by Sam Powers
She’d half-expected him, but still felt a pang of regret at what was about to happen. She knew he was just following orders, being the faithful, unquestioning public servant. He would have been told he had no choice, that it was essential to national security, that she’d gone rogue.
He leaned into the bedroom and saw the roll she’d placed under the cover. She rose even as he raised his weapon, quickly and silently crossing the carpeted living room, until she was right behind him. His hand was shaking slightly, his brow beaded with sweat. She wondered how long it had been since his last field assignment, if ever. Lee felt her sympathy for him rising; she pushed it down deep and tried to keep in mind what he was about to do.
Xiaodang gently squeezed the trigger. The report was loud, slapping their eardrums. The first shot was high and thunked into the wooden headboard of the queen-sized bed. The second two were on target, finding the hump on the pillow where Lee’s head would have been, had she listened to his pleas to make it an early night.
As soon as he heard the sound of the impact, he raised the pistol toward the ceiling. ‘You knew.’
‘You made it obvious. Thank you for that.’
‘If it makes you feel any better about this,’ he said, ‘I was genuinely trying to fool you, so that I could do my job.’
‘Who ordered a cleanup?’
‘Are you going to let me go?’
‘You know that’s not an option. But if you tell me what I need to know, I’ll make it quick.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘I’ll be required to convince you. I suspect a bullet through the front of your kneecap will clear the matter up.’
‘It was Beijing.’
‘I knew that already. Whose direction?’
‘Yan Liu Jeng, I believe. At least, it came from one of his men.’
‘He sent me here to get me away from Legacy.’
‘He sent you here because you failed twice and caused an international embarrassment.’
She shrugged. ‘To-may-to, to-mah-to,’ Lee said. She shot him in the back of the head, the blood spatter hitting the far wall at the same moment that her former colleague’s body hit the bed.
Lee moved around the bed and checked his pockets. He had a phone, papers, a spare magazine; nothing else that would likely help. Despite what Xiaodang had been led to believe, she knew they wouldn’t just take out a failed operative. She might have been demoted, or even fired. But Beijing had no reason to liquidate. That meant someone was worried, worried that she was onto something in her pursuit of Master Yip Po.
That meant someone within the service had a tie to Legacy. It might even be Yan Liu Jeng himself.
And that meant she had no one she could trust.
She reached down beside the bed and picked up her suitcase, carrying it back to the living room. Whoever was trying to shut her out had made a grave error in judgment, she noted, assuming she had poorer contacts in Hong Kong than Macau. She’d have a new identity within an hour, money transferred from one series of accounts to another before the bureaucrats were awake to follow up on Xiaodang’s mission.
Lee looked out the window, the harbor busy even past midnight, flecks of white and red lights dancing across the ripples and swells of the water. Solving Legacy was about more than stopping a terror attack, now; it was about absolving herself, and proving to State Security that she was still an asset. To do that, she had to find Master Yip.
Behind her, she heard the electronic door lock click again.
27/
HEIHE, China
They’d driven in the rain past the neon lights and office towers, to the other side of the city and an industrial park, mile after mile of factories, warehouses and storage yards, machine shops and barbed-wire fences. The streets were grimy and trash-strewn, unloved compared to the business-facing urban center, where Russian shoppers and Chinese entrepreneurs mixed in equal measure. Here the lights were lower, the shadows running deeper.
‘Where are we going?’ Brennan asked.
‘It’s not far now,’ Yuri said. ‘Sergei’s guy is with the Black Cranes, a local gang. They control this area of the city.’
Brennan’s hackles were up; he was accustomed to criminal contacts, but dealing with a Black Society was infinitely more dangerous. They would have the manpower, complete control of the meet, and any number of possible ulterior motives.
‘I don’t need to meet the whole gang,’ he said. ‘Just a source that will lead us to Master Yip Po.’
‘Just relax,’ Sergei said. ‘Everything is good, my friend -- as long as you’ve got my money.’
