by Wes Lowe
As the floral delivery truck took off, Noah followed it, trying to wend his way through the crowded sidewalk. It was hard to keep the vehicle in sight, especially when the driver gunned through a red light, narrowly avoiding a FedEx delivery truck. As the vehicle started expanding the distance between them, Noah flashed on a movie he had seen before—the first time he saw Chin in action.
At Hong Kong International Airport, Chin was chasing a tiger that had broken out of its cage. As the beast bounded away, Chin pursued the animal with single-minded dedication through the airport terminal.
The cat was fast, but the athletic Chin was equal to the task, running with the blazing speed of a world-class Olympic sprinter, matching the tiger stride for stride.
With innate jungle survival instinct, the feline terror sprang to the top of a passing station wagon. The vehicle’s passengers screamed in terror as the cat’s paws reached downward, trying to break the window. Picking up the pace, the driver swerved back and forth, trying to dislodge its unwanted passenger from the car top.
Chin was relentless in his pursuit of the furred black-striped creature. He effortlessly jumped onto the roof of a moving SUV and then leapfrogged from vehicle to faster vehicle in order to keep up with his man-eating prey.
Realizing that fighting the crowd on the sidewalk was a lost cause, Noah jumped into the traffic-filled street to chase the vehicle, avoiding honking cars and having near misses from cars slamming on their brakes to miss him.
Seeing the van disappearing from sight, Noah took his cue from his memory of Chin and leaped up onto the hood of a car, then hopped from vehicle to vehicle to try to catch up.
Seeing a short stretch of empty asphalt, Noah jumped off the cab he was on and began to run.
Focused only on catching up with his target, Noah paid no attention to a car shooting out from an alley.
The driver was too late in slamming on his brakes and he plowed into the speeding runner.
Two decades of sharply honed martial arts’ instincts came into play. Noah sensed the danger the moment the car hit him and immediately hurled himself into the air. He came down hard, smashing the windshield of the convertible he landed on.
Picking himself up from the glass shards on the convertible’s passenger seat, Noah saw the dark vehicle whipping around the corner.
Inside the panel van, Dmitri held Olivia while the driver, Boris, kept one hand on the steering wheel and used his other to rifle through her purse.
“Damn. There’s only a hundred and fifty bucks in here. What’s wrong with you, Dmitri?”
“Hey. You said look for rich bitches. These are real designer clothes she’s got. No fakes here. No Walmart on this lady.”
Boris looked at Olivia’s driver’s license. “What’s this? This girl’s from Hong Kong. Olivia Southam. This might be our lucky day. The only white people in Hong Kong are rich expats or expensive hookers. We will make money or we will have fun.”
Suddenly, there was a thud on the roof. Noah had landed. Trying to stay stable, he lay down, then precariously leaned over and looked inside the driver’s side window.
Boris started swerving randomly, trying to shake the intruder off.
Noah punched through the glass and grabbed Boris’ hand. He tried to keep the steering wheel steady but it was impossible. Boris was able to jerk it right and left, left and right.
Unable to maintain a grip, the wobbly movement threw Noah off the vehicle’s roof.
As he fell, Noah reached through the driver’s window and grabbed the steering wheel with both hands.
Boris started pounding on Noah’s arms, trying to get him to release the wheel by breaking his arms.
Noah screamed as loudly as he could in Chinese, “Wěn tā!” Kiss him!
Olivia yelled back, “Wie, shenme?” Why?
“Jiù zuò ba! Just do it!”
“No Chinese,” snarled Boris.
“No Chinese? How about French?” said Olivia. She planted a huge kiss on Dmitri’s lips and started to push her tongue through his mouth. The shocked Russian let down his guard for just a moment—exactly what Noah hoped would happen.
Olivia seized on the opportunity. She butted her head against Dmitri’s, then clapped her hands hard over his ears.
A searing pain bolted through the Russian. He launched one mother of a mitt at Olivia.
She agilely ducked, then launched a straight arm with a balled fist at her captor’s head.
