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

by Wesley Robert Lowe

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was 9 a.m. Henry and Ling had left with Tex three hours ago to travel to Ling’s village.

  At China HQ, Barry, Arthur, Chuck and Rayna were conferencing with Julio via video telephony as they worked on their third cups of coffee.

  “Including yesterday, we’ve taken out half a dozen of the people on Wen’s list. Now it gets hard,” stated Arthur, flinching slightly from the lingering pain in his shot arm. “From last count, there will be at least a dozen and a half reps from the different companies at lunch today.”

  “Eighteen? That’s damned good. We can take them all out and go home after lunch,” said Chuck.

  Arthur shook his head. “Not that easy, Chuck. All of them will likely bring bodyguards or muscle. High level killers and, with maybe twenty of them and four of us, I don’t like our chances.”

  “A dozen is pretty damned good,” responded Barry. “You did a good job in spreading the word, Julio.”

  Julio nodded slightly at the acknowledgement of more than a decade of contrivance, creation and obfuscation. For years, Fidelitas had been investing money on behalf of a number of fictitious criminals that were supposedly clients—arms dealers, drug dealers, stock manipulators. These mythical malefactors were quiet legends. Everyone knew who they were but no one could actually trace their dealings.

  Chappa del Fuega was head of a medium-sized Mexican drug cartel that distributed product from San Francisco to New York. Lin Bo Fan headed a Taiwanese financial management company that manipulated three stocks in the Shanghai stock market like a yoyo, making millions whether stocks went up or down.

  In the pitch to the invitees to the lunch, Fidelitas’ connection was mentioned as reference. This raised the eyebrows and interest of all the invitees, helping gain a much higher rate of acceptance than if it were just another lunch.

  “Anybody in particular we should watch out for?” asked Rayna as she scanned the guest list.

  “All of them contributed to the Zongtian disaster,” said Arthur. “But there was one that Wen didn’t give a name but called, ‘bigfish.’ Haven’t been able to get a name or talked to him personally but he did say he’ll come… That’s about all we can hope for.”

  “So, what’s your pitch, Rayna?” asked Barry. There was no need to ask Arthur—he was a veteran. But Rayna? She was a newbie.

  “Deeds, not words.” The motto of JTF2, the Canadian Special Forces unit that Rayna had been part of for three years.

  “That’s not much of a plan,” muttered Chuck.

  “It’s good enough. Or did you forget this from your Navy SEAL days? No plan survives first contact with the enemy… I’m going to read the room and go from there.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Mandarin sent a text to Mary, telling her he was unavailable but did not specify a timeframe. Mary was used to that. Whenever there was a deal that required his full attention, the Mandarin went incognito. It did strike her as unusual that this time he had not given her any notice but she knew that he always had several items cooking, any of them which might have blossomed to the stage of needing his undivided attention.

  She texted back, “What do you want to do about your lunch meeting?” He didn’t respond and Mary didn’t expect him to. When she saw that the lunch was going to be at the Oceania and the picture of a bikinied Rayna brandishing an assault weapon, she decided that she would go to represent her employer. She had never eaten at a six-star hotel and the intriguing picture of Rayna? Well, there was a reason she never married.

  ***

  In an unusual move for him, the Mandarin took a taxi to the airport rather than using his own limo driver. That was because he wanted privacy and didn’t want to explain to anyone what he was doing, even Mary. As soon as he finished his conversation with her, he turned off his cell phone. It was the first time in years the Mandarin had done so.

  While normally the Mandarin was content with business class air travel, the extra privacy availed in traveling first class was important, especially on this trip to Los Angeles—he was not in the mood to engage in idle chit chat with anyone.

  He instructed the flight stewardess not to interrupt him and that he would neither eat nor drink for the duration of the flight. While the attendant smiled attentively and said, “Of course,” inwardly she was wondering why he would spend fifteen thousand dollars on a flight and not take advantage of any of the airline’s amenities for VIP travelers.

  With only three others traveling first class, he had as much privacy as the Boeing 777 would allow and donned the airline-provided top quality noise-canceling headphones. However, he did not choose any music or podcasts to listen to. The silence gave him lots of mental and physical space as he grasped for meaning in this bombshell that rocked his world to its core.

  The minutes and hours hung like eternity as he stared at a photo on his phone of Jackson wearing his Pacifica University sweatshirt, leaning on his pristine gold Ferrari fresh from the car detailer. The kid looked like many college students. Hair a trifle long, a little undernourished and world-conquerer cockiness on his face.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The thousand-square-foot President’s Room at the Oceania Hotel with its capacity of fifty was “the place” for all major events or meals where security was paramount. In addition to hotel surveillance, guests were allowed to bring their own protection should they wish—and most did. Elegant, intimate, functional and safe, the President’s Room had hosted more top international dignitaries, heads of state and billionaires over the years than any other facility in Asia. While many of the affairs were public occasions with signings and celebrations, others were ultra-exclusive closed-door events.

  This included the luncheon that Arthur arranged for today. Most of this high level group of crooked industrialists and government officials had a connection with the Zongtian schools’ disaster. They were used to being pampered and it was going to take more than just a boring speech by Arthur and a picture of Rayna in a bikini to bring them out. They were all jaded professionals and could buy almost any woman they wanted.

