The Mandarin's Vendetta (Rayna Tan Action Thriller Series Book 2)

by Wesley Robert Lowe

  Still, alcohol didn’t agree with Jackson. Puking his guts out two or three times a week was definitely not fun but, for a hundred million dollars of Daddy’s money, he was willing to put up with Pacifica and San Roca for a few years.

  After all, he was young. Indestructible. Even if something blew up, he could bail at the last second and survive and thrive.

  ***

  A month later, Jackson was starting to sweat—his grades were dropping to the point of expulsion, no easy feat for a school with such low academic standards. To compound the young man’s angst, the professor in the “Understanding Young Children” course announced there would be a midterm in two weeks.

  “I’m gonna flunk out,” confessed a much-worried Jackson to his best bud, Sonny Lin.

  “You’ll be fine. You just need medicine,” asserted Sonny. “I been watching you and you are like my crazy sister. Can’t sit straight. Always zoning out. No attention to detail.”

  “That’s just who I am. I’ve always been that way,” argued Jackson defensively.

  “I guarantee, if you don’t take meds, you’ll always be like that. You got attention deficit problems, man.”

  “Huh?”

  “ADD or ADHD. Same deal. Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder.”

  “You’re making me sound psycho. I don’t want any pills.”

  “What planet do you live on? Everybody uses them to focus. Finance guys. Lawyers. Brain surgeons. Musicians… Here, take some of mine. Ritalin and Adderall. I guarantee you’re not as stupid as you think you are.”

  Sonny gave Jackson a Ziploc bag with thirty green and white pills. “Take one of each every day.”

  ***

  It was amazing. No, it was miraculous. Not only did Jackson pass but he aced the midterm as well as two surprise quizzes. With the pills running out, it was time to get a new stash.

  “Hey, Sonny. Gotta buy some more of those pills. I’ll get two hundred each.”

  “Whoa, I only got enough for myself. For those numbers, you got to go ask Dougie. He’s the main man for that kind of stuff.”

  ***

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said the brash know-it-all, sophomore Dougie Brownside.

  Jackson shrugged. He knew it was part of the game. “That’s too bad, Dougie, because I was going to offer you ten bucks a pill for two hundred pills. Or I’ll take more if you got them.”

  Dougie’s eyes popped. He was used to fifty and a hundred dollar purchases but two thousand bucks? At double his regular price? “You got that kind of moolah? On you?”

  “Maybe.” Jackson reached into his pocket and extracted a wad of bills and counted off five thousand dollars. “You got five hundred, I’ll take them.”

  Holy shit! Dougie put his knapsack on the cement statue of some long-forgotten school president and opened it. With his hands hidden from view, he began making shuffling noises. A minute and a half later, he pulled out a plain paper bag and handed it to Jackson. “I guarantee these brain boosters will help you improve at least one full grade point.”

  “As long as I pass, that’s all I want.” Jackson immediately popped five pills and washed them down with water from Dougie’s bottle.

  “Hey, hey. That’s too much,” cautioned Dougie.

  “Relax. I’m totally chill.”

  “Whatever you say, boss.” Dougie wandered away.

  ***

  A half hour and another half dozen pills later, Jackson’s body was tingling. He hadn’t eaten and was feeling really damn good—maybe the best he had ever felt. Definitely not the time to go home yet. After all, he was going to pull an all-nighter and study all the next day. Jackson pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. “Hey, Sonny. Whatcha doin’?”

  “Studying. What else?”

  “Take a break. Bangers for a quick drink. Okay? Then we can go back to prison.”

  “Twist my arm.”

  Chapter Ten

  Of course, it wasn’t a quick drink. Or actually, it was, but then there was another quickie, then another, then another… Added to that, Jackson and Sonny were indulging in Jackson’s newly bought bag of goodies. Amazingly, despite the equivalent of almost a mickey of pure alcohol in their blood streams, the two underage boozers were holding their own without the slightest hint of an upchuck.

  Even better, for the first time in his life, Jackson found himself enjoying the taste of alcohol, especially the last three shots of the quintessential American drink, Jack Daniels.

