by Wes Lowe
JJ sat down on the floor for a moment, trying to figure out his next move. He knew he didn’t have much time because whoever sent the cranes would soon discover that the birds were unsuccessful in their mission.
He noticed that his laptop was on the floor and clicked on the NYPD link that Sam sent. It was to a page on Elizabeth Watson. The woman with the quintessentially Anglo name didn’t look that Caucasian at all.
He chilled. The hair was different, the nose was different, and the cheekbone structure was different, but the eyes were the same. They were the same eyes that belonged to King, the crook who killed his sifu, Master Wu. King was the one who demolished JJ’s monastery, the one who tried and almost succeeded in killing him. Those eyes belonged to Queenie.
JJ tried to call Noah on the hotel’s phone, but there was no answer. C’mon, Noah. Answer.
He was about to go check on the girls when a masked gunman flung the room door open and fired at JJ.
With his instinct for survival operating on overdrive, JJ dodged one bullet by dropping to the ground.
Then, with lightning fast reflexes, he pushed up into a handstand. It was just in time to evade a bullet aimed at his head. The miniature projectile whistled through the space between his outstretched arms.
From the handstand position, he pushed himself into the air while taking out a martial arts star. He whipped it at the gunman, who sidestepped the flying pentangle.
Dropping his weapon, the gunman threw himself at JJ.
Big mistake.
JJ greeted the thug’s face with his open palm, pushing him to the floor.
JJ jumped on top of the attacker and ripped off his mask. JJ was horrified to see long thin but deep scars, probably from a knife blade gouged into a Chinese man’s face.
“Let me die now,” whimpered the man in Chinese. “Then maybe my family can be saved.”
“What do you mean?” asked JJ.
“I tried to escape, but they found my father in Guangdong and killed him. He was bitten by a snake.” The man took off his clothes. There were more of the long thin scars all over his body.
“Who did this to you?”
“The Crane Woman. The cranes, the birds you killed? She put me in the cage with them for the last two days.” The man shook his head. “If she finds out you’re still alive, she will kill my wife and daughter. Protect them, please.”
“Where are they?” shouted JJ.
But the man had lost consciousness. He was en route to his final destination.
Even though this man he had never met until two minutes ago tried to kill him, JJ was filled with a deep sense of sorrow. Although he didn’t know his name, he knew what he was. He was just like thousands of others who had tried to escape poverty in China.
These desperate souls thought life in the new world would be the ticket to a successful future, if not for them, then for their children or their children’s children. They went into debt to be smuggled to North America by the snakeheads. For five, ten, fifteen years or more, at least fifty percent of their wages were garnished. At the end of the term, the snakeheads released them into society to fend for themselves. Surprisingly, many of them stayed with the snakeheads. After all, better the yellow devil you knew than the white devil you didn’t.
Devils like the Crane Babe…Elizabeth Watson…Queenie.
She gave the man a chance to save his family. His mission was to kill JJ, either with the cranes or with a bullet. Both methods failed.
The unknown man’s wife and daughter would be next unless JJ could stop her.
JJ opened the bedroom door. “Do any of you know how to activate a cell phone?”
One girl raised her hand. JJ handed it to her just as the front door was flung open. Raoul had arrived with half a dozen thugs.
The girls screamed.
36
Yes!
“Quee-nie. Quee-nie. Quee-nie,” chanted the young musicians in the recording room.
Queenie raised her hands and said, “Thank you. Thank you, everybody.”
The crowd quieted but the room was still abuzz with energy.
“Thank you for being part of this recording session. It was the first of what I hope will be thousands of sessions here from big name artists to kids with not much more than an idea for a tune.”
“Right on. You got it. Tell it like it is,” came shouts from the assembly.
“Every great song is only as good as those who work on it. Engineers, producers, musicians, composers. A lousy song fantastically recorded and produced is still a lousy song. Play or sing a great song out-of-tune or with wrong notes, what are people going to hear?”
“They’re going to cover their ears to block out the noise,” shouted someone at the back.
