by Andrea Kane
“No. Your mother’s smart. She’s using the fact that she’s in too much pain and too woozy from the meds to provide a coherent story. So no cops are involved yet.”
“God bless Mom. She’s buying us time.” Sloane felt a wave of relief. “Let’s put it to good use. First, hang up the phone. We don’t want to make Williams suspicious. I should be there in a half hour. Then we can deal with one crisis at a time.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Xiao Long had gotten involved with the triads when he was ten. He’d done two-bit jobs and worked his way up to debt collector and muscle for local brothels and gambling parlors. But he’d spent his entire youth working to get in favor with the Liu Jian Triad and its Dragon Head, Liu Jianyu, or as he was known to the world, Johnny Liu.
The first time Xiao had laid eyes on Liu, Xiao had been eleven, and Liu had been getting out of a huge, expensive car. Flanked by bodyguards, Liu had walked into a business meeting, carrying himself with an air of authority and cold-blooded ruthlessness that resonated inside Xiao. It was as if he were Liu, or, at the very least, Liu in the making.
From that moment on, Liu became Xiao’s icon, the inspiration for all he wanted to do and to be. And nothing would stop him from getting there.
The obstacles would be many. Xiao hadn’t been born into the triad leader’s world. He was a poor, street-smart kid from Fujian. The only dialect he spoke was the poorly regarded Fukienese. Liu hailed from Guangdong, as did his other triad members. Cantonese was the dialect spoken there, as it was in most cosmopolitan regions. So by the time Xiao was twelve, he’d made it his business to learn Cantonese.
He hadn’t stopped at that.
Liu was from the village of Loong Doo, which was very close to Macao and just a quick hop from Hong Kong. The Loong Doo were a tight, impenetrable clan, whose loyalties extended first and foremost to one another. They were also resourceful, enterprising, and stubborn. Most of all, they were risk-takers who aspired to raise their social status and took the necessary chances to ensure that it happened. Their dialect was unique to them. It gave them pleasure to speak it to one another so that other Cantonese couldn’t understand them. Conversely, they themselves spoke other dialects of Cantonese and Mandarin so that they could converse with non–Loong Doo Chinese.
Xiao Long’s next order of business had been to learn the Loong Doo dialect. And he’d done so in record time.
How fitting that Loong Doo translated into “Dragon Society.” The Dragon Head of the Liu Jian Triad was a great leader who’d established himself in society. Xiao had dug deep for every shred of background information he could find on Johnny Liu. He knew what Liu was, as well as what he appeared to be. And he knew it took a unique and brilliant mind to walk such a difficult tightrope.
To the Chinese people, Liu was regarded as a wealthy entrepreneur. Also as a philanthropist, who contributed many great works of art—pieces that had deep cultural significance—to China’s museums, as well as donating large sums of money to hospitals and charities.
Those who suspected Liu of being involved in criminal enterprise were more than happy to turn a blind eye to it. And the law enforcement community had no concrete evidence of wrongdoing, so they were more than relieved to stay away.
Of course, on that score, Liu had had some help over the years. He’d been of great use to the leaders in Beijing during the Communist takeover of Hong Kong from the British in the early nineties. Thanks to the information Liu provided, prodemocracy activists disappeared. As a reward, Liu was afforded power and protection. In addition, he had a strong ally in Sergeant David Keong of the Hong Kong Police Department, also a Loong Doo. Keong was a personal friend of Liu’s—and a well-rewarded one. He aided Liu in many ways—from keeping the transport of packages from Europe and the States under the radar, to ensuring that visitors like Xiao Long bypassed customs when getting in and out of the country. He served as a good, loyal associate to the triad, as well as to Johnny Liu.
Xiao was single-mindedly determined to become an indispensable part of Liu’s world.
Perseverance, ambition, and results paid off. Xiao popped onto Liu’s radar. Repeatedly, the Dragon Head heard the name of this smart kid from the Fujian province who’d beaten the odds and busted his ass to make something of himself. So he’d sent for Xiao—one of the most treasured, honored days of Xiao’s life—and offered him a place in the Liu Jian Triad. Xiao would start small—smuggling twenty units of heroin from the Fujian province—and, based upon his loyalty and success, work his way up, handling bigger and bigger drug deals.
