Fate (Death Notice Book 2)

by Zhou HaoHui

  Pei raised his left hand, held it there for a moment, then lowered it slightly. Liu and another SPU officer sprinted forward and kicked repeatedly at the door as Pei slipped the card into the slot.

  The beep of the door lock was followed by the deafening crash of splintering wood. Pei, Liu, Huang and the five other officers swarmed inside, firearms drawn, and swept the room.

  But there was no target.

  The room was exactly as seen through the monitor of Computer 33. The boy was sitting bound and gagged on the queen-sized bed. His eyes were glassy, as if he was drugged.

  ‘Deyang!’ Huang shouted, his joy tempered with anxiety. He ran to the bed and swept his boy into his arms. ‘My son,’ he whispered as tears welled in his eyes.

  There was a desktop computer across from the bed. It was running a chat program and Ms Mu’s face was visible in the chat window. The seat in front of the computer, however, was empty.

  With lightning speed, the SPU officers searched the bathroom, wardrobe and even the space under the bed, but they came up empty-handed. SPU Captain Liu shot Captain Pei a defeated look.

  TSO Zeng arrived. He briefly scanned the room, then shook his head in disappointment. ‘Looks like we’re still one step behind,’ he said.

  Pei’s phone vibrated. It was Lieutenant Yin. ‘Eumenides has terminated his call with Ms Mu,’ the officer exclaimed. ‘He might be on the move.’

  Pei made a concerted effort to contain the anger raging inside him. ‘I know that,’ he barked. ‘We’re inside the room now. Huang’s son is here, but Eumenides is not. Why the hell didn’t you alert us earlier?’

  ‘But… but he ended the conversation barely ten seconds ago,’ Yin said.

  ‘What?’ Pei glanced at the computer again. The chat window was still open. It was almost as if Ms Mu had carried on talking to Eumenides after they’d entered the room.

  ‘I called as soon as the audio cut off on Ms Mu’s computer. He must have torn off his headset and bolted – he didn’t even close the call.’

  ‘I’ll phone you back in a minute.’ Pei approached the desk, his heart sinking further with every step. ‘He’s gone. And has been gone for a while,’ he said to the others.

  There was a mobile phone on the desk, resting against a pair of headphones. Pei pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves and picked it up. He scrolled through its recent call log. The last call had ended a minute earlier and had been fifty-two minutes long.

  ‘Eumenides hasn’t been in this room for some time,’ he said, showing the call log to the others. ‘Not for the last hour or so. He’s been using this phone to talk to us and he only hung up when he heard us kick the door open.’

  ‘An hour ago?’ Huang said as he untied the restraints around his son’s arms and legs. ‘You mean he left after his conversation with me?’

  Pei nodded.

  TSO Zeng slumped down disconsolately in the corner of the room. A wild adrenaline buzz had powered him from the café to each of the nodes along the trail, but now he was spent. ‘If he’d already escaped, why bother pretending to talk to us? What was his goal?’

  ‘The same as ours,’ SPU Captain Liu said. ‘To buy time. And we’ve given him plenty. Enough to get to the marksman perhaps?’

  ‘To Yang Lin? Is he safe?’ Pei asked.

  ‘I gave him a very thorough briefing and he’s being watched by two of my best officers. I’d say Yang’s more than ready.’ Liu pulled out his phone. ‘I’ll update him.’

  ‘I have a bad feeling about this,’ Pei said. ‘Can you bring up any information about the program he was monitoring?’ he asked TSO Zeng.

  Zeng turned on his laptop and got to work. ‘I’ve got it,’ he soon said. ‘The entire polygraph chart.’

  Pei leant down to scrutinise the screen. ‘Eumenides showed Huang the photos of every SPU officer employed by the city eighteen years ago. He made him go through them one by one. He must have still been in this room when he did that. I want you to find the pictures that he opened at these precise times.’ He pointed to several peaks in the polygraph data. Each uptick was marked with a time stamp.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Zeng opened a folder of images and began checking the times that they had last been opened.

