The Noah Reid Series: Books 1-3: The Noah Reid Action Thriller Series Boxset

by Wesley Robert Lowe

Garret and Tommy are sure of that. And this is no Hollywood blockbuster but stone cold reality.

  The inferno from the mangled wreckage of the aircraft burns to the essence of their souls.

  ***

  PRESENT DAY

  Talk about a mansion. This place is a gargantuan, elegant, contemporary edifice erected to show off the ostentatiousness of the nouveau riche. Even by the luxurious standards of Hong Kong’s Victoria Peak, this is a home rivaled by few. A tall brick wall, complete with embedded electrical wires to zap potential intruders, encompasses the perimeter of the mansion. Upon entering, one encounters a Mercedes, a BMW, a Tesla and a Land Rover sitting in the circular driveway. Off to the left is an Olympic-sized swimming pool, and to the right is a tennis court.

  Through the open living room window, one has a bird’s eye nocturnal view of the former British colony’s dazzling lighted skyscrapers as well as the flickering lights of vessels in Victoria Harbor. Just as mesmerizing is a soulful, luscious female voice singing, “Danny Boy.”

  Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

  From glen to glen, and down the mountainside.

  The summer’s gone, and all the flowers are dying.

  ’Tis you, ’tis you must go, and I must bide.

  Peering through the huge glass living room window reveals the singer—it’s Abby. Accompanying her on a nine-foot Bösendorfer grand piano is Olivia. Intertwining jazz, Celtic nuance and breathless sensitivity, it’s a unique take on this Irish classic.

  But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow

  Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow.

  ’Tis I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow.

  Oh, Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.

  These two women, now in their midtwenties, have lived up to the potential they exhibited as kids—they could be heartbreakers or home wreckers. With her lithe, lean body, simple makeup accentuating her large sensual eyes and short elegantly coiffed hair, Olivia has the classic beauty of a sandy-blonde Audrey Hepburn. Abby is more like a contemporary Chinese movie star, with big eyes, big lips, long wavy hair and sumptuous hazel eyes. The only thing that comes close to matching their beauty is their dazzling musical talent. The performance is worthy of an upscale jazz club in the Big Apple.

  And if you come, and all the flowers are dying.

  If I am dead, as dead I well may be,

  I pray you’ll find the place where I am lying,

  And kneel and say an Ave there for me.

  Watching with intense interest is Tommy. Unlike his daughter, he has not aged well, or maybe he has just lived too well. He’s now thirty pounds overweight, balding, and his leathery skin is far from baby’s bum smooth. His style is more pimp than prosperous, with flashy gold rings, a gold necklace and a diamond-studded Rolex watch.

  His focus shifts when his cell phone vibrates. He answers, and the whispering caller causes consternation to appear on his face. As the girls finish their performance, he quickly composes himself. Wrapped up in their music, the girls do not notice Tommy trying desperately to keep his back from snapping with the tension of a coiled spring,

  And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me.

  And then my grave will warm and sweeter be.

  And then you'll kneel and whisper that you love me.

  And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.

  Olivia finishes playing, and her gaze traverses to Abby, who finishes singing the ode a cappella.

  And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.

  Like an act of worship that is complete, Abby lowers her head and inhales. Tommy jumps to his feet, applauding. “Bravo! Bravo! You must have sung that song a thousand times for me, and every time it gets better and better.”

  Abby opens her eyes and lifts her head. “Thanks, Dad.” Abby knows that her father loves Irish songs, and like millions, maybe billions throughout the ages, “Danny Boy” is his favorite tune, sung in times of celebration... or sadness.

  Tommy hugs his daughter. “So that’s what the two of you do in New York. You’re keeping all the jazz clubs there in business.”

  The girls join him on the sofa. Abby leans over to the coffee table and shuts off her iPad, which has been recording the performance.

  Olivia feigns indignity. “Mr. Sung, please. Abby and I were extremely diligent in our studies.”

  Tommy cracks up. “Yeah, you took courses at every bar and club in town. Birdland, Iridium, Village Vanguard or whatever they have there now.” He wags his finger in mock warning. “Don’t try to hide it because I have the credit card statements to prove it.”

