Loch looked around and sized up the situation.
"Remind me not to say anything baaaad about your hair or make-up, okay?"
Let it go. For now.
"Yeah, Romeo here thought a few floors down would be the perfect place for a little break-time get together," she said. "He's a bit sleepy now."
"Ahhhhhl say he is," Loch replied, stepping into the car along with her.
Dalton followed next, silenced momentarily by the image of the young man on the floor. Loch continued, more seriously now, admiring her work as a fellow professional.
"What? Abuut an hour and a half you think, Ms. Sanchez?"
"Yeah, more or less," she estimated. "Maybe more. I hit him pretty hard."
Zeb floated the obvious next question, "Okayyyy. And now?"
Turning together, they both looked at Loch.
FORTY FOUR
Zhou Dhe's time in Qingdao was already showing itself to be remarkably fruitful. A mere forty-five minutes on the ground and he had established a strong new lead, fanning the cold, settled embers of the search for Junjie into full flame.
The unnamed young man had played the Judas, turning without much effort at all, brokering his silence for such a small fee. A pittance really, compared to what he had handed over. And in the end, all for a reward he would never get to enjoy anyway. So naïve. Why in the world would he presume Dhe to be a man of his word? Upon extracting the information the boy would be discarded. This fact should have been easily discerned. Tragically, the allure of easily attained lucre outweighed any sensible appraisal of the boy's plight. Only mournful pleas remained now and these were dismissed by the minister as carelessly as swatting away flies in the heat of a Beijing summer. None of this concerned him. If this young one believed in the pitiful fairytales of organized religion, then their great society was surely better off without such persons among them. The advance of their people allowed no time for such foolishness.
Zhou smirked as he recalled the unseemly end of Christianity's infamous traitor some two thousand years ago. It seemed fitting. Weakness, disloyalty; such frailties have no place, leave no legacy in this world.
A Judas—yes, they always materialize when needed.
These thoughts occupied the older man's thinking as he flew westward above the foothills of Central China, en route to what he hoped to be the resolution of this final problem, the last speed-bump in his plans for glory.
Nationally? Certainly. Personally? Undoubtedly.
Dhe let the voice in his head continue as if making a grand pronouncement, even though no one else was privy to it.
Junjie—ah, you thought you were clever, didn't you?
But of course you would go home, hiding, crying; shaking in fear of the fate awaiting you.
We'll soon meet again. And you will no longer cause me any trouble.
The minister turned his head to the right. A sweeping, panoramic view filled the floor to ceiling glass of the front and side casing of the Hughes 500D transport helicopter, one of four tasked to the Strategic Communications Ministry. Although the wider, more comfortable backseat would've been the expected choice for a man of his station, Dhe assumed the copilot seat instead. There would be no more miscues. He would take charge in every way possible, beginning with manning the forward cabin area on this part of the journey.
Two hours later they began a quick, uneven descent. The bird would carry him no farther, fuel efficiency and range each tapped out, taxed to the limit. If the aviator were still to hold any margin of error for the return tack, he could manage no further than this. Their landing zone approached quickly, a small patch of hard-packed dirt to the side of the road. Crosswinds in the open valley battered the small craft as it tried to settle its skid to the ground. Not quite in place yet, Dhe exited while rotors still spun wildly overhead, walking brusquely to the vehicle that would take him the rest of the way.
He was not pleased.
The Range Rover had come off the production line in 2012 but had not aged well. Caked with a heavy layer of mud, cemented across her entire lower side panels. Five major body compressions. Pockmarked sheet metal, front to rear. The grill, having been reset a few times, resulted in headlights focused at different angles down the roadway. The high-terrain SUV appeared at least a decade older than her mileage and years.
Maybe this was some poor rural cabbie, pulled over with car trouble?
No, this was his ride. The seriousness of the driver and the sight of his shoulder-slung CS/LS-5 automatic removed all doubt.
Dhe didn't try to hide his exasperation. He couldn't believe it.
Another three hours? In this contraption?
Comfort wasn't the issue. Respect—this was the issue. The sorry mode of transportation befit neither his status nor the critical nature of his mission.
Later, he told himself—later, someone would pay for this misstep. For now, it would have to do.
Zhou trusted no one, especially some driver-guard he was meeting for the first time in a distant province, so many hours from headquarters. Practically speaking, he needed someone to get the car to him, as the helicopter could only get him so close to Gansu. Not to mention that the chopper setting down in the middle of Junjie's village might cause a little more awareness of his arrival than he was looking for. Dhe loved grand entrances. This was not the moment for one. No, beyond this functional service of getting him the car, he would be in need of no more help. The guard protested as anticipated. The minister simply gave him no choice in the matter. Having the man alongside gained him nothing. Most importantly, glory might have to be shared, his satisfaction at eliminating Junjie diluted by the contributions of another. That would not happen. After all, how much more of a nuisance could this young engineer be? Dhe had dispatched men twenty times more dangerous than this Zang pest. No, this would be simple, quick, definitive. And then he would enjoy the fruits of his labors, the sense of accomplishment at having eliminated this threat for good.