  One of them caught Pei’s attention. ‘Stop!’ he said. ‘Huang, come here.’ He singled out a picture of a thin man with strikingly radiant eyes. ‘Is that him?’ he asked. ‘Is he the marksman?’

  ‘Yes,’ Huang said, his mouth gaping in surprise. ‘But how did you know? Only the officers at that crime scene knew that.’

  ‘That’s not important,’ Pei said. ‘What’s important is that if I know, so does Eumenides.’

  ‘It’s the polygraph!’ blurted out TSO Zeng.

  ‘Precisely. Eumenides installed sensors in the headphones for that computer,’ Pei said grimly. ‘There’s no way you could have tricked him, Huang. Even if you had perfect control over your facial expressions, body language and tone of voice, the most miniscule fluctuations in your biometrics would have given you away.’

  Huang hung his head. ‘No wonder he was so adamant about the location for our conversation. It all makes sense now.’

  ‘He must have swapped the headphones for an identical set he’d prepared beforehand,’ Zeng said.

  Pei stabbed a finger at the image on the screen. ‘Get me this man’s information,’ he said to Zeng. ‘I want to know where he is right now.’

  7

  DEATH OF THE FATHER

  4:31 p.m.

  Chengdu shooting range

  Shooting instructor Zhong Jimin possessed a rare talent: he could discern a person’s shooting ability just from the way they carried themselves. As unbelievable as it sounded to most people, he had never been proven wrong.

  ‘A gifted marksman has much in common with a rifle,’ he liked to say. ‘He must be cold, unforgiving and powerful.’

  The shooting range’s newest customer, he thought, was a perfect example. Tall and well built, the man wore a shooter’s uniform and a cap over a pair of large sunglasses. Zhong’s eyes were glued to him as he approached. He emitted a forceful energy with every step – exactly the kind of shooter Zhong liked to train. A walking weapon.

  Their eyes met and Zhong shivered involuntarily. Despite the dark glasses, his gaze was chilly.

  The man turned and said something to one of the attendants. The young employee immediately ran over to Zhong. ‘That guy wants you to train him today,’ he said. ‘He asked specifically for you.’

  Zhong’s heart raced. He briefly wondered what the man was up to, but a customer was a customer… Without another thought, he got up from his desk and hurried over.

  The man stood motionless, his mouth set in a hard line.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ Zhong said.

  ‘Hello,’ the man replied. He sounded relatively young.

  ‘What kind of instruction do you need?’

  ‘I bought a voucher for ten clay pigeons. I’d like you to accompany me as I shoot.’

  ‘Certainly. The skeet shooting room is empty. Please follow me.’

  They went into the training room, which was the size of a small gym. The attendant brought Zhong a shotgun and ammunition, then left and shut the door behind him.

  The man glanced over one shoulder and then the other. He then began stretching his arms, wrists and fingers. This warm-up routine alone told Zhong that he was no beginner. Most people simply wanted to pick up a gun and start shooting.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Zhong asked, handing him the shotgun. ‘I’ve already loaded the first shells. Keep the barrel pointed downrange and towards the ground before you begin shooting. Do you need any guidance before your first shot?’

  The man handled the firearm with practised ease. His black gauze gloves gripped the stock and barrel, and his entire body seemed to meld with the gun. Zhong’s jaw hung loose. This man knew his way around a firearm better than most of the cops he’d worked with. What was he doing coming here for a simple round of target pract
ice?

  ‘Launch the target,’ the man said.

  Zhong pushed a button and a clay pigeon shot out from the launcher. The disc arched against the dark backdrop like a firefly twirling through the night sky. When it reached the apex of its trajectory, a deafening blast erupted from the barrel, and the target shattered in a puff of white smoke.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Zhong said in awe.

  Without turning his head, the man handed the shotgun back to him. ‘Load the next shell for me,’ he said softly. ‘And launch the next target.’

  Not much of a talker, Zhong thought.

  The man handled his gun like a living machine. He fired one shot after another, never once tearing his gaze from the range. Zhong couldn’t help but marvel at his results. He landed nine out of nine shots.

