The Ethan Galaal Series: Books 1 - 3

by Isaac Hooke

  From his old clothes he recovered the wallet the "flight attendant" had given him on the jet. It contained an American Express Centurion Card, the invitation-only Black Card for the rich. It sat comfortably beside a Palladium Card issued by JPMorgan Chase: made out of palladium and gold, the Visa signature hybrid had no preset spending limit, though authorization was based on past payment and spending patterns. In addition to the cards, there was also thirty thousand Hong Kong Dollars, in thousand dollar denominations, altogether roughly equivalent to four grand.

  He vacated the bathroom when he was ready, and Bretta grabbed another piece of luggage and went inside after him.

  She emerged a few minutes later wearing a sultry black cocktail dress, the lace hem ending seductively above her knees. Her hair was no longer in a pony-tail, but flowed down to her bare shoulders in luscious strands. She'd replaced her angel wing with a silver necklace that had a thirteen carat diamond in the middle, with matching earrings and rings. Her small, black Louis Vuitton purse had a silver seahorse brooch pin and flap closure. Completing her outfit were black, alligator-skin high heels.

  Kohl accented her eyes, while purple powder darkened the area from eyelids to brows. A touch of rose highlighted her high cheekbones. Bronzing powder accentuated her brow and jaw lines. She wore a luscious, dark red lipstick.

  Ethan tried hard not to stare. Very, very hard. He gestured toward the door and said: "Shall we?"

  Her perfume was good. He didn't know what it was, but it was intoxicating. As he followed her into the hall, his eyes lingered on the small of her back, exposed by the dress. He knew her clothing lacked the carbon nanotube lining, as the DIA had yet to incorporate the technology into female attire.

  Hopefully she wouldn't need it.

  He and Bretta took the elevator down to the main lobby. Ethan brought along the proximity-type keycard solely to access the express elevators: neither he nor Bretta had any intention of returning.

  The pair took the basement pedway from the International Commerce Center to the nearby Elements mall. In the shopping arcade they passed several high-end shops, including Prada, Gucci, Louis Vuitton, and Giorgio Armani. At that hour, most of the shops were closed or closing.

  Ethan and Bretta emerged at the north valet drop-off, where the limousine was waiting for them. The same glibly smiling chauffeur promptly opened the doors.

  "Lán Quān nightclub?" the chauffeur asked in heavily accented English as he accelerated from the mall. Like most cars in Hong Kong, the vehicle was a right-hand drive model, so the chauffeur addressed them from the front right seat.

  "You got it," Ethan said.

  "You got it." The chauffeur mimicked his voice tonality almost exactly, as if practicing the words. "You got it."

  The vehicle passed a toll booth and entered the Western Harbour Crossing tunnel, heading toward the main island.

  24

  Ethan glanced through the rear window once more, looking for signs of pursuit. Everything seemed normal out there.

  The Chinese driver glanced over his shoulder. "I'm Paul by the way."

  "Copperhead and Maelstrom," Ethan said by way of introduction.

  "Nice to make the acquaintance."

  Paul was one of Sam's assets, of course. He wasn't part of an actual support team—the driver's sole purpose was to ferry them around and provide mission supplies as necessary. Once he dropped them off at the club, he would park illegally somewhere close by until they summoned him for extract via sat-phone.

  Ethan relished the lack of support. There was something about having one's lifeline severed that was rejuvenating for the soul. It reminded him why he'd gotten into the business in the first place. He no longer felt tired: the keen sense of danger sharpened his wits, kept him alert.

  He only wished Bretta wasn't there. He gave her a sidelong glance. Then again, looking at her stretched out on that leather seat across from him, he couldn't help but feel that maybe her presence wasn't such a bad thing.

  Ethan watched her touch-up her makeup.

  "Stop staring at me," Bretta said.

  "I'm not staring." He purposely kept his head facing the window.

  "I can see you looking at me from the corner of your eyes."

  Ethan tilted his head farther toward the window. "Better?"

  "Much."

  He could see a vague reflection of himself on the glass. He considered asking her to apply concealer over the ugly scar above his right eye, but he decided it added character. If anyone asked, Ethan planned to attribute the scar to a hunting accident.

