by Ponzo, Gary
“I think so.”
“Ask if he’s going. Tell him you are. You guys can hang out, it won’t feel like a real date, and you can kind of see how it feels without any pressure.”
I stole a look at Kang before turning back to House with a big grin on my face.
“See? I knew you liked him,” she said, laughing.
“That’s a really good idea.”
“What’s a good idea?” Kang said, interrupting our planning session.
Chapter 67
I froze, and my heart leaped out of my chest and hid somewhere under the bed. How long had he been listening? I whacked House on the arm, urging her to say something. She shook her head violently. Suddenly, the talkative one had rigor mortis of the mouth.
He rolled over to face us.
“You’re up,” I managed with as much normalcy as I could muster. “Uh, I was telling Tracy about that festival in Chinatown.”
“Oh, yeah, the music festival. I plan on going.”
“Maybe we can meet up.”
“Yeah, that would be great—granted, if they let us out of here. Text me when you two get there.”
“I can’t go,” Tracy blurted sharply. “I already have plans. Sorry, but Abby, you should go. It sounds fun.”
Man, the acting in this Girl Likes Boy skit is so bad. No way he buys off on it.
“Okay. Abby, looks like you’re stuck with me.”
Okay, he did.
Just as I was about to suggest a time, the devil appeared, and it had a squeaky voice.
“Kyle!”
Into our room walked a thin, tall, high-heeled, Gucci-purse-carrying, pearl-necklace-and-jade-bracelet wearing, plum-lipstick-pouting, hand-towel-as-a-skirt-sashaying, fair-skinned, Asian beauty with a stuffed teddy bear holding a “Get Well Soon!” balloon.
She shuffled in with tiny steps as she shimmied her braless breasts under what had to be the sheerest blouse ever invented in the history of mankind. “I’m so sad to see you here,” she whined as her eyelashes batted hard and long enough to produce sustainable wind energy. “How’s my wovey dovey? Is my waby feewing better?”
She then made kissing sounds and had the bear kiss Kang all over his face. And damn it if he wasn’t eating the act up. Kang was in La La Land, laughing and giggling with that woman as she snuggled up to him. It wasn’t until House cleared her throat that the two broke apart from their over-the-top, puke-inducing public display of affection.
Kang lifted his arm, pointing past this woman. “Suzie, this is Agent Tracy House and Agent Abby Kane. Abby is my partner on the Cotton Candy case.”
Suzie turned to us and flashed a plastic smile that lasted one-point-three seconds before flatlining. She extended her hand. “Hi. I’m Suzie Zhang, Kyle’s girlfriend.”
Chapter 68
Jing Woo never saw it coming.
That’s what happens to a man who lives above everyone: he believes he’s untouchable. Even moments before his door was blown open, Jing ruled as if he were an aristocrat with faithful subjects. Not in a million days or nights would he ever have thought the end would come the way it did. But it had.
The reign of the most powerful man in all of Chinatown had ended. But that’s not all Jing was known for. He was also Chinatown’s biggest private contributor of monetary donations and a highly respected community organizer, at least from a distance. He was responsible for a dozen or so after-school programs for Chinese children, improvements to Portsmouth Square, numerous Chinese cultural expansion events, and an array of beautifying projects all throughout the Chinatown area. He had even helped subsidize the Chinatown Community Development Center, whose primary responsibility was providing affordable housing to Chinese immigrants. For all intents and purposes, Jing Woo was a hero in the community.
But it was a mask of illusion, because all of this good came at a steep price.
Fear was how Jing Woo ruled. And his grasp on Chinatown was tight and impenetrable, even by SFPD. He made millions though the trafficking of opium, firearms, women, and even fireworks. He ran the massage parlors as well as the underground Mahjong games. Every business in Chinatown paid tribute, or they had no business being in business.
For years, Jing saw yearly increases in revenue; there was nothing he couldn’t smuggle in or out of Chinatown. For every dollar he invested into the community, he made one thousand back. It was a no-brainer to be the people’s Robin Hood. Who would want to take down the people’s hero?
