akaka fired, scoring a direct hit, too. Shawn toppled, and Max and Agent Akaka both shot him in the upper body before he hit the deck.
Max’s senses tunneled in so tightly on Shawn that he’d blurred out Zhao and the rest of the environment. Now the pinhole of his senses opened back up. Zhao aimed something in Max’s direction, and a puff of air sounded—phht. It wasn’t clear if Zhao had fired a sound-suppressed pistol or if Max’s hearing was malfunctioning.
As Max shifted his aim from Shawn to Zhao, there was movement in the corner of Max’s eye. Agent Akaka had fallen. While acquiring Zhao in his sights, Max stepped away from his line of fire. At the same time, Zhao stepped out of Max’s pistol sights. Zhao moved tactically like Max expected a professional like him would.
Agent Akaka needed emergency first aid, but Max’s assistance would be moot if Zhao killed them both. He had to eliminate Zhao first. Customers cried out as they scurried for the exit. The unmistakable snap of a bullet with Max’s name on it breezed next to his head. Max returned fire, but Zhao maneuvered behind the live seafood tank, avoiding the salvo, and Max’s bullets struck the water tank. The glass wall facing Max exploded and water and fish flooded out, causing Max to jump back. Two more bullets snapped beside him, and he returned bullet for bullet as he ducked behind the hostess’s wooden dais for partial cover. Zhao’s pistol was suppressed, but its bullets hammered the wooden dais loudly. The wood was thick enough to protect Max, but it wouldn’t hold out forever. Or am I already wounded and too jacked up to notice?
Max popped out to the side and unleashed another salvo at Zhao, who was no longer shielded by a water-filled aquarium—glass, fish, and liquid had poured onto the floor. Zhao ducked behind the platform holding up the aquarium’s metal frame and the shards of glass that remained.
In the vestibule, Max had less space to move, but the exit was nearby. In contrast, Zhao had more space to move, but his nearest exit, the kitchen, was far away—unless Zhao busted through a window.
Crash! It sounded like broken glass, and Max imagined that Zhao had tossed a chair through one of the windows and escaped. Max glanced at Agent Akaka, who lay on the wet ground with a bloody spot on his shirt and fish flapping around nearby. Max touched Agent Akaka’s neck to check for a pulse. He was still alive.
Smash! It sounded like the front door behind him, the entrance to the restaurant, flew open and banged the wall. Max couldn’t imagine how Zhao had been able to move around so quickly to get the drop on him. Before he could turn to defend himself, voices were yelling like a SWAT team: “Police, drop the weapon! HPD! Honolulu Police! Drop it!”
Max didn’t like relinquishing his weapon, but he did as he was told. “I’m with Agent Akaka from the FBI,” Max said. “He’s shot and needs medical help ASAP. The shooter is a man dressed like a woman. He ran out the back.”
“Get down!” voices shouted at him. “Down on the ground! Now!”
Max lay down and repeated himself.
21
In Zhao’s room on the seventh floor of the Waikiki Hawaiian Resort, Chairman Mao lay on a table within arm’s reach as Zhao changed from his woman’s disguise. His partner Wei sat staring through the glass doors leading to the lanai and beyond, where the sun descended into the expansive sea. Surfers rode an incoming wave that curled over.
Zhao put on khaki slacks. “In the restaurant, I shot it out with a man who fought like a tiger.”
“Was he that skilled?” Wei asked.
“He was so ferocious that for a moment, I thought I might not survive.” Zhao paused. “I realized he might be the man in my dreams—the man with no face—my ultimate adversary.”
“You sound pleased.”
Zhao put on an aloha shirt. “I am. Very.” He recited the words from the Records of the Warring States: “The wind blows bitterly, the Yi River cold and biting; the hero goes forth, never to return.”
“Who is the hero?” Wei asked.
“I am,” Zhao said. “But I am the hero who will return.”
22
Max was pissed at himself for letting Zhao escape. He kept replaying the scene, trying to see how he could’ve played it differently. Was there anything I could’ve done to prevent Agent Akaka from getting shot? Two hours after HPD had swarmed the Beijing Rendezvous restaurant, he’d finally been cleared to return to the base. Now he slouched in one of the chairs in his and Tom’s room at the Navy Lodge Pearl Harbor. Tom and June sat in the chairs across from him. On a table in front of them was a plastic bag filled with takeout food from a local restaurant called Tasty Korean Barbeque, dropped off minutes earlier by Bane. June reached inside the plastic bag on the table and took out large Styrofoam containers. She opened the first one, which contained kalbi. The smell of the barbequed ribs smothered in Korean
sauce was mouthwatering. She opened four more containers: barbeque chicken, rice mixed with vegetables and egg, dumplings, and kimchi.
Max passed around Hawaiian Sun drinks that Bane had also brought for them—cans of passion-orange juice, strawberry-guava, and lilikoi-passion fruit.
Tom handed out paper plates, plastic eating utensils, and napkins.
Max dished himself up and took a bite. The chicken tasted grubalicious, but not catching Zhao was what stuck in his craw. “This Chinaman is handing us our asses,” he said.
June stared at Max as if surprised by his comment.
Tom gave him the evil eye.
Max eyed his brother back. “You don’t like the way I talk?”
“It was rude to say that,” Tom said. “Especially in front of June.”
“Well, he’s from China, and he’s a man,” Max defended himself.
“Chinese man,” Tom corrected him.
“I’m okay,” June said. “It didn’t bother me.”
“See, it didn’t bother her,” Max said.
“It bothered me,” Tom said.
Max cocked his head to the side as if there was a kink in his neck, and he shook it out. “You’re too sensitive.”
Tom’s exterior remained cool, but there was tension in his voice. “And sometimes your mouth overloads your butt.”
June forced a laugh, but it only made the air more uncomfortable. “I’m okay, really.”
Max leaned toward Tom. “Are you saying you aren’t racially prejudiced?”
“I am racially prejudiced,” Tom said. “It’s human nature. But I try to limit its negative effects on people. And help when I can.”
Max’s voice filled with sarcasm. “Thank you for the lecture, Mr. Georgetown.”
Autumn Assassins: [#3] A Special Operations Group Thriller Page 15