“Exactly. That’s why only excellence is good enough. That’s why the New Amsterdam Arts Center is so important. Young people will not be learning from teachers but from seasoned pros who are at the top of their game.”
“Amen, sister,” called one of the young singers.
“Abby and Olivia are a great example. Abby is a fantastically talented singer but she couldn’t get anyone to pay attention to her, even though she has a degree from Juilliard. I heard Abby and her good friend at an open audition at a small club and thought, “Hey. There’s something here. Maybe I could do something with it. So I made a few calls…well, actually, I made about a hundred calls to beg, plead and call in any favor I could and look what we have. By combining brand-new, first-class talent with the seasoned guidance of producers who know what it takes to make a hit and throwing in a hundred and thirty kids who just sang and played their asses off…” She raised a fist and shouted, “You guys are totally awesome! Who could ask for anything more?”
The chant arose again. “Quee-nie. Quee-nie. Quee-nie.”
Queenie had a huge smile on her face as she patted the air with her palms downward, asking the kids to stop.
“But let’s get real. Not every star is going to shine, no matter how much polish you give it. That’s why studios can’t afford to take a chance. That’s why all their stuff sounds the same. They think the formula for success is to sell you the SOS...”
“Same old shit,” yelled a violinist.
“The same old SOS in a new package, and people will lap it up. I say ‘no’ to that. The great thing about what we’re doing is that we educate, give people a chance, and it gives the New Amsterdam the opportunity to hit a home run. It’s cost effective so we can take chances on new talent. But, to make this happen, we need to have partners, we need to have donors willing to commit...”
“Money talks, babe!”
“Sure does.” Queenie shouted. “And we have one of those groups here right now. Let’s give it up for Byron Field and the Manhattan Investors Syndicate!”
To the sound of a hundred thirty kids clapping and hollering, Byron stepped to the microphone.
“Thank you, Queenie, for that kind introduction. And thank you kids for letting an old fart see what youth can accomplish if they are given the chance. Now, as a Wall Street money guy, I tell you we are inundated with people asking for a handout. Most of the time we say ‘no’ but, every now and then, there’s a project that is so absolutely compelling, we have to say ‘yes.’ The New Amsterdam Arts Center is one of those projects. What a marvelous, marvelous beginning. We believe that today marks not only a new era of music but of how we deal with problems with the inner city youth. No longer will they have to entertain or support themselves on the streets with drugs. Youth are important and we at Manhattan Investors Syndicate are committing seventy-five million dollars to support the cause.”
Shouts of joy, tears of happiness, jumping of delight, and spontaneous dancing broke out.
“And we have been promised by Noah Reid, president of the Chad Huang Foundation, that he will match our donation dollar for dollar, making a total of one hundred fifty million dollars, enough to ensure the viability of the New Amsterdam Arts Center for years to come. Come on up, Noah. This is your time.”<
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Noah shook his head, “No, no,” but then the crowd started chanting, “No-ah, No-ah, No-ah.” They refused to stop until Noah started making his way to the microphone from the back of the room. Caught up in the euphoria, he was happy that the kids had made Byron see the value of what Queenie proposed.
37
China vs Russia
Alexei’s order was for Raoul and his men to retrieve the girls. If it was just the girls, that would have been a simple job, but that wasn’t enough for Raoul. He had to prove himself to the men that Alexei had chosen to accompany him. They had heard that a Chinaman not only injured Raoul; he humiliated him. If Raoul couldn’t demonstrate that the beating he suffered from the Chinaman was an aberration, at least two of them were ready to challenge him to move up in Alexei’s chain of command
Raoul knew he couldn’t just simply kill the Chinaman; he had to do so in a way that demonstrated superior muscle and skill. Even an eight-year-old could kill someone with a bullet but death by machete required dexterity, ingenuity, sharp judgment and maximum physical power.
Raoul, sporting a large black eye from the morning’s encounter with JJ’s fist, charged at the Chinese martial artist, slicing the air in a criss-cross fashion with the machete.
