The Noah Reid Action Thriller Series: Books 1-3 (plus special bonuses)

by Wesley Robert Lowe

  Time suspended. The next thirty seconds floated by like a movie in slow motion.

  Olivia screamed, “Mommy! Mommy!”

  Garret willed himself to calmness for his daughter’s sake. Instinctively, he took the bawling child and hugged her close to his chest.

  Abby dove into Tommy’s arms, sobbing. “No, that’s not Mommy. It’s not Mommy! That’s the wrong plane.”

  BOOM! The plane split in half.

  BOOM! The plane exploded like a hundred Roman candles going off simultaneously. In addition to the fiery stars, fragments of plane and people launched into the air far above the tarmac.

  The two girls shrieked in hopeless desperation—their mothers, the most important people in their young lives—were ripped from their lives. Their cries of agony filled the airport and were heard all the way to Heaven.

  The two men winced at each other, faces drawn, suspicious and afraid. No, it was not the wrong plane. It was exactly the right one. They both knew it, but damned if they were going to say anything to anybody at any time.

  With an explosion of this magnitude, it likely destroyed everything, including the supposedly indestructible black box. But, even if the flight data recorder survived, it would never be found. Garret and Tommy were sure of that. Because that’s what they would have done.

  The inferno from the mangled wreckage of the aircraft burned to the essence of their souls.

  Tommy gazed wistfully at the innocent performers. These two women, now in their mid-twenties, have lived up to the potential they exhibited as kids—they could be heartbreakers or home wreckers.

  With her lithe, lean body, simple makeup accentuating her large sensual eyes and short elegantly coiffed hair, Olivia had her mother’s classic beauty of a sandy-blonde Audrey Hepburn.

  Abby didn’t resemble either Tommy or Jocelyn. She was more like a contemporary Chinese movie star, with big eyes, big lips, long wavy hair and sumptuous hazel eyes.

  Tommy’s reverie was interrupted by his vibrating cell phone—it was from Garret, the only person he would have taken a call from. He answered in hushed tones and, stifled consternation from showing up on his face.

  And if you come, and all the flowers are dying.

  If I am dead, as dead I well may be,

  I pray you’ll find the place where I am lying,

  And kneel and say an Ave there for me.

  As the girls finished their performance, he quickly hung up and composed himself. Wrapped up in their music, the girls did not notice he was wound with the tension of a coiled spring.

  He jumped to his feet, applauding. “Bravo! Bravo! You must have sung that song a thousand times for me, and every time it gets better.”

  Abby opened her eyes. “Thanks, Daddy.”

  Tommy joked, “So that’s what the two of you do in New York. You’re keeping all the jazz clubs there in business.”

  The girls joined him on the sofa. Abby leaned over to the coffee table and shut off her iPad, which had recorded the performance.

  Olivia feigned indignity. “Uncle Tommy, please. Abby and I were extremely diligent in our studies.”

  Tommy cracked up. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You took courses at every bar and club in town. Birdland, Iridium, Village Vanguard or whatever they have there now.” He wagged his finger in mock accusation. “Don’t try to hide it because I have the credit card statements to prove it.”

  “That’s called research,” protested the petulant songstress.

  “Of course. And I’m Santa Claus.”

  “I’m serious. Daddy, it’s a genuine fusion of international cultures coming together. Irish, Asian, American...”

  “Spare me the philosophy.” Tommy got up and stretched out the stiffness from his inner turmoil. “I have to go out now to earn some cash to pay for your Irish-Asian-American singing lessons.”

  “But you just got here,” complained Abby. “Just stay for one drink.”

  Tommy kissed his daughter on the forehead. “Save it for me. Bye.”

  Abby carefully poured two glasses of merlot from the crystal decanter and handed one to Abby.

  Olivia raised her glass. “Your dad left in an awful hurry.”

  Abby shook her head. “He’s got the craziest schedule. I’ve only been back a few days but we haven’t had a chance yet to sit and talk for more than fifteen minutes.”

  Olivia took a slow sip, pensively swirling the liquid in her mouth before swallowing. “That sucks. Especially when you’re going back to New York... I wish I could join you. I hate the idea of starting work.”

