Han’s eyes almost failed to pick out the black-clad figure crouched on all fours like an animal about to pounce. It blended into the shadows around the sedan—seemed to belong to a world of confused light and shade rather than be an individual human entity. And it was staring at Han over the barrel of his pistol. Han willed his finger to pull the trigger and send a bullet into the killer’s skull, but those eyes, those terrible eyes and the dark force behind them stopped the signal from passing along the network of nerves that connected Han’s brain to his hand. Try as he might, he could not pull the trigger. And for the first time in nearly forty years, Han Baojia experienced fear.
Too late, his troubled mind acknowledged the object that whirled through the air and struck the gun from his hand. Red-hot pain lanced up his arm. At least one bone in his hand had been shattered by the impact. He looked down and saw what looked like an iron rod, no more than six inches in length, lying beside his foot. Further back up the street, the way they’d just come, a car hissed by. Han clutched his hand to his chest and ran for his life. If he could find someone, if he could surround himself with witnesses whose presence might deter the killer, he might stand a chance. His footsteps echoed up the lonely street, vying with the thump of his heart against his ribcage and his laboring, wheezing lungs. He shifted left and right, hoping to avoid any thrown objects. Another car passed by only a hundred paces away, perhaps even less. The possibility that the killer had chosen not to pursue him grew in his mind, until the split-second when his ankles snapped together and he fell headlong, landing on his broken hand and smashing his face into the asphalt.
The numbness lasted for a count of five. Then agony tore through his body. Blood filled his mouth; he’d bitten the end of his tongue off. He curled into fetal position and suppressed the groan that sought to escape his lips. He became aware that his ankles were bound by a length of wire attached to teardrop-shaped iron weights at either end. He’d been tripped, brought down expertly like some jungle animal hunted for sport. Barbs fixed along the wire had torn his flesh to ribbons. He suspected their points might be grating against the bones of his ankles.
The killer bent over him and inspected him thoroughly. Hands grabbed hold of his jacket. Han was lifted and spun around and slung over the killer’s shoulder. He struggled to remember the term. Fireman’s carry. Han ground his teeth together, determined not to make a sound that would give the killer satisfaction, even though he had no idea whether that was what the killer sought from him. Only now, through the haze of pain, did he begin to perceive a true impression the killer’s size. He was not a large man. His frame was surprisingly small, his shoulders narrow, his arms wiry, his hands tiny. Was the killer a young boy? Could that be possible?
Small or not, the killer carried Han all the way back toward the sedan without any apparent effort. Keeping Han balanced on his shoulder, the killer opened the driver’s door and took the key from the ignition. He went to the back of the sedan and unlocked the trunk, which swung open to reveal the spacious interior, occupied only by a plastic box containing a flashlight, tire iron, and foot pump.
The killer twisted and dipped his shoulder, dumping Han into the trunk without ceremony. It was simply too much; a moan escaped Han’s lips. He instantly detested himself for exposing his weakness to his enemy. But the killer didn’t appear interested; he slammed the trunk shut. The light bulb dimmed, became a glowing pinhead, too small to illuminate Han’s surroundings. His ragged breathing filled the darkness. Now that he was alone he sucked air deep into his lungs and permitted himself a full-blown groan. Moving his legs proved impossible, the nerves refused to respond. His hand burned, distracting him further.
He sought, and found, the flashlight, which was made of tough plastic, with a handle above the body. He thumbed the switch on. When his eyes adjusted he played the light over his other hand. It was unnaturally twisted, the fingers bent backward, dislocated or broken, he couldn’t tell which. In terms of pain it probably didn’t matter, one was as bad as the other. He laid the flashlight on the floor. The beam waned and he thought the batteries might be drained, but the beam’s strength returned again without explanation. Han gripped his twisted forefinger and wrenched it straight. The pain made him weep. He spat blood that had pooled in his mouth, then pulled his other fingers straight in rapid succession. Three had been dislocated, and his smallest finger was indeed broken. He tried gripping the flashlight but it slipped from his numb fingers. He jammed his useless fingers between the flashlight’s handle and the cylindrical body, an exercise in self-mutilation, but it gave him a club that would, with luck, be enough to distract the killer for a split-second. He switched it off to preserve battery power. Next he searched for the tire iron and took comfort from the feel of the chill, hard metal. As soon as the trunk opened again he would turn on the flashlight and swing it at the killer’s head, masking his real attack, the pointed end of the tire iron which he would thrust at the killer’s solar plexus with all the strength and speed he could muster.