By the time the Rover pulled over the last hilltop and descended into Junjie's village the sun was casting its winnowing rays over family fields of grain and rice, painting and framing the glowing horizon in subtle springtime hues. Drifting down the nearly abandoned main street, the car drew no unwarranted attention. Apparently, no one thought much of another beat up four-wheel-drive vehicle on these less-than-properly maintained roads. A few heads turned. No gaze lingered where it shouldn't. No alarms going off for the locals. Nothing to worry about.
Excellent. A fine start. And a good omen, in his opinion.
The Rover took the first right, off the main street. The directions to the safe house, obtained via the young Judas in Qingdao, proved wonderfully accurate. Dhe drove by Junjie's hiding place without looking or slowing. Just passing through. Only a few lights shone, scattered among the second story windows of apartments and businesses. No real signs of life or activity on the narrow, dusty street. Moving on.
Two blocks further and Dhe pulled the Rover onto a graveled path ending at the service bay of a seed and milling operation, trying to keep the dust trail at a minimum and the engine quieted. Even at this his tires rang out with a popping sound every few feet, loose rocks spinning out under the tension of wheels against ground. Looking for the right cover.
There.
A loading dock sat tucked back into the horseshoe shape of the building. It was the perfect place to leave the car. As a few other working-type vehicles populated the small back lot, the battered SUV would fit in just fine.
Stopped now, the minister turned off the engine and remained quiet, waiting for evening to fall over the deserted town space. And as he waited he contemplated the end of Junjie Zang with not a small degree of personal pleasure.
Ninety minutes passed.
The driver's side door opened, its indicator light covered by black tape and the fuse pulled from the door alarms circuit.
Dhe exited, pacing through the soft dirt and gravel of the old building's grounds and on toward his target. Pausi
ng at the street corner, he listened for any signs of activity along the row of weathered structures before proceeding.
Now.
Stepping out from the shadows, an unexpected bucket of water came crashing down into the paved gutter at his feet, released from a window above. Dhe retreated to the cover of darkness effortlessly. Resetting himself. Controlled breaths. Had anyone noticed?
No; no yelling, hurried footsteps, or curiously opened doors.
Dhe tried again. This time there were no surprises and he navigated the width of the street without incident.
The front yard of Junjie's hideout presented as a sad jungle of weeds, dying trees, and garbage floating in from the sidewalk. There would be no swift, silent incursion by this route. Instead Dhe walked around back of the dilapidated structure, looking for an entry point. There—at the northwestern corner of the home: a small space where the siding had torn away over time. He squeezed through, sliding between gaps in the wood framing. One more step, sideways.
In.
The former residence showed the marks of vagrancy as well as the cruelty of time and elements, sans caretaking. Small piles of garbage and debris dotted the old, scarred flooring. A maze of nails, linoleum shards, and wood chips. Every stealthy footfall became a challenge. And then a soft light, radiating from what used to be the kitchen, told Dhe what he already knew.
Zang.
Why are you not more careful than this, young man?
Dhe's excitement turned to a measured confusion, as with five more steps he came upon a scene he had not anticipated.
Strata 5.
Dhe stared incredulously at the initialization sequences booting up on the laptop's screen. The program's progress bar was almost fully lit in green.
Status: 85%.
The minister's weight shifted back onto his heels, taken aback by what he was seeing. Clearly, he had underestimated his foe. This worn down shack in the middle of nowhere was no pitiful hiding place for cornered prey. Nor was it an overly sentimental retreat to loved and familiar surroundings in the face of certain death. No, this was much, much more than that. This scene spoke of action, sabotage; the work of a rebel, a betrayer of his country and opponent of all Dhe had worked to gain for her.
Zang was not a coward. He was not cowering. Nor was he currently present amongst the surprising array of equipment in the small back room.
FORTY FIVE
Only two minutes prior, that most humbling of human needs had drawn Junjie away from his workstation.
The plumbing in the home had stopped working long ago, its drain lines to the street corroded, pocked full of holes. The toilets still did their job as basic receptacles. Though adding another layer of unpleasant smells to the abandoned home, it was a case of meager practicalities.
With his personal business finished Junjie returned to his work. Only half way down the dim hallway Dhe's imposing form appeared, not ten feet from him. Zhou's attention was faced away, but only for the moment.
Junjie stopped moving and weighed his options. He didn't have many. One thing was certain: he could not allow the gear to become irreparably damaged, suspending his efforts to establish control back at Dawn Star. Deciding on obvious over stealthy, the reinforced toe of his hiking boot met aged drywall, creating more than enough noise to announce his presence.
Dhe's head snapped around, his sneering face half-hidden in the dim lighting of the back room. This time the minister's countenance was not one of surprise. Instead, what he wore was rage—pure, unfiltered rage. Junjie's subversive acts brought out an offense and hatred in the man that filled and radiated the few feet between them. Almost palpable, like some kind of heat barrier, was the older man's utter disgust. How dare this flea stand against the will of the State—and by extension challenge Dhe as its agent. This would end here, now. He would dispatch not only a menace but a traitor. First, he would test Junjie's resolve.
"I have to admit, Mr. Zang. You have more in mind than I imagined. I took you for a coward. Running. Leaving behind everything...