They turned down a narrow laneway, the headlights doing all the work, iron gates and double garage doors coming briefly into view through the thickening darkness, then fading as they passed. Sergei slowed the car to a crawl and turned left, through an open double gate, into a warehouse yard. The place was surrounded by ten-foot corrugated metal fencing, topped with barbed wire and glass shards inset into concrete.
They parked and got out of the car. Brennan counted five cameras in front of the airplane-hangar-sized building alone. The front door was reinforced steel, designed to latch only from the inside so that there wasn’t even a lock to pick. He counted nine cars, and assumed at least double that many men. Pretty lousy odds.
‘No patrols? No guard posts?’ he asked.
Yuri scoffed at the notion. ‘They don’t need them. No one messes with the Black Cranes and lives more than about an hour to tell of it.’
They walked up to the door and Sergei pressed the red button next to it. A moment later, a slot in the door slid open and a pair of eyes appeared. ‘What do you want?’ the guard asked in Mandarin.
‘It’s Sergei. Vincent is waiting to see me.’
Yuri whispered to Brennan. ‘This is the part where I leave you to your business.’ He handed the American an older-model flip phone. ‘Dial the last number and that is me if you need anything, or when you want to cross back.’
‘You’re not coming in?’
‘No man, no way. Vincent Gao ain’t my a-number one fan, if you know what I mean.’ He turned and headed back to the car. ‘Sergei, are we good?’
‘We are.’
‘Then a good night to both of you.’
Brennan looked over his shoulder as Yuri made his retreat, the red taillights of the car disappearing around the corner. ‘I’d have felt better about this if he stuck around.’
Sergei snorted, but didn’t say anything.
The door clicked open. The guard leaned around the edge. ‘He’ll see you.’
The guard led them into an atrium, this time with two doormen, and yet another steel door. They kept an eye on the pair as they were led through the second door and into the building proper.
If Brennan had any expectations that Chinese mobsters would be more refined than their American counterparts, they were quickly put to rest. The place was part old-school video arcade, part lavish apartment. There were a handful of loveseat-style sofas, a couple of armchairs, a big flat screen on one wall, a pinball machine, and a kitchenette that was covered in debris. Black-leather clad gangsters in mirrored sunglasses lounged around with exotic dancer types under pink and orange neon, some sharing cocaine or opium, others groping each other. There was a white tiger pelt as a rug on the polished concrete floor, and electronic dance music thumped out of giant speakers in each corner of the room.
The Red Pole named Vincent Gao sat at the end of the room on a raised dais, on a clear plastic armchair that looked to Brennan like a prop from Battlestar Galactica. He absently wondered if the guy’s butt was visible from the other side.
Gao made a gesture with his hand, a summoning motion, as if his visitors weren’t worth the effort of speech. His face was cold and emotionless. ‘This him?’ he asked Sergei.
‘I tell him ‘if anyone in Heihe can find a person in Harbin, it’s Mr. Gao,’ Sergei said.
‘Okay,’ Gao said. ‘Go on then, get out of here.’
‘I still need to get half my mon...’
‘Did I stutter?’ Gao demanded. ‘Get out, stupid Russian, before you try my patience.’ The gang leader was probably in his late twenties or early thirties, Brennan noted; it was probably humiliating for Sergei. Or, it should have been.
‘I’ll pay you when we touch base again,’ Brennan said quietly to the other man. ‘Maybe you better listen to the man.’
Sergei nodded curtly and turned to leave. ‘You have that phone...’
‘Out!’ Gao bellowed. A gangster in a charcoal suit and black dress shirt towered over Sergei. He grabbed him by the upper arm and led him to the door.
‘That was my ride,’ Brennan said dryly in Mandarin.
Gao’s surprise was obvious. ‘A gwai lo who speaks the language?’ He turned to his men. ‘That’s like teaching a monkey to paint fine art.’
They dutifully laughed much harder than the joke deserved.
Brennan ignored it. ‘I’m told you can help me find Master Yip Po.’