This bounced off Dmitri like water off a duck’s back as he grabbed her arm and resumed his vise-like hold.
Meanwhile, Noah pulled hard on the steering wheel and propelled his head inside to connect with Boris’ temple.
Now disoriented, Boris was unable to focus on keeping the vehicle straight and made abrupt wild changes in direction.
The motion was just enough to slightly loosen Dmitri’s tight grip on Olivia. She pulled her arm away from him then swung it back, delivering a sidearm smash to his head.
Again, not a whole lot of effect. She tried flailing but Dmitri was just too strong. “For that, I do you twice.” With his teeth, he tore Olivia’s top.
Noah elbowed Boris’ jaw hard, knocking him out. Unconscious, the driver’s foot stayed on the accelerator and the dark vehicle picked up speed.
Noah took the steering wheel and steered away from oncoming cars and pedestrians.
“Yǎo tā! Bite him!” yelled Noah.
Olivia sunk her teeth into Dmitri’s wrist. The Russian roared and shoved her head away.
This was the distraction Noah wanted. “Jump out, Olivia!”
As Olivia opened the door, she saw Dmitri’s hand pulling on Noah’s hair. He was about to mash Noah’s head against the steering wheel when Noah released the steering wheel and jammed his thumb into the Russian’s eye.
Noah scrambled into the back, grabbed Olivia, and the two jumped out the side door.
Noah held Olivia tight to cushion her against the hard ground. They rolled twenty feet before coming to a stop.
Both looked up to see the truck straightening and getting lost in the traffic.
Noah gasped painfully. “Why is it that when I’m with you, I get shot at, mugged and attacked?”
Olivia answered morosely. “Maybe I’m your good luck charm.”
“Hello.”
Queenie recognized the gruff tone of Alexei’s voice. “Okay, Queenie. Job is done.”
“I hope you didn’t hurt them. Just scared them, right?”
“We are professionals. You say kill them, we kill. You say hurt them, we hurt. You say scare them, we scare. You say make the guy a hero, the guy’s a hero. We make them think they get out by themselves.
“Good enough. Ten thousand coming at you.”
“What do you want me to do with the Chinaman? He’s still knocked out under the blankets in the truck. I can remove him now if you like.”
“No, I need you to keep him neutralized but alive for a few days.”
“That’s another ten. I put him in my house.”
Queenie was well aware of this space. When she had a shipment, she sometimes made deliveries there. “The house is perfect.”
32
Trapped
When JJ woke up, it was dark, hard to breathe, and his head was pounding. Extricating himself from the tarps that covered his body, his heart broke. He was in a windowless locked room with a dozen young Caucasian girls. All had on dirty threadbare shorts and T-shirts. Some were children; none had passed their teenaged years. Obviously mistreated, they were thin, listless and had the dulled eyes of the living dead. Almost every arm was lined with pinprick scars. He had only been part of the outside world for three weeks but, by immersing himself in modern culture, JJ knew these were ‘slave’ girls that made men’s fantasies come true.
The large windowless room was a pigsty. Stale smoke, stale urine, stale body odor and stale sex permeated the room. Old boxes of Chinese takeout, pizza, Ukrainian sausage and perogies littered the floor, sofa and count
ers.
JJ estimated he had been there for about an hour when the door opened. One nasty mother came in and pulled three girls out of the room.
While he didn’t know exactly what happened, from watching endless YouTube videos and movies, he was sure that, in twenty minutes those girls would be washed, had their hair blow-dried, had make-up applied by professional quality estheticians, transforming them into delectable young harlots for a clientele that included diplomats, judges, Wall Street brokers, and politicians. The girls would always satisfy their men, no matter how perverse or kinky the requests. They had witnessed what happened if they didn’t deliver.
JJ approached one of remaining waifs and asked, “Where are we?” but the girls were too afraid to say anything. One of them glanced at a clearly mounted video camera. JJ understood the girls’ reluctance to speak.
Inside this concrete prison, his cell phone was useless for its normal function of talking with the outside world, but that didn’t stop it from being a tool of communication.
