The Friendee’s reverse lights flicked on, and the van suddenly lurched out of the space, its front tires chirping as they spun momentarily on the concrete. The Friendee pulled out and crossed the entire lane, tapping the rear bumper of another Mazda, setting off its car alarm. The horn blared and lights flashed. Chen Song looked almost panic stricken, but he had enough presence of mind to put the Friendee in drive and lurch into a right-hand turn, giving Manning enough room to park the Legend. Manning gunned the engine and did just that.
“Let’s go!” he said to Chen Gui as he threw open the driver’s door. Chen Gui needed no additional hastening, though he did find it difficult to exit the Honda while still wearing his seatbelt. With a whispered curse, his pudgy fingers fumbled with the release. The belt snapped free and retracted into its recess.
Manning ran for the Friendee and threw open the driver’s door, then yanked open the van’s sliding door, shoving Chen Gui into the passenger compartment. He then tugged Chen Song out of the driver’s seat with perhaps more force than was necessary; Chen Song fell to his knees. The Friendee lurched forward. Chen Song had left it in gear.
“For the love of God!” Manning jumped in and stomped his foot on the brake. The Friendee lurched to a halt.
“Get down on the floor, where you can’t be seen! Chen Song, get in and close the door, damn it!”
Chen Song struggled to his feet and leapt into the Friendee, driving his uncle to the floor.
“Aiyah! Get off of me, you oaf!” Chen Gui screamed in Chinese.
“Sorry, uncle!” Chen Song apologized, groping for the door. He found the handle, and yanked on it with all his strength. The door slid forward and slammed closed.
Tires squealed as the silver Camry crested the entry ramp. The Fujianese were driving a little too fast; the car rubbed paint against a cement support pillar.
“Stay down!” Manning ordered, dropping the Friendee into gear. Hanging from the mirror was a blue New York Yankees baseball cap; he slapped it on his head, then donned his sunglasses. He braced the Friendee’s steering wheel with one thigh and shrugged out of his jacket. It was the closest he could come to a disguise.
The car full of Fujianese slowed after brushing the cement pillar, and it now ambled down the parking aisle as the car’s occupants looked for Manning’s Legend. Manning accelerated toward the exit ramp slightly; the car alarm was still wailing, and it wouldn’t take long for it to attract the gang’s collective attention. Manning hoped they would find his car and spend a few moments milling about it before trying to actively reacquire their quarry.
By that time, Manning intended to be far, far away.
###
“I don’t understand, where are we going?” Chen Gui asked hotly. He was still lying on the floor before the second row of seats, right behind Manning. “Aren’t we getting on a plane?”
“Not from Narita,” Manning answered. He maneuvered the Bongo Friendee back onto the Shen Kuko Expressway, heading back in the general direction of Tokyo. He kept his speed centered around 80 kilometers per hour. Not terribly fast, but not terribly slow, either. He figured if the Fujianese were still on them, he’d find out soon enough.
“Then where are we going?” Chen Gui demanded.
“Haneda. And from there, you’ll go to Kansai, then onward to Dalian.”
“Dalian?!” Chen Gui cried. “Why Dalian and not Shanghai? I hate Dalian!”
“Shanghai’s just a little hot right now, Chen Gui. You’d be better going into Dalian, and then lying low for a few days. I’ll arrange for transportation on the other side. I trust that Lin Feng is still the appropriate contact?”
“Yes, yes, Lin Feng is still—wait, you’re not coming with us, Bái Hu?”
Manning shook his head and checked the mirrors. “I’m afraid not. I don’t have a visa.”
“Wah! Poor planning on your part—what am I paying you for?” Chen Gui wailed.
“There’s no way the Fujianese can get to you in Dalian, so long as you’re still in good with Boss Tao,” Manning said. He checked his watch. He preferred to stay in the slow lane—that made for leaving only one side of the van open to a strafing run from a passing car, if it came to that. But the flight he had booked for his two charges would depart Haneda within a few hours, and it would take a good 75 minutes to get there. He had to burn up some time.
“Of course I’m still in good with Tao! That toad owes me more than I should have ever allowed him!” Chen Gui said.