  Which wasn't so far from the truth.

  Ethan retrieved his rooted cellphone. Leaving it in "airplane" mode so that it wouldn't connect to a carrier, he activated the GPS. They were about five kilometers from their destination.

  "Here." Paul tossed a black satchel into the back.

  Bretta opened the satchel and removed a Storm Px4 subcompact pistol. "Thank you, sir." She retrieved a magazine from the bag and slammed it home, then racked the slide, chambering a round. She opened the seahorse closure of her small purse and slid the subcompact into a hidden compartment.

  She shot Ethan a mischievous smile. "Now I feel better."

  Ethan looked inside the satchel but discovered only two carnival masks. "No other weapons?"

  "The doormen will search you both," Paul said. "They've had 'incidents' in the past. You've heard they have a metal detector, right?"

  "Then why does she get one?" Ethan said.

  "The Swan told me to get the girl a Px4. So I get the girl a Px4."

  Bretta smiled mockingly.

  "You'll never get it past the metal detector," Ethan told her.

  "Watch me," Bretta said.

  Ethan folded his arms and turned toward Paul. "What's the point of searching people? I thought the Triad had weapons for sale in the back rooms anyway?"

  "They certainly do," Paul said. "But when you buy a weapon, they deliver it to you outside the club."

  Bretta fetched one of the masks. It was a heavily decorated gold and silver thing that covered the face from forehead to nose; a thirteen inch gold handle protruded from the right-hand side. "What's with the baubles?"

  "Tonight's the Venetian masked ball," Paul said.

  Bretta half-frowned as she examined the item. "This is a Colombina?" she asked Paul.

  "You know your Venetian masks well," Paul commented.

  "Why did you have to get the handle version?"

  The chauffeur shrugged. "It was all I could find on such short notice. The only other option was the biter."

  "The biter?"

  "Yes," Paul said. "The full face mask version, held in place by biting into a bit."

  "I see." Bretta held the mask to her face with the handle. "How do I look?" she asked Ethan.

  Ethan grinned widely. "Like Humpty Dumpty with lipstick."

  Bretta shot him a cold smile in return. "What did I expect from an uncultured brute?"

  Ethan ignored the gibe and grabbed the other mask. Painted a bright white, it covered only one eye and half his nose while leaving the rest of the face exposed.

  "This isn't a mask, it's a leprechaun's monocle. I can't wear this."

  "No?" Paul said. "It's a good mask. You're Phantom of the Opera."

  "Seems a bizarre mask to wear for a Venetian ball."

  Paul shrugged. "The rich are never conformists. They are known for their eccentric ways."

  Ethan held the mask over his eye. There was no obvious way to keep it in place. "No strap?"

  "There's a small bottle of glue in the satchel," Paul said.

  Ethan glanced at his reflection in the window. "I look stupid."

  "You look kind of cute, I think," Bretta said. "It's certainly an improvement."

  "Yeah, you cute!" Paul said with a giggle.

  "Great." Ethan discarded the mask on the seat beside him.

  "Because of the ball, the club will be busy. Tell the hostess you are on Paul Wong's list. You will need this for
the doorman." Paul tossed him a tiny black bag.

  Ethan opened the drawstring. Inside was at least a grand's worth of diamonds.

  "Seems a shame to waste these on a doorman," Ethan said.

  "You want to get in, don't you?"

  The limousine turned onto the Lan Kwai Fong district; various bass lines boomed from the bars and clubs that packed either side of the strip.

  "There's Lán Quān," Paul said.

  When Ethan saw the long line that stretched around the block, he felt his heart rate increase in anticipation.

  Paul drove past the queue and parked the limousine right in front.

  "Well?" Paul looked over his shoulder. "Your mask?"

  Ethan sighed. He retrieved the small bottle labeled "Hydro Spirit Gum" from the satchel and applied small dabs to the four corners of the mask. He had used similar adhesives in the past, usually for facial hair as part of a disguise.

  Ethan pressed the mask against his face, waited a few moments for the glue to set, and then examined his reflection in the window.

  "That's actually Krazy Glue," Paul announced.

  Ethan shot him an enraged look. Bretta giggled gleefully.

