All Blood is Red

by Michael Young

  “Oh shit oh shit oh shit.”

  What had she done? Slinging the briefcase onto the passenger seat, he stabbed the key into the ignition.

  Back to the hotel, breathing heavily, to see who would be first out of the door. Of course he already knew, but he had to wait and see. Just in case. For seconds that seemed like a minute, nothing moved and the afternoon was still and silent. Then the black guy appeared, blinking in the light. He saw Don in the car at the same time as Don hit the accelerator and roared off clean down the street.

  50

  Don took a left and a right, then again, then again. He checked the mirrors but there was nothing behind him. He drove another couple of blocks, pulled over to the side of the road. He didn’t even know where he was now. Between two apartment complexes. Shit, that didn’t mean much. Apartment complexes make up three-quarters of northern Kowloon. He checked the mirror again. A handful of red taxis and non-descript cars passed him.

  If they did have a car – an airport rental? – it could be anything. Non-descript. He’d never see them coming. Don on the other hand, in a cherry red, brand new MG roadster, stood out like an oak tree in a field of fucking daisies. He had to get out of the area, somewhere safe, until he could decide what to do. Was it safe to go back to the widow’s place? What if they got the address out of her eventually, or worse if she had some ID on her? He’d made sure to leave his wallet behind when they left, but hadn’t thought to remind her. But where else could he go?

  If they turned up, he’d just have to let them have the key. He didn’t know where the fucking locker was. He should hide the tablets though. He wasn’t gonna let the bloody yanks get those back. They were payday. Would it be safe to hide them at the house? He could hardly leave them in his old flat, with the door busted open, could he?

  Holy fucking Christ! Why did she have to go and pull something like this?

  Checking his rear-view Don pulled out behind a taxi and headed for Hong Kong Island.

  51

  Slamming the front door behind him Don made straight for the kitchen, leaving the briefcase on the dining table. He grabbed the bottle of Laphroaig and noticed it was a third down. Into Julia’s flask, of course. Alex’s flask. Poor bugger.

  He took a tumbler from the cupboard, poured a large one, sank that and poured another. His hands were shaking. He took his cigarettes out and threw his jacket onto the sofa, lit one, drained the second glass. He had managed to hold it together on the way back, conscious that he had whisky on his breath and stolen, illegally imported goods on the passenger seat. Last thing he needed was the police on his back. But now his hands were all over the place.

  He took the glass over to the table and flicked the catches on the briefcase, noting the number on the locks: zero zero one. The three gold tablets sat there, dirty yellow in colour, covered in strange scratches. Nothing more than lines and triangles to Don. A few of the characters could have been Ms, or Es, but of course they weren’t. Assyrian, Julia had said. He picked one up. Surprisingly heavy for its size but flimsy. It was only a couple of millimetres thick and bent under its own weight. Now, where to hide them. Would they be alright in the garden? Sure they would. That was the point of gold, wasn’t it? Doesn’t tarnish.

  He took a plastic food bag from the kitchen, carefully placed the three tablets inside. He sipped his whisky this time, took his precious cargo outside and buried them beneath the last fir tree on the right. A few scattered leaves helped to hide the spot, but easy to find when he needed them. Back inside he closed the briefcase, left it on the table. Now he had to think. The whole thing was a mess, and he really had to think.

  What did he have? Well he had the locker key but that was fuck all use to anyone without Julia. He also had the tablets. And those yanks didn’t know where he was. Or did they? He went out to the table in the hallway, checked in the top drawer. Julia’s wallet, which she’d used when she paid for dinner last night. So they probably had no address.

  Her driving license, ID card, credit cards and cash were all in there. Don counted out the bills, a couple of thousand Hong Kong dollars. He also had the phone, that the next deal would be called in on. So option one was to hide out the week, just do the whole thing himself. Fuck Julia. She messed the deal up in the first place. Ten million American, more than double the amount he’d expected to walk away with.

  But would he walk away with it? What would Julia do when she realised Don was selling her out? Tell the Americans where he was, for a start. Where else could he go? Julia probably had his apartment address somewhere. She’d already traced his car and phone number. Stay with friends? Maybe, but it meant a whole week of watching his back, with the Yanks out looking for him, not to mention the Brothers who he was supposed to be paying off today. And he didn’t know exactly when the next deal was supposed to go through. Julia had said a week later, but when exactly? And could he really do that to Julia? Just leave her in their hands? He wasn’t sure.

  In no time at all half the whisky was down, half his cigarettes smoked. Time for him to make a decision. What was he going to do next? He couldn’t just hang around waiting for the Americans to turn up and clean him out.

  The phone rang.

  52

  The same number. It was the Americans.

  “Hello Don.” The New Yorker.

  Don said nothing. He was still trying to think.

  “Well, now. We seem to have a situation on our hands, don’t we Don. What exactly do you think we should do about it?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I think you can guess, Don. You have the key, but you don’t know where the money is. I want the key.”

  Don thought about it. Was there any other way out? Only to spend a week with the Americans, the Brothers, Julia all out to kill him. Sure, he could hide out in the city. Use the widow’s cash for a motel, something like that. It might even work.