“Then tonight you’ll collect on some of that,” Manning told the Shanghainese gangster. “Boss Tao won’t be able to say no, and in two days you’ll be back in Shanghai. The Fujianese might be able to tag you at the airport, but that’s the only chance they’ll get, and you won’t be there, anyway.”
“I see.” Chen Gui was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, there was a more respectful tone in his voice. “Bái Hu, your mind works in ways I can’t fathom. I’ve always acknowledged your professionalism, but now I must say I find it...respectable.”
Most Americans would have accepted the praise with pride; Manning knew enough about Chinese ways to be more mindful of how he responded.
“Thank you for your words,” he said in Mandarin, “but perhaps you should save them for after you get to Shanghai, yes?”
“My words are nothing, Bái Hu. I know what it is you value, and you’ll have it. As I said before, we Shanghainese are a generous people. You’ll see.”
“Can we get up now?” Chen Song asked from the very back.
“The Bái Hu will tell us when it’s safe to get up, Chen Song!” Chen Gui roared. “Now be quiet! I need to think of some things.”
For a moment, silence reigned. Then Chen Song let out a heavy sigh.
“But I have to piss,” he said, almost whining. “My kidneys are floating!”
Manning grinned. Japan had some very fine roads, but he was determined to hit every bump he could find on the way to Haneda Airport.
###
A little over an hour later, the black Bongo Friendee pulled into a parking space at Haneda Airport, just outside of Tokyo. It had been Japan’s primary international gateway, until the busier Narita International opened up some 70 kilometers to the northeast. However, Haneda still offered limited international traffic, though it was designated as the primary domestic hub serving the greater Tokyo area.
As they left the Friendee, Manning collected Chen Gui and Chen Song’s weapons. They most certainly couldn’t make it through the security checkpoints while carrying them, and they were no longer of any use. It was unlikely the Fujianese could catch them, since they still believed the two Shanghainese were in the Narita area. And even if they did have lookouts at Haneda, they would be covering the international terminal, not the domestic. The Fujianese couldn’t be everywhere, and it was doubtful the Japanese yakuza would wish to get involved in something as bloody as what lay ahead.
Chen Song demurred when it came to handing over his Beretta. He looked at Manning’s open hand as if it were a snake, his handsome face set in hard lines.
“Give him the gun, nephew,” Chen Gui said tiredly.
“I’d rather throw it in the trash can,” Chen Song spat, “than give it to this yinwi wàiguórén!”
The insult was more than Manning was prepared to take. Before Chen Song could do more than summon a nasty look, Manning clipped him in the right arm, knocking his hand away from his holstered Beretta. He then grabbed Chen Song’s wrist and yanked him forward; off-balance, Chen Song could do nothing more effective than stammer a quick curse before Manning snatched him up in morote-jim, a three-point judo chokehold. Even Chen Gui had just started to inhale to speak by the time Manning had flung Chen Song onto his back and shoved his head into the triangle formed by his left arm. Chen Song struggled at first, but Manning merely increased the pressure; he anticipated Chen Song’s strike at his eyes, fingers curled into claws. Manning blocked the move with his right fist, rapping his knuckles into Chen Song’s wr
ist. After that, it was over—Chen Song began to choke out, losing consciousness. To his credit, he did so without sound, but Manning’s senses were finely attuned and he could sense the microscopic muscle relaxations cascading through Chen Song’s body as his awareness ebbed.
“Bái Hu!” Chen Gui finally gasped. “People will notice!” He cast a worried look at the parking attendants, standing in the next aisle.
Ever the practical man, Manning mused. Only Chen Gui would be more worried about attracting attention than the fact a white barbarian is choking the life out of his nephew.
Manning release Chen Song before he lost consciousness completely. He came to his senses a few moments later as oxygen returned to his brain. Chen Song’s brow clouded with anger, and as he rolled to his feet, he reached for his holstered Beretta, eyes on Manning. It was no longer strapped to his side.
Manning lifted his right hand and showed Chen Song the weapon, still in its holster. Chen Song’s lips compressed into a thin, hard line. Even though the Beretta was mere feet from him, it might as well have been a million miles away. He could no more take it from Manning than he could jump to the moon.