  “What happened to you, Jackson?” asked Norm, the barkeep. “Normally, you’d have made a beeline to the john by now.”

  “Guess I’m getting used to higher education,” roared Jackson.

  “Rock on. This one’s on me.” Norm poured a double for each boy and himself. “Cheers,” he said, raising his glass.

  Jackson and Sonny lifted their glasses. “Cheers!”

  A quick gulp with gritted faces and the drinks were gone.

  Sonny leaned over and whispered into Jackson’s ear. “I got something better than what you got. Bingdu. From North Korea.”

  Jackson’s glassy eyes sparkled brighter. Bingdu. Crystal meth from North Korea. Normally, something he’d be afraid of taking but, already pumped full of liquid and pill courage, he was game for anything.

  Jackson took a couple of pills from Sonny’s covered hand, then swallowed. Ten seconds later, he announced, “Nothing’s happening.”

  “Gotta wait half an hour,” replied Sonny.

  “Come on. That’s too long.”

  Sonny squinted at his buddy, then nodded his head in agreement. “Well, then we better do something about that. Follow me.”

  Sonny snagged a couple of straws from the bar and motioned for Jackson to follow him into the men’s john. Sonny locked the door, then went to the sink. He pulled a Ziploc bag from his pocket, produced an acorn-sized rock, and handed it to Jackson. Jackson lifted the translucent crystal to his eyes and rotated it.

  “Kinda looks like a deformed mushroom,” garbled Jackson, speech slurring. He blinked hard. It was getting hard to see and his heart started pulsing faster.

  “Except it’s got more kick than any magic mushroom you’ll find anywhere. Gotta hand it to the Norks. One thing they know how to make right is ice. This is like a hundred percent pure.” Sonny took the crystal back from Jackson and removed a few more from the bag. He ground them to a powder with a drinking glass on the counter.

  Sonny then took one of the straws and handed it to Jackson. “You first. You’re my guest.”

  “I… I never done this before.”

  Sonny shook his head. “I forgot. You’re a wuss. Watch me.” Sonny pushed one end of the straw deep into a nostril and placed the other into the small mountain of white powder. He snorted as much of the white powder as he could. Holding his breath, he pointed to Jackson to follow suit.

  Jackson took his own straw and took one healthy sniff… then another.

  “So what do you think?” asked Sonny.

  Jackson stood still, holding his breath. For the first few seconds, there was nothing. He felt his heart quickening and was feeling hot. He began panting short little breaths.

  Then, it hit—a lightness, an inner glow, a sense of elation…

  “This is like the biggest head rush in the world,” murmured Jackson as euphoria filled his being. “It is so totally awesome.”

  “I hear you. More?” asked Sonny. As if he really needed to ask.

  “Yeah, man.”

  Sonny took out two glass pipes and filled their small bowls with more of the magic powder. He flicked a cigarette lighter, then rolled its blue flame under his pipe. With intent eyes fixed on the little basin at the end of the glass tube, he watched as the meth began liquefying and a sphere of smoke began forming. He then inhaled slowly and deeply.

  Holding the smoke in, Sonny then put the lighter’s flame under the bowl of Jackson’s pipe. Grinning like the Cheshire cat, Jackson followed the example of his friend. />
  The two made idiotic faces at each other—sticking out their tongues, rolling their eyes, rocking their heads… then repeated the process.

  The two had never felt such exhilaration in their lives before.

  “Time for another drink,” gurgled Jackson.

  “Wanna try another way of nirvana first, or you done?”

  Jackson’s glassy eyes lit up brighter. “You got something else?”

  “Yup.” Sonny took a small blue-white rock, popped it into his mouth and chewed slowly. “Wanna try?”

  Without waiting to answer, Jackson took Sonny’s bag and snatched a couple of big rocks and popped them into his mouth. Walking to the door as he chewed, Jackson commented, “Remind me never to eat this stuff again. Too damn bitter.”

  Jackson’s hand started twitching as he unlocked the bathroom door. As they stepped back into the bar, Jackson felt the light of the room sting his eyes, almost blinding him. “Whoa. Turn off the lights.”

  “You kidding, man? It’s so dark,” squinted Sonny.