Xiao had followed the rules and exceeded expectations. But he was looking for a more impressive opening—one that would propel him into Liu’s inner circle.
He’d found it.
Xiao’s golden opportunity had presented itself in the most ironic of ways. His older brother, a small-time drug dealer, had been stupid enough to try spreading his wings by interfering with Liu’s alien smuggling operation. He’d stolen one of his boats, with a cargo of over two hundred women, paid off the captain, and killed two of the crew members. Worse, one of those crew members turned out to be a cousin of Johnny Liu’s.
Xiao had acted instantly, sans guilt or remorse. Killing came easy to him. It always had. Nothing gave him a greater sense of power than that of ending a life. And blood ties? They meant nothing. His family was the Liu Jian Triad.
With a surge of adrenaline fueled by that sense of power, Xiao butchered his brother and took photographs of the results. He then sliced off one of his brother’s fingers—the one bearing the jade ring with their family insignia on it—and placed the cleanly severed finger and a photo of his brother’s mutilated remains in a beautifully carved, ornately painted wooden box. He presented the box to Johnny Liu as a gift, as proof of the victim’s identity, and as a token of his own loyalty.
Liu had been impressed. The gesture was unprecedented. Xiao had chosen his new family over his flesh and blood. His actions spoke volumes about who and what he was. Armed with guts, smarts, and unshakable drive, and unhindered by human emotion, he had his eye on a powerful future with the triad.
His reward from Liu had been fitting. The Dragon Head had significantly elevated his position and status. And the seeds of personal trust were planted.
Their relationship grew over the next four or five years, and by the time Xiao was in his midtwenties, he and Liu had forged a special bond. Xiao called him A Sook, or “Uncle,” and Liu afforded him a special place by his side, together with a level of trust that surpassed anything he offered to any other triad member.
The clincher came when Xiao Long presented him with the beautiful painting that Liu coveted—Rothberg’s Dead or Alive—along with the $375,000 American dollars that Liu had funded that crooked art dealer, Cai Wen, to pay for it, plus the $25,000 Xiao had brought with him, courtesy of Liu, as Cai Wen’s commission for completing the transaction. The stupid dealer had tried to swindle the wrong man when he told Xiao that he was upping his commission on the valuable painting to $100,000. Xiao Long had killed him on the spot, taken back the entire $400,000 and the painting, and left without a backward glance.
He’d gone straight to the Dragon Head and gifted him with both the painting and the money. It was a meaningful gesture—the painting Johnny Liu had desired, and a large sum of cash that could have elevated Xiao Long’s lifestyle tremendously had he kept it. But he hadn’t.
Years of sacrifice, culminating with this latest demonstration of consummate loyalty, was more than enough. Xiao Long’s future was sealed.
A month later, the opportunity had arisen for the Hong Kong–based triad to gain a foothold in the United States. Johnny Liu offered Xiao the chance of a lifetime: to go to New York, spearhead the operation, and begin expanding the triad’s wealth in America.
It was the beginning of Xiao’s rise to power. He’d bowed at the Dragon Head’s feet, accepting instantly and vowing to make Liu proud.
With the triad’s backing, Xiao had easily start
ed his gang in New York City’s Chinatown. The Red Dragons, he’d called it, in honor of his Dragon Head. Becoming its respected Dai Lo, or “Elder Brother,” was just as easy. There were street kids everywhere who were hungry for cash and even hungrier for the “family” a gang afforded. Xiao Long had capitalized on that, and the Red Dragons had flourished, surviving gang wars, police raids, and the occasional defector or informant. Over the past thirteen years, Xiao’s gambling, drug, and prostitution businesses had produced a cash flow that more than met the Dragon Head’s expectations.