JJ deftly spun to angle himself so the video camera couldn’t see what he was doing. He typed a note on the cell phone. “How to get out?” and discreetly showed it to the girl who had pointed out the camera.
The girl leapt up and slapped JJ on the face and screamed at him. “I wouldn’t have sex with you in a million years. In ten seconds, the door is going to open and someone is going to come in and beat the crap out of you.”
She then tried to kick JJ in the balls but she was so high that she stumbled to the floor. Unseen by the video camera, she mouthed to JJ, “Save me.”
Just like the unwilling young whore predicted, the door burst open and Alexei’s three toughs entered—Boris, Dmitri and Raoul.
Raoul, Alexei’s right hand man and two hundred pounds of solid Russian muscle, barked, “No freebies. Leave the girls alone,” and launched a ham fist right at JJ’s head.
Bad move.
JJ ducked Raoul’s arm and countered with a kick to the groin. Raoul, always ready for a dirty fight, had on a jockstrap and JJ’s punt bounced off without damage.
Boris rushed at JJ but the Shaolin master struck out with his palms, hitting the bruiser in the throat. Choking, Boris dropped to his knees, gasping for breath.
Seeing his flunky incapacitated, Raoul charged, but JJ dove at the Russian’s legs with arms extended and took his feet from under him.
Like a bull, the finesse-less Dmitri charged straight at JJ. JJ’s fist met Dmitri’s jaw. Dmitri’s tongue caught between his upper and lower jaw, and the blow was enough to sever its tip. As blood poured from his mouth, Dmitri ran from the room.
Raoul shook off his pain and attacked JJ with hands and feet. Right arm. Left leg. Double arm. Open hands. Closed fists. JJ parried, evaded or deflected every blow, countering with his own assault.
In a fair fight, a street fighter is no match for the agility and skill of a martial arts master. However, the Russians did not build their feared reputation by fighting fair. They had nothing like the Shaolin code of honor in battle nor the underlying Catholic morality of the Mafia.
No, their only guiding principle was to win at all costs and, if they couldn’t win in a street fight, it was time to bring out the artillery.
Raoul whipped out his gun and fired rapidly.
JJ picked up the injured first thug and used him as a shield. Raoul’s first bullets penetrated his colleague.
Raoul then fired at JJ’s legs, but JJ threw his human shield to the ground and his body absorbed the full slug attack.
Raoul now had a clear shot at JJ and fired his last two bullets.
As the bullets sped toward him, JJ stood firm and plucked them out of the air. The hand-eye coordination required to do this was found only at the highest level of Shaolin mastery, a mastery of muscle speed and hand-eye coordination that none of the astonished Russians in the room had ever witnessed.
JJ charged at the Russian. He kicked Raoul’s hand, sending the gun flying. As the Russian buckled in pain, JJ delivered an uppercut with such force that it lifted Raoul off the ground.
Two powerful hammer punches to his head, one to his right eye, the other to his jaw, knocked Raoul unconscious.
Boris had sufficiently recovered to pull out his gun. He was about to fire at JJ when one of the young girls jumped on him and stabbed a used syringe into the back of his hand.
The girl’s action gave JJ a moment to recover and he delivered a knock-out blow to the hostile’s head.
The girls swarmed their insensate captors and beat them, but they were so weakened from malnourishment that their blows had little effect. Undaunted in their desire for retribution, they rifled through the men’s wallets.
Jackpot. Five thousand bucks in cash. Tanya, the oldest of the girls, fearfully handed it to JJ. “You save us?”
JJ nodded. “I save you. Who can I call to help you? Family? Friends?”
Sudden fear covered the girls’ faces. “No one! We don’t want anyone to know.”
Right. JJ realized that even if they knew someone in New York…or anywhere, none of the girls would want them to know they had been prostitutes. They would also be afraid of the authorities. They had left desperate situations wherever they were from and preferred hell in America to the one back home.
JJ nodded in understanding. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. Now let’s go.”
