It would be discovered that the concierge died from snake venom. This would make absolutely no sense because poisonous snakes were not naturally found in Hong Kong. Pest control people would be hired to thoroughly search the building but would find no snakes of any description at all. This would cause the other tenants to suspect each other. Their imaginations would run wild with negative speculation.
King would closely monitor the situation and step up his plan. For the next couple of months, he would orchestrate injuries or death from snake bites. Again, the venom would be unknown and untraceable to its source.
The victims would be random. A nursing mother who just happened to be in the elevator. A janitor vacuuming the hall. A couple getting ready to go to out for sushi. What would be particularly disturbing to investigators was that the venom could not be found in any known database.
Within a few months, almost everyone in the building would want to leave, breaking their leases if they had to.
King had carefully chosen the buildings to target. They were all heavily financed and couldn’t afford a big hit from the rental loss. With tenants fleeing like rats from a sinking ship, the owners would want to sell but no one would want to buy.
King would then step in and buy the properties for pennies on the dollar with the intention to bring in ophiologists (snake experts) and snake removal experts to work on the buildings, then announce them to be problem-free. He would then resell the buildings or rent them out again.
It was a fine plan in theory. Unfortunately, reality had a way of interfering with the most carefully laid plans. What King didn’t count on was that the fear of snakes trumped any bargain. No one had bought any of his buildings in Bangkok, Manila or Hong Kong, and the only renters interested were those he didn’t want as tenants.
King needed more time, more effort and more money to make this plan work. He had already stretched himself financially and with no bankers, legal or illegal, wanting to take a chance on him, he had no choice but to work with his father on what seemed like a long-shot harebrained scheme at best.
Next stop for the Snake King and Lisa was Master Wu’s studio. After a quick change out of their chic clothing into denim and tee shirts, they blended in with the locals of Wu’s lowbrow Hong Kong neighborhood of hundred-year-old low-rise tenements.
The couple walked through the colorful area, passing old men in pajamas walking birds in cages, clothes, a shop with large green and red lantern globes, and another with life-size mannequins wearing ancient warrior clothing and brandishing weapons.
They stopped and sat at an outdoor table, where they ate bowls of steaming noodles and dumplings while carefully observing Master Wu’s studio―a shabby, windowless building. When there was no movement from the door, Lisa and King ordered deep-fried pork dumplings, which sat on the table as they kept vigil.
Their patience was rewarded when the door opened and the elderly Master Wu left for a walk. They waited until he was out of sight and quickly moved to the door.
King was not surprised to find it unlocked. Many in the area left their doors open. Theirs was a high-risk district and anyone who wanted to break in would not be deterred by something as mundane as a bolted door. Why waste money on protection that didn’t protect?
King and Lisa were surprised, though, when they walked inside the building. There was a fascinating collection of martial arts artifacts, weapons and symbols throughout. However, they were there on a mission, not on a sightseeing tour, and they methodically checked the rooms on the ground floor, searching for any clues that could lead them to billions of dollars. They examined the artifacts. They felt the floors for any hidden trap doors. They tapped the walls and listened to see if any of them were false.
King saw nothing was out of the ordinary so they climbed to the second floor, Master Wu’s living quarters. The large open room itself was simple. Nothing hidden behind the plain walls and the floors were solid. In other words, it seemed to be a simple Shaolin monk’s quarters matching the lifestyle of its owner―except for one item—a huge thirty-foot long rosewood table with ornate carvings. Chairs were unnecessary because, with a height of only fifteen inches, the table was so low that one had to sit cross-legged on the floor to use it.
King felt every inch of the table’s surface, paying special attention to the carvings of a tiger on one half of the table and a crane on the other half. Something told King there must be something special about these animals. After all, Master Wu was a grandmaster of Hung Gar, the Tiger and Crane style of Shaolin martial arts. Close examination showed no attention to detail had been spared—every feather of the bird was unique, as was each whisker of the tiger. Rather than the ordinary depth of an eighth of an inch, the depth of carving was almost half an inch, giving a multi-dimensional quality to the animals.
But, despite a full ten minutes of careful examination, neither King nor Lisa could find anything out of the ordinary.
They sat cross-legged at the low table, pondering their next move.
“I feel like there’s something here. I just don’t know what,” murmured King, scanning the room yet again.
But nothing stood out. King shook his head and exhaled with frustration. “No point in spinning our wheels. Let’s go.”
As he rose, King accidentally hit the table top with his knee, breaking a cardinal rule of robbery: “Don’t touch anything you don’t need to touch.”
However, this was the once-in-a-lifetime exception that could change fortunes. King froze—he felt an ever-so-tiny movement of the table top.
“Help me,” he urged Lisa.
Standing together, they put their hands underneath the rosewood table top, lifted the massive lid and placed it to the side.
Omigod! King saw nothing, but that nothing was extremely important. An empty storage cavity was hidden under the table—thirty feet long, six feet wide and eight feet deep.
“A dead end,” moaned Lisa.
King enthused, “Maybe not.” He leapt down into the cavity and ran his hand over the floor. Feeling something, he picked it up and held it to the light.