  Abby quietly let out a bombshell. “Actually, I’ve decided to stay and help Dad with the company. I haven’t told him that yet. I’ll never hear the end of it if I do.”

  Olivia made the cuckoo sign, twirling her finger at her temple. “Are you nuts, girlfriend? You’re an artist, not a businesswoman. I’ll drive you to the airport myself. Juilliard Jazz Studies program is where you must be.”

  Abby rubbed her finger over the rim of her glass. “Dad needs me.”

  “Men don’t need anybody,” snapped Olivia with more than a touch of bitterness.

  “Stop bringing your father into everything, Olivia.”

  Olivia made a nasty face at Abby, then exhaled. “It’s not just Dad. It’s just that I hate... I hate lawyers. All they want to talk about is sports and the law. On the rare occasion when they want to talk about something else, it’s anatomy. My anatomy. ‘You’ve got a nice tush,’ or ‘Are those for real?’... I hate it. I want someone who will talk to me about Igor Stravinsky or debate with me about Pascal or have dialogue about the films of Kurosawa.”

  Abby giggled. “I’ll be happy if he just talks... with his hands in his pockets.”

  “Boy, do I ever know what you... You really staying, Abby?”

  “Yes.”

  They lifted their glasses in a toast. Their shared horrific memory tried to surface, but the girls willed themselves to ignore their tortured thoughts.

  Chapter 3

  Jet lag and a crazy schedule finally caught up with Noah. He fought to keep his eyes open, staring through the window with fascination and anticipation at old memories and new wonders as Rajiv drove.

  Noah loved the Chinese people, he loved China, and he loved his fascinating home city, Hong Kong.

  Through Master Wu, Noah developed an understanding of Chinese culture and how it came to be. Part of Hong Kong’s intrigue came from its multi-faceted heritage. Its original inhabitants were from neighboring Guangdong province and then came the British imperialistic influence that continued even until now. But perhaps the biggest impact came in 1997 when the British Crown Colony reverted ownership to China. All the positives and negatives of China started infiltrating Hong Kong. Everything from dialect of Chinese spoken to having to a greater influence of the state on lifestyle.

  This change had its growing pains. Many Hong Kong residents fled to North America and Australia, worrying that the Communists would confiscate their property and force them to work in the fields. After all, many of them, or at least their parents, had memories of what Chairman Mao had done under the Cultural Revolution when the state tried to eliminate anyone who opposed Communism or Socialism.

  These fears proved baseless. Hong Kong not only maintained its reputation as a major financial center, but also advanced and evolved to a powerhouse. Like Shanghai and Beijing, Hong Kong went through a major building boom. New modern skyscrapers and mega-shopping complexes with ultra-high-end designer labels were everywhere in this monument of material indulgence. With more high-end luxury boutiques than New York, London or Paris, women and men were more fashionably dressed than in any other city in the Eastern or Western Hemisphere... except maybe for Shanghai or Tokyo.

  Not far away, just a ferry ride or forty-minute drive on the new tunnel and bridge network, was Macau, a gambling center that had surpassed Las Vegas, Atlantic City and Monaco combined. A mecca to modernity, this neighbor to Hong Kong’s casinos was the largest, most flamboya
nt, most extravagant, most exciting and most profitable in the world. Or, according to their detractors, they were the most vulgar and decadent on the face of the planet.

  And yet, despite the myriad changes, the old heart of Hong Kong was still very much alive. This was the Hong Kong Noah knew. Since he was a boy, he had a chance to witness many of the changes. Now he wanted to be part of the ongoing transformation. Alongside, or close to, the modern structures, he felt the vibrancy and charm in the older street markets, one-hundred-year-old tenement buildings and hole-in-the-wall restaurants and shops.

  Like every cabbie in the world, Noah’s hoped a little conversation might bring a bigger tip. “So I, Rajiv, am the finest taxi driver in Hong Kong. What brings you to Hong Kong, boss?”

  Face still glued to the window, Noah replied, “Hong Kong is home. Lived here for over twenty years. And I am not a boss. Just plain, simple Noah. Noah Reid.”

  “Where you come from, Noah Reid?”

  “LA. Just finished school.”