  One clay pigeon remained. Zhong launched it and waited for the burst of gunpowder to light up the backdrop. But the shot didn’t come. The man just stood there watching it arc and drop. He sighed and his posture relaxed.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Zhong asked in astonishment.

  The man finally looked over his shoulder. His eyes were dimly visible through his sunglasses and they locked onto Zhong’s. The two men watched one another for a moment.

  ‘This is my last shell,’ the man said softly.

  ‘That’s right. But you missed your chance to shoot it.’

  He gave a humourless smile. ‘I’m not really interested in clay-pigeon shooting, you know.’

  Zhong nodded understandingly. ‘We also have an outdoor hunting programme. Would you be interested in learning more about that?’

  ‘Shooting animals?’ The man shook his head. ‘A waste of ammunition.’

  Zhong wasn’t quite sure what the man meant by that. ‘Well, what would you be interested in?’

  The man rubbed his hand along the shotgun’s barrel. ‘There is one target that interests me. To a marksman, there’s no challenge quite like it. When you pull the trigger, you can sense their fear. Their desperation. They might even resist, which makes the hunt all the more exciting. Of course, the key thing is to find a reason to kill this target. But once the chase is on… what a beautiful shot.’

  Zhong stared warily at him.

  ‘Doesn’t that desire burn deep in the heart of every marksman? To pull the trigger on a living person?’

  Zhong stiffened. Forcing a smile, he said, ‘Please hand me the firearm, sir. You’ve reached the end of your session.’

  ‘It’s over already?’ He mirrored Zhong’s smile. ‘But don’t I still have one shell left?’

  ‘Please hand me the firearm, sir,’ Zhong said, his voice betraying his rising unease.

  The man turned to face Zhong full on. ‘Have you ever shot and killed anyone?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’ Zhong’s pulse was thumping now.

  ‘I would like to know two things. Why you killed them and how you felt afterwards.’

  The barrel of his gun was now pointing at Zhong’s stomach.

  Zhong decided to answer the man’s questions honestly. Partly because of the weapon threatening to rip a hole in his gut, but also because the man had made him lose face. ‘Yes, I have killed people. And every one of them was guilty in the eyes of the law. When I watched them drop to the ground, my overriding emotion was satisfaction at having accomplished my mission and justice having been served.’ He puffed out his chest. ‘When I was a marksman for the SPU, my job was to take out individuals who posed a serious threat to public safety.’

  The young man went silent for a few seconds. ‘Can you guarantee that everyone you killed deserved to die? That you never misused your deadly authority?’

  ‘Yes, I can. I’ve taken down kidnappers, crazed killers and dangerous fugitives. Every one of them deserved to die for their crimes.’

  The man became very still. ‘Do you remember, from eighteen years ago, a man named Wen Hongbing?’

  Zhong was so shocked to hear that name, he was rendered speechless. He paused and thought carefully about how to answer. ‘How do you know that name?’ he finally asked.

  ‘You used a pseudonym in the official police records. Was that because you were afraid that people would find out what you’d done?’

  Zhong shook his head.

  ‘But you sounded so proud just a moment ago when you were talking about all the people you’ve killed.’

  ‘That was different,’ Zhong said, trying to maintain his composure. He took a deep breath and decided to answer truthfully. ‘That man shouldn’t have died.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Our negotiators had already de-escalated the situation,’ Zhong said, his gaze wandering as he searched his memory.

  ‘But you still shot him. You shot and killed someone who didn’t deserve to die.’

  ‘I didn’t kill him,’ Zhong said impassively.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I didn’t kill him. Look, this information is classified. What’s your interest in it?’

  ‘If you didn’t kill him, who did?’

  Zhong stared at the shotgun in silence.

  ‘If someone else killed Wen Hongbing, why are you the one who was given an alias?’

  ‘Like I said, that information is classified.’ Zhong took another deep breath. ‘Please, sir, give me the gun.’

  The man took a step closer.

