Right-Hand Man had something to say. “Lots of pointless, polite thank-you about the money,” Zhao, knowing how relatively impatient Americans could be, skipped to the good stuff. “But . . . here it comes, the sort of distraction being asked for will cause a significant disruption in the city. Disruptions are bad for business and very costly to Mr. Du’s organization.”
“That’s half up front. The other half on the seventeenth, delivered once your diversion starts.” Sullivan waited for Zhao to catch up. “The diversion doesn’t start, we walk away and you don’t get paid.”
Right-Hand Man must have been the nuts-and-bolts guy of the operation. “And if this disruption spreads, there will be chaos. What happens if the rebels see it as an opportunity to strike against the occupiers? Shanghai could be in pandemonium for many days. Many days when nobody bets on the horses! If it is as bad as what happened in thirty-one, then the Japanese Navy could even shell the city again. If it is bad enough to get in the western newspapers, then the tourists will not come for the whores and opium anymore.”
Mobsters were all the same. Du wouldn’t have agreed to the meeting if he already didn’t have an angle on how their request benefited him. “And if it does get that bad, then I’m sure somebody as smart as Mr. Du will be able to come up with a list of things he’d love to accomplish while the police and army were too busy to watch him.” Lance said. “In fact, I’m sure many of his rivals might even have unfortunate accidents during a time of turmoil like that. And, of course, anything bad that happens was all the fault of some magical extremists.”
Du spoke for a time, forcefully and earnestly. Zhao snapped back a response without bothering to translate. Lance looked to Zhao, questioningly. Zhao sighed. “He said that his mother insists he get me a real job now that I am an orphan. I politely refused.”
It hadn’t sounded particularly polite. “Tell Du that family is very important to us as well, and once things are in motion, I’ll see to it that you, and anyone else he gives a damn about, has a ticket out of town and a good job in America waiting for them,” Lance said. “Tell Mr. Du that the Chairman killed my entire family, so I understand how Imperium retribution works. I’ll get your people out. It’s the least I can do.”
Zhao didn’t like it, but Sullivan’s gut instinct told him the kid translated it truthfully.
Du grinned, and it was an evil grin, not helped by the fact that his ears really were far too big for his narrow face, so he reminded Sullivan of a bat. “He says he has no love for the Chairman, may his unspeakable foulness rot in hell, and wishes you great success in your endeavors. The Chairman is bad for business and he is tired of the Japanese bossing everyone around and kidnapping his best-looking girls to be their pleasure women. Of course, he’s saying this with an inflection that suggests he expects we will fail miserably and die. He says that he has helped the Grimnoir before, and it is always a fair relationship. Of everyone he has worked with, at least we know how to keep a secret.”
Chapter 13
Toughest picture? I love making pictures but I don’t like talking about them. The toughest picture I ever filmed had to be Ice Patrol. Everyone knew the Captain Johnny Freeze radio program and it was John Wayne’s first big budget project. Two million bucks on the line, but everybody knows Iceboxes are big, strapping tough guys. Lots of frostbite on that set. Actives are controversial right now. The League picketed the studio, but the public sure loved John Wayne freezing Apaches. Got me more awards, not that those matter. Important thing is it paid the bills.
—John Ford, Radio Interview, 1933
Free City of Shanghai
Yao Xiang was sitting at his regular table at his favorite outdoor restaurant, enjoying his tea, passing the lovely afternoon watching the people of Shanghai go about their business, when a terrifying specter from his distant past and his current nightmares walked up and ruined his life all over again.
“Good afternoon,” the Iron Guard said in a completely nonchalant manner. “Do you mind if I join you?” It was not a request. Xiang’s throat was suddenly too dry to respond. The Iron Guard sat down across from him anyway.