‘Is that what you were told?’ Gao reached down to the translucent plastic sidetable and picked up a huge joint from an ashtray. He lit it and took a puff, then let the thick white smoke billow about. ‘Maybe Master Yip don’t want to be found. Maybe there is no Master Yip. What do you want him for, anyway? You think you’re the next action hero or something? Maybe he’ll teach you Wing Chun kung fu?’
His friends chuckled again.
The vibe was getting tense. Sergei had assured him they were onside already. ‘Can you help me or not?’ he asked.
A chorus of ooohs circled the room, the gang amused at his disrespectful tone.
‘Who the fuck are you anyway, white boy?’ Gao asked. ‘Sergei said you’re some type of spy or something. Your shitty Mandarin accent says you’re American. So, what’re you doing all the way up in Heilonjiang province, sneaking around with lowly Russian dogs?’
‘Hmmph. Sounds like Sergei and I are going to have to have a little chat about privacy.’
‘And how do you think that is going to happen?’ His supporters started chuckling again. ‘Why would we help you? Or let you go?’
‘Sergei paid you, right?’
‘He did.’
‘And...’
Gao shrugged. ‘Life doesn’t come with a guarantee.’ More laughs from the peanut gallery. ‘Maybe we hold you for ransom and until your people pay, we send them a piece of you each week. Or maybe we call Master Yip; he has some powerful friends, according to the rumors.’
‘The rumors? So I’m guessing he doesn’t give you a lot of face time.’
Gao’s look soured. ‘Maybe we just shoot you tonight, then send pieces back to your employers anyway, see how much money I can make off your corpse.’
‘Certainly not my favorite option.’
Gao smiled at that. ‘Hey! Grace under pressure! I like you, Gwai Lo. Maybe I won’t kill you at all. Maybe I just sell you to a slave trader.’
‘Oh... that’s never going to happen,’ Brennan said. He’d already assessed the room; nine, one for each car. Two beside Gao, one sitting on the back of the first sofa, two on the second to my right with girls; one behind the first chair left, attentive; the two beside me; and one at three o’clock in the armchair, his leg over the arm. Jacket bulges on a pair, the rest doubtless packing something in their waistband. A couple of katanas, ethnically discordant, one in the hands of the man perched on the edge of the first sofa, like a deadly walking stick. The other in its sheath of the thug at one o o’clock, standing behind the couch to the right.
Too many. Brennan’s combat skills were as honed as they’d ever been and turning forty hadn’t slowed him enough to make him any less dangerous. But nine armed men, at least three already alert to danger? That was suicidal.
‘Take him,’ Gao said. ‘But don’t kill him! He’s worth money.’
That evens the odds up a little, Brennan thought. The thugs on either side moved to grab his arms. Brennan ducked down slightly to throw off their grip, then struck fast and hard, his right foot driving into the side of one man’s knee, his left elbow flashing backwards, the guard turning into it and taking the brunt to his throat, crushing his windpipe.
The first guard had collapsed holding his knee, screaming, and his co-workers were clambering to their feet. Brennan rolled to his right and swept his leg in a semi-circle, catching the katana-wielder as he rose from the couch, his feet flying out from under him. The American caught the sword before it hit the ground and pivoted, using his kneecap to spin on the smooth surface, the blade swinging in a wide arc that caught two more guards by surprise, slicing them open, blood spewing out onto the polished concrete. The sword’s owner had recovered and tried to catch him from behind; but Brennan was ready, thrusting the blade backwards and through the man’s torso.
The other swordsman was charging in, his colleagues abandoning their girls to join him. Brennan pulled hard on the sword as the man behind him dropped to his knees, dying. But it wouldn’t budge, caught in the man’s chest cavity like an axe blade in a partially chopped tree. The second sword flashed through the air, its owner swinging it with measured, fast cuts and thrusts, Brennan ducking and dodging each, rolling to his left, throwing a hard punch to the groin of the second guard and....
That was when the pistol came down on the back of his skull, and everything faded to black.
KOWLOON, Hong Kong
The lock clicked over. Lee ducked behind the corner between the hallway entrance and living room. She cursed herself silently for not replacing the slug she’d used to shoot Xiaodang.
