He stalked toward the men by the Mustang, anger building inside of him. Up on his toes, keeping to deeper shadows, he crept until he stood behind them, both clearly stymied by the locking mechanism he had specially engineered for the car.
They remained unaware of his presence—until he cleared his throat.
Surprised, one swung around with a tire iron.
Really?
A moment later, the two were fleeing, bloodied and limping.
Duncan reached to the door’s handle. It unlocked before he touched it, triggered by the tiny glass-encased RFID chip implanted in his upper arm, another bodily addition like his magnets.
While he chalked up all these modifications to professional need, he knew down deep it was something more basic. Even before being approached by Sigma, he had already begun altering his body with tattoos. He knew these changes had more to do with Billy, with the way he died, his body ravaged by cells gone mad. These modifications were Duncan’s way of taking control, of defying cancer. It was his armor against the vagaries of fate, where a body could suddenly turn against itself.
His first tattoo had been a copy of Billy’s palm print. He inked it over his heart and later added the date of his brother’s death. Duncan often found his own hand covering that mark, wondering what twist of genetic fate had allowed him to live while his brother had to die.
The same could be said of his friends who had never returned from Afghanistan, those few who had caught a stray bullet or who were the first to step on a hidden IED.
I lived. They died.
It defined a fundamental constant of the universe.
Fate was a cruel, heartless bitch.
Fired by equal parts adrenaline and guilt, he yanked open the car door, hopped in, and took off. He raced through the outskirts of D.C., zipping through gears, punching past stop signs.
Still, he could not outrun the ghosts of his past—of his fellow teammates, of a kid brother who had laughed in the face of death.
Having survived, he must now live for all of them.
That truth, that burden of responsibility, grew heavier with every passing mile, every passing year. It was becoming too much to bear.
Still, he did the only thing he could.
He pressed harder on the gas.
6:34 P.M.
“You look a bit overwhelmed,” Painter said.
And why wouldn’t I?
Jada stared down at the thick mission dossier on her lap. She sat in Director Crowe’s subterranean office. She felt suddenly claustrophobic, not so much because of the mass of the Smithsonian Castle above her head, but because of the weight of the packet resting on her knee.
And all it signified.
She was about to travel halfway around the world, to search for a crashed military satellite that might hold the fate of the world, or at the very least make or break her career as an astrophysicist.
So, yeah, as the once nappy-headed girl out of Congress Heights who ran home from school every day to keep from being beaten up because she was an honor student and liked books . . . I’m feeling a little pressure.
“You’ll have a good team with you,” Painter promised her. “It’s not all on your shoulders—nor should you let it be. Trust your team.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
She took a deep steadying breath. Painter’s office was spartan, limited to a desk, a filing cabinet, and a computer, but the space as a whole had a worn-around-the-edges warmth to it, like a comfortable pair of tattered sneakers. She noted the personal touches. On the cabinet rose a swirling chunk of black glass that looked like a sculpture but was more likely a memento. On the wall, suspended in a shadow box, was a curved fang from some jungle beast, but it seemed impossibly long. And on his desk stood a cluster of framed photos of a woman.
Must be his fiancée.
He had mentioned her often on the flight here and clearly loved her.
Lucky lady.
The room also plainly served as the hub for Sigma command. Three large video monitors had been mounted on the walls around his desk, like windows upon the world. Or in this case, the universe.
On one screen was a real-time view of Comet IKON; on another, the final image taken by the falling satellite; the last showed a live feed from the Space and Missile Systems Center out west.
The scuff of shoes and low voices drew her attention to the door. Kat Bryant appeared with someone in tow.
“Look who I found,” Kat said.
Painter stood and shook the tall man’s hand. “About time, Sergeant Wren.”
Jada found herself also on her feet.