The two men looked at each other for a time. Xiang tried not to let his terror show. The Iron Guard showed no emotion whatsoever. Xiang set his cup down. His hands were trembling so badly that the porcelain made quite a bit of rattling noise against the table before he was able to unclench his fingers to let it go. The Iron Guard was young, probably around the age Xiang’s sons would have been if any of them had survived the invasion. However, that relative youth was meaningless. The Iron Guard existed only as tools of war and conquest, and Xiang had personally witnessed the unspeakable violence this particular one was capable of.
“It has been a long time, Xiang.”
“You remember my name, much as I remember yours.” He let out a long sigh. “Have you come to finish me off, Iron Guard Toru?”
“I am no longer an Iron Guard.”
Toru was not wearing a uniform, but that did not mean anything. The Iron Guard often would dress in normal clothing in order to better blend in amongst their victims and targets. Today, Toru was dressed in a western suit coat, as was the current fashion among many of the younger Nipponese working in Shanghai. If one did not know better, they would never guess that beneath such ordinary garb was a series of magical brands that turned the bearer into a living weapon. “Please have mercy, Iron Guard.”
“My Mandarin must be out of practice. Do not call me Iron Guard. I have given up that title.”
The fear made it difficult to speak. “Yes. Of course.”
The proprietor was an old woman. She came over to see if Toru needed anything. Xiang knew that she, too, had been a refugee from the war in Manchuko, yet she was completely unaware that she was politely taking the order of one of the monsters who had ruthlessly slaughtered her relatives. Toru asked for tea.
When she was gone, Toru went back to looking at the street. Several minutes passed in silence, but Xiang did not dare to speak. Toru seemed lost in thought, watching the people come and go for a time. It gave Xiang plenty of time to contemplate all of the terrible ways that the Iron Guard would probably murder him.
“Tell me, Xiang. Are you still employed as a journalist?”
Xiang nodded. “I am the editor of the district newspaper . . . Is that what this is about? I print nothing that would offend the Imperium! I do not know what you have been told, but the censors have approved everything—”
Toru lifted one hand to silence him. The proprietor brought Toru’s drink. “Thank you.” She bowed and shuffled off. “I did not seek you out, Xiang. This was merely a fortunate coincidence.”
“I do not understand, Iron—” Xiang quickly lowered his head. “Forgive me. I do not understand what you mean.”
Toru nodded across the busy street. “I have been informed that unassuming building right over there is an office of the Tokubetsu Koto Keisatsu. I have come here to deliver a message to them.” Xiang looked at the indicated building, which was a rather bland office. He had no idea, but it would not surprise him. The secret police were everywhere. “I did not expect to see an old acquaintance. However, I should not say this was a fortunate coincidence . . .”
Xiang nodded. He would never dream of using the word fortunate.
Toru sipped the tea. “That is excellent.”
“Indeed. Yes it is,” Xiang agreed. Hopefully, if Toru was in a good mood, he would kill him quickly and not have him tortured or humiliated first.
“Yes. This is a sign.” The Iron Guard, for Xiang could never believe in such a thing as a former Iron Guard, stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Nothing happens by accident. It would appear that the ghost of my father has once again guided my path. As I said, I am here to deliver a message. You are a reporter.”
“I am an editor.”
“I do not care. Just as it has moved me, fate has placed you here for a reason. You will report what you see so that my message may be made clear. This is another sig
n from my father. I will tell you a story, and you will see that it is published.” Toru looked at him expectantly.
“What?”
“You should take notes. You will need to get this right.”
Zhao had only led them part of the way back down the smuggler’s tunnel when Lance spoke up. “Oh damn. Damn it all to hell.” He sounded distracted, which told Sullivan that part of his mind was occupied inside some other living thing.
The group froze. “What’ve you got?”
“You want the good news or the bad news first?”
“Good news, I suppose.”
“Our big-eared gangster friend didn’t sell us out.”
Zhao seemed upbeat for once. “I hoped my cousin would keep his word.”
Heinrich laughed. “And now, of course, the bad.”