  But one thing not for sale was uniqueness, especially when it came to food. These guests had had so many five-hundred-dollars-per-person meals that a meal had to be really special to attract their attendance.

  It was. The meal would be prepared by a Japanese chef whose credentials included not only preparing meals for the Japanese emperor but also the leader of Japan’s largest Yakuza group. They had all heard about Hirito. The legendary master had owned a five-star Michelin restaurant in Tokyo but then suddenly disappeared. They were all intrigued to discover that Hirito now worked for Arthur exclusively.

  That made Arthur special.

  All the guests were male, save Mary. These men included the brawny bodyguards who stood by the walls of the room. While possession of firearms by private citizens was illegal in China, the telltale bulges under many of their suit jackets showed that the law was clearly being disobeyed.

  As Arthur pulled out a chair for Rayna, he whispered in her ear. “Bigfish didn’t show. But his secretary did. Reel her in.”

  Rayna turned and kissed Arthur on the cheek. “Of course, darling.”

  ***

  It had been a fabulous meal. Hirito and his team of assistants performed magic that none of the guests had ever experienced. Oohs and aahs, lip smacking and finger licking accompanied every course at the long rectangular table. No one cared about table manners when the food was this good. The only thing that could have made it better would be if alcohol were served. But that was a minor quibble. They knew that the price of admission meant their full attention on the presentation that would follow.

  Arthur took the podium.

  “Thank you so much for joining us for lunch. Undoubtedly you have all done your research and know of our spectacular successes, a level of secrecy surpassing any government or intelligence operation in the world, and a fanatical dedication to serving our clients of all backgrounds. And, naturally
, how we charge more than anyone else trying to provide similar services.”

  There were small grunts of agreement. Arthur’s prices were exorbitant. He could see the skepticism on his audience’s faces. Some looked at their guards, indicating that they would leave in short order.

  Arthur was undeterred. “We have two items to present to you today. I will present the first one and my colleague will follow with the next. But, before I do that, I want to show you what our team did less than an hour ago, while you were enjoying your meal.”

  On the two screens flanking Arthur, a video began playing. All the guests froze when they saw a man in a prison uniform appear. It was someone they worried about, someone who had the capacity to do them serious harm if not destroy them completely.

  It was Wen.

  All sat fixated on the screen as the camera followed him. A meager portion of boiled vegetables and rice were put on his plate. It would be barely enough for a child, let alone a grown man. One of Wen’s fellow inmates tried to grab Wen’s plate. When Wen tried to protect his lunch, another convict jammed a chopstick in Wen’s neck, piercing right through his interior and exterior jugular veins. Blood began gushing out and Wen was dead within a minute.

  The video stopped. The unstated subtext of what they had just seen was: I know who you are. I know what you have done. I know where to hunt you down should you cross me.

  Arthur resumed his delivery.

  “That’s who I am and that’s what we do. We solve problems that no one else can solve. And I know you have special problems, particularly in getting your money out of China.”

  There were knowing nods of heads. With the Chinese government continually cracking down, it was getting increasingly harder to funnel their funds, legal or illegal, out of China. Every one of them had lost a substantial amount when trying to get their money out. Sometimes, it was a crooked bank official, sometimes a “mule” carrying the cash was caught, sometimes it was a dishonest broker or realtor in North America. And, recently, confiscation of funds was the least of one’s worries. Death was a bigger risk.

  “You’ve all done it the old way for small amounts. Get some of the endless supply of paupers to make deposits into friendly banks, then do bank transfers… Yada, yada, yada. It’s supremely inefficient and highly suspicious for a peasant to be making a deposit of $50,000 or even $500—not to mention the possibility of theft. So what’s my solution?”

  Arthur took a sip of water, not because he was thirsty, but because he wanted the tension to mount.

  “For clients like you, ‘return on investment’ is not important. What is important is ‘return OF investment.’ If you are willing to invest the money, I will guarantee its safety. Upfront, this will cost you twenty percent of your investment. But, after fifteen years, you will have recovered your initial capital.”

  The expressions at the table indicated that this was a lousy deal. Arthur’s eyes pierced his audience as he continued. “But, most importantly, and this is something no other organization can provide, we will guarantee that, within six months of your investment, your entire immediate family will get American green cards or landed immigrant status in Canada. We have gained entrance even for those who do not meet the minimum threshold for admittance and… those of you who have criminal records.”

  Arthur paused to allow this to sink in. “So how do we do it? The answer is that every situation is unique. I will discuss details with interested parties privately but, to start with, you must have the equivalent of fifty million U.S. dollars to invest. Before you say that’s too expensive, I will say that my offer is a bargain… Every one of you needs me. You are all a hairsbreadth away from joining Wen.”

  Arthur touched a sensitive nerve. He could see worry in the eyes of his guests. His job was done. Time to move on. “Now, I’d like to introduce my associate Rayna Tan to make our next presentation.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The Mandarin stayed pretty well in the same position during the entire fourteen-hour flight from Guangzhou to Los Angeles. In his solitude, he had time to reflect—something he had never done before—but death had a way of changing one’s perspective on life.