It was the torn fragment of a hundred dollar bill.
Exiting the studio, King’s face wore a stern, sober expression as he and Lisa headed back to the MTR station. Lisa had seen that look before and knew not to say anything until he was ready.
I’ve tapped into Noah’s wireless systems and can’t find anything personally or from the office. There wasn’t anything at his home either. No secret notes, diaries, nothing to indicate where Dad’s money is…
King didn’t expect to find anything at Master Wu’s, but he had learned long ago that sometimes to find a worm, you had to turn over one hell of a lot of rocks. Although he found only the tiny piece of a hundred dollar bill, the big hidden storage area under the table spoke volumes.
There’s only one answer that makes sense. The reason my father could not find the money in any bank was because it never was deposited in any bank. It was hidden. Hidden by the one person my father would never suspect.
Master Wu.
The question then was, why was it empty? Where was the money? Had it all been spent?
King did a mental calculation. If the money was in U.S. hundred dollar bills, there was enough room in that storage space for maybe three billion dollars. Or if it was in twenties, it would be three hundred million dollars. Or if it was in ones... Whatever. It was still a hell of a lot of cash.
My father was right. Somewhere there was a share of this money that was mine. Hell, if I’m doing all the work, I should get all of it.
The question was, “How do I get it?”
Much as he hated to admit it, he knew there was only one person who might be able to help him. He just hoped he hadn’t killed him already.
Chapter 5
For the first month of existence, Noah and the Foundation board set up the policies, logistics and structure of the new organization. It was purposely left loose as they wanted to reach as many as possible. Whil
e bigger organizations had a staff to deal with applications, there were many worthy groups that didn’t have the resources to write proposals and they wanted to ensure that these got a chance to be heard, too.
But they had to figure out a way to separate the scammers from the sincere. The Foundation board decided that there would be no website, no announcement, no information, no contact info. Potential recipients would be by invitation only after initial due diligence. This was insane but necessary if the Foundation was going to remain low key.
Noah would meet with all potential partners in this venture. A two-month schedule was set up with meetings in Beijing, Shanghai, Nanjing, Tokyo, Taipei, Osaka, San Francisco, Denver, Chicago, New York, Vancouver, Toronto… and there were more to come.
Olivia kissed Noah on the cheek as she sent him off at Hong Kong Airport. “Behave yourself.”
Noah replied cheekily, “And where’s the fun in that?”
Two months later, Noah was totally exhausted as he returned from the road trip to hell. Several hundred meetings with public and private officials, youth and community workers, and those were the just the formal scheduled ones. If Noah counted every conversation on elevators, in line-ups, and in mini-meetings within meetings, there would easily be another hundred.
Noah had no idea how hard it was to give away money. Definitely not a straightforward “How much money do you want?” and “Sure, I’ll give it to you.” Building connections between persons and networks of influence (what the Chinese called Guanxi,), was imperative before doing any real business.
Getting together face to face was mandatory—with meals, drinks or hanging out. Squeezed between the meals were meetings with lower level bureaucrats, potential contractors, marketing people, business agents and more. It was a wonder Noah hadn’t gained more than the five pounds he did.
He was tired just thinking about it but what kept him going was that, in every meeting, there was the potential for lives to be impacted positively. There was no such thing as a throwaway meeting because, in Noah’s universe, there was no such thing as a throwaway human. He had a picture of young Sam stored on his phone. Whenever he felt he couldn’t go on, a quick look at the teenager’s photo spurred him on.
Noah discovered something else on the trip—he loved and needed Olivia. Quick Skype, FaceTime or phone calls were not satisfactory. He had to do something and would when he returned to Hong Kong.
That time came two weeks earlier than expected. Abby suddenly decided to quit. While she felt working with the Foundation was worthy, it was not her thing. Music was in her blood and she had to go back to New York. For a jazzer, there was no other city in the world.
Noah’s schedule was re-ordered so that he could catch her final performance in Hong Kong. Of course, Olivia was going to be her accompanist and there was no way he would miss the event.
As Noah exited the airport terminal, he was disappointed that Olivia wasn’t there to meet him, but she had warned him that she and Abby would rehearse right up until the club opened.
Still, Noah wished she were there. There was something he just had to talk to her about.
One luxury Noah afforded himself was to rent a sports car when he hit a new city, rather than take cabs or limos. He spent so much time in meetings, he appreciated the brief solitude and the chance to drive cars that he only dreamed about when he was younger.
This time, Noah picked out a crimson Lamborghini Huracán Spyder. As he sat behind the wheel of the powerful Italian convertible, Noah smiled—life was good.
And it was going to get better.
Noah pulled out of the airport terminal and began the trek toward the city. It took every bit of self-control to not unleash the power of the V 10 engine but he took visceral satisfaction in knowing that, if he wanted to, he could leave every other vehicle on the road in his wake.
A sudden thunk on the side of the well-oiled machine jolted Noah out of his reverie. What the? A quick glance to the side showed that the sideswipe came courtesy of a cement mixer.