  He probably didn’t have enough money. He’d be hunted. Not just for the next week, but making the exchange, afterwards. Until he left Hong Kong. For that much money, probably after that as well.

  “My patience is limited, Don.”

  There really was no other way. If there was, he couldn’t see it. He said, “The key for the girl.”

  “Of course, that’s the deal. Just as soon as she tells us where the money is.”

  Last chance. Last chance to sell her out and take the ten million. He thought of her in the plum dress, last night on the beach, in the bed, on the sofa. He thought about the money. He thought about his chances of smuggling ten million dollars in cash out of Hong Kong. On his own. With angry ex-military after him.

  No choice at all, when he put it like that.

  53

  In the MG Don drove up a short, bumpy track between thick bushes. Behind him Don could look down over the apartment buildings that make up Shek Kip Mei district. In front, across the summit of the foothill, was an open grassy field in the shadow of the mountains that fence northern Kowloon. On the other side of the field stood the New Yorker and the blond slab, at the back of a silver VW saloon. There was no sign of the other American, or Julia.

  He stopped the MG thirty yards away. Leaving everything he didn’t need in the car he stepped out to face them. The New Yorker called out. “You’ve got the key?”

  “Yeah. Where’s the girl?”

  The New Yorker nodded at the blond who opened the boot of the VW. Don could just about see the outline of the plum dress. The blond lifted Julia’s head up by her hair and she struggled. A gag was tied tightly across her face. She was alive but he couldn’t see any more from this distance. The blond slammed the boot shut. The New Yorker said, “Walk forward.” Don did as he was told. “Stop there.” He was ten yards away from them. The two Americans walked up to within five yards. Then Julia’s gun appeared in the New Yorker’s hand, pointing at Don’s face. “Okay, cocksucker. Get on your knees, hands behind your head.”

  Don swore silently again. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go
down, but of course he’d known they had the gun. He did as he was told. Blond walked behind him, shoved him to the ground and dug a knee into his back. He was enjoying this. Don felt his wrists pulled together, and some kind of plastic tie cut into his skin. He struggled a little, but there was no way he was getting out so he saved his energy.

  The blond rifled through his pockets, pulled out the locker key and the keys to the MG. “Got it.” He passed both to the New Yorker and pulled Don roughly to his feet.

  The New Yorker stepped up into his face. He pushed the gun into Don’s cheek. “Now, why don’t you tell me where the tablets are?” Don looked him in the eye, and said nothing. The New Yorker turned around, walked toward the boot containing Julia. He shouted at her through the skin of the car. “How are you doing in there, honey?” He looked back at Don. “How many bullets left in this little gun, do you think? Have a guess? I’ll tell you. Four” He placed the short barrel against the boot, finger on the trigger. “If she curls up real tight, do you think she could dodge them all.”

  “Okay,” said Don. “Okay.”

  Should have taken the other option, he was thinking.

  54

  He told them where the house was. And about the bag buried beneath the firs. After that they sat him in the front seat of the VW, the blond behind him with the gun pointing at his head.

  Through the side window he could see the New Yorker talking on a mobile. Half an hour passed, an hour. Occasionally he thought he could hear Julia moving around in the boot of the car. The New Yorker stood around, patient, apparently happy to take all the time in the world. Eventually the phone rang again. After a short conversation the New Yorker opened the blond’s door. “We’ve got them. Cut him loose.”

  Blond’s voice was as thick as his face. “And the girl?”

  “We’ll let her go after she talks.” He grinned at Don, sat in the front. “Maybe. Maybe we’ll ask her if she wants to have a little fun first.”

  The New Yorker walked off toward the MG and the blond dragged Don out, threw him down into the grass. Don felt the gun barrel against the back of his neck, then a knife between his wrists and he was cut free. “You’ll stay down until we’re away, if you know what’s good for you. And her.”

  The car door slammed shut, the engine fired, and Don stood up to watch the VW – widow still tied up in the back – and the cherry red roadster disappear back down the track he had driven in on.

  Things hadn’t exactly gone as he intended.

  Time for plan B.

  55

  He had returned to the house to find the back door forced open, which was lucky as the house keys had been in the MG. The briefcase was gone from the table and the small pile of earth next to the fir tree on the end told him there was no point looking for the tablets. A few drawers had been rifled through as well. Julia’s purse had been left on the floor. The Americans had Julia, the tablets, the MG, probably the money. Or else they would have it soon.

  What’s more, the phone for the next deal was in the MG. They’d left Don with the cash in his pocket and nothing more. But he’d done a lot of thinking overnight. He still had one more card to play, something the Americans couldn’t know anything about. He threw on his jacket and checked that his own phone was still in the pocket. Next he grabbed the keys to his old Toyota Corolla, slammed Metallica into the CD player, drove off down the hill. It was a long shot, a dangerous move. But it was the only move he had left.

  Half an hour later Don pulled up opposite a large car repair shop. Piles of new tires sat on the oil-covered forecourt still in their wraps. Through the opening were three Chinese mechanics hanging around a silver Porsche over the trench. Don walked casually toward them, trying to project confidence. They stared back at him. One called in Cantonese to the little office at the rear of the workshop.