  “Whatever,” said Jackson, squinting as they walked toward the bar. He and Sonny hadn’t taken three steps before Jackson’s heart started pounding like a sledgehammer against his chest. He stopped and started gasping again, pressing his hand against his chest over the heart area.

  “What’s with you?” asked Sonny, wrinkling his face with annoyance.

  “Screw you, asshole,” shouted Jackson. He swung wildly at his friend, clipping him in the jaw.

  “What the…?” As Jackson launched another roundhouse, Sonny ducked and butted his chest into Jackson’s solar plexus.

  As Jackson buckled, Sonny stood up. Holding Jackson’s body at his waist level, Sonny reversed direction, pushing back and ramming Jackson’s butt against the wall. Before Jackson collided with the floor, Sonny seized his hand and rotated hard.

  The fumbling, stumbling Jackson had to follow Sonny’s movement if he didn’t want his arm yanked out of his shoulder socket.

  With drug-fueled superhuman strength, Sonny lifted Jackson over his head and, running, carried him to the bar where he threw him on top of the counter. Jackson reached over to the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels, picked it up, then bashed Sonny over the head. As the bottle shattered, Sonny fell semi-conscious to the floor.

  As Jackson looked up, it appeared as if the individual drops of the amber liquid and fragments of glass were moving in ultra-slow motion. Almost like an out-of-body experience, he was feeling a mind/body disconnect as he watched himself say, “Wow,” in a deep voice where every letter moved out of his mouth like thick molasses. Then he began shaking. A few short seconds passed and the quivering progressed to all-out convulsing. Jackson collapsed beside Sonny on the floor.

  “We should do something, Norm,” dribbled Lisa, the freaked waitress. “This looks real bad.”

  “Leave them alone. They’ll snap out of it soon enough,” replied Norm disinterestedly. Norm had been watching without concern at the far end of the bar. He’d seen so many drunken or stoned students over the years that he was inured to the violence and their outrageous and outlandish behavior. He “knew” that either sleeping it off or a couple of cups of very strong coffee could cure anything. He also knew that getting high somehow turned one into superman and there was no way he was going to get cocked by these wasted college kids.

  Seeing them sprawled on the floor, Norm sighed. Clean-up time. He stepped from behind the bar to where Jackson and Sonny lay. As he leaned over to check the Chinese students, Jackson began screaming and thrashing his arms wildly.

  Lisa ducked below the bar. “Norm! Do something!”

  The irritated Norm pulled back to escape Jackson’s wild vicious blows. “Okay, you’ve had your fun. Enough’s enough. Call the cops!” Norm yelled to the hiding Lisa.

  As Lisa’s trembling hands fumbled with her cell phone, she heard Norm chortle a loud “AAH!”

  “Shit,” shrieked Lisa. She lifted herself to peer over the counter. Jackson had pulled out his car keys and jabbed them into Norm’s chest. The barkeep was wobbling backward, keys sticking out from his T-shirt, blood gushing from the wound. She ducked to hide again.

  Sonny had recovered partially and eyed what his friend had done. Not because of any iota of human kindness but because of fear of recrimination, he picked himself up and stumbled to Norm. He put a napkin on Norm’s wound and applied pressure, hoping to stem the blood flow.

  But the uncontrolled, deranged Jackson had another idea. He suddenly pulled a knife out of his pocket and drove it into Sonny’s heart.

  As Jackson repeatedly stabbed Sonny, Lisa steadied her twitching and punched a number into her cell phone.

  “911. How can I help you?”

  But Norm couldn’t hold on any more. He fell to the old hardwood floor, dead. Lisa was so freaked that she could only pant in terror and mumble, “Um… ooh…”

  “Hello? 911. Police, ambulance or fire?”

  Jackson yanked the knife out of Sonny’s body. He began roaring like a lion and stumbled toward the bar.

  Lisa was in full panic mode. She had no idea whether Jackson was straight enough to have seen her or whether he heard her heavy breathing. Worse, if he chose to come behind the bar, maybe to get a drink, he would find her and who knew what would happen then. Summing up every last minute amount of courage she had, she stood up.

  “Hey, Jackson. It’s me. Lisa.”