Jing Woo soon found out.
Chapter 69
As promised, the hospital discharged Kang and me the following day with orders to take the next couple of days off. I was all for it, especially after hearing about the Jing Woo raid. All the key players were dead. We would have preferred to see them have their day in court and spend the rest of their lives in prison, but the dead thing worked for us.
My family was my only focus when I returned home. I even pulled Ryan and Lucy out of school and awarded them a four-day weekend, which they loved. We had a grand time. We ordered movies on-demand, ate bowls of popcorn, and played multiple rounds of Go Fish.
A few months earlier, I’d signed Lucy up for dance classes to help her get over her shyness. It worked. She put on four five-minute shows for the family, complete with costume changes. We also helped Po Po with the cooking, which she tried to stop even though we knew she appreciated it. When we picnicked in Washington Square, we borrowed one of the dogs from Fanelli’s Deli, Fino, my favorite, and took her with us. Ryan and I continued our discussions on Bruce Lee and martial arts in general. I brought in two masseuses for the family. It was the only time the house remained quiet.
And of course, we resumed Dim Sum Sunday. Po Po was able to see her friends again, Ryan got, not one, but two boxes of snappers, and Lucy was pleased with her new stash of Hello Kitty stickers. Everybody was happy, and I was emotionally content.
With Operation Family Time in progress, I never did make it to the Chinatown festival to meet up with Kang. I was over it. My feelings were the result of what I had originally thought them to be in the hospital—a super hero crush—a common phenomenon associated with people who are rescued by someone of the opposite sex. Plus, at the hospital, it was clear to me how much Kang liked his new toy and the teddy bear she had brought.
By the time Sunday night arrived, we were all beat. Po Po and the kids had gone to bed early, leaving me alone to enjoy a relaxing soak in a bathtub I don’t use nearly enough. Afterward, I headed up to my office to check my email; I had stayed offline for four days thanks to a missing cell phone I had yet to replace. A quick peek couldn’t hurt.
I didn’t see anything that couldn’t wait until Monday morning, until I saw the email from Kang that contained photos from the staged crime scene. I hadn’t realized he had emailed them while we were still there.
Curious, I clicked on the email and was surprised at how well the photos had come out, considering my experience with Kang’s photography at Treasure Island. Seeing the pictures reminded me that we never did upload them to find out what would happen next.
As usual, my curiosity got the best of me. I still had the Carlsons’ hard drive loaded on my laptop, so I booted it up and clicked on the game. After the familiar intro played out and the headers and map appeared, I clicked on the fifth Attraction, and the paper scroll unraveled, revealing how far we had gotten. The cursor blinked in the empty field titled upload.
Well, why not? The worst that could happen is nothing, right?
I selected two pictures and hit the upload button. A few seconds later, the swirling circle disappeared and the phrase, “Upload complete. Thank you,” replaced it.
Hmmm, interesting.
From what we had learned so far, each time the Carlsons completed a task, it unlocked the next Attraction. So what happens when all the Attractions are completed?
A second later, a chime sounded and the word “Congratulations” floated across the screen, followed by a note. “You have successfully completed t
he chase in San Francisco. Click the plane ticket for your next challenge.”
I clicked on the animated plane ticket, and it swooshed back and forth across the screen, erasing everything before disappearing. A new map of the world then appeared. This time, there was a new trajectory line connecting San Francisco with Bangkok, Thailand. Also, the five San Francisco Attractions were gone and replaced with five Bangkok Attractions.
I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. The game was continuing. San Francisco was just another stop. Then my eyes spotted the word, “Leaderboard.” I had never seen it before. I clicked on it and watched the Attraction heading minimize, and in its place, a leaderboard appeared. There were twenty-five teams on the board. A large arrow pointed at the fourth position, Team Carlson.
Don’t tell me...
