Red Wolves

by Adam Hamdy

  The man in the kitchen started shouting curses at Pearce, but stayed well back. Otter fell to the floor, crying, alternating between his foot and his hand as he tried to soothe the pain. The most disturbing reaction came from the children in the opposite room. They didn’t cry or fuss, but simply gathered in the doorway and watched the wounded man with the detached disinterest common to the victims of abuse or neglect.

  ‘Where is it?’ Pearce asked, bearing down on Otter. He kicked the revolver into the hole in the floor and it clattered against the aluminium shell. He pressed the barrel of his pistol against Otter’s knee. ‘The secret isn’t worth what it will cost you,’ Pearce assured him. ‘Give up the product and I leave.’

  ‘They’ll kill you,’ Otter cried.

  ‘Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.’

  ‘They’ll kill me,’ Otter objected.

  ‘They’ll never know,’ Pearce said. ‘Not unless you or your friend here tell them.’

  A minute later, Pearce hurried out of the house, past the two women who were now slumped on the porch. He climbed into Rasul’s car and put his gun away as he settled.

  ‘Problem?’ Rasul asked.

  ‘You got a phone?’ Pearce responded.

  Rasul hesitated, but then produced a cell phone. ‘Who are you calling?’

  ‘The police,’ Pearce replied, and everyone in the car suddenly tensed. ‘There are kids in there,’ he added, ‘and a man with two holes in him.’

  ‘We heard,’ Rasul said.

  ‘But you didn’t come,’ Pearce observed.

  ‘This was your initiation. Not ours.’ Rasul paused. ‘Did you pass it?’

  Pearce fixed him with a stare. ‘Head south,’ he said at last.

  Rasul nodded at the driver, before turning back to Pearce. ‘Go ahead,’ he said, as the car started moving. He indicated the phone. ‘It’s a burner. Make your call to the police.’

  Pearce considered Rasul as he dialled 911. The man wasn’t completely without sentiment, and even though he masked it well, the revelation there were children inside the house had shaken him.

  Chapter 60

  Brigitte woke from a nightmare, but when she looked at her shoulder she remembered reality was far more horrific than any conjured dream. The black patch clung to her, robbing her of life, only to give it back to her. The ultimate coercive control.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Echo said, leaning out of the shadows.

  She was sitting on a small chair in the corner of the room. The only light came from beneath the door, a thin bright strip that was sufficient to form shape from darkness.

  ‘The first day is the worst,’ Echo told her. ‘I brought you some clothes.’

  Brigitte noticed a small pile at the end of the bed, but she didn’t feel like getting dressed or doing much of anything. She wanted to lie in this horrible room and drift away, move on to whatever lay beyond life. She detested her future, shackled to these people who now controlled her survival, knowing she would face death if she displeased them. It was a cruel, hopeless existence.

  ‘You get used to it,’ Echo said wistfully. ‘Takes time, but you forget what life was like before.’

  Brigitte hoped she never accepted the horror of what had happened to her. The idea of avenging herself on these people was the only bright feature on an otherwise bleak horizon.

  ‘How does it work?’ Brigitte asked. ‘The patch is touch sensitive, but the powder used in the prison didn’t affect the men who escaped.’

  ‘The powder is an aerosol. The particles are too large to be absorbed through the skin,’ Echo replied. ‘They have to be inhaled. Without the replacement hormone contained in the patch, XTX destroys the parathyroid glands and the PTH hormone, and the lungs shut down within seconds.’ She hesitated. ‘There is another variant. A version of XTX that can be absorbed by the skin. It can be used to kill with a single touch. They use it for assassination.’

  Brigitte was horrified. Weapons such as these had no business existing, let alone being in private hands. ‘Who are they?’ she asked.