Thumping noises came from the front of the sedan. The car rocked on its suspension. The engine started. Han imagined the killer must have got behind the wheel, having pushed Tao Baozong over into the passenger seat with Fan Guolong. Their failure to safeguard his life angered Han. The ineptness of the Russian’s “special training” couldn’t be more obvious. Baluyevsky’s competence would be called into question as soon as Han saw Lin Yubo....
The sedan moved off. Han relaxed as best he could, conserving what strength he had. The numbness began to spread up his legs, to his knees. That suggested blood loss as well as nerve and muscle damage. After he dealt with the killer, assuming he could, what then? Somehow he would have to get out of the trunk and into the driver’s seat. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. For now his focus must be entirely upon the killer. Exacting revenge for the deaths of Lin Yubo’s sons was paramount. To Han, this objective was more important than his own life. He closed his eyes and mumbled a prayer to all his ancestors. Let me perform my duty well.
The sedan slowed. How far had it been driven? He’d no idea. He thought it turned a corner, though his limited perspective from within the dark trunk couldn’t be entirely trusted. It slowed again, then stopped. The engine was switched off. The sedan rocked again. Had the killer got out? Han gripped the tire iron tight and placed his thumb over the flashlight’s switch.
The trunk opened! Han switched on the flashlight and swung his arm up and around. It seemed as if a sledgehammer struck his forearm, the force tremendous, the pain too much for any man to bear. The flashlight spun away, torn from his hand, and smashed itself to pieces. He screamed even as he rose up on his elbow and aimed the tire iron at an imaginary point where he imagined—hoped, prayed!—the killer must be standing. His makeshift weapon only found air before the sledgehammer struck again, shattering his hand. The tire iron made a clanging noise as it hit solid ground. Concrete? Could they be inside one of the warehouses?
The flashlight was gone. The tire iron was gone. All that remained was the pain. His arms were as useless as his legs. He lay on the floor of the trunk, gasping and helpless.
“How does it feel, Han Baojia?”
The trunk light revealed the killer, a black shape against a black background. Where were they? Han couldn’t hear anything above his own rasping breathing.
He shook his head, forcing himself to concentrate. What had he missed? Something important. Something his senses had tried to tell him before now, but he’d ignored the information, relying instead upon his misconceptions.
A woman’s voice. Muffled by her mask but nonetheless recognizable. She’d spoken in Cantonese. Her hands were empty. There was no sledgehammer. The truth stunned him. She’d broken his forearm and his wrist using only her hands.
“How does it feel to be helpless, and alone?”
He wanted to ask, Who are you? but suspected he would receive no meaningful answer.
“Does it bring back memories?”
Ver
y probably a Michelle Huang did work at the Medical Examiner’s office, but she had not called Han about the preliminary report. No, the killer had called him, briefly assuming Michelle Huang’s identity. She’d lured him from a position of security and safety. Then she’d called again, with perfect timing, and asked him to meet her at another location. Like a fool he’d fallen for her trickery.
She knew his name. Evidence that she must have been gathering intelligence. Or had been given it by an unknown third party.
“Think back, Han Baojia. Think back to Shanghai.” She leaned into the trunk, so close to him that he felt the warmth of her breath on his cheek. “Think back to Pudong. Does the name Shi mean anything to you?”