  Zhong stepped back. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he said, his voice quivering with panic.

  The young man jabbed the shotgun into Zhong’s stomach. ‘The real shooter wasn’t qualified to pull the trigger, was he? He wasn’t even a proper officer! If that fact had made it into the report, both the shooter and Captain Ding Ke would have been held responsible. Instead, Captain Ding told the team that you shot Wen Hongbing and gave you an alias in the official report. Captain Ding let the real killer off the hook and you never thought to question that?’

  Zhong was shocked. So many years had passed, he’d thought the case would stay buried forever. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Tell me the truth!’ the man roared. ‘Is that what happened?’

  ‘You already know the answer to that question.’

  The man shuddered as if he’d been stabbed. ‘But why?’ he muttered to himself, grinding his teeth.

  Zhong saw his chance. He stepped forward, reaching for the shotgun with his left hand and his adversary’s throat with his right.

  The man was a blur before his eyes. Zhong felt something shove his hands away and then an icy object was pressed against the side of his head, a sensation that was all too familiar.

  ‘Why did that trainee officer pull the trigger? Tell me!’ the man yelled, veins bulging. He rammed the gun harder against Zhong’s head, his face contorting in wild desperation. ‘Spit it out – I don’t have all day!’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Zhong’s heart was hammering like a piston. ‘I was just the marksman. I was watching everything from above. The suspect kept moving around the apartment, intentionally changing position so that I couldn’t zero in on him. A cop went in to negotiate. The captain reported that everything was going smoothly and I began to think it might be over. But a few seconds later there was a gunshot.’ His eyes were twitching now and his upper lip trembled. ‘The negotiating officer had killed the suspect. I didn’t see anything though. They were in a different area of the apartment when it happened.’

  ‘Why weren’t those details in the report?’

  Zhong took a deep breath. ‘It would have looked very bad if it came out that an untrained officer had shot and killed the suspect. So Captain Ding wanted to make it known that I’d shot the suspect, and then he was going to put a false name in the report. I resisted at first. But then he offered to promote me, to make me a sergeant. I got greedy and so I said yes. I took the blame. The report didn’t have my name in it, but everyone assumed it was me. I have no idea what happened inside the building that day. Only the shooter and the captain knew. Captain Ding didn’t tell me anything more than what I’ve told you.
He didn’t even let any of us into the apartment.’

  The man squinted in understanding. The captain had covered up the truth right under the other officers’ noses.

  ‘But how was Captain Ding able to cover up what had happened?’ the man asked, tightening his grip on the gun. ‘He was a cop, not a god.’

  ‘There was something very special about him. I don’t know how to explain it. All I can say is that his influence in the department back then was extraordinary.’

  The man was quiet for a moment. ‘Where is Captain Ding now?’

  ‘He vanished ten years ago. Some kind of self-imposed exile, I suppose.’

  The man snarled.

  ‘Don’t make any sudden moves, son. Let’s take this nice and easy,’ a voice said from nearby.

  Both men turned to see an overweight middle-aged man in a suit standing in the doorway. The shooting-range manager.

  The younger man took aim at him. ‘I’m not afraid to use this.’

  The manager’s eyes grew wider than the barrel of the gun and he quickly ducked outside again.

  Zhong saw his chance. He snatched at the gun, but it disappeared before he could get a decent grip on it. This bastard’s just too fast, he thought. It was his last thought before the stock cracked against his forehead.

  *

  The instructor slumped to the ground and the man with the gun ran to the door. It wasn’t fully shut, so he peeked through the crack. An ambush awaited him.

  The manager was flanked by five security guards to his left. He couldn’t see the other side, but he guessed there were just as many guards to the right as well. They had boxed him in.

  It was time to get out.

  He kicked the door open and aimed high with the shotgun. There was a deafening bang and the chandelier exploded in a shower of glass. The guards leapt aside to dodge the falling shards.

  Shooters from the pistol range began emerging from their booths, startled by the noise, and within seconds the place was swarming with panicked customers and staff. By the time the security guards were on their feet again, the man was gone.