  ‘The Red Wolves started as a nationalist group. They were men and women loyal to Chiang Kai-shek. They established a secret network after his overthrow with the aim of infiltrating the Communist apparatus so that one day they could bring him back, but when that didn’t happen, the Red Wolves morphed into a criminal entity. One with international reach. There are chapters all over the world. Only recently has it become political again. We believe its members may be behind the suppression of the Rohinga. I can’t prove it, but I believe they are part of a wider network,’ Echo said. ‘These groups are rising all over the world. Apparently in isolation, but I don’t believe in coincidences. The men who were here, Li Jun Xiao,’ Echo said, ‘and his master, the one you met upstairs, David Song, I believe they’re taking orders from the American who was with them, Elroy Lang.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Brigitte asked.

  ‘I don’t know. But he has real power.’

  It seemed the man who’d orchestrated the Al Aqarab escape was more significant than any of them had realized.

  ‘Why haven’t you gone to your government?’ Brigitte asked. ‘They could synthesize the hormone.’

  There was just enough light for Brigitte to see Echo shake her head.

  ‘XTX was designed by Bolin Xu. He developed the synthetic hormone that keeps us alive. The Red Wolves executed him when they took control of the formula and Li Jun and David Song are the only ones who have access to it. They personally supervise its manufacture. If the synthetic hormone is given in the wrong dosage, it triggers an allergic reaction and the body shuts down. There isn’t enough time for anyone to develop a substitute, and the patches only last a week.’

  ‘Then steal some,’ Brigitte suggested.

  ‘I have children,’ Echo responded. ‘I can’t gamble my life or theirs. The Red Wolves have me.’

  ‘I don’t have any such baggage,’ Brigitte said, slowly getting to her feet. She was clammy and trembling, and for a moment she thought she might faint, but the dizziness passed and she regained her composure. She reached for the pile of clothes and started getting dressed. ‘I don’t belong to the Red Wolves,’ she told Echo. ‘Not yet.’

  Chapter 61

  Echo led her out of the cell and they walked through a dark basement lined with other doors. Brigitte wondered how many people had been chemically altered in this place and whether the doors concealed others who were suffering the same fate even now.

  Echo took her up a flight of stairs and Brigitte had to pause at the top to catch her breath.

  ‘Your strength will return,’ Echo assured her. ‘Your body will adapt.’

  Brigitte suspected she’d feel more pain were it not for the steady supply of fentanyl coming from the patch. The powerful drug smoothed the world’s rough edges and made everything seem tolerable. She signalled she was OK to move on, and they walked along a short corridor and went through a door that opened into a large, brightly lit space.

  Brigitte’s eyes adjusted to the light and she made out a vaulted ceiling high above her, metal supports and a corrugated roof – she was in a warehouse. A glass divider separated the women from four figures who worked in a clean room. They wore white boiler suits, gloves and masks, but instead of the patch manufacturing process Brigitte had hoped to see, she spotted four semi-conductor forges; large machines capable of churning out high-end silicon chips like the one Leila had found in the canister used during the prison break. The people in boiler suits – Brigitte was unable to tell whether they were male or female – paid no attention to the women as they walked through the building. High above them was a mezzanine level of offices, accessed by a steel staircase that ran up the outer wall and ended in a wide balcony.

  ‘You will go to Paris and connect with your underworld contacts—’ Echo said.

  ‘You’re assuming I have some,’ Brigitte cut in.

  ‘We both know you do,’ Echo responded. ‘You will meet with them and negot
iate supply of the product into France. On no account is anyone to know what it really is. You will tell them it’s fentanyl, available at half market price. You are to return here within a week to receive your next dose. This is how you can contact us,’ she handed Brigitte a phone. ‘There’s one number in its memory.’

  Brigitte shook her head in disbelief.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Echo confided. ‘I’m just doing what they commanded. For my children. For me.’

  Brigitte sensed movement and looked up to see the man in the Zhongshan suit, the one Echo had called Li Jun Xiao, step out of one of the offices and come to the edge of the mezzanine balcony. He was followed by the American, Elroy Lang.

  ‘One minute,’ Elroy said, and Echo pulled Brigitte to a halt.

  Elroy came down the stairs and crossed the warehouse floor. The man must have been in his late thirties and carried his trim frame like a soldier. He exuded authority and confidence.