Noah gripped the wheel tightly, trying to keep the Lamborghini from crashing into the metal ramp.
The truck turned sharply and rammed the sports car again. This was no accident and definitely not good.
There was no point in trying to counter the onslaught by ramming the cement truck—it was way too big. Noah tried to escape by accelerating but the truck had him pinned against the ramp at seventy miles an hour.
Noah’s heart sank. Half a mile ahead, there were flames, with two mangled cars and a police barrier blocking traffic. Some poor suckers bit the dust. He saw an open lane at the side and aimed for it.
Putting pedal to the metal, Noah made quick jerks on the steering wheel, bringing half the car in the air like a stunt driver.
With the car precariously balanced, Noah blasted through but now there was another problem: a stalled car blocked the road two hundred feet down from the police barricade.
It was too late to swing wide to avoid the car so Noah tried to squeeze through the tiny crack between the stalled car and the guard rail. The space was too narrow. He hit the stalled car, knocking the convertible for a spin. Try as he might, Noah could not prevent his car from spiraling out of control. The vehicle finally stopped when it crashed into a ramp.
Noah repeatedly cranked the ignition but the car refused to start. Turning his head, he saw the cement mixer coming right at him.
Suddenly, relief with the glorious sound of the sports car’s engine turning over. Noah floored it, but not before the cement mixer rammed the back of the flashy car. Noah’s body propelled forward. The only thing saving his head from being bashed into the window was the seatbelt restraining his body. Reverse momentum jolted him back into his seat
Now on the straightaway, Noah gunned it. While this was hardly the time to bask in delight, pushing the Lamborghini to a hundred fifty miles per hour was a total rush to the sports car enthusiast. Trouble was, somehow, the cement mixer was going a hundred and fifty-five and gaining fast.
Noah’s eyes darted ahead. With dismay, he spotted a second cement mixer coming from the side of the road right at them. With the first cement mixer pulling up on the opposite side, there was nowhere to go. The sandwiched sports car rocked back and forth like a plane caught in a hurricane.
Noah floored it. The Spyder spun its wheels—no change in status quo. Noah inhaled, gripping the wheel even tighter in the chaotic nightmare. More unnerving was the sound of gunshots whizzing by.
Noah slammed on the brakes. Both trucks whooshed by. Before they had a chance to turn back, Noah accelerated and angled the car to the right. As the Lambo collided with the guard rail, Noah flung the door open and jumped out. He hit the mountainside hard and started rolling down. Sixty miles an hour and gaining speed.
Five hundred feet later, at the base of the mountain, Noah jolted to a stop. He looked and listened but there was no evidence of his pursuers. Keeping low to the ground, Noah crawled noiselessly and disappeared into the woods.
This was not the first aggressive action inflicted on Noah since he became head of the Foundation, but it was the worst. He had no idea who his assailants were, but there was no end of insidious persons who would hold the CEO of an organization worth billions for ransom as their ticket to prosperity.
In Noah’s case, they were sadly misguided. Noah had given specific instructions that under no circumstances would ransom or extortion fees be paid for him or anybody else connected with the Foundation.
In a perverted kind of way, it was liberating. The Foundation’s work would go on, whether or not there was a Noah Reid.
Chapter 6
King returned by himself to the Himalayan cave where his father was recuperating and entered unannounced. When you’ve tried to kill someone, especially if that someone was your father, saying you’re sorry over the phone wouldn’t cut it.
He stepped into the cave’s bowels. Because of the growing remnants of decaying tiger carcasses, the smell was even worse than hi
s first visit.
“Hello,” he called. There was no answer. With no sign of other aides or assistants, he began to fear the worst. He turned on his flashlight and gingerly stepped down the mountain cavity.
There! Through the moody shadows, King saw the outline of his bandaged father lying on the bed. Chin showed no sign of movement as his son approached.
Arriving at his father’s bedside, he saw the adder he had set on his father. It was dead, decapitated. One of Chin’s sharp martial arts stars lay between the serpent’s head and body.
Chin’s hands were about the only part of his body that was exposed. King touched them—they were warm! King quickly took out a bottle of f-water and put it to his father’s lips. He forced sips down his throat but there was still no response.
King took the water bottle away and sat on the bed. I’m totally screwed. No one would lend him any more money. The only reason he could borrow any in the first place was by invoking his father’s name. When his creditors found out his father was dead and that he was unable to cover his loan payments…
Suddenly, he felt a grip on his wrist. He looked down and saw his father’s hand holding it.
“You’re alive!” exclaimed King.
“No thanks to you.”
King could hear the contemptuous sneer in his father’s voice. The words were almost stuck in his throat as he forced out, “I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” sniffed Chin.
Why is he always like this? Cannot even accept a damned apology without twisting a knife. “So we’re even. You tried to kill me. I tried to kill you. Neither of us succeeded,” argued King.
He sensed his father’s glower through the bandages. “I didn’t try to kill you. I was trying to teach you a lesson. You all failed. And you’re not sorry. You want something. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. What is it?”
The Noah Reid Action Thriller Series: Books 1-3 (plus special bonuses) Page 26