  “Oh, you one of those rich international students then. Direct flight. Zoom. Zoom. Fifteen hours nonstop.”

  “I wish I was that lucky. To get the cheapest flight, I had to take this berserk route. And then there were problems with the plane. And then there were problems with the weather. I went from LA to Nagano to Seoul to Delhi before coming here. Not to mention layovers for hours in each place.” Noah’s head hurt thinking about it. “But it’s all good. I’m back. Even if it’s three days late.”

  “Your parents will be happy to see you back. They pay for you?”

  “Hardly. They were missionaries.”

  “Oh, they rich like Benny Hinn or Joel Osteen?”

  “I wish. Poor like Mother Teresa. I was born in Shanghai in the Hua Dong Hospital to English teachers George and Sarah Reid. Moved here when I was two when my parents decided to start up the Good Shepherd School. Not much money in a mission school in those days.”

  “No matter. Rich or poor, Daddy and Mommy always happy to see kid. Right?”

  Noah stiffened. “Not anytime soon. They were, um... killed. Killed at home.”

  Rajiv inconsiderately blabbed on. “No, that’s not good. Why your God so mean? They nice to people, and they get dead.”

  “For them, it was the journey. They died doing what they loved. Helping people.”

  “Better than dying doing something you hate. So why you come back, boss? Are you crazy? Everyone wants to live in America. New York Yankees, Hollywood, Statue of Liberty and my favorite, the Green Bay Packers!” Rajiv reached down under his seat and took out a foam Cheesehead that he placed on his head. “Like it? This is real. From America.”

  Noah glanced at the cabbie. Rajiv looked ridiculous. “Hate to tell you, buddy, but I bet it’s made in China.”

  Rajiv refused to be discouraged. “That’s good. That means it’s cheaper. Right, boss?”

  “Whatever.”

  “So back to my question. Why you come back? I’ve been trying for years to get out of Hong Kong. Nobody wants me,” grumbled Rajiv.

  “Hong Kong needs you,” yawned Noah, tiredness starting to attack. “It needs all of us. I couldn’t wait to finish school so I could come back. I start work tomorrow.”

  “What kind of job? “

  “I’m a lawyer.”

  Rajiv’s face lit up—lawyers were big tippers. “Driving cab is dangerous. Maybe you give me a discount on my will.”

  “Sure. But then you have to give me one for the taxi fare.”

  “You’re too tough, boss.”

  “Life’s a cutthroat business, Rajiv.”

  Noah and Rajiv shared a chuckle, and then Noah couldn’t fight nature anymore. Exhaustion was the victor. He leaned his head on the taxi’s window, using it as a pillow. Sleep descended onto the young buck.

  Butterflies rumbled in Rajiv’s stomach as he drove through this grungier part of town. Had it not been for the fact that he was a lazy cabbie who didn’t know the city as well as he should have, he would have turned the fare down. The streets here were narrow, and most of the tenement buildings were more than a hundred years old and in bad need of repair. Some didn’t have running water, witness the public toilets and communal sinks housed in little buildings outside the apartment entrances.

  Rajiv groaned. All the signs were in Chinese, and very few buildings had numbers on them. Of the buildings that did, most were faded beyond recognition. Not much British or modern Chinese influence here.

  Uncertain, he shouted to wake Noah up. “Hey, man, where are we? There’s no sign or number or anything here.”

  “Who needs numbers? You go by feel,” croaked Noah with the hoarse voice of the newly awakened. He shook his head to clear his bleary head to see the old rundown buildings. “Hey, I’m home. Don’t you just love it?”

  “I love to stay alive, and I’m not sure I will be here,” moaned the cab driver.

  “You have no worries. Chinese don’t like to eat browns,” laughed Noah. “Just kidding. They haven’t eaten anybody here since the war.”

  Rajiv quivered in response. “What war?”

  “Duh.” Noah tapped Rajiv on the shoulder and pointed to a dilapidated old building in a street full of dilapidated old buildings. “Slow down. That’s the one. This is where I get off. Thanks, man.”

  Rajiv pulled to the side. As Noah got out of the taxi, two toughs appeared from behind a building. One had a knife and the other wielded a baseball bat.