The map had also changed. It no longer only showed the three waypoints representing the Carlsons’ travels. There were a number of arced lines connecting many of the major cities all over the world. And each waypoint was color coordinated to a team on the leaderboard.
No, this can’t be. Other teams! Global!
My chest tightened instantly, erasing everything my relaxing bath had given me. A prickling sensation appeared along my arms and spread out across the rest of my body as my mind processed the information in front of me.
A talk bubble appeared over France. It read, “Team Annihilate has completed the second Paris Attraction.”
Is it updating in real time? Suddenly another talk bubble appeared over Northern California. That one read, “Team Carlson has completed the chase in San Francisco.”
Nooooo! I shook my head. I didn’t want to believe, and yet I had no other choice. There was no denying what I had uncovered. Chasing Chinatown wasn’t just a game for the Carlsons; it was a game for multiple killers all around the world. Innocent people were being slaughtered so that some a-hole could be entertained. How many had suffered so far? How many more were to come? I knew right then that our investigation wasn’t over. It was only the beginning.
<><><>
Russian Hill is book one in the three part Chasing Chinatown trilogy. Continue the adventure in Lumpini Park. Abby and Kyle are faced with stopping a deadly global game, and the only way to do it is to move up the leaderboard themselves.
ARCTIC WARGAME
By
Ethan Jones
Arctic Wargame Copyright © 2012 by Ethan Jones
All rights reserved.
First edition: May 2012
This work would have not been possible without the great support of my wife and son. I would also like to thank Claude Dancourt, Ty Hutchinson and Kenneth Teicher for their helpful suggestions.
To join my Fans Mailing List click on the following link: http://eepurl.com/HIG7r
My blog at http://ethanjonesbooks.wordpress.com is the place to learn about my future works. You can also follow me on Twitter at https:/twitter.com/EthanJonesBooks or find me on Facebook page at http://www.facebook.com/pages/Ethan-Jones/329693267050697
To the brave women and men defending our country, whose names we will never know.
Prologue
Ghadames, Libya
Six months ago
October 10, 3:00 a.m.
The sand dunes sank into darkness as a curtain of clouds dimmed the glow of the crescent moon. Justin limped closer to the small barred window of his prison cell. His bruised chest pressed against the rough surface of the bloodstained wall. He squinted and tried to stand on his toes for a better look. The rusty shackles clawed against the scarred skin of his ankles, and the heavy chain rattled on the cement floor.
“Quiet. Be quiet, you bastard infidel,” a guard growled in Arabic from down the shadowy prison hallway.
Justin stood still and drew in a deep breath, the cold night air of the Sahara desert filling his heaving lungs. Everything went silent again. No rapid steps rushing to his cell. No swearing bellowed by other inmates. He lifted his head, wrapped his free hands around the iron bars, and clenched his teeth, ignoring the jolts of pain from his fingers. With his eyes about an inch over the windowsill, Justin scoped the landscape, searching for the long-awaited rescue team.
Abdul, his connection within Libya’s Internal Security Agency who lay in the cell next door, had confirmed their escape was to take place early that morning. Their previous attempt the day before had failed, despite the inside help of one of the terrorists. Justin hoped this time their plan would be executed with no glitches.
At first, he noticed nothing except the rugged outlines of the steep dunes and the whitewashed walls of the sleepy town. Straining his eyes, he peered again. A small shadow slithered toward the prison wall. Justin blinked to clear his vision and stared at the approaching figure.
Bent at the waist, the shadow advanced at a rapid pace. It quickly disappeared from his sight, and he wondered whether the man had encountered a guard.
Justin’s heart pounded. He placed his ear to the wall and sensed a low grating noise. Someone—the shadow he hoped—was scaling the wall.
The window was at least twelve feet above the ground. He wondered how long it would take the shadow to reach it. A long minute dragged by and Justin was still alone. He breathed faster and faster and urged the man on the freedom side of the wall to make good time.