...including your beloved family... your lovely wife and son... all to save your own, putrid life."
Wordlessly, Junjie scampered from where he stood and out into the small front room of the home. Now out of reach and immediate view, the move caused the minister to choose as well: Junjie or the gear. He was counting on Dhe's rage-filled emotional state to direct him in pursuit, leaving the equipment until after he finished the job—after the young man's heart stopped beating and his body cooled. This was Junjie's wager. It was the only card he held. The bet paid off, at least for the moment.
Dhe took three steps into the old galley kitchen, heading Junjie off at the only other point of escape and initiating a terminal contest of cat and mouse. An ailing, thin wall stood as the only physical barrier between them. Like a child's game of tag with blind corners, one would eventually flush the other out—exposed, trapped.
"Junjie, my boy, this is useless, don't you see? Stop your foolishness. I am not an unreasonable man. I will make this seem as if you are merely going to sleep."
Junjie needed to keep the pressure on, to goad Dhe into focusing on him alone for a while longer. At the very least, his initial programming would be activated once the link with Strata 5 was complete.
"Forgive my unbelief, Minister. My friends' last moments seemed to be neither pleasant nor comfortable."
"Stop!" Dhe commanded. "Nothing more from you! You are nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing! Of no importance. A simple piece of machinery."
It was working, the man was being reeled in by his own pride and self-importance.
Subtle physical moves now accompanied each man's statements as they guessed which corner would reverse their positions and which one would result in a face-to-face confrontation. Stalking and listening at the same time, each tried to gain a reckoning of the other.
It was time to turn the tables.
"Your conscience has arisen a little late in the game, Zang."
"Conscience?" Junjie retorted. "What would a man like you know of morality? Or regret? Nothing, I imagine."
Junjie shifted again, hoping to keep the minister from getting the final angle on him. Dhe responded, forward and left. Surveying the wall separating them, he estimated its thickness and structure.
"Hypocrite!" he shot back. "You seemed perfectly happy to receive the government's approval and blessing in the form of great wealth and opportunity. What? Now, you have some kind of problem with what we've done with your work?"
He would keep driving it home, trying to make Junjie stall and stutter. "Pathetic. You gave up your right to care the very minute you cashed the checks."
It was true. The minister sensed Junjie confronting his own culpability in these matters and used the opening to his advantage.
Enough of these games.
A subtle click pierced the waiting as Dhe released the safety of his weapon. A second later a blast broke the air as two 9mm bullets demolished wallboard and plaster, exiting to the right and over Junjie's shoulder.
Junjie hit the floor.
Dhe had overestimated his height. The old-school construction materials helped some as well, altering the trajectory of the murderous projectiles favorably. In rapid succession two more holes tore open above him, another large gash appearing on his side of the wall. This time they were lower and on target. The slugs would have been deadly accurate had he not fallen on his face. Rolling over, Junjie scurried in reverse with feet gangly, yet still beneath him. Backwards. Out of control. Junjie tumbled haphazardly into the open as the third volley of ammo rushed by his head, lodging in the closet door, only inches away. He was completely exposed. No chance to move, no way out.
The young man inhaled deeply, reflexively. Steeling himself, he awaited the final impact of flesh and bone he knew was coming. Maybe it was his body's vain attempt at holding onto life, or some more autonomic reaction. Either way, he winced, turning his head away and raising his right shoulder an inch or so, as if the shr
ug might protect him somehow.
Nothing.
Searing pain, the tearing and puncturing of sinew and organ hadn't come as expected. A full ten seconds more of waiting and Junjie dared to uncoil from his protective pose but only slightly. He counted again. Still—nothing. Lingering smoke and cordite stench from the brief, mad pursuit clung to the small space.
What is this? Some kind of sick death procession? Sport?
He couldn't wait forever. Junjie reached into the left rear pocket of his jeans and retrieved his cell phone. Tapping the icon for the flashlight app, the camera illuminated the few feet in front of him.
Torn up linoleum. A haze of dust.
Carefully, cautiously, he stood. Junjie's head felt light as blood pumped insistently throughout his body. He moved toward the living room, pausing to listen again. Still, no sounds proceeding from where only seconds ago all hell had broken loose. Junjie gathered his strength and looked around the corner, to Dhe's firing position.
How had he not heard that?
The 9mm silenced Beretta sat idly pointed away, as if discarded randomly. Only a few inches from its silent, cooling metal, a large, ragged hole lay forcibly opened in the middle of the room.
He understood.
The hail of bullets and exploding walls had halted the exact moment this crevasse had taken shape among severed floorboards, joiners, and joists. Rot, mildew, and time had conspired to set a trap for the minister; one he would not escape.
Junjie approached, looking in with one eye peering over the edge.
Dhe.
Face up, back bowed in an unnatural arch, six feet below. Impaled on a rusted, jagged pipe; one of the larger sewer mains that had sheared off in pieces, ages ago.
Junjie recoiled.
Dhe spat a mouthful of blood and lurched forward, only as far as the aging lead and concrete would allow. Moving one step closer Junjie almost tripped, barely keeping himself from falling into the hole along with the minister.
When Totems Fall Page 23