  “That’s called research,” protests the petulant songstress.

  “Of course. And I’m Santa Claus.”

  “I’m serious. Daddy, it’s a genuine fusion of international cultures coming together. Irish, Asian, American... ”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. We’ll philosophize later.” Tommy gets up and stretches out the stiffness from sitting still listening to Abby and Olivia for the last hour. “I have to go out now to earn some cash to pay for your Irish-Asian-American singing lessons.”

  Abby kisses her father. “Bye.”

  The girls watch Tommy exit through the oak double doors.

  Abby carefully scans the crystal decanter on the table before picking it up. She pours merlot into two wine glasses with large bowl designs. “I don’t think Dad has touched this. It’s been sitting in the same place for three years.”

  “Maybe merlot’s not his thing.”

  Abby hands one glass to Olivia, and the two women swirl the wine in the glasses while inhaling the aroma. “I can’t believe that. He drinks everything under the sun.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t like to drink at home.”

  Abby shrugs. “Maybe. But he also sat and listened to us for a whole set. He has never had that kind of patience in his life. Maybe... ”

  “Don’t go there, Abby.”

  A reflective but awkward silence descends as Olivia takes a slow sip then swirls it for moment in her mouth to savor the flavor before swallowing. She breaks the quietude. “I wish I were you, Abby. Going back to New York. I hate the idea of starting work.”

  Abby speaks slowly while she lets out a bombshell. “Actually, I’ve decided to stay and help Dad with the company. I haven’t told him that yet. I’ll never hear the end of it if I do.”

  Olivia makes the cuckoo sign, twirling her finger at her temple. “Are you nuts, girlfriend? I wouldn’t blame your dad one bit if he went ballistic on you. You’re an artist, not a businesswoman. You’re worse with money than I am. At least I know how to balance a checkbook. You would have gone bankrupt had your dad not given you such a huge allowance. I’ll drive you to the airport myself. Juilliard Jazz Studies program is where you must be.”

  Abby rubs her finger over the rim of her glass, deep in thought. “Dad needs me.”

  “Men don’t need anybody,” says Olivia with more than a touch of defiance.

  “Stop bringing your father into everything, Olivia.”

  Olivia sighs. “It’s not just Dad. It’s just that I hate... I hate lawyers. All they want to talk about is sports and the law. On the rare occasion when they want to talk about something else, it’s anatomy. My anatomy. ‘You’ve got a nice tush,’ or ‘Are those for real?’... I hate it. I want someone who will talk to me about Igor Stravinsky or debate with me about Pascal or have dialogue about the films of Kurosawa.”

  Abby giggles. “I’ll be happy if he just talks... with his hands in his pockets.”

  “You got that right, Abby.”

  They lift their glasses in toast. A memory tries to surface, but each of the girls wills themselves to ignore the chilling thoughts.

  Chapter 3

  A dog-tired Noah slumped in the backseat, looking out the window with fascination and anticipation. Rajiv took his time on the smooth road and, like almost every taxi driver in the world, he was happy to engage in conversation during a long ride fro
m the airport, hoping the unnatural friendliness would bring an even more unnatural big tip.

  Hong Kong is one of the most fascinating cities in the world. Much of its intrigue comes from its multicultural heritage. While most of its inhabitants are descendants from the Canton Province, lingering British influence from being a British colony for one hundred fifty years is just a short ferry ride or car drive away. However, since 1997, when the Crown Colony reverted ownership to China, there has been a huge mainland Chinese impact, financially and culturally. Prior to that, many Hong Kong residents fled to North America and Australia, worrying that the Communists would confiscate their property and force them to work in the fields. After all, many of them, or at least their parents, had memories of what Chairman Mao had done under the Cultural Revolution when the state tried to eliminate anyone who opposed Communism or Socialism.