JJ backtracked and leapt nimbly as Raoul chased him around the room.
JJ threw a pillow at the Russian, but a quick hard jab from the blade and a flick upwards sent feathers flying through the air.
Raoul stepped to JJ and lunged for his chest. JJ quickly pulled back.
Raoul, sensing opportunity, changed the direction of the blade and swiped at JJ’s arm.
A standing jump fueled by the martial artist’s powerful legs caused the blade to helplessly slice the air.
As JJ landed on the floor, Raoul lunged again with criss-cross moves. JJ adeptly stepped left, then right, then scooped up a lampstand and held it up as a defense.
The machete chopped through the heavy wood pole easily. However, it slowed Raoul’s momentum, allowing JJ to run behind his Russian foe.
JJ delivered an elbow to the back of Raoul’s head that would have crippled the average person, but not Raoul. His neck was as sturdy as a Russian oak and the Russian bellowed in laughter as JJ’s hand bounced off.
For a big man, Raoul was surprisingly agile. He wheeled around and drove a twisting blade at JJ. The young Shaolin grandmaster backstepped quickly, but not before the tip of the machete pricked his chest. A little red seeped from the wound.
Seeing JJ’s blood energized Raoul even more. He smelled victory and redoubled the onslaught of his blade.
It took every bit of JJ’s acrobatic ability and focus to evade lunges from the front, swings from the side, and uppercut blade motions to his groin. Raoul’s confidence grew; he knew the monk could not escape forever.
Which was exactly what JJ wanted Raoul to think. All warfare is based on deception.
“Ah!” screamed JJ, clutching the bloodstain on his shirt.
Smirking, Raoul shot a glance at his approving henchmen. Raising the machete over his head, he summoned all his strength to deliver a powerful blow at JJ’s skull.
JJ reached over and grabbed a dead crane. A millisecond before the blade sliced his head open, JJ jerked to the side and the machete sliced off the bird’s head. Infuriated, Raoul delivered a second blow. JJ held up the bird’s body and this time, there was instant amputation of the leg.
Now JJ was ready. He leapt to his feet.
Hung Gar. Tiger and Crane.
Tiger—one of JJ’s hands held the bird’s leg so the talons were like a tiger’s paw readying for attack.
Crane—his other hand held the crane’s neck so that its beak was ready to penetrate.
JJ attacked. As Raoul swung the machete, the tiger’s claw descended on his forearm. JJ jerked the leg so that deep feline-like scratches gouged the big man’s arm.
When another machete swing came at him, JJ sidestepped the assault and drove the bird’s sharpened beak into Raoul’s belly button. He pulled up, cutting the Russian open from his navel to his nipples.
With his guts spilling out, Raoul was dead before he landed on the floor.
JJ glared at the Russian henchmen. “Get him out!” he snapped. Freaked that the Chinaman had defeated one of the toughest men they knew, the Russian mobsters snatched up Raoul’s body and pulled it out of the room, disappearing down the hallway.
“Your phone’s ready,” whimpered Tanya. She and the others had seen everything, looking on with horror, conflicted with emotions of relief and joy.
JJ took the phone and briefly scanned Noah’s messages about the presentation at Skyscape.
“No, no,” he whispered agitatedly. He quickly hit reply, wrote a message and sent it off. When acknowledgment didn’t arrive in five seconds, he typed another and another and another, firing them off in rapid succession. He can’t ignore them all.
38
What the?!
As Noah made his way to the podium, he ignored his cell phone vibrating. Byron continued at the microphone. “By this time next year, we will have at least fifty recordings just as fantastic as we all witnessed a few minutes ago. Now, let’s give it up for Noah Reid and the Chad Huang Foundation and the future of New York youth!”
Part of Queenie’s scheming was to put Noah in a position where he could not say “no.” In front of a hundred and thirty enthusiastic kids that were the demographic the Chad Huang Foundation targeted, combined with an old girlfriend he was hoping to win back that was VP of the new organization, she was sure Byron’s carefully worded introduction would ensure her hoped-for result.