  But when the waitress looked into Jackson’s wild, glassy eyes, she knew that he hadn’t heard her.

  She bolted toward the door, but had taken only two steps when she tripped over a barstool, sending her crashing to the floor. Ignoring the jolting pain, she tried to get up but couldn’t—the fall had broken her leg.

  Like a mad bull, Jackson waved his knife in the air and shuffled toward her like a wounded jackal.

  “Please, Jackson. Don’t. I’ve got a little girl at home—she’s only three. Please, Jackson.”

  But Jackson was oblivious to anything Lisa said. Hovering over her, he raised his hand holding the knife, ready to come down on her.

  “Die, bitch,” giggled Jackson.

  He plunged the knife toward her, but Lisa had formulated a plan. As Jackson’s hand descended, she picked up the barstool she had tripped on and swung it horizontally. It hit Jackson on the side of his chest, knocking him over so that his head cracked on the floor.

  He vomited, belching out a foul-smelling yellow puke. The young man began babbling as he writhed violently as if possessed by a thousand demons. Unable to make out distinct images, the off-balance Jackson clumsily threw his knife at an approaching blur before falling to the ground.

  That blur was a policeman. When no one from the bar spoke after the 911 attendant took the emergency call, she sent police out immediately to investigate after she heard the calamitous noise in the background.

  BANG! BANG! BANG! The cop squeezed off a succession of rounds. Bullets hissed by and splintered the wood wall.

  PING! One bullet hit the knife, changing the trajectories of both knife and bullet. The tip of the blade deflected downward directly into Jackson’s cranium. The bullet seared into his jugular. Blood began pouring out.

  Lucky shot? Or great shot? Who knows? It was the first time a policeman had to fire a weapon in San Roca.

  Jackson was beyond saving. Too many drugs and too much booze in too short a time.

  One more casualty. Another young person. His first day of using drugs—legal and illegal. Some bought by himself, some by a good friend. Mix with copious amounts of booze.

  The next tune in the bar jukebox started to play. It was the Eagles’ “Peaceful Easy Feeling.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Extreme extravagance.

  That was the basic design instruction that Ming Pang gave to his team of architects and designers when the Guangzhou billionaire construction mogul decided to build a new palatial home for himself, his wife and teenage daughter. Twenty miles outside of the city, the 50,000- square-foot M
ing’s Mansion sat in gorgeous rolling greenery nestled beside the Western Forest Park.

  Of course, it would be nothing but showing off but hey—what’s the point of having money if you can’t flaunt it to your friends… and competitors. The Chinese philosophy of feng shui, the proper placement of design to produce proper harmony, was incorporated to ensure prosperity, long life and happiness.

  And, of course, lucky numbers seven and eight figured prominently. There were seventy-eight rooms, including a dining room capable of seating eighty-eight, a private stage with seating for a hundred and thirty-eight, eighteen bedrooms, a wine cellar capable of holding eight thousand bottles, a luscious garden with eight hundred eighty-eight different exotic flora from around the world, and a garage capable of housing ninety-eight cars with room for another ninety-eight in the sweeping driveway.

  Even though Ming neither swam nor played tennis, there was an Olympic-sized swimming pool and a tennis court with grass as immaculately groomed as the green courts at Wimbledon. Eschewing his Asian roots, crystal chandeliers and marble flooring were imported from Italy. Sprinkled through the residence were random fountains sculpted with BC Jade, grand rooms inspired by French castles, and handmade furniture from the finest Scandinavian artisans.

  It took more than two years for construction, and then another six months to furnish it to his standards but, now that it was done, Ming was ready. All along the way, there were videographers documenting the progress. Ming had the three hundred hours of footage edited into a half-hour program.

  The premiere showing for the film would be tomorrow evening at a gala housewarming party. Ming’s family and most of the staff were in Guangzhou for the day, organizing last-minute refreshments, dinner menu, specialty imported wines and entertainment from Hong Kong and Taiwan.

  Cost was not really a consideration. After all, Ming was a well-respected contractor for cement products. His clients included some of the most impressive skyscrapers and complexes in southern China, delivered with superior quality products at prices so low, many wondered how he was able to make money.