  These fears proved baseless. Hong Kong not only maintained its reputation as a major financial center, but also advanced and evolved into a powerhouse. Like Shanghai and Beijing, Hong Kong went through a major building boom. New modern skyscrapers and mega-shopping complexes with ultra-high-end designer labels were everywhere in this monument of material indulgence. With more high-end luxury boutiques than New York, London or Paris, women and men were more fashionably dressed than in any other city in the Eastern or Western Hemisphere... except maybe for Shanghai or Tokyo.

  Not far away, just a ferry ride or a forty-minute drive on the new tunnel and bridge network, was Macau, a gambling center that had surpassed Las Vegas, Atlantic City and Monaco combined. A mecca to modernity, this neighbor to Hong Kong’s casinos were the largest, most flamboyant, most extravagant, most exciting and most profitable in the world. Or, if you were one of the detractors, you would say they were the most vulgar and decadent on the face of the planet.

  And yet, despite the myriad changes, the old heart of Hong Kong was still very much alive. Unlike Shanghai and Beijing, there had not been a demand to destroy all the vestiges of the older life. Alongside, or close to, the modern structures, there was vibrancy and charm in the older street markets, one-hundred-year-old tenement buildings and hole-in-the-wall restaurants and shops. You could buy anything here from freshly killed snake soup to an iPhone knockoff to a hand-carved Ming Dynasty figurine.

  “So I am Rajiv, the finest taxi driver in Hong Kong. What brings you to Hong Kong, boss?” said Rajiv.

  “Hong Kong is home. Lived here for over twenty years. And I am not a boss. Just plain, simple Noah. Noah Reid.”

  “Where you come from, Noah Reid?”

  “LA. Just finished school.” Noah smiled tiredly.

  “Oh, you one of those rich international students then. Direct flight. Zoom. Zoom. Fifteen hours nonstop.”

  “I wish I was that lucky. To get the cheapest flight, I had to take this berserk route. And then there were problems with the plane. And then there were problems with the weather. I went from LA to Nagano to Seoul to Delhi before coming here. Not to mention layovers for hours in each place. But it’s all good. I’m back. Even if it’s three days late.”

  “Your parents will be happy to see you back. They pay for you?”

  “Hardly.” Noah laughed. “They're missionaries. Or at least they were missionaries.”

  “Oh, they rich like Benny Hinn or Joel Osteen?” Rajiv asked.

  “I wish. Poor like Mother Teresa. I was born in Shanghai in the Hua Dong Hospital to English teachers George and Sarah Reid. Moved here when I was two when my parents decided to start up the Good Shepherd School. Not much money in a mission school in those days.”

  “No matter. Rich or poor, Daddy and Mommy always happy to see kid. Right?”

  “Not anytime soon. They were um... killed. Killed at home.”

  “No, that’s not good. Why your God so mean? They nice to people, and they get dead,” nattered the insensitive cab driver.

  “For them, it was the journey. They died doing what they loved. Helping people.”

  “Better than dying doing something you hate. So why you come back, boss? Are you crazy? Everyone wants to live in America. New York Yankees, Hollywood, Statue of Liberty and my favorite, the Green Bay Packers!” Rajiv reached down under his seat and took out a foam Cheesehead that he placed on his head. “Like it? This is real. From America.”

  “Hate to tell you, buddy, but I bet it’s made in China.”

  Rajiv refused to be discouraged. “That’s good. That means it’s cheaper. Right, boss?”

  “Whatever.”

  “So back to my question. Why did you come back? I’ve been trying for years to get out of Hong Kong. Nobody wants me,” grumbled Rajiv.

  “Hong Kong needs you,” yawned Noah. “It needs all of us. I couldn’t wait to finish school so I could come back. I start work tomorrow.”

  “What kind of job? “

  “Lawyer.”

  Rajiv’s face lit up—lawyers, unlike accountants, were big tippers. “Driving cab is dangerous. Maybe you give me a discount on my will.”

  “Sure. But then you have to give me one for the taxi fare.”

  “You're too tough, boss.”

  “Life’s a cutthroat business, Rajiv.”

  Noah and Rajiv shared a chuckle, and then Noah couldn’t fight nature anymore. Exhaustion was the victor.

  His head leaned on the taxi’s window, using it as a pillow, and sleep descended on the young buck.