This had to be her other teammate. Duncan Wren. He was surprisingly young, likely only a couple years older than her. She sized him up. His physique was bulky and hard, filling out his marine T-shirt, with tattoos peeking down from the sleeves. But he didn’t seem muscle-bound, far from it. She imagined he could match her stride for stride in a sprint—and she was fast.
She shook his hand, noting the scraped knuckles. “Jada Shaw.”
“The astrophysicist?” he asked.
Surprise sparked in his green eyes, irking her somewhat. Over her short career, she had seen that look plenty of times. Physics was still a man’s world.
As if to look her over better, he brushed back a few stray locks of dark blond hair, laced with lighter streaks that didn’t come out of any bottle.
“Great,” he said with no hint of condescending sarcasm. He placed his fists on his hips. “So then let’s go find us a satellite.”
“Jet is fueled and waiting,” Kat said. “I’ll take you there.”
Jada’s heart climbed higher in her throat. This was all happening so fast.
Duncan touched her elbow, as if sensing her growing panic.
She remembered Painter’s earlier advice.
Trust your team.
But what about trusting herself?
Duncan leaned toward her, his eyes crinkling with concern but also shining with damnable enthusiasm. “You ready?”
“I guess I’d better be.”
“That’s all anyone can ask.”
Before they left, Kat stepped around them and placed a folder on Painter’s desk, keeping a finger on top of it. “The latest report on Gray’s plan of operation in Hong Kong.”
He nodded, sighing a bit. “I skimmed it earlier on the computer. That’s a dangerous path he’s about to tread.”
“It seems he’s willing to walk it for Seichan.”
6
November 18, 8:04 A.M. HKT
Kowloon, People’s Republic of China
Gray prepared to enter the lion’s den.
Or lioness, in this particular case.
He stood on the street amid the crush of the morning rush hour in the Mong Kok district of the Kowloon peninsula. People raced through the morning drizzle, heads low, some with umbrellas, others with wide bamboo hats. Everywhere his eye settled, there was movement. Cars crept down the narrow streets between towering skyscrapers. Laundry flapped from balconies like the flags of a thousand nationalities. Crowds milled and flowed.
Even the smells changed with every breeze: the sizzle of pork fat, the burn of Thai spices, the pungent stink rising from the overflowing trash bins, the stale whiff of perfume from a woman passing close by. Calls echoed all around him, mostly the pleas of commerce, drawn by his white face.
Hey, boss, guess how much for a suit . . .
You want copy watch, yes . . .
Food is very good, very fresh . . . you try . . .
The cacophony of Kowloon deafened the senses. New York City considered itself crowded, but it was a ghost town compared to the squash of humanity found here. The Kowloon peninsula was half of what was considered Hong Kong. The other half across Victoria Harbor—Hong Kong Island—was a place of mansions, glittering skyscrapers, and green parks, all surrounding the majesty of Victoria Peak.
Earlier this morning, with the sun not yet up, Gray and Kowalski ha
d chugged into the local waters aboard their stolen speedboat. The skyline of Hong Kong Island beckoned, looking like a modern-day Oz, an Emerald City that promised magic, where every wish could be granted for the right price—which, in fact, might be true of the decadent place.
Instead, Gray had directed Kowalski to pull into a derelict dock on the darker, urban side of Hong Kong, here in Kowloon. They took a short two-hour nap in a nondescript hotel as they waited for intel from D.C. Once the information came through, Gray led Kowalski to the red-light district of Mong Kok with its chaotic array of karaoke bars, brothels, saunas, and restaurants.
“This way,” Gray said after checking a map.
He headed away from the clamor of the main drag and down a maze of tight alleys. The earlier pleas for attention dwindled with every new twist, the invitations transforming into sullen glares of suspicion at their pale faces.
“I think that’s the building up ahead,” Gray said.
Passing a final turn in the narrow street, he reached a trio of seventeen-story apartment complexes, all connected by bridges and ramshackle construction into a single massive structure. It looked like a rusted mountain held together by the accretion of corrugated tin, patches of wood, and refuse. Even the balconies, unlike those on the nearby buildings, had been sealed shut behind gates. But even here, laundry hung from the bars or streamed on strung ropes, flapping in the wind.