This year they’d expanded into home burglaries, scoping out affluent Manhattan apartments through data provided by Xiao’s nephew, Eric Hu, and his computer services company. From that point, the Red Dragon kids took over, bypassing uniformed doormen and deactivating burglar alarms by inputting security codes stolen through the use of Hu’s hidden video cameras. The break-ins occurred at the times Hu suggested, and the kids went straight to the valuable items whose locations Hu had provided. All the stolen items were fenced, except for the valuable paintings and art pieces that Xiao shipped off to Hong Kong via the Philippine province of Cebu.
Xiao knew that Johnny Liu had a broader plan in mind. He knew Liu meant for him to play an integral part in what came next.
It was the accelerating timetable that concerned him. He had an ominous feeling as to its cause.
A limousine was waiting for him when he arrived at Hong Kong International Airport. From there, he was driven to Johnny Liu’s hilltop estate on the affluent Victoria Peak. He was greeted by a servant and escorted into the main garden, which was a veritable paradise filled with exquisite arrays of flowers and cascading fountains. At the garden’s center, where Liu was now seated, was a magnificent jade and marble shrine, built in honor of Liu’s daughter, Meili, who’d died almost three years ago, tragically at the young age of twenty-three.
Xiao Long knew better than most how her death had eaten away at Johnny Liu.
Slowly and respectfully, Xiao approached the shrine, stopping several yards away and waiting.
The Dragon Head beckoned him forward, gesturing for Xiao to join him. Xiao complied, ascending the steps to stand before his leader. He bowed deeply from the waist. “A Sook,” he murmured.
He then took a seat across from the Dragon Head. “Thank you for sending for me.” He automatically switched to Liu’s native Loong Doo dialect.
“You look well,” Liu responded in the same tongue. “Your trip was pleasant and without incident, I trust?”
Xiao Long nodded. Perhaps he looked well, but his Dragon Head didn’t. He looked gaunt, sickly. His complexion was sallow, and his cheeks were sunken. He’d aged a decade since Xiao had last seen him, just months ago.
Liu studied Xiao for a moment, as if reading his thoughts. “You’re concerned about me. We’ll address that later. I’m proud of you. Your success in New York is exceptional. The time has come to expand your efforts. Providing you with the details is one of the reasons I summoned you here. But first, I want to hear about Johnson. Where do things stand?”
The question came as no surprise. Xiao knew of his leader’s obsessive hatred for Wallace Johnson, and his only slightly less intense hatred for Johnson’s partners. What he didn’t know was when that hatred had begun or what had caused it.
Without pause, he provided the requisite answer. “Johnson continues to suffer—in all ways. As I reported, he was threatened before he spoke to the FBI, and beaten afterward. He still hasn’t recovered from the bodily pain. Financially, you have things in hand. Spiritually, he deteriorates daily. Our actions cause him profound agony. He sits alone in a dungeon of his own creation. His paintings are his only companions. His anguish is acute.”
“What about his partners? Is Burbank’s wife dead?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Xiao replied frankly. “I just received a call from Jin Huang. He followed orders. He murdered Rosalyn Burbank’s bodyguard and disposed of his body. Then, he seized Burbank’s wife. She would be dead, but an unfortunate traffic incident prevented it. She escaped.”
Liu’s jaw tightened. “Rectify that. Personally.”
“You have my word.” Xiao was loath to disappoint his Dragon Head. Still, he couldn’t regret Rosalyn Burbank’s escape. The thought of personally killing her triggered a rush of anticipation.
“Continue,” Liu instructed.
“Of course.” Xiao got himself back on track. “Our arrangements to ruin Burbank are in place.”
“Acceptable. But, as we both know, no substitute. Burbank needs to suffer great personal loss—soon. Only then can he die. Let’s move on. Where do things stand with Martino?”
“The employment agency you had me acquire continues to service Martino’s clothing factory and to squeeze him dry. He’s approaching bankruptcy. And his guilt and liquor consume him, body and soul. He might take his own life before we get the chance to do it for him. If not, I’ll see to that personally, as well.”
“Good.” The Dragon Head nodded, somewhat appeased. “And the others?”
“Fox is still mourning his personal loss and ultimate rejection. Leary is drowning in debt, thanks to his addiction and his bookie. I can execute each of them whenever you choose, in whatever manner you see fit.”