  The office door opened, and the Brothers Wang walked out to face Don. Again, the shorter one in black got up in Don’s face while the taller one in a white suit did the talking.

  “You’re late, fuckhead.”

  Don shrugged.

  “I presume you have something for us.”

  Don held his arms open to show that he had no weapons and no money. “I’m here to talk to your uncle.”

  The brother stared at him with something approaching incredulity. They couldn’t believe anyone would be so stupid. Or perhaps suicidal was the word. It piqued the Brother’s interest.

  “You’ve got a lot of balls to show up here with no cash.”

  “I want to make a deal.”

  The shorter one eyeballed Don, tense with violent energy, like a snake about to strike. Or perhaps a bull about to charge. The other mechanics were crowding round. One of them held a large wrench in both hands. He tapped it into his palm like he’d seen in the movies. This could get fun.

  “And what have you got that could possibly interest my uncle, apart from your money?”

  Don smiled.

  “More money.”

  56

  It was after lunch the next day when Don’s phone rang again. It was the brother. “Okay, we’ve found the MG. It was at a motel, like you said. Park Motel, in Sham Shui Po.”

  “And the Americans?”

  “They’re inside.”

  Don smiled. You couldn’t hide a car like that in Kowloon City. Not for long. Not with Uncle Wang’s resources looking for it. But you couldn’t move a tied and gagged woman into areas where people might ask questions, either.

  The Brothers had agreed. He knew it would be a low rent shithole and that was Sham Shui Po all over.

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  57

  Don’s Corolla pulled up behind the two black SUVs around the corner from the motel. The Brothers were there with four other guys. One of them Don recognised from the repair centre.

  “You’re sure they don’t have any other weapons?” The taller Brother in his trademark white suit.

  “Of course I’m not sure. But probably not. They only had the one pistol before.”

  “And there’s only three of them?”

  “That’s right. Three Americans. But I reckon they can handle themselves. Ex-military, by the look of it.”

  “Whatever you say, London boy. Now watch how we deal with these people in Hong Kong.” He pulled a silver automatic pistol from inside his jacket and racked the slide for Don’s benefit.

  Don said, “Just remember. The girl, the car and the briefcase are mine. We split the money fifty-fifty.”

  The Brother didn’t answer him, but called to his boys in Cantonese. They trooped around the corner, unworried about carrying weapons in broad daylight. Not in this area of Kowloon. The few people who saw them approach down the dirty, rubbish-strewn side street scattered. They could see what was coming and as far as they were concerned it was none of their business.

  The motel had ten floors and a red brick façade with bars on the windows and gaudy neon flashing up top. The Brothers led the crew through the entrance and Don tagged along behind. In the reception area an old man sat at a desk behind a clear plastic screen with a grille. Another one of the men from the repair centre stood by his side, revolver in hand, picking at his fingernails. The taller brother spoke to the old man calmly in Cantonese. Frightened out of his wits, he answered immediately while trying to bend down below the desk.

  No-one else appeared as they filed up the stairs. Each of the Chinese had a pistol of some sort, except the shorter brother and one other who carried a heavy iron bar. Don hadn’t brought a weapon but didn’t think he’d need one behind this lot. The Brothers were content to do all the work. It was a big enough payday for them, anyhow. Let them work for their money.

  If there was anybody else staying in the hotel, they weren’t sticking their necks out. The crew stopped outside 306.

  The brothers listened for a moment. Don didn’t hear anything.

  The taller one gave a three count on his fingers and the shorter one, stepping back against the opposite wall for maxi
mum run up, put up a heavy boot and kicked in the door. It burst open and the whole crew screamed like wild dogs fighting over a carcass. They hit the room fast.

  The black guy was on the floor, one Chinese guy covering him with a gun while another put the boot in to his ribs. Julia was naked on the bed with her wrists tied above her head and a rag in her mouth. The New Yorker must’ve gone for Julia’s pistol on the cabinet next to the bed, but another Chinese guy jumped on his back. His resistance was ended when the Brother in the white suit smacked the handle of his pistol into the guy’s temple, dropping him to the floor.

  The blond slab was in the corner with his hands up, a gun at his head. Don watched as the shorter Brother snarled, took careful aim and caught him full in the face with the brass knuckles. He heard the crack of breaking bone and saw blood spray across the blond’s white shirt as he slumped against the wall. The brass knuckles did their job again as he caught one full on the side of the face with the dull thud of metal on meat, and the blond was on the floor.

  Don ran to Julia and started to untie her. Her legs and ribs showed bruising all the way up, one eye was swollen, dried blood was on her chin from a split lip. He got her loose and pulled the gag out. The Brother in white came over and threw a cheap motel bathrobe over her.

  He spoke to her in Cantonese. Julia looked up at Don who nodded at her, and her eyes went to the wardrobe. The Chinese with the iron bar went to check. Inside were three black sports bags piled on top of each other. He pulled the top one onto the floor and unzipped it to reveal the bundles of cash inside.