by Alex Ryan
“Mutilated bodies?” Nick asked, now completely confused. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Dash shook her head. “I’m getting ahead of myself. Finish your story first,” she said, “then I will tell you everything I know.”
CHAPTER 17
Dash walked beside Nick in a dreamlike state, her fingers clasped inside his strong, calloused hand. She had been fully unprepared for the raw emotion she was experiencing. Knowing that two attempts had been made on Nick’s life in forty-eight hours in two different cities had her stomach in knots. And to learn that Lankford had been murdered in a secret CIA safe house did not bode well. Despite arguing to the contrary, she couldn’t help but be concerned that a black ops division of the Chinese government was involved. Who else would have the audacity and the means to hunt down and kill American CIA operatives in China?
With worried eyes, she looked at Nick.
He smiled tightly at her. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, but I’m still trying to process everything you told me.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s a lot to take in . . . Your turn now. Tell me more about the mutilated bodies you mentioned before.” His eyes were far away, seemingly searching for new angles in the case. She had seen that face before, when Nick had helped her and Commander Zhang work their last case. She was glad to have him on their side again.
“Maybe we should wait until we get back to my hotel,” she suggested, giving his hand a double squeeze. She was suddenly feeling very nervous and questioned whether it was wise to be having this conversation as they walked through Hong Kong.
“Understood,” he said, and she felt the muscles in his hand tighten ever so slightly. “Did you take public transportation here?”
“No, I have a car. It’s parked at the Excelsior.”
He grunted at this.
“What?”
“I don’t like parking garages.”
“I used valet.”
“Okay,” he said, hesitating. “That should be okay.”
He led her south for another few minutes before turning west toward Gloucester Road. At the sidewalk, he stopped.
“There’s no crossing at Kingston,” she said, eyeing the metal barriers along the median dividing the northbound and southbound lanes.
“Yeah, I know,” he said, looking south down the sidewalk, “but I don’t like the look of that guy hanging out by the Great George Street underpass.”
She gazed down the street, wondering who Nick was talking about and how his vision could possibly be so much sharper than her own. When she turned back to him, she didn’t like the expression on his face. Something about the way his eyes swept across the area around them made her nervous. She’d seen this look before—over the barrel of an assault rifle, right before all hell broke loose.
Nick shifted his gaze across the street to a delivery van stopped with its flashers blinking, idling in front of a store called D-Mop. She watched him study the unusual traffic pattern formed by the Gloucester flyover and the bidirectional loop roads where they intersected Kingston. He suddenly pulled her to his side and started walking south at a quick pace. She looked at him in surprise. “I thought you didn’t want to go this way.”
He flashed her a fake smile. “I changed my mind.”
Something was wrong; she could feel it.
They walked half a block before he stopped, pivoted, and pulled her close. At first, she thought he was going to kiss her, and she at once felt both excited and terrified, but instead, he pulled her into a hug and whispered in her ear.
“Relax,” he breathed in her ear, his breath warm on her neck. “Need to check something.”
“It’s okay,” she stammered and felt a stirring she had not felt in years.
“C’mon,” he said, abruptly releasing her and resuming the brisk trek south. They were now just a half block from the pedestrian underpass at Great George Street. A car horn blared behind them, making her jump. She turned, and in her peripheral vision, she saw a Volvo delivery van executing an insane U-turn at Kingston and Gloucester, knocking over a section of the median divider and heading straight for them. The next series of events happened in a blur.
The van skidded to a halt at the curb in front of them.
Nick grabbed her roughly by the meat of her bicep and jerked her behind him as the side door slid open and two men leapt out. The first thug was tall with a tattooed neck, dressed in a hooded sweat shirt. The second was short and stocky, clad in dark jeans and a black jacket. A woman sat in the driver’s seat, watching with expressionless eyes through the slider door. The attackers rushed Nick in unison, but Nick managed to land the first blow—the heel of his right boot arcing through the air and connecting with the thick man’s face. A nauseating crunch followed, and blood exploded from the short thug’s mouth. The doctor in her diagnosed a jaw fracture, nasal fracture, and likely zygoma fracture as the man collapsed in a heap in front of them. A cervical spine injury was also likely from the violent whiplash the man’s neck suffered from the kick.
The second attacker hesitated a beat, eyeing his fallen partner before lunging. Something silver flashed through the air, and Nick barked a curse. He twisted at the waist, his arms windmilling in a series of blocks and strikes. He grunted as he took a kick to the thigh from the knife-wielding thug. As Nick backpedaled, so did she, but her heel caught, and she stumbled and fell. When she looked up, Nick was dodging another knife thrust from the stocky man. She watched in awe as Nick transitioned from defense to offense, spinning again, this time driving his left elbow into the other man’s temple. The thug growled and slashed wildly at Nick’s throat, but Nick dropped into a crouch, and the blade sailed harmlessly by overhead. Nick pulled a gun from his waistband and angled the barrel up. The stocky man’s eyes went wide, and he tried to slash downward, but it was too late. Two rapid pops echoed, and fire arced from the muzzle of Nick’s gun. The man’s head jerked back, and blood and brains spattered over the side of the van.