  ‘You understand what happens if you don’t do what’s expected of you?’ he asked.

  Brigitte wanted to lash out, but she embraced the calming effects of the fentanyl and simply nodded. She turned for the door, and Echo followed.

  As they passed beneath the balcony, Brigitte looked up at Li Jun Xiao and pictured all the ways he would suffer before she killed him.

  Chapter 62

  ‘What is it?’ Rasul asked, dragging on a vape. He exhaled, enveloping himself in a thick plume of smoke that swiftly dispersed over the water.

  ‘It’s a dark kitchen,’ Pearce replied, looking at the huge grey warehouse beyond the high wire fence. Apart from a row of glass panels by the entrance, the building had no windows.

  ‘Otter told me it’s owned by a company called Meals Seattle,’ Pearce lied. Leila had fed him information about the address on the drive over. ‘It’s a courier firm. They rent kitchens to take-out businesses who want to pool costs and Meals Seattle handles all the ordering and delivery.’

  Pearce tried not to appear too well informed. Leila had told him there were four take-out businesses in the warehouse and all of them looked legitimate. They might have had no idea they were being used to mask a dope-dealing operation. It was a masterful cover. Couriers could move around the city freely with very little risk of a cop pulling them over. And if one did, would they see beyond the food in the heat box on the tail of the bike? If a cop found boxes of kung pao chicken or pizza, why would he or she ever think there might be opiates hidden elsewhere?

  ‘We’ve been looking for this place for a long time,’ Rasul said. ‘We could never figure out where they were running their operation from. No wonder we couldn’t find it. I’m standing here, and you’ve explained what it is, but I still don’t understand it.’

  ‘It’s an Internet business,’ Pearce responded.

  ‘Oh well,’ Rasul said mockingly, ‘that makes everything clear.’

  The warehouse was about the size of a football pitch and was situated at the very end of Fontanelle Street, by the west bank of Duwamish Waterway, a wide, dirty river that served the huge industrial district which stretched south of the port. The air reeked of greasy diesel and hard work, and the surrounding buildings looked like the kind of run-down places that always paid their invoices late. The Meals Seattle warehouse had been freshly painted and looked positively polished compared to its rust-covered neighbours. Pearce could hear the grinding sound of industrial machinery at work in the distance, and the rumble of a cargo tug easing its way downstream.

  ‘Let’s get the others,’ Rasul said, nodding in the direction of the motorcade, which was parked around the corner.

  ‘We can’t just rush the place,’ Pearce replied.

  There were two uniformed guards in a gatehouse, an unknown number of innocent employees, and whatever force the East Hill Mob had stationed in the place to guard the product. Assuming Otter had been telling the truth. He might have been lying, in which case they’d storm a blameless business. Pearce counted thirty-five vehicles in the car park, which meant there could be anywhere between thirty-five and 165 people inside. Three couriers on small motorbikes had left through the high gates and sped off to make deliveries. So far, they’d only seen one inbound.

  ‘What rush?’ Rasul scoffed. ‘We’ve already been standing here too long. Now we’re just going to go in and get our stuff.’

  They’d been watching the warehouse from a wharf about half a block away. Standing by some containers that were piled up at the water’s edge, they had a clear view of the building and its surroundings without being too visible themselves.

  ‘We have no idea what we’re up against,’ Pearce remarked. ‘Let me at least get some information.’

  ‘This guy’s a hothead,’ Leila observed quietly. She was still picking up everything that happened through the surveillance glasses.

  Rasul considered Pearce’s request, and then nodded. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘You have five minutes. The time it takes me to get my men.’

  Pearce wondered whether he was being treated to an extra dose of bravado or if Rasul was always this reckless and cocksure. He shook his head and started towards the gatehouse. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Rasul head west, round the corner towards the convoy of SUVs.

  Pearce’s mind raced as he tried to think of a way to get inside the warehouse. The pressure of time meant subtlety was out of the question. He’d have to try a more direct approach.