“Soon,” Liu said. “And, again, by your hand, and your hand alone. That applies to all five men. I want them to endure brutal, agonizing deaths. Until then, escalate their suffering. Kill Burbank’s wife. Target his daughter. Push Martino over the edge. Bleed Leary dry. Prepare to make Fox’s loss an actual fatality. As for Johnson—no amount of torture is enough.” The Dragon Head’s tone was filled with such uncharacteristic venom that it caught Xiao Long off guard. Liu was a man who exhibited nothing but self-control.
The surprise must have registered on Xiao’s face, because his Dragon Head studied him again before he spoke. “It’s time you learned the truth about Meili’s death. There are rumors that she died by her own hand. I say Johnson killed her. He didn’t wield the knife. But he might as well have. Just as Burbank, Martino, Fox, and Leary might as well have twisted the blade in her heart.”
“They knew your daughter?”
“Indeed they did. Especially Johnson. He knew her far too well.”
This was not what Xiao Long had expected. “I thought that you and Johnson were business associates.”
“And so we were—and still are, in Johnson’s mind. But back then, our association was untarnished. He made many trips to Hong Kong for his investment firm. We had frequent business dealings. They were all honorable.”
“So he met Meili…”
“Not then,” Liu replied curtly. “Not until several years after she left home.”
Xiao was already situated in New York when Liu’s only child had run off. But he’d made the necessary arrangements to be instantly apprised about anything that affected his mentor. So he knew that Meili had left home. She’d been just seventeen at the time. And Liu had been crushed. So Xiao had respected his privacy and had asked no questions.
The answers were now being provided.
“She was so young and so headstrong,” Liu murmured. “A budding artist. I saw signs of great talent. I would have used all my resources to properly educate her and to open the doors to a thriving career. But Meili…” A heavy sigh. “She wanted no part of it. She was naive and free-spirited enough to believe she could make it on her own. So one night while I slept, she disappeared. She took nothing but two paintings. Both Rothbergs, including the one you took such great pains to acquire for me.”
“She sold them?”
“One at a time, yes. In order to eat and put a roof over her head. But she was swindled on each sale. As a result, she could barely scrape by. Her lifestyle…let’s say it became unacceptable. I demanded she return home. She refused. I had no choice but to sever ties with her. She’d defied me, stolen from me, and brought shame to our family.” A pause. “We didn’t see each other again—not until just before she died.”
Liu’s expression remained unchanged, as did his tone, but Xiao could sense the pain and anger beneath the surface.
“She came to me then, like a trampled flower,” the Dragon Head continued. “She’d been defiling herself with an older, married man. An American, who came to her whenever he was in China on business. The affair had been ongoing for over three years—ever since he and his partners tried pressuring her into selling them the second Rothberg for a price too absurd to mention. They saw how desperate she was. And they used that to their advantage.”
“They tried buying the painting,” Xiao echoed. “She refused?”
“Yes, but only because she got a slightly better offer—one that was still an insult. Worse, she sold both Rothbergs to competing triads.”
Xiao knew the severity of such a betrayal. But he wisely didn’t say anything about it. “And the American she was involved with?” He refrained from speaking Johnson’s name.
“According to Meili, he had become totally enchanted with her. He lavished her with spending money and jewels, and professions of love. That turned out to be a facade. He’d reduced my daughter to nothing but a common whore. One night, in what he considered to be a moment of levity, he revealed to her that his friend and partner, Ben Martino, had come up with the idea of a bet. All his partners—the same ones who’d tried swindling her—had participated.”
“What kind of bet?” Xiao Long was processing this onslaught of information as quickly as he could.
“The men placed wagers on how long it would take Johnson to bed my daughter.” A hard swallow. “Evidently, Meili still had a shred of dignity left. When she heard that her love affair was the result of a bet, she was shamed and angry. She ended the affair at once. That bastard Johnson didn’t even understand why. He would have continued their involvement indefinitely—a married man defiling my daughter, with no plans for a future with her. And all at the instigation of a bet. A bet made by thieves who’d steal from a desperate young woman who was clearly at the end of her rope.”