Finally, a hushed voice whispered in Arabic, “Abdul, Abdul, it’s me, Bashir. Are you there?”
“I’m Justin,” he replied softly.
“You’re the Canadian agent. Where’s Abdul?”
“In the other cell, around the corner, but that one has no windows.”
“When did they move him?”
“A few hours ago, after they gave him a good beating.”
“Can he walk?”
“I think so.”
Bashir went silent for a moment.
Justin looked up, but could not see the man’s face through the window. He asked after a pause, “Bashir?”
“Shhhh.”
A few seconds later, he heard a scraping sound. Bashir was offering him a large metal key through the window bars. “That’s for the shackles,” Bashir said under his breath, “and this is for the guard.” He produced a black dagger.
Justin grabbed the handle and weighed the weapon in his weak hand. A ray of moonlight glinted off the ten-inch blade.
“Can you do this?” Bashir whispered.
“Yes.”
“You have only one chance. I’ll wait for you and Abdul in two black Nissans by the main gate. Then we’ll drive across the border to Tunisia.”
Justin frowned. “What about the hostages? The two Canadian doctors?”
“The Algerians moved them from their safe house to another location, out of the prison but still in town. My men are on their way there.”
“And Carrie?”
“Yes, your partner is with them.”
Justin breathed a sigh of relief. “OK. I’ll make sure Abdul and I meet you by the gate.”
“You’ll have to be quiet. About twenty men are guarding the prison, and you can’t defeat them all.”
“OK.”
“Abdul knows the way, but if you can’t free him, walk down the stairs and go left. The hall will take you to a small courtyard on the ground floor. There will be a guard or two by the gate. You need to cross into the house next door.”
“Downstairs, then left, then to the house,” Justin said, finding it a bit difficult to concentrate on Bashir’s words.
“Yes. Get to the roof of the house and drop down along the side facing the mosque. Follow the road leading to the main gate. Is it clear?”
“Yes, it is.”
Bashir’s clothes rubbed against the wall, and then silence returned to Justin’s cell. He stared at the key and the dagger in his right hand. Stepping back from the window, he was careful not to jerk the chain and alert the guard beyond the solid metal door of his cell. The key fit into the shackles’ padlock. He coughed loudly as he turned the key to cover the dull clunk of the lock snapping
open. Now almost free, he removed the metal loops from around his ankles.
Justin and Abdul were first imprisoned in Tripoli after their hostage rescue operation went wrong. They were tortured by the Algerian hostage takers for two days before their failed escape attempt. The Algerians––with the help of the Libyan secret police––moved them to Ghadames, in their minds an isolated and less risky place.
Justin wasted no time. He took a deep breath, gripped the dagger tightly, and called out to the guard, “Hey, open the door.”
“Shut up,” the guard roared back.
“I need to talk to you.”
“No. Just shut up.”
Justin banged twice on the heavy door.
The guard’s voice grew louder as he drew nearer to the door. “What’s the matter with you? You want me to break your leg?”
Justin slammed his fist against the door.
“That’s it. You asked for it,” the guard shouted.
Keys clattered as the guard struggled to find the right one to unlock the door. Justin stepped to the side and lifted his dagger high, waiting for the right moment. His hand shook. The weapon felt heavy, straining his muscles.
“I’m going to beat some sense into you now,” the guard barked.
As the guard shoved open the door, Justin thrust his hand toward the man’s throat. The blade slashed deep under the man’s thick chin, severing his windpipe. The guard dropped dead into his stretched arms, blood sputtering from the man’s mangled neck.
Justin used the guard’s black robe and turban to wipe the bloodstains from his face and his arms. He stripped the man of his keys, his side arm—an old Beretta 92 pistol—his AK-47 assault rifle and two magazines. Justin dragged the body to a corner of his cell and closed the door behind him.
He tiptoed to Abdul’s cell. On the second try, he found the right key. As he opened the door, the powerful stench of sweat and urine almost twisted his stomach inside out. Abdul was lying against a wall, asleep.