Nick jumped to his feet and stepped on the back of the other writhing thug’s neck while taking aim at the woman in the van. “Hands where I can see them,” he commanded.
Getting to her feet, Dash repeated the command in Chinese to the driver. Instead of raising her hands, the woman raised a pistol. Nick’s gun barked twice more, and the van began drifting slowly down the street. As it passed in front of Dash, she cataloged the details: a woman slumped over the steering wheel, half of her head missing, and blood splatter everywhere on the interior of the windshield. There was a star-shaped fracture in the glass, and in the center of the star was a chunk of bone from the dead woman’s skull. Dash’s mouth filled with bile, and for an instant, she thought she might vomit but swallowed it down, steeling herself.
“How far can you run flat out before you need to rest?” Nick asked, looking at her shoes.
“I don’t know. A kilometer or two?”
He grimaced. “C’mon, let’s go,” he said and jerked her by the wrist back into the park.
“What about my car?” she said, running beside him.
“Too many witnesses back there,” he said, his eyes scanning. “The park is our only chance. We need to put some distance between us and the scene, then figure out transportation.”
They had only run a few minutes before she began to get winded. She had never been one for exercise, especially running.
“Keep up,” he said, pulling her by the wrist.
“I’m trying,” she huffed.
“At least you wore smart shoes,” he said, guiding her through patches of trees.
Three minutes passed, and her lungs were already burning. She looked at Nick and saw that he was breathing through his nose, running effortlessly, scanning with his eyes as they ran. In that instant, she was both furious and humiliated: furious because she was literally being forced to “run for her life” and humiliated because she was so badly out of shape compared to Nick. She could not remember the last time she’d actually run an
ywhere. Fitness was something she simply hadn’t been able to cram into her busy, work-driven schedule. And yet despite the voice in her head telling her she must slow down and rest, she forced her legs to stride longer and faster. After a few paces at speed, Nick glanced at her.
“You’re doing good. Keep it up.”
She glanced sideways at him and noticed that the entire left side of his chest was a mass of blood, which soaked through his sweat shirt. The fabric was torn to his shoulder, and beneath gaped a jagged knife wound across his chest.
“You’re hurt,” she gasped.
“I’m okay,” he said, but blood was dripping at an alarmingly fast rate from his left fingertips.
“We have to stop,” she huffed. “You’re going to bleed out if you keep running like this.”
He looked over his shoulder, then scanned right and left before slowing to a walk. He looked down at his chest and frowned. Then he bunched up his shirt in his fist and pressed it into the gaping wound. “You’re right. I should probably keep pressure on this.”
She stared at him, panting. The wound looked horrible.
“We have to get you to a hospital.”
“No,” he snapped. “No hospitals.”
“But Nick, that wound needs to be closed.”
“Then you’re going to have to do it,” he said, eyeing a passing jogger.
“All right,” she said grudgingly. “But if you pass out before I get to it, I’m calling an ambulance.”
“Fine,” he grumbled. “But I’m not going to pass out.”
She looked around and realized they’d crossed the park and were standing just north of the swimming pool and tennis courts. In the distance, on the opposite side of the park, she heard sirens now.
“Time to go,” she said, shrugging off her jacket and handing it to him. “Here, drape this over your shoulder and chest and follow me.”
She led him out of the park and across Hing Fat Street to Lau Li Street, where a line of red taxis waited, idling along the curb. They climbed into the first one, and she ordered the driver to take them to her hotel, promising to pay triple his fare in tips if he hurried. As the taxi lurched away from the curb, she turned to look at Nick. His color was good, and his eyes looked sharp.
“You doing okay?” she asked him.
“Yep,” he said. “You have supplies in your hotel room?”
“No, but I know where to get them. It’s close.” She reached out and put a hand on his thigh. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”
“I know,” he said, scooping up her hand in his. “You’re the only person in the world I trust right now. I want you to know that.”
She tried to think of something to say but couldn’t find the right words. So instead, she raised his hand to her lips and kissed it.
CHAPTER 18
Best Western Grand Hotel
23 Austin Avenue, Tsim Sha Tsui, Kowloon, Hong Kong
1215 hours local
Zhang pushed open the glass lobby door, balancing two coffees and a bag of pastries to share with Dazhong. Her face had lit up yesterday when he’d arrived unannounced, bearing treats. Was it overkill to play the same card again? He paused midlobby, doubting himself. His gaze went to a nearby trash receptacle, and he contemplated tossing the coffee and pastries in it.
He was terrible at this sort of thing.
He was terrible with women.
Well, not all women—just the ones he had feelings for. Which was ironic, because in the eyes of women he didn’t care about, he could do no wrong. Women like the two receptionists behind the counter—one young, one old, both undressing him with their eyes—would tolerate his worst behavior and come begging for more. Traveling in uniform, like he was today, only seemed to amplify the phenomenon. For years, he reveled in this power, channeling his inner Casanova at will, but after getting to know Dazhong, he’d lost interest in shallow. He’d lost interest in easy.