JJ led them out of the room and through the unguarded pigsty of a home. Exiting the house, he noted the building they escaped from was an older nondescript two-family home on a mixed residential commercial block. Signs were in a language he couldn’t read.
The crisp weather was hardly suitable for bare feet or skimpy clothing so JJ beckoned the shivering girls to follow him toward a restaurant down the street. “What language is this?”
“Russian. We are in Little Odessa,” chattered one girl. Seeing JJ’s noncomprehending expression, she added, “It’s the Russian part of New York, in Brooklyn.”
“I will make a call and get my friend, Noah, to help.” JJ reached into his pocket to pull out his phone, only to discover it missing. It must have fallen out during the skirmish.
A hundred feet more and they arrived at Luba’s restaurant. JJ noted a bright multi-colored food truck advertising “Pietr’s Piroshkis” parked in front.
As he and the girls entered the greasy spoon, Luba, the rotund waitress/owner screamed, “No! No! Get out!”
“Please, we need help!” cried one of the girls.
“I no can help. They kill me. I know who you are!” wailed Luba.
JJ karate-chopped the wooden table in front of him, picked up one of its wooden legs and put its pointed tip at her throat. “If you don’t help us, I will kill all of you.” He glared at the other patrons in the restaurant. “There is a food truck out front. Pietr’s Piroshkis. I want the owner to drive us to New York. If you do not step forward in one second, she dies.”
As JJ shoved the table leg’s point in toward her larynx, Luba shouted at a dour heavyset man, “Drive them, Pietr!”
Pietr nodded. Much as he would have liked JJ to ram the stick through the throat of his constantly nagging wife, he feared he would be the mad Chinaman’s next victim if he didn’t comply.
33
You the Man!
New York
When he got back to The Seventh, Noah’s body was knotted with tension. An hour of Shiatsu massage did little to alleviate the pressure. He stood at the hotel window staring at nothing in particular.
He was drowning. His parents gone, Master Wu gone, Chad gone, and Olivia? She had dismissed him, too.
What was the answer? Staring at the skyscrapers of New York, he had a flash of insight—the towering buildings reminded him of mountains and a passage his father often quoted when he was feeling lost. “I lift my eyes to the mountains. Where shall my help come from? My help is from the Lord, the Maker of Heaven and Earth.”
Thanks, Dad. I needed that. JJ wasn’t his responsibility; he was God’s
. If Olivia was not to be, there would be someone else.
That didn’t mean he was going to give up. While she never complained about his clothes, Olivia always dressed with a sense of savoir faire.
He dashed out of the hotel and went back to the designer shop where he had bought his tux. “I want to make girls’ hearts melt,” was his instruction to the clerk. “And fast.”
“You got it, man.”
Fifteen minutes later, Noah had on an untucked burgundy linen shirt perfectly tailored to his body. Gone were his denim jeans in favor of classy but simple dark grey cotton pants. Instead of his worn-in ten-year-old comfy shoes, he was wearing Italian running sneakers in camo-print nylon with suede trim. A lambskin suede jacket completed the metamorphosis.
The expression on Olivia’s face when she stepped into the lobby of her apartment with Abby was worth the small fortune, that would feed an African village for a month, that Noah dropped.
As the two women approached, Noah poured on the charm. “Am I allowed to say how good you look, or would you nail me for male chauvinism?”
“We’ll take a compliment any day,” said Abby. “And you, Mr. Reid, are very handsome, too.”
“Where’s JJ?” asked Olivia, trying hard not to gape at Noah’s transformation.
“Haven’t seen him all day. He was gone before I woke up and still wasn’t back when I left. My best guess is that he ate a famous New York hot dog and got sick. That’s the trouble with vegetarians. Start barfing at the whiff of dead cow or pig.”
“That’s too bad. He’s a nice guy,” muttered Abby, hiding any hint of disappointment.
“Actually, he’s a huge pain in the ass. I have to put up with him because he saved my life,” said Noah, rolling his tongue around his mouth.