“Never call me a filthy foreigner again,” Manning said. “You owe me far too much for that.”
“So you think,” Chen Song hissed.
“Enough of this fighting! We need to leave here, now!” Chen Hui snapped. “Chen Song, wipe off your pants—there’s dust all over them! You look like a street beggar!”
Chen Song looked down and slapped at the filth on his dark trousers angrily. He avoided looking at Manning as the taller man tossed the Beretta to the Friendee’s rear floorboard.
“Bái Hu, how much time?” Chen Gui asked. He checked his watch nervously.
“Not much. We need to hurry. I’ve paid for the tickets, but we still need to get them.”
“Let’s go,” Chen Gui said, and he began striding toward the elevators. They were painted with yellow flowers. Chen Song shuffled after him, casting a baleful glance at Manning. Manning kept his expression blank.
Next time you won’t be so lucky, sonny-boy.
###
Manning handed the E-tickets to Chen Gui and pointed out the gate information to him. Chen Gui nodded and handed Chen Song his ticket, which he accepted sullenly.
“You should go now,” Manning said. “You’ll need to hurry—your flight’s boarding in less than fifteen minutes, and you still need to get through security.”
“Chen Song, go ahead. I’ll meet you at the gate,” Chen Gui said.
Chen Song looked surprised. “Uncle?”
“Do as I say! No discussion!” Chen Gui snapped.
Chen Song hesitated for a moment, then made a hissing noise through his teeth and spun on his heel. He marched toward the security checkpoint.
Chen Gui turned to Manning. His eyes, while mindful of the environment and virtually every passer-by, were no longer full of panic and fear. The old Chen Gui, Shanghai crime lord, had returned.
“Bái Hu, I’ll transfer your fee into your account by tomorrow morning. But I would like to know if you might be interested in another task while I’m in transit.”
“What would that be?”
“I need you to take care of my problems here in Japan. I need that done very, very quickly. Can this be done in less than twelve hours for...say, one hundred thousand dollars?”
Manning cocked a brow. One hundred thousand dollars was twice his usual “assistance” fee, which Chen Gui was obliged to pay in addition to his annual retainer.
“That could compromise my ability to assist you further here in Japan,” Manning answered. “As you know, whites stand out here quite a bit.”
“Yes, silly of me to be so miserly at a time like this—my ancestors would be most displeased. One hundred seventy five thousand, then. And another twenty-five thousand if it’s done before midnight.”
Manning took a deep breath. “Two hundred thousand dollars? But Chen Gui—you can pay your own people pennies to do this, in comparison.”
“I have no one left in Japan, and the quicker this gets done, the quicker I can make my reappearance. The Yakuza are timid, but they will fall in with the first gangster who resumes the flow of goods. You know the Taiwanese are angling for the territory, and once they know I’ve left, they’ll move in immediately...once the Fujianese snake’s head is dead. DOngdé ma?”
“Shi. But I’ve had no contact with the Fujianese—I wouldn’t know where to find them, much less their leader.”
Chen Gui reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a card. He pressed it into Manning’s hand.
“I have a special relationship with a young girl,” Chen Gui said. “She’s very young, very lovely, but plays both sides of the fence. She’s Japanese, but she runs with the Fujianese. She is also enamored of me, because as I’ve told you, we Shanghainese are quite generous. Do you know what I mean?”
“You have an enjo kMsai partner,” Manning replied, using the Japanese term which loosely described “assisted dating” between a young, school-aged girl and a middle-aged man. Despite the fact that it was a distasteful practice—it was practically underage prostitution, after all—Manning was nevertheless impressed that Chen Gui had managed to navigate such culturally tricky waters; most foreigners lacked the required finesse to successfully negotiate a compensated dating package with a Japanese schoolgirl.
“Yes. She is quite sweet, but requires much attention.”
“Then I can understand why you would be in a hurry to return to Tokyo. Enjo kMsai is one of the more valued and least understood relationships between a man and a young woman. I’m impressed that you successfully completed the arrangements.”
Chen Gui smiled tightly and clasped his hands behind his back, pleased with himself and pleased that Manning understood the skill that had been required in closing such a deal. Manning allowed the plump man his moment to gloat while he scanned the card. While it was written in hiragana, he could make it out. The telephone number was certainly understandable.