“One of his underlings sold us out. Du and his boys left in a convoy of trucks. They’re still counting money and having a good time, but one of those serving girls of his walked down the street from the warehouse and started talking to a policeman. I don’t speak the lingo. Way she’s standing there listening, she’s not a snitch or getting a bribe, she’s one of them, undercover. Now the policeman’s talking into a radio. Wish I spoke Chinese . . .”
“Don’t need to.” Even though the floor was damp and slick, Sullivan took a knee. It was easier on his back than standing all hunched over. He looked over to Zhao, who was thoughtful enough to keep the hand torch pointed down the other way so as to not blind everybody. “They’ll be waiting for us.” Sullivan pulled the Webley from inside his coat. They had passed several forks in the smuggler’s tunnels. “You got another way out?”
“Yes. There are many places to exit in the ruined quarter.”
“Got a rat following the girl. She’s gone back into the warehouse with a bunch of those secret police. There’s a diesel engine . . .”
“What does it do?” Heinrich prompted.
“Hard to get an angle from the floor . . . Wait, it’s a water pump. She’s killed it. Now she’s trying to turn a big valve on the floor.”
“She’s flooding the tunnels,” Heinrich snapped.
“They’re not rolling us up.” Sullivan put the Webley back. “They’re flooding us out.”
“The whole system fills very quickly,” Zhao said. “We will be taking the closest exit. Hurry.”
The knights set out. Lance was all distracted trying to steer more than one body with only one brain, so Heinrich grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him along. Sullivan brought up the rear, mostly because he was too damned big to go fast all hunched over, but it beat crawling. He’d done enough of that in France.
“That valve’s heavy. She’s having to fight it. I’ll distract her . . . Okay, lady. Say hello to my little friend.” Lance began to laugh maniacally.
“What’d you do?” Heinrich asked.
“Had a rat crawl up her dress to bite her on the ass. Ha!” Then Lance grimaced, stumbled, and crashed into the wall. He fell on his face, moaning.
Heinrich dragged him up. Their Beastie had been floored, sure as a punch to the head. “You okay?”
“Getting stepped on always hurts.” Lance was rubbing his temples. “Yeah . . . But we’ve got problems. She had more secret police with her. The valve was rusted stuck, but they’re working on it.”
“How much further, Zhao?” Sullivan asked.
“A few minutes.”
“Keep them busy, Lance. I don’t feel like drowning.”
“Looking . . . I’ve got to collect my Power . . . Here we go, there’s like two hundred rats in this warehouse . . . Can’t control that many individuals . . . Hell. They’ve unstuck the valve. I can only provoke a couple of strong emotions in that many minds.” He closed his eyes and concentrated hard. “I’m going with rage and uncontrollable hunger.”
Sullivan didn’t know if Lance was really going to sic a swarm of giant, vicious wharf rats on the secret police, but he was fresh out of pity. “Do it.”
“Already on the way.” Lance struggled to his feet. “Too late. The floodgate’s open.”
There was an odd sound in the distance, not quite like anything Sullivan had heard before. It sounded more like thunder than anything. The atmosphere in the tunnel changed as air was forced past them.
“We’re not going to make it in time!” Zhao shouted.
They only had a few seconds. “How close are we to the river?” Heinrich asked.
The flashlight beam bounced toward the right. “I don’t know. Maybe twenty feet.”
“Oh . . . That’s nasty . . .” Lance said through clenched teeth, his mind divided between here and the warehouse. “So much blood.”
Serves them right, Sullivan thought to himself, but that was just out of spite because they were about to drown. Drowning was preferable to being devoured by rats.
Heinrich still had Lance by the arm. He looked to Sullivan. “Hold your breath and hang on. I’ll come back for you.” Then Heinrich turned grey and hazy. A split second later Lance did as well, and then the two of them disappeared through the rock.
Sulivan looked around. There was nothing to hold on to. The rumble had grown into a much bigger noise, like they were about to be hit by a train. Sullivan flexed his Power, using it to see the world as it really was, interconnected bits of matter under constant forces, and he could feel the incredible spike of energy heading their way. He instinctively did the math. His Power would be sufficient to anchor himself in place, and then all he’d have to do is hold his breath until Heinrich got back.