Dazhong had never looked at him like the two receptionists did. She looked at him like a sister looks at a brother: with admiration and sometimes with affection, but never with longing. No matter what it took, that was something he intended to change. What he needed now was a “do-over” with Dazhong for yesterday. Things had been awkward between them after they’d argued about Nick. He’d only visited her once in the autopsy suite, and that was to invite her to lunch—which she declined. Later, she’d left the base without saying good-bye. Hopefully, that awkwardness could be erased with a gesture of goodwill. He flipped a mental coin and decided to stay the course. Nodding at the girls at the front desk, he headed straight for the elevators, coffee and pastries in hand.
He’d called Dazhong early this morning on her mobile. When she didn’t answer his call, he drove to the base hospital. Signal coverage was terrible in the hospital basement, so he figured she’d simply missed his call. But when he found the autopsy suite vacant and the attendant said she hadn’t been in since late last night, he decided she must have driven herself to exhaustion and was still deep asleep in her hotel room. He would have let her sleep—Dazhong had a habit of pushing herself to her limits—but the information he had was too important. He needed her insight on what this new connection to a biotech company might mean for their investigation.
He tapped on the door with his foot, not wanting to spill the coffee, and called her name softly through the door.
“Dr. Chen?” he said, feeling guilty about waking her. “Sorry to bother you, but duty calls.”
The light behind the peephole dimmed, and then he heard hushed voices. Was it the TV, or did she have company? Unwelcome company? He shifted the coffee carrier to his left hand and found the grip of his sidearm with his right.
“One minute, Commander,” Dazhong called through the door. There was a tension in her voice, but she did not sound under duress. A beat later, the lock clicked, and the door opened. She stood in the opening, smiling at him, but her face seemed tense.
“Is everything all right?” he asked, trying to see past her.
“Yes,” she said. “But I need to tell you something before you come in.” She bit her lower lip. Then he noticed the stain on her blouse.
“Is that blood?”
She looked down at her chest and then back up at him.
“Yes, but I’m fine,” she said. “Before I let you in, I need you to promise me something.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Promise you what?”
“Promise me you’ll listen to what my guest has to say and that you won’t overreact.”
He tilted his head right to look around her, but she mirrored his movement, blocking his view.
“I can’t promise that.”
“Then I’m afraid you can’t come in,” she said and started to close the door in his face.
He stopped it with the toe of his boot. “Fine, I promise,” he growled.
“Good,” she said with a hint of victory, reopening the door. “Nick is here.”
“What?” he shouted.
“You promised,” she scolded and began to shut the door again.
This time he caught the door in his hand. Then, taking a deep breath, he forced himself to say in a calm voice, “What I meant to say was, why is Nick Foley in your hotel room?”
“Because someone is trying to kill him,” she said, her voice cracking.
“I thought I told you explicitly not to contact him.”
“And I told you that he could help us.”
“Oh, for Christ sake, just let him in,” a familiar American voice called from inside the room. “Otherwise everyone on the floor will hear the conversation.”
Dash opened the door and stepped aside. Foley sat shirtless, reclined in an armchair under a floor lamp. One of the bedside tables was being used as a surgery caddy and was covered with wads of bloody gauze, surgical instruments, and suture packs atop a blue drape. A deep gash, beginning in the middle of Foley’s left pectoralis just above his nipple, stretched like a crooked red finger up and over his ch
est. The wound ended on the front of his shoulder, where it had split apart the edges of the tattoo that covered his shoulder and extended to his mid-upper arm. Little streams of blood, dried but still shiny, snaked down his chest and the inside of his arm. Zhang felt suddenly foolish, standing there with coffee and pastries.
“Commander Zhang,” Nick said. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you.”
Zhang set down the coffee and pastries on a console table and marched over to Nick. “What happened here?”
“Thanks for your concern, and no, it’s not as bad as it looks,” Nick said, his voice ripe with sarcasm.
“You think this is a joke, Nick Foley?”
“No,” Nick said, shaking his head and wincing in pain for it. “Believe me, there is nothing funny about what’s happened to me over the past forty-eight hours.”
Dash slipped on a fresh pair of latex gloves and took a seat on a footstool beside Nick. Picking up a needle driver and a new pack of sutures, she said, “I went to meet Nick at a park, and they came for him. They attacked us in broad daylight.”
“Capture/kill operation,” Nick interjected. “With a bias toward the kill end of the spectrum.”
“Nick fought them off, and we escaped, but he got stabbed in the process. The knife went deep, but Nick’s chest muscles are big, so thankfully it didn’t penetrate the chest cavity. The wound gets shallow as it goes to his shoulder. I closed two deep layers already, but I’m not a surgeon. Hopefully, it will be all right.”
“Did you give him antibiotics?” Zhang asked, leaning in to look more closely at the nasty wound.
“Of course,” Dash said as she began running a new layer of sutures just beneath the edges of the skin. “I gave him some cefazolin intravenously.”
Zhang stood up and crossed his arms on his chest. Eyeing the American, he said, “Why are you in Hong Kong, Nick? Who is trying to kill you? And most importantly, what have you been doing to cause this mess?”
Nick looked at Dash. “Start at the beginning?”