  One of the guards stepped out; a grey-haired man with the squashed nose and hard-bitten face of a journeyman boxer.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m here to see your boss,’ Pearce replied. ‘I’ve got a message for him from Deni Salamov.’

  The journeyman instantly tensed and looked over Pearce’s shoulder for any sign of trouble, but apart from a brown van and a couple of old cars, the street was empty. The guard’s colleague was leaning out of the gatehouse and the two uniformed men exchanged concerned glances.

  ‘Don’t recognize the name, friend,’ the journeyman said.

  ‘Really? I’m pretty sure Reznor will,’ Pearce said, using the name Otter had given him. According to the wounded dealer, Reznor ran this location for the East Hill Mob.

  The journeyman nodded and started towards the gates, which his colleague opened. ‘You’d better come with me.’

  Chapter 63

  Pearce was taken beyond the fence, into the car park that lay in front of the warehouse. The place had clearly been modified for the rapid deployment of food orders. A dozen motorbike bays were located by the entrance. Only two were occupied. The journeyman led Pearce inside a small lobby. One wall opened onto the warehouse and was lined with catering shelves and heat lamps. Above each shelf was a small screen that displayed order details. The room looked like the service area of a giant fast food restaurant, but without the hubbub and activity. Two motorcyclists leaned over a counter and chatted to a supervisor, who nodded at the journeyman as he took Pearce through a security door.

  They stepped into a vast space that had been divided into six kitchens. Four were branded for different food businesses – Hank’s Pizzeria, Hop Sing Cantonese Food, Buffalo Burgers and Ruth’s Deli – and two stood empty. The four occupied kitchens were staffed by two or three people who were busy preparing for the lunchtime rush. There were common areas all around them – stainless steel fridges and freezers and huge shelving units that were piled high with ingredients and culinary equipment. No one paid Pearce and the journeyman any mind as they passed through the warehouse.

  Pearce’s guide punched a code into a keypad and opened another security door. The changed atmosphere was noticeable the moment Pearce stepped into the short corridor that lay beyond, primarily because a scruffy man in a tracksuit sat on a stool at the other end. There was a reinforced metal door beside him.

  ‘Problem?’ the scruffy man asked.

  ‘He wants to see Reznor,’ Journeyman replied. ‘Says he’s got a message from Salamov.’

  ‘You search him?’ the scr
uffy man asked.

  Pearce reached behind his back very slowly and produced his pistol, holding it between his forefinger and thumb to show he meant no harm.

  Scruffy rolled his eyes at the guard.

  ‘Sorry, I—’ Journeyman said.

  ‘That’s why you’re out there and I’m in here,’ Scruffy cut in testily. ‘Go on. Get lost. I’ll take him.’

  Humbled, Journeyman went back the way they’d come. Scruffy took Pearce’s gun.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, punching another code into the pad beside the door.

  Pearce followed him into an open-plan office. At least that’s what it might once have been. Now it was little more than a gangster’s club house. A group of men gathered round a pool table and watched one of their number attempt to make a trick shot. There was a great deal of catcalling and jeering. A handful of others traded insults over a game of cards. Away from the main space were three individual offices, separated by glass partitions. Two were empty, but Pearce saw a man in the one in the middle. He was seated on a sofa and was watching Heath Ledger hamming it up as a nurse before he blew up a hospital.

  Scruffy led Pearce over and knocked on the open door. ‘Rez, this guy says he’s got a message from Salamov.’

  Reznor paused the film and faced Pearce. He had the hungry eyes of a hustler and the strained, gaunt face of someone who lost a nightly battle with his worries. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, but was barefoot. His socks had been tossed beside his boots.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, as Scruffy took a step back.

  ‘A couple of days ago someone stole a shipment that belongs to the Salamovs,’ Pearce said. ‘They want it back.’

  Reznor rubbed his stubble. ‘What makes you think I know anything about that?’

  ‘Your dealers are shifting smack,’ Pearce replied. ‘Your normal business is synthetics.’