Her eyes, blacker than black, were only inches from his own. Power radiated from those orbs, a terrifying elemental power that seeped into him and made his heart flutter.
“Do you remember a boy? Twelve years old. Frightened of the People’s Army officer who shouted into his face. So frightened that he could not answer the officer’s questions.”
Han shook his head, denying the memories, but they insisted upon casting the earth aside and rearing up out of the ground like rotted corpses suddenly come to life. There had been a boy. Where? When? In the poorest quarter of old Shanghai. A village in its own right. Han had denounced the elders who were then displayed for all to ridicule. The boy, he’d been part of the crowd, standing near the front. No, not part of the crowd. He’d been in the crowd. But somehow detached, unresponsive to the emotion that hung in the air, showing nothing. Han had watched him until he felt sure the boy disapproved of what was happening. He’d called him forward. The crowd had pushed him into the center of the square.
He didn’t want to remember but the dark force behind those eyes pressed down upon him, allowing him no escape.
Han had questioned the boy but received only the most basic answers. He began to suspect the boy was retarded. When asked to explain why the Revolution was so important to the Chinese people, he could not. Han saw smiles appearing in the crowd, as if the peasants found the boy’s stupidity amusing. Those smiles had forced Han to punish the boy. The Party could not be seen to lose face. Stupidity was no excuse. If the boy was retarded then his family should have tried harder to educate him. The fault was entirely theirs. Han dragged a wooden box into the square, put the protesting boy inside, and nailed the lid shut. He then stood upon the box while he addressed the crowd, explaining the new policy and what it meant to every one of them. He was pleased with his impassioned speech and how it seemed to affect them. Only when he stepped off the box over an hour later did he realize it had no air holes.
The killer straightened. Han sighed with relief, glad to be away from her. She pulled off her mask. Her hair cascaded down over her shoulders. Some might have judged her beautiful; to Han she was a demoness in human form, who had worked dark magic upon him.
“His name was Shi Jiawen. He was my brother. As Lin Yubo shall pay for the death of my father, you must pay for the death of my brother.”
She slammed the trunk shut.
He heard no footsteps, nor the sound of a door opening and then closing, entombing him within the building, wherever it was. But he knew she had left him here to die.
Han had always wondered what the boy’s name was. Now he knew.
CHAPTER 13
At 6:25am, the morning was much like the one before it: murky and gray from the marine layer, with a chill wind winding its way through the streets of San Francisco. Manning found that the jet lag he’d hoped to avoid had nestled upon his shoulders like a waiting falcon poised to launch itself into the sky. There was no getting away from it; the exhaustion he felt was enormous, just like it always was when he returned to the U.S. from Asia. He would just have to suck it up and deal with it the best way he could.
His primary weapon to combat the effects was coffee, and lots of it. He drank half a pot of Arabian he found in one of his cabinets while keeping a bleary eye on the television. The same old news was playing. More trouble in the Middle East, a faltering economy, political farce after political farce played out on the American stage, terrorism and gasoline prices were still in the forefront of everyone’s mind. Not a lot had changed in the months Manning had been away.
When he felt human enough, he roused himself from the embrace of his sofa and padded into the second bedroom. There he worked out for forty minutes with the Bowflex that dominated the center of the room, then went through a series of repetitions with the free weights for a while, followed by a vigorous set of crunches and deep knee bends. By the time he was finished, his heart was pumping and the blood sang through his veins and sweat stood out on his brow.
Human at last, he thought.
He showered and shaved, then slowly dressed, pulling on a dark suit over a white Brooks Brothers shirt, accented with a yellow tie. He knelt and reached into the closet, pulling up the small metal hatch hidden there beneath the carpet. The floor safe was one of the more useful things he’d come across, and he quickly pressed his thumb against the bioscanner lock and opened it. Inside were two items: a pair of NVS-7 night vision goggles, and a Smith & Wesson Model SW990L .40 caliber pistol. He removed the weapon and closed the safe, replaced the hatch and covered it with the carpet.