“Noguchi Chisako?” he confirmed with Chen Gui.
“Shi.”
“And you say she knows where the Fujianese are? And that she would give me the information? May I ask how this might be expected to work out?”
“As I said, Bái Hu, she requires much attention, and the Fujianese snake head is far less indulgent of her tastes than I am. And she was the one who warned me to leave Tokyo immediately, as she learned of the Fujianese gang’s movement against my nephew and myself. So you see, she is truly awaiting my return.”
“I see.” It was an odd arrangement, for sure. Manning didn’t like the smell of it, but...
“You’ll do as I ask, Bái Hu?”
Manning thought about it. He looked at the card again, lips pursed.
“Once I know you’re out of Japan, I’ll make the arrangements,” Manning agreed, finally. “It will happen before midnight.”
CHAPTER 3
San Francisco, California
For just a moment Hal Ryker thought the world had gone to hell in a hand basket and no one gave a damn any more, but then he saw a familiar face behind the hotel reception desk, talking to a pair of elderly Japanese. The clerk glanced at him briefly, then ignored him. Her name was...damn, he couldn’t remember, why was he so awful with names?...and she’d got her detective’s shield six months ago, he remembered the frosted donuts and the coffee salute as everyone welcomed a new gladiator to the arena. He wondered what she thought of him—not that it mattered anyway because they worked out of the same precinct and only an idiot crapped in his own nest. Ryker didn’t know a cop-on-cop relationship that had ever worked out to anyone’s satisfaction, most especially his own, and he sure as hell wasn’t going down that bumpy road again...even if the bogus hotel clerk did have eyes a man could drown in and legs that went all the way up to her armpits.
Chee Wei stood waiting for him by the bank of elevators, one of which lay open with a printed Out Of Service sign on the fr
ame. Ryker nodded hello and they stepped into the elevator. The young Chinese turned a key that was already in the control panel, then thumbed a button. The doors slid shut and the elevator climbed smoothly. The distant hum of motors and cables provided a background to Chee Wei’s inevitable question: “So, did you get any over the weekend?”
“Damn right I did. Your sister dropped by,” Ryker said, not taking his gaze from the display as the numbers got higher and higher, heading for the 38th floor. “I’m going to have to buy a new bed, she busted the springs. Neighbors were banging on the ceiling all night. Hey, I’ll bring in the tape. You can show it to your folks so they know what a talented daughter they have.”
“Tell me how much a new bed costs, they’ll want to pay for it,” Chee Wei said without change of expression. “Of course, my sister’s eye operation will have to be postponed. We’ll just buy her a guide dog instead. It’s cheaper.”
“Speaking of eyes, who’s that behind the desk downstairs?”
“That would be Detective Sandra Raymond. Locker room says she likes girlie stuff, but that’s because she hasn’t had a solid date in over a month. You thinking about punching her ticket?”
“We have anyone else down there, or is she it?”
“Two plainclothes from the Bay area. Jackson, you know him, and a guy called Blacque, with a ‘q’. You walked right past them.”
“I meant aside from them.”
The corner of Chee Wei’s mouth turned up, telling Ryker his bluff hadn’t worked. Then again, he hadn’t seen Jackson since Spring last year when they’d rubbed shoulders on a double homicide. “Uh-huh. Couple of uniforms on permanent station round the corner with their radios open. We whistle, they come running. That’s assuming some crazy guy with a knife shows up looking for more dicks to cut off.”
The elevator slowed to a stop and the doors opened. Ryker nodded to the uniform waiting for them. The cop jerked a thumb over his shoulder indicating a cluster of bodies at the far end of the huge room, just in case they couldn’t find the corpse on their own. The dimensions of the place staggered Ryker. And the décor didn’t just impress him, it took his breath away. The furniture, the flooring, the rugs, the wood paneling, even the chandeliers hanging ten feet above his head each cost more than he made in a year. No, two years. The stench of wealth assaulted his nose. Just being here made him feel like some bum who’d wandered in off the street. He had an urge to take off his shoes out of respect, but that would only leave an embarrassing trail of foot-shaped sweat marks across the polished wood.
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