  "I kid!" Paul said. "I kid! It's spirit gum. Water-based. You go to the washroom, you wash your face, it comes off. Okay?"

  "You're a funny man."

  Paul got out and opened the passenger door. Ethan exited, then offered Bretta a hand.

  "I feel like Juliet going to the Capulet's ball," Bretta said as he helped her outside.

  "I thought Juliet was a Capulet herself," Ethan said. "So she'd already be at the ball."

  "Right," Bretta said. "Though it's kind of scary you'd know that."

  "Hey, what can I say, I'm an uncultured brute."

  Paul shut the door. "Good luck!"

  "Shall we?" Ethan offered Bretta his elbow.

  She lifted the silver mask to her face by the handle and took his arm. Together the two of them walked to the front of the long line.

  The big Chinese doorman seemed unimpressed with them. He wore earbuds with coiled wires tucked into the collars of a tight-fitting black T-shirt.

  "Back of the line," the doorman said.

  "We're on Paul Wong's list," Ethan replied.

  The doorman crossed his arms. "Back of the line."

  Ethan reluctantly fished the diamond sack from his suit pocket.

  The doorman warily accepted the bag. When he opened the drawstring, the greed shone readily in his eyes. He opened the velvet rope and grinned widely, revealing the gold grills that covered his teeth.

  Ethan strode past, keeping Bretta close.

  Another doorman waited near the main entrance. He separated them, then ran a metal wand up and down Ethan's body. The detector emitted a high-pitched hum over his belt, watch, cufflinks and lapel area. The man had Ethan open his jacket and then he patted him down. He found the two phones, cell and sat, and handed them back without a word.

  The doorman checked Bretta next. Her purse set off the alarm of course, and he made her open it. She unclasped the seahorse pin and showed him the inside. She was careful not to hand over the purse, Ethan noticed.

  The doorman removed the contents one at a time. A small makeup case. Lipstick. Cellphone. Passport. Credit card. Banknotes. The man studied the empty purse. Ethan was certain the guy had spotted the bulge of the hidden weapon.

  Sure enough, the doorman reached into the purse...

  25

  Ethan tensed his muscles, ready to spring into action. He wasn't sure what he was going to do, but if he needed to incapacitate the man he would.

  Bretta abruptly dropped her mask.

  The doorman hesitated, then knelt to pick it up.

  While he was down there, Bretta reached into the purse and retrieved the Px4. She slid her arm to the side, surreptitiously passing the subcompact to Ethan. He immediately shoved the weapon into his jacket pocket.

  The doorman stood and handed her the mask.

  She gave him a flirtatious smile. "Thank you."

  The man flushed with pleasure. He finished his search of the purse and then returned her items.

  "You are free to enter the club," the doorman said.

  Bretta allowed her gaze to linger on the doorman for a few moments as she looped her hand through Ethan's elbow.

  "Nicely done," Ethan told her quietly.

  Two hostesses in tight-fitting nightgowns greeted them inside the main entrance. They wore gold-framed black and red half masks over their eyes.

  "We're on Paul Wong's list," Ethan told the cuter hostess on the left.

  "Names?"

  "Mr. and Mrs. Wellington."

  She leaned forward to type on an iPad. The low décolletage of her satin nightgown gave him a very nice view of her cleavage.

  "You're eligible for a discount of five hundred man," the hostess said, using the Cantonese word for Hong Kong Dollars, man. "But we only have bottle service tables left."

  "That's fine."

  "The table fee is twenty thousand man," the hostess said. That was the equivalent of two and a half grand. "Or nineteen thousand five hundred with your discount. We only take cash at the entrance."

  Ethan bit down his outrage, removed his wallet, and set down the requisite amount. It was almost all the Hong Kong Dollars he had.

  The hostess accepted the money, made a note on the iPad, and then led them inside. She paused a few steps into the lobby. "Girl for your table?"

  Ethan glanced at the bored group of well-dressed models loitering by the entrance. They all had masks, though the girls had raised them to reveal their features. Most of them were fixated on cellphones, scrolling through the Facebook of China—WeChat.

  A few of the models looked up and smiled. These were the girls previous table buyers hadn't chosen—those who didn't get selected wouldn't be paid for the night.