  ***

  Butterflies rumbled in Rajiv’s stomach as he drove through this grungier part of town. Had it not been for the fact that he was a lazy cabbie who didn’t know the city as well as he should have, he would have turned the fare down. The streets here were narrow, and most of the tall tenement buildings were over a hundred years old and in bad need of repair. Some didn’t have running water, witness the public toilets and communal sinks housed in little buildings outside the apartment entrances.

  Rajiv groaned. All the signs were in Chinese, and very few buildings had numbers on them. Of the buildings that did, most were faded beyond recognition. Not much British or modern Chinese influence here.

  Uncertain, he shouted, waking up the sleeping Noah. “Hey, man, where are we? There’s no sign or number or anything here.”

  “Who needs numbers? You go by feel,” yawned Noah with the hoarse voice of the newly awakened. He shook his head and with bleary eyes inwardly recounted memories of family outings when he saw the old buildings passing by—his father was a Sino history buff. “I’m home. Don’t you just love it?”

  “I love to stay alive, and I’m not sure I will be, here.”

  “You have no worries. Chinese don’t like to eat browns,” laughed Noah. “Just kidding. They haven’t eaten anybody here since the war.”

  Rajiv quivered in response. “What war?”

  “Duh.” Noah tapped Rajiv on the shoulder and pointed to a nondescript building in a street full of nondescript buildings. “Slow down. That’s the one. This is where I get off. Thanks, man.”

  Rajiv pulled to the side, narrowly avoiding a chicken crossing the road. Not really meaning it, he said, “Call me anytime.” He handed the lawyer a business card.

  “Yeah, man.” Noah paid Rajiv the fare, got out of the taxi, shouldered his duffel bag and scanned the building as the taxi took off.

  ***

  There is a reason for clichés. They are often true. “Never judge a book by its cover,” definitely applied to the unremarkable, plain, aged concrete structure Noah entered. What a contrast from outside appearance to inner sanctum.

  It was deceptively big. Noah trekked into a long, airy hall that was way past its prime but was a treasure trove wonderland for the martial arts devotee.

  Prominently displayed was a large watercolor of the Five Animals of the Hung Gar Shaolin martial arts: Tiger, Crane, Snake, Leopard and Dragon. At the side of the room hung time-tested instruments of attack, including the Four Major Weapons: multiple varieties of Chine, or “the Gentleman of Weapons,” with their double-sided straight swords
and colorful tassels attached to their hilts; Ch’iang, or “the King of Weapons”—tufted spears that were used for centuries on the Chinese battlefield; Kan, or “the Grandfather of All Weapons”—long, tall, straight iron bar staffs; and the Dao, or “the General of All Weapons”—single-edged swords used for slashing and slicing. While each of the weapons was at least a hundred years old, they were not artifacts in a museum. Their easy access showed that these were tools for everyday use.

  Grandmaster Wu, a trim man in his seventies, meditated in the lotus position with his eyes closed, almost like a little Buddha in the middle of the room. He wore the loose-fitting traditional martial arts uniform of pure satin trousers and jacket. His Chinese surname, Wu, was embroidered in a small, single gold letter over his heart area on his dark-navy outfit. Definitely not a Hollywood grandmaster, he much more resembled Bruce Lee’s mentor, Ip Man, than the Karate Kid’s Mr. Miyagi.

  As quietly as possible and with catlike silence, Noah put his bag down and crossed to join Wu. He crouched down and assumed the same meditative stance as his aged master.

  Wu, with his eyes remaining closed and still in the same position, growled in a low voice, “Stop slouching, Noah.”

  “Yes, Sifu.” Noah sat up even straighter than before.

  They assumed this position for another ten minutes, an eternity for Noah. This was so far removed from the fast pace of a law school in a big American city, and yet he knew that this forced time of physical inactivity was something he not only missed, but also needed.

  One reason he didn’t attend any of the martial arts schools in Los Angeles was that he felt they were all too commercial, almost industrialized. Everything was about rank, position, what color belt you had, what degree of belt you had and what title you had.