With quick, practiced motions he went through the routine of stripping down the pistol and quickly ensured that all its parts were lubricated and in working order. It was in pristine condition, never once having been fired in anger, and he kept it meticulously maintained. The action moved smoothly beneath his fingers, the only resistance being that which had been designed. He loaded a magazine with .40 caliber glazed rounds and slapped it into the weapon. He pulled back on the slide and charged it, then safed the weapon and placed it in its self-securing holster. Manning then looped his belt through the holster and pulled on his jacket. He inspected himself in the mirror, and was satisfied that the weapon was as concealed as it could be. Not that it mattered to him personally; in California, he was licensed to carry such things. For added measure, he also slipped an ASP3 baton into the mix, clipping it to his belt next to his cell phone holster. When fully extended, the device would act as a deterrent in a physical altercation where the pistol might be inopportune. Manning was adept enough with the device to shatter an assailant’s collarbones or forearms.
At eight o’clock, he ran a comb through his short brown hair, made one last inspection of his face to make sure he hadn’t missed a spot while shaving, threw on a London Fog dress coat, and left the apartment. His destination laid only a hair less than a mile and a half distant, so he chose to walk. The morning rush hour traffic was mounting, and he didn’t want to have to deal with any unplanned interruptions—that and the fact that parking in the business district was almost impossible. Therefore, on foot is what it would be. On the way, he stopped by a Starbucks and grabbed another small coffee, something to keep him warm in the cold late-Autumn air. The streets were already clogged with cars and buses, and the sidewalks weren’t much easier; twice, Manning had to react quickly to avoid being run down by bicyclists who illegally used the sidewalk instead of the street.
It’s a shame I can’t shoot these guys and get away with it.
On the way, he practiced his usual surveillance detection routines, using storefront windows and the like as mirrors, looking for any possible tails. He also walked in a circle twice, navigating two blocks that took him well out of his way but afforded him the opportunity to examine the path he had covered. No one was following him. As far as he could tell, the rest of the humanity in the city of San Francisco merely regarded him as another businessman on his way to work downtown...if they regarded him at all.
As he walked, he fished his cell phone from his pocket and flipped it open. He had no text messages nor voicemails, and their absence made him feel almost poignantly lonely. He wondered how Ryoko was doing, and wished he hadn’t agreed to honor her request for privacy.
Despite the circuitous SDRs, Manning arrived a
t 101 California Street ten minutes early. He finished the dregs of his Starbucks and tossed the empty cup into a nearby trashcan. He pulled his wallet from his pants pocket and removed his conceal carry and driver’s licenses, then pushed his way into the building’s ornate, seven story lobby with several other similarly-dressed men and women. He made his way to the front desk, holding the licenses out before him. 101 California had some history; it had been the site of a mass murder in the early 1990s, when a disgruntled businessman had executed eight other workers. In response to that firearms and the like were absolutely illegal on the premises. Manning planned on declaring his weapon as soon as it was prudent; he wanted no mistakes.
“Can I help you, sir?” asked one of the security guards behind the desk, a skinny black kid in his early twenties.
“Jerome Manning. I’m here for a nine o’clock appointment with Lin Industries on the 45th floor.” Manning handed over the licenses. “I’m a licensed security contractor, and I am armed. These are my credentials.”
The guard took the licenses and examined them. Manning’s declaration had also caught the attention of another security guard. This one was also black, but older and much, much larger. He walked around the desk and approached Manning slowly from the left side.
Manning looked at him quickly.
“Let’s take it easy, boss.”
“Weapons aren’t allowed on the premises sir,” the guard said. “You have to surrender it or leave.”
“No problem. How do you want to do this?”
The skinny kid behind the desk pulled out a plastic bin and placed it before Manning.
“Empty your pockets in this, including the gun,” he said. “You can’t carry it with you up to 45th floor.”
White Tiger Page 19