  Rajiv stepped on the accelerator but the taxi barely moved before the hoodlum with the knife stooped and rammed the blade into its tire.

  The car spun out of control toward a streetlamp but Noah raced to the taxi and pushed it out of harm’s way.

  “Tough white boy,” sneered the guy with the baseball bat. He began swinging at Noah.

  Noah ducked the stroke coming at his head, then sent a roundhouse kick to his enemy’s mid-section.

  The guy had abs of steel and Noah’s foot did nothing. “Prick!” the gangster swore as he raised the bat over his head, then came down with full force at Noah’s.

  This time, Noah stood his ground, reached up and grabbed the tough’s wrists, stopping the movement. It was a stalemate battle of force and wills.

  While the bat stayed in the air, Noah and the tough exchanged kicks to butts and thighs.

  Meanwhile, the other hooligan pulled his knife out of the tire. He launched the blade at Noah.

  Noah twisted his body and the knife lodged into the side of the bat-holding thug.

  “Ow!” screamed the goon as he released the bat and buckled.

  Noah elbowed his opponent in the head and it was lights out for him. He stomped toward the other goon but he’d had enough. He swiveled and tore back into the darkness behind a building.

  Noah walked over to Rajiv.

  “You do this all the time?” shivered the cab driver.

  “That was easy. They were just young punks,” shrugged Noah.

  “Punks?” Rajiv narrowed his brow for a moment, then smiled as he handed Noah a business card. “Call me anytime. I drive you anywhere.”

  There was a reason for clichés. They were often true. “Never judge a book by its cover,” definitely applied to this aged concrete structure Noah entered. What a contrast—from unremarkable exterior to martial arts sanctum.

  Noah tracked into the familiar, long, airy hall that was way past its prime but a treasure trove for the martial arts devotee.

  Prominently displayed was a large watercolor of the Five Animals of the Hung Gar: Tiger, Crane, Snakes, Leopard and Dragon. Displayed at the side of the room were time-tested instruments of attack, including the Four Major Weapons: multiple varieties of Chine, or “the Gentleman of Weapons,” with their double-sided straight swords and colorful tassels attached to their hilts. Ch’iang, or “the King of Weapons”—tufted spears that were used for centuries on the Chinese battlefield; Kan, or “the Grandfather of All Weapons”—long, tall, straight iron bar staffs; and the Dao, or “the
General of All Weapons”—single-edged swords used for slashing and slicing. While each of the weapons was at least a hundred years old, they were not artifacts in a museum. Their easy access showed that these were tools for everyday use.

  But it wasn’t these incredible artifacts that Noah was here for.

  It was Master Wu, who meditated in the lotus position in the middle of the room. With catlike silence, Noah put his bag down and crossed to join his sifu. He crouched and assumed the same position as his aged master, something he had done more than ten thousand times in his life.

  Wu, with his eyes remaining closed, growled in a low voice, “Stop slouching, Noah.”

  “Yes, Sifu.” Noah straightened obediently. He must have heard that a few thousand times, too.

  They kept this position for another ten minutes, an eternity for Noah. This was so far removed from the fast pace of a law school in a big American city, and yet he knew this forced time of physical inactivity was something he not only missed, but needed.

  One reason he didn’t attend any of the martial arts schools in Los Angeles was that he felt they were all too commercial, even industrialized. Everything was about rank, position, what color belt you had, what degree of belt you had and what title you had.

  That was so entirely unlike the teaching he received from Master Wu. The sifu just did it without care of status for his students or himself. He didn’t care whether he was called Sifu, which means teacher, or Sigong, which means teacher of masters, or Grandmaster or whatever. To Noah, ever since he was a little boy, Grandmaster Wu was simply Sifu. Almost everyone else added the honorific, Master.

  As if reading his mind, Master Wu spoke. “Like a river gaining strength on its journey, dynamic tension increases the flow of the Qi, energy throughout body and soul.”

  Master Wu stood and Noah followed. The teacher began a series of smooth, elegant movements. Tai chi quan. Loosely translated, it meant supreme ultimate boxing, or Boundless Fists. It was a surprising name for these exercises as there were no signs of their warrior origins; there was no quick action and fighting. Master and disciple synchronized their slow, graceful movements of arms and body.