“Looks like a prison,” Kowalski said.
In many ways, it probably was. Gray imagined the inhabitants here were trapped as much by economic reality as by iron bars—with the exception of those rumored to be occupying its highest floors, those levels closest to the sun and fresh breezes. According to Sigma’s intelligence report, it was home to the Duàn zhī Triad.
Gray had traveled here to meet the Triad’s infamous dragonhead.
Back in Macau, Dr. Hwan Pak had sold Gray’s group out to the Triad, luring them into that ambush. Their leader, who wished her face never to be seen, plainly did not take kindly to anyone looking too closely in her direction. It was a gamble for him to come to her doorstep.
But he had no choice.
Seichan had been nabbed by some criminal element. He doubted it was the Duàn zhī Triad. He had spotted European faces—likely local Portuguese—among those who hauled her into the black Cadillac, and the Chinese Triads notoriously disdained Westerners.
So who took her . . . and where?
He had to assume she was still alive. They could have shot her in the streets of Macau, but they hadn’t. It was a slim hope, but he grasped it with both hands.
Gray could think of only one option for information on her kidnappers. In the past, the Duàn zhī Triad had operated out of Macau, so its leader likely knew the major players and still had contacts out there. More important, she also had the manpower and resources Gray would need to mount a rescue—a rescue to save her own daughter.
But can I get her to listen before she kills us?
Gray turned to Kowalski. “Last chance to back out. I can go in alone. Might even be better.”
Gray had made the same offer back at the hotel.
He got the same response.
“Fuck you.” Kowalski headed for the closest door.
Gray joined him, matching him stride for stride. Together, they entered through a set of steel security gates that were open during the day but sealed at night. Faces watched their every step: some with suspicion, others with hatred, most with disinterest.
The gates led to a central courtyard between the three original apartment complexes. The bridges and rickety erections blocked most of the meager daylight overhead, though the steady drizzle found its way down, weeping off every surface. Makeshift shops lined the lower level of the courtyard, including a butcher with plucked geese hanging from hooks, a liquor and tobacco store, even a candy shop full of goods too bright and cheerful for this dreary place.
“Stairs are over there,” Kowalski said.
The only way up appeared to be the open staircases that climbed the sides of each of the buildings. Gray had no idea which of the original towers housed the Duàn zhī Triad, or if it even mattered.
So they set off for the closest and began climbing. The plan was to keep scaling the complex until someone tried to stop them—preferably not someone prone to shooting first and asking questions later.
As they crossed landing after landing, leaving the commercial district below for the residential levels, Gray glanced through several open doors. Inside the apartments was a strange sight. Large wire-mesh cages were stacked floor to ceiling, like rabbit hutches. Men lounged or slept inside them. Clearly it was all they could afford as housing, but the residents did their best to make them tiny homes, decorating them with bamboo liners or privacy screens made of tarpaulin. Even a few televisions glowed. From all of them, cigarette smoke wafted in thick clouds, but it only faintly blocked the smell of human waste.
A fat, brown rat ran down the steps between them.
“Smart rat,” Kowalski said.
Crossing the tenth floor, Gray began to note the glass eyes of closed-circuit television cameras pointed at the stairs.
The handiwork of the Triad.
“This is probably high enough,” Gray finally said. “They’re clearly already watching us.”
Reaching the next landing, Gray moved off the stairs and into the open-air hallway that overlooked the courtyard. He positioned himself in front of one of the CCTV cameras. He carefully and slowly reached to his belt. Using two fingers, he slipped out his Red Star pistol and placed it at his feet. Kowalski performed the same ritual with his AK-47 rifle.
“I wish to speak to Guan-yin, the dragonhead of Duàn zhī!” he called out to the camera and anyone listening nearby.