The vibrating cell wouldn’t stop so Noah took a quick glance—it was a series of texts from JJ, all marked URGENT.
RUN, HIDE and CALL ME. JUST DO IT.
Noah put the phone away and stepped to the microphone. His mouth was speaking but, inside, his mind was churning. What the hell is JJ thinking?
He raised his hands to clap back to his appreciative audience. “I’m so glad that I was invited to this today. It gives me a real feel for what music can do. Maybe some of you don’t know this, but I’m actually just a jock.”
As snickers permeated, Noah suddenly began gagging as if he were about to vomit. “Sorry, I... I...” He dashed off the podium, coughing and choking as he ran out of the recording room.
There was confusion and concern. Queenie shifted her gaze to Kenny, motioning for the studio manager to follow Noah.
Noah rushed into the washroom and into a stall. Keeping watch on the door, Noah called JJ. “What’s up? I’m just about to make a speech to donate funds to the New Amsterdam Academy.”
“Don’t do it. Queenie isn’t who you think she is. She’s King’s sister.”
“King, as in ‘crash my helicopter into Heaven and attack with every snake in the universe’ King?”
“Yes.”
Noah whistled.
“She’s after revenge and you are at the top of her list,” explained JJ.
Noah shook his head. “No, she’s not after revenge. Just like King, she’s after money. But she’s smarter than King. Her brother went for the whole thing. She’s after a lot less.”
“She just tried to have me killed me in the hotel. You better get out of there, Noah.”
“I can’t. Olivia, Abby and a slew of kids are in there with Queenie right now. I have to go back.”
“In that case, I’m coming. What’s the plan?”
Noah snorted. “Plan? I just found out about this a minute ago so we’re gonna have to make it up as we go.”
Hearing the bathroom door opening, Noah shut the phone. He jammed two fingers down his throat to induce vomiting. He leaned over the toilet and then gagged. The sound of retching bounced off the tile walls and then Noah puked out the remnants of his lunch.
“Need help?”
The green-faced Noah looked up to see Kenny hovering. “Could do with a new stomach right about now. Got any Po Chai pills?” Po Chai pills were tin
y Chinese medicinal pills used by Chinese for all kinds of stomach ailments.
“What Chinese doesn’t?”
“Let’s get them and go back. I’ve got a speech to make.”
JJ tried to comfort the scared young girls. “Don’t worry. I’ve survived snakes and terrorists and I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
As the sobbing girls nodded, JJ went into the hallway and saw Olga, a Russian cleaning lady, coming out of the Presidential Suite at the end of the hall. “Is anybody booked in there tonight?”
Olga laughed. “At six thousand dollars a night, there is hardly anybody staying here any night.”
JJ pulled two hundred dollars from his pocket and offered it to her. “If you let my friends stay in there tonight. Okay?”
The cleaning lady scoffed, “You want me to risk my job for that?”
JJ took out another three hundred and handed it to her.
She snatched it. “Okay. As long as they leave by noon tomorrow. That’s check-out time.”
JJ pursed his lips. “Noon.”
Olga had the shock of her life when JJ ushered twelve scrawny young Russian girls out of his hotel room.
Accosting the youngest, Olga grilled, “Who are you?”
“Larissa.” She pointed to JJ. “He saved us from some bad men.”
Olga burst into tears and made a phone call.
After a furious conversation in Russian, Olga hung up and announced, “I was speaking to our chef. In fifteen minutes, you will have homemade Russian sausages, borsht and perogies.”
She handed the five hundred dollars back to JJ. “You are a saint.”
JJ shook Olga’s hand and went to the elevator. The door opened immediately. “I’ll be back later,” said JJ as the doors closed.
Twelve young Russian girls were in a six-thousand-dollar-a-night Presidential Suite in one of New York’s finest hotels. For a short time, fear was gone from their lives and a nightmare had become a fantasy come true.