The door flew open. She leaned around the corner and fired off two quick rounds, the suppressor muting the volume; but whomever had kicked open the door had also then stepped to one side, anticipating gunfire.
She went back into cover just as a figure obscured behind a pair of pistols leaned into the apartment and opened fire. Bullets whizzed by her and through the floor-to-ceiling safety glass. One caught the door jamb, breaking it and sending pine splinters into the air. Lee leaned back around the corner and got off two more shots, but the man was in cover again.
‘We could do this all night, you know,’ she said loudly in Cantonese. ‘Assuming the neighbors haven’t already called the police.’
‘You want to give up now, Sweet Pea?’ the man replied. ‘Your American friend ain’t here to save you this time.’
She was puzzled for just a moment; the hitman, from Macau. Tommy Wong. He leaned into the open door frame for just a second, and she fired her last round, but a split second too late. In a second, she knew, he would realize that the final click had been the trigger and an empty magazine. She needed to act.
Lee ran toward the apartment’s entrance, but the gunman stepped into the opening before she could get there. She leaped into a jumping side kick, but the hit man blocked it with crossed arms, his stance wide, absorbing the force. Lee found her feet as she fell to the floor. She rose off the balls of her feet, pushing hard backwards, the flat of her back thumping down onto the hardwood even as Wong’s pistols trained upon her, sliding backwards on the polished floor as he unloaded both weapons, the bullets thunking into the wood just millimeters behind her as she slid all the way to the windows.
Then both clicked empty, the triggers without resistance, the slides back.
Out of ammo.
Lee rolled right and found her feet.
‘I thought I’d see you again,’ he said. The man’s suit was dark olive this time, but it was definitely Wong.
‘That’s funny; after I defeated you so easily the last time we fought, I assumed you would go back to wherever little bitches go to lick their wounds.’
‘You know, there’s a misconception about mechanics like myself, that we all enjoy killing people,’ he said, going into a bouncy fight stance. ‘But it’s not true. I mean, I personally do, but not everyone is me. Correct?’
‘Let’s just get on with it,’ she said.
He charged in with a flurry of punc
hes, his stance wide enough to thrust both high and low. Lee slapped them away with open palms then tried to shoot Wong’s knee, wrap him up in a hold before things progressed. But he ducked backwards, dropped low and shot out a hard, straight kick that caught her shoulder nerve cluster, deadening the arm slightly. She danced away then rushed in before he could react with a pair of overhead spinning kicks, the first blocked, the second catching Wong flush, her heel cracking across his jaw like a whip. Wong flew sideways in a half spin, his body crashing onto the sofa. Alertly, he shook off the blow and rolled over the top of the couch and onto the floor behind it before she could follow with a knockout strike.
She circled so that her back was to the hallway as she faced him. She expected him to do what most men did, and Wong obliged, assuming his size advantage would help. He charged in, trying to overwhelm her. Instead, she dropped in a perfect set of splits and thrust upwards with a closed fist, the impact catching Wong square in his testicles. He doubled over, grabbing at his groin with both hands, staggering sideways away from her, until he was in front of the giant window. Lee took two powerful steps and flew into a side kick. This time, Wong’s hands were otherwise engaged, the blow striking him square in the ribs, breaking them. He crashed into the giant window, which was cracked badly from the two earlier gunshots, the glass splintering and disintegrating instantly, the hit man tumbling through, his scream audible for barely a moment as he plunged fifteen stories.
Lee ran toward the bedroom. She needed to grab her things and go; the police would be all over the building within moments, and now she had no doubt: someone within the security service had hired Wong and set her up. And they’d deliberately kept her away from Harbin and Master Yip Po.
She had contacts in Kowloon, good ones. Whoever set her up couldn’t use official channels and that meant she could still travel, at least until she was tied to the two bodies at the apartment building. They’d use that as a pretense to have police pursue her. So she had to move quickly, she knew. There would be a flight to Harbin at some point in the next few hours, and she intended to be on it.