Then he looked to Zhao, who was staring at him in wide-eyed terror. Aw hell. Every time Sullivan had ever forced a significant increase of gravitational power onto somebody else, it had either severely injured or outright killed them. His body was trained to deal with it. Sullivan was a Gravity Spiker. Everybody else was fragile in comparison. Zhao would either be swept away to be battered to death or drowned, or Sullivan could anchor him in place, but if he screwed up even the slightest bit, half of the kid’s internal organs would rupture under the pressure. If the water was solid, he might be able to slow it, but fluids worked differently under gravity. They’d still rush past him and get the kid anyway. Fluids were complicated.
“Get behind me,” Zhao shouted.
It was usually Sullivan that said that to others in crisis situations. He was not used to hearing it from somebody else. Zhao roughly pushed past Sullivan, toward the onrushing wall of water. The kid dropped the flashlight on the floor, extended his hands, palms open, and squinted into the darkness. He began muttering in Chinese in what Sullivan could only guess was either a desperate prayer or angry profanity. It really could have gone either way.
The surge of magical energy could be felt even before the sudden drop in temperature. Sullivan had one hand against the slick, wet wall, but he snatched it away, as the stone froze so quickly that it burned his flesh. He even left some skin behind. Ice crystals formed and spread, and within seconds, the tunnel was covered in gleaming white. The dirty ice reflected and bounced the flashlight beam. The cold hit Sullivan like a hammer and his breath shot out in a burst of steam.
Zhao shouted something, but Sullivan’s ears were too cold to hear it. Either that or the blast of air pushing ahead of the water took all the sounds with it. Then somehow it got even colder. The storm at the North Pole was a summertime walk in the park in comparison. Sullivan’s exposed skin felt like it was on fire. His eyes didn’t want to move in their sockets. His teeth felt like they were about to shatter, and the worst part of all was that Sullivan was on the warm side of the tunnel. He was only catching the aftereffects radiating off of Zhao’s body. The real force of his magic was being directed the opposite way. The kid was using so much Power, so fast, that it was liable to kill him. The cold ate the batteries in their flashlight, plunging the tunnel into darkness.
When using their magic, Spikers could see gravity, because everything was just matter and force after all. The whole universe was simply little bit
s, seen and unseen, constantly moving against each other and creating energy. In all of the many years since Sullivan had begun to truly understand the nature of his Power, he had never seen the world deprived of that energy, until that one brief moment in time, when he got to see Zhao suck every last bit of heat from that tunnel. Sullivan had never seen matter be so perfectly still before.
And then the water was on them.
It roared down the tunnel, ready to smash them flat, but then the angry water molecules hit the impenetrable cold, and then it was energy bleeding into the complete absence of it. The top layer turned to ice and the layer behind it turned to slush, but still behind that was a million gallons of pushing death, and Zhao pushed back even harder. Thicker and thicker, the wall turned into a plug of ice with the density of a prehistoric glacier, but it still kept on coming. Releasing that much magic at once threatened to tear the kid apart, but he kept it up. The ice thickened, hardened, cracked, exploded, and reformed, slowing, but still driving onward.
So now they were about to get steam rolled by a giant ice cube.
All of his Power exhausted, Zhao collapsed. The temperature immediately began to rise as molecules began moving again. Sullivan tried to lift a foot and realized that his boots had been stuck to the floor, so he pulled harder until his soles cracked free. He was so cold he could barely think, but ice was solid. Sullivan understood solid.
Lumbering down the tunnel, he stepped over the fallen kid, gathered up all of his considerable Power, magnified his density, lowered one shoulder, and absolutely chained himself to the center of the Earth. The ice flow was moving about as fast as a truck on the highway, and it hit him equally hard.
Warbound: Book Three of the Grimnoir Chronicles Page 25