The response was immediate.
Doors slammed open in front and behind. Four men came at them with bats and machetes.
So much for conversation.
Gray dropped low and kicked the closest man in the knee. As the attacker fell forward, Gray punched him hard in the throat, leaving him writhing and gasping. He retrieved his pistol, while ducking under the swing of a machete as it shaved through his hair. Inside the man’s guard now, Gray trapped the assailant’s arm, swung him around, and got his own arm around the man’s neck.
He placed the muzzle of the pistol into his captive’s ear.
Behind Gray, Kowalski had coldcocked the first of his two assailants, snatching the steel bat out of the man’s limp fingers as he fell. In a roundhouse swing, he struck the second in the shoulder. His machete clattered to the ground.
Kowalski kept his bat pointed, warning, as the man stumbled back in pain, cradling his bruised arm.
Gray turned his attention to the camera.
“I only wish to talk!” he called out.
Proving this, he let his captive go and pushed him away. Again, Gray bent down and placed his pistol on the floor. He lifted his hands high, showing his palms to the camera.
He hoped this sudden attack had been a test.
He waited, feeling a trickle of sweat run down his back. A hush seemed to have fallen over the entire complex. Even the chatter of televisions and echoing music was subdued.
Suddenly Kowalski bellowed behind him. “Don’t any of you speak goddamned English?”
A door opened at the end of the hall.
“I do.”
A figure stepped out of the shadows and into the hallway. He was a tall man, with his white hair pulled back in a knot of a ponytail. Though in his sixties, he moved with a silky power in each step. He carried a long, curved sword in one hand, an ancient Chinese Dao saber. His other palm rested on the butt of a holstered SIG Sauer.
“What do you wish to tell our esteemed dragonhead?” he asked.
Gray knew the wrong answer would get them killed.
“Tell her I carry a message concerning Mai Phuong Ly’s daughter.”
From the swordsman’s blank expression, the name meant nothing to him. As answer, he si
mply turned and walked calmly back into the shadows.
Again they were left to wait. One of the guards barked in Cantonese and forced Gray and Kowalski to retreat a few steps, so another could grab their weapons.
“This gets better and better,” Kowalski said.
The tension stretched to the tautness of a piano wire.
Finally, the swordsman returned, stepping again out of the shadowy doorway to confront them.
“With graciousness, she has agreed to see you,” he said.
Gray let the knot between his shoulders relax slightly.
“But if she doesn’t like what she hears,” the swordsman warned, “her face will be the last thing you ever see.”
Gray didn’t doubt that.
8:44 A.M.
Seichan woke to darkness.
She remained motionless, a survival instinct going back to her feral years on the streets of Bangkok and Phnom Penh. She waited for her muzzy-headedness to clear. Memory slowly seeped out of a black well. She’d been grabbed, drugged, and blindfolded. From the bite of restraints, her wrists and ankles must also be bound. She still wore the blindfold, but enough light seeped through the edges to tell it was day.
But was it the same day she’d been grabbed?
She pictured the crash, Gray and Kowalski flying.
Had they survived?
She didn’t want to think otherwise.
Despair weakened one’s resolve—and she would need every bit of tenacity to survive.
She cast out her addled senses to gain her bearing. She lay on something hard, metal, smelling of motor oil. Vibrations and the occasional jarring bump revealed she was in some sort of vehicle.
Perhaps a van, maybe a truck.
But where were they taking her?
Why not just kill me?
She could guess the answer to that easily enough. Someone must have learned about the bounties placed on her head, someone who aimed to sell her.
“You may now stop pretending to sleep.” The voice came from a foot or two away.
She inwardly cringed. Her senses had been honed sharp by the coarse streets and back alleys of her youth. Still, she’d been totally unaware that someone sat so close. It unnerved her. It wasn’t just his silence, but his complete blankness. Like he didn’t exist.
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