  "Maybe later," Ethan told the hostess.

  She led them past the disappointed models to the dance floor. Despite the line-up outside, the club was only moderately full in that area. Roughly half the clientele wore masks.

  The hostess brought them up four steps to a roped-off area, where another bouncer stood watch. She brushed past the man with a smile.

  That section of the club was packed. Almost all the tables were taken. The dress styles ranged from business casual to White Tie formal: some of the women even wore elaborate, brightly colored ball gowns to go along with their masks.

  "I feel underdressed," Bretta complained.

  The hostess led them to one of the few empty tables. A bottle of Dom Pérignon lay in the center alongside two fluted champagne glasses. The hostess popped the cork and poured them each a serving.

  "Your waitress will be with you shortly," the hostess told them, and left.

  "Ah, the perfect romantic evening," Ethan said above the hubbub of conversation around him. Techno music played in the background, so low it was nearly lost to the din.

  Ethan downed half the glass.

  Though the upper half of her face was hidden by the mask, Ethan could tell Bretta disapproved by the way she quirked her lips.

  "What?" Ethan said. "We paid for it."

  "Sam paid for it," Bretta said.

  "Yeah," Ethan said. "Like I said, we paid for it. One way or another."

  He took another sip.

  Bretta passed her purse across the table. It was open. "I'd like my Px4 back, if you don't mind."

  Ethan shrugged. "Mine now."

  "Funny." Those bright blue eyes drilled into him angrily.

  Ethan suppressed a laugh. He held the purse under the table and transferred the subcompact directly inside, not bothering to grope for the secret compartment.

  He slid the purse across the table. "You're welcome."

  Ethan surveyed the other tables. Couples. Groups of guys. Lone men with four or five women. Almost everyone wore Venetian masks, and all the tables had at least one expensive bottle in the center.

  He saw no obvious signs o
f the dark underbelly Wilkes had hinted at. He had to gain entry to the vaunted "back rooms" if he wanted to get anywhere.

  "So here's what we're going to do," Ethan said. "When the waitress comes, I'm going to order three more bottles of Dom and charge it to my Black Card."

  "What? Why?"

  Ethan sat back. "I'll tell you how these clubs work. If you go into a place like this and order expensive bottles of wine again and again, or multiple lap dances, or whatever, eventually you'll draw the attention of the floor manager. Now, when you do that, any floor manager worth his salt will come over and introduce himself. In our case, he'll probably be a junior member of the Triad. Through him, we gain access to the higher ups by asking for drugs, prostitutes, and whatnot. We slowly work our way up the Triad hierarchy."

  "You have it all figured out, do you?" Bretta said. She didn't sound too impressed.

  "I do. If we want to make an impression on the Triad, we have to spend some money."

  "Well have fun." Bretta started to get up.

  "Wait, where are you going?"

  "Do you recognize that man?" Bretta nodded toward a nearby table where an Asian gentleman had a literal harem attending to him. Mostly white girls, though it was hard to tell with the masks they wore. He was obviously one of the richer clientele, judging from the multiple bottles of Dom and Cristal scattered about his table.

  Though the man was one of the few people in the VIP area not wearing a mask, Ethan couldn't recall ever seeing his face. He hated to admit it, but most Asian people looked alike to him.

  "Nope," Ethan said.

  "His photo was included in the digital portfolio Sam sent our way," Bretta explained. "He uses his front as a club promoter to pimp Sun Yee On prostitutes to the patrons of other clubs."

  "So he's taking a night off and pimping on home turf tonight?" Ethan said.

  Bretta shrugged. "Who knows. But he's my ticket to Chen Tang."

  Chen Tang was also in the digital portfolio Sam had sent. A senior Sun Yee On Triad member, he was purported to be the manager of the club. His alias was borrowed from a deputy commander of the Western Regions of China who ruled during the Han Dynasty, a man famous for the Battle of Zhizhi in 36 BC between the Dynasty and the chieftain Zhizhi Chanyu. The ancient Chen Tang made one of his most memorable quotes after his army won said battle: "No matter how far away, who dares to offend mighty Han will be put to death."