  The Mandarin’s empire was vast. Drugs, construction and manufacturing were the mainstays of his operation.

  How did a poor rural kid catch the brass ring when millions of other undocumented workers never got past groveling for pennies as part of the morass of perpetual underpaid labor?

  It wasn’t easy. Back then, he was not called the Mandarin but Deng Xiaoping, named after the paramount Chinese leader who led China through visionary market-economy reforms. His parents hoped for great things out of their only son, but never had a chance to see their vain hopes realized. Typhoid attacked their village, wiping out half the residents, including Deng’s parents when he was twelve years old.

  It was time to become a man. He left for Guangzhou, planning to work hard and make his fortune. What the youngster didn’t know was that, without the proper hukou, he had few options. He wound up in a squalid shanty town, sharing a crowded room, sleeping in the same bed as strangers, putting up with mold on the walls.

  But Deng refused to be a victim. Unknowingly, or just by dumb luck or a genetic accident, he had several attributes of people who manage to get ahead: he needed much less sleep than the average person; he had no interest in socializing or gossiping; he preferred fresh vegetables as opposed to fast food junk; he possessed an uncommon natural strength; and he was a self-starter who plunged himself into learning whenever he had spare time.

  But his most important trait was his drive to succeed—he did anything and everything. His first job was as a human camel, delivering jugs of water to offices. By working harder, longer and stronger, he distributed three times as many jugs per day as the average laborer.

  Later, on a construction site, he did everything from excavation to mixing and pouring concrete. After work, instead of joining his fellow shanty town mates in gambling and drinking, he made extra cash by putting in hours at any of the sweat shops that needed temporary labor—making shoes, T-shirts… anything.

  A turning point in Deng’s life occurred when he was a railway laborer in the employ of Yao, a “4 percent man.” (Corrupt railway officials were given this nickname because four percent of every contract they awarded went to their personal coffers.) A fellow worker cheated Deng during one of his rare times of gambling. Incensed, the now-fifteen-year-old used his bare hands to break his compadre’s neck. Yao heard about this and ordered Deng be brought before him. Rather than chastising him or turning him in, Yao hired him for “personal services.”

  Deng was impressed with Yao’s wealth: the official could afford to buy three houses and send his children to American private schools. Yao had two mistresses and could easily have had a dozen more had he wanted.

  Deng’s job was to keep people honest. Anyone that did not pony up Yao’s fees felt the wrath of Deng’s strong arms or his sharp small knife. By the time he was twenty, Deng had sent three men to their final destinations. Not a huge number, but there was a practical reason: dead men make no money. A vicious beating almost always reformed anyone stupid enough to renege on his debts to the railway man.

  Deng could now afford to leave the shanty town and move into a regular apartment. He would happily have worked for Yao forever had there not been a disastrous set of events that set his life on a different course.

  Deng was tasked to pick up Yao’s daughter at the airport when she came back for summer break. She hid this from her parents but her first term in Portland was miserable. One of the few overseas Chinese in her school, she was unable to make friends or communicate properly. Even worse for the teenage girl, a severe case of acne developed and she didn’t know how to get proper treatment. As he drove her home, Deng made the mistake of telling her that she needed to “stop eating greasy American food so her skin wouldn’t be so bad.”

  He thought it a helpful comment but it devastated the girl. She told her father that
Deng tried to rape her and showed him her bruised breasts.

  Unaware that the injury was self-inflicted, Yao went berserk and Deng was lucky to escape with his life. No longer in Yao’s employ and wanting to hide, he moved back into the shadowy shanty town with the illegal migrants.

  There, he had an epiphany—this hellhole would be his gold mine. He knew the people, their strengths, flaws and habits. They all wanted to work but didn’t have access to the jobs. Deng had connections and he had smarts. While there were many other employment brokers, they didn’t screen the migrants well enough or weren’t able to keep them in line.

  Shaving his head gave him a more commanding presence. He started calling himself “The Mandarin.”

  The Mandarin brazenly returned to Yao and told him that he could provide him with workers that were two-thirds of the cost he was currently paying. While Yao was still angry because of his daughter’s accusation, greed surpassed his family loyalty.

  Within two weeks, the Mandarin had recruited three hundred workers for Yao. He made money on both ends. The Mandarin charged Yao a fee for getting cheap quality labor and he also charged the workers a commission for getting them work. No one complained, though. For Yao, productivity increased because the Mandarin’s workers had a low turnover ratio and were hard workers—no one wanted to get the Mandarin upset.

  After a few months, Yao felt the Mandarin was making too much money off him and called him in to renegotiate the deal. That night was Yao’s last night on earth, or at least it was rumored to have been. Not a peep from the railway boss was heard ever again. There was no digital footprint, no sightings nor did anyone touch any of Yao’s holdings or bank accounts.

  Word spread about the Mandarin’s ability to get good, cheap labor. He became a first-call recruiter for workers for China’s huge construction boom. Especially when head contractors discovered the Mandarin’s willingness to cut corners and give generous kickbacks.