by Roger Weston
“Alright,” Willis said, “you’ve got my vote.”
“Listen closely, Willis, you son-of-a-bitch. You back out like you did last time, you’re gonna find out how serious those threats really are. It scares me the kind of lunatics that are out there.”
“I won’t back out. What about the legal fees? Are those still part of the deal?”
“Only mine. My cousin’s problems got resolved.”
CHAPTER 33
Seattle Chinatown
The Hang Sun bookstore in Chinatown had bars on the windows and thin wood shelves all around, many of which sagged under the weight of their load. When Chuck entered, he found the proprietor to be a long-haired, baby-faced Chinese man with a happy expression. He sat behind the counter reading mail. When he saw Chuck, he forced a big smile and said, “Welcome, friend.” His voice was gravelly, but warm.
Chuck approached the counter. He complimented the man on his fine shop, and the man appreciated the kind words, offering to help Chuck find anything he wanted, including rare books, which he could order if he didn’t have them in stock.
“You may be able to help me,” Chuck said. “I understand you have a private rare book collection that includes a manuscript on immigrants of the northwest.” Chuck gave him the title.
The man’s smile transformed into a hostile glare. “Who told you about my collection?”
Chuck hesitated while he tried to make sense of the strange transformation.
“Is there some problem?” Chuck said.
The man flung his mail onto the floor. “I have the book,” he said. “But I don’t lend it out to morons.” He pointed at the door and hissed as if Chuck were a stray cat.
“Look,” Chuck said, “all I want to do is page through the book. It shouldn’t take long.”
“No.”
“It’s very important to me.” Chuck pulled three hundred dollar bills out of his pocket and held it out. “This is just so I can page through the book. That’s all.”
The proprietor took the money, ripped it up and threw it back at Chuck.
“What’s your problem?” Chuck said.
“You crawled out of a pond. Now you get your white butt out of here before I get mad.”
Chuck stared at him for a moment in disbelief, wondering if he was on drugs. “Alright,” Chuck said, turning toward the door.
The man snapped up a paperback off a pile on the counter and threw it, hitting Chuck in the left ear.
“Faster,” the book man said. “Get out before I whack your ass.” He raised his striking hand.
Chuck stopped and looked at the floor. He figured this guy knew karate and probably meant what he said. Chuck walked back to the counter. “I’ll get out, but I want to use the rest room first.”
“What the—?”
Chuck grabbed a handful of the man’s long hair and slammed his face against the counter. “I said I gotta go bad.” He slammed the proprietor’s face down a few more times.
Chuck dragged the man over the counter and walked him through the door to the back room. It was a small library. Old and rare books filled rusted metal shelves. Chuck saw the door to the rest room, shoved the man inside, and delivered a solid hit to the orbital bone around his eye socket. The force of the blow was communicated directly to the frontal lobes of his brain. The man hit the back wall and collapsed unconscious.
In the backroom library, Chuck scanned the books. They were in alphabetical order, so he was able to find the one he wanted within a few minutes. He heard some moaning in the bathroom, but ignored it. He went out into the store and locked the front door. He flipped around the sign that said he’d be back in an hour.
In the back room, Chuck sat down at an old metal desk. It was a book about the log trains of Idaho. Back in the early 1900s, the Boise Payette Lumber Company built dozens of train tracks into the Idaho wilderness where they logged as much lumber as they wanted. Chuck found a reference to Lok Jin, the Chinese railroad worker and miner—who had helped build the tracks and later made a fortune as a miner. He had kept the location of his mine a secret. It was said that he was a gambling addict, and he once bragged that he had etched the location of his mine on a poker chip. On a couple of occasions, he had even bet that chip, but only when he had a winning hand—and he’d always kept the chip face down on the poker table so nobody could read what it said. The book made no mention of what part of Idaho Jin had worked in and no mention of Jin Mountain. Chuck sighed and shook his head in frustration.
He had barely stepped into the alley when he saw a Chinese thug leaning against the building his arm hidden behind a vertical drainpipe. A man whose facial scar gave him a permanent grin on the right side of his mouth stepped out, and when his arm came into view, his hand held a sawed-off shotgun, which he swung up. Aiming at Chuck, he fired.
CHAPTER 34
Seattle, Chinatown
Chuck hit the ground and endured a wave of pure pain from the shotgun blast. His vest protected his body, but his left arm and shoulder erupted in agony. As Chuck verified he still had an arm and shoulder, he also realized that the shooter had hit him with a hornet’s nest shell. The round delivered twenty-one rubber projectiles. From twenty feet, the expanding spray was an excellent incapacitation mechanism. The shooter took off, but three other Triads closed in on him and kicked the hell out of him. Chuck endured numerous kicks to the body and the legs. Then a flat foot across the eye snapped his head back. A foot stomped on his wrist, and two men disarmed him.
Once they had his pistol, they released him, and Chuck stood up.
He delivered a sharp blow to one man’s neck and another’s solar plexus. He grabbed a third man’s groin like a vice grip. The man screamed in agony.
Defying his own pain, Chuck slammed the screamer against a brick wall. He turned and faced his tormentors. One of them must have been six-eight—and built like a steroids poster boy. The other was thin and wiry with the greased hair of a shoe salesman. The switchblade in his hand made a clicking sound as the blade snapped out. Chuck turned and started back up the alley the way he’d come, but a bull-shouldered Chinese and a black man jogged into the alley, blocking his retreat.
The Triads Chuck could understand, but the black man didn’t fit. And the pistol in his hand verified that he wasn’t in the alley for a shortcut.
Weirdly, the black man seemed to be the leader of the group and spoke first. “Don’t blame Chairman Mao if you get yourself shot.”
Chuck couldn’t believe it. They were messing with him like he was a soft target. He spread his fingers and slowly flared his arms, showing his palms to his new friends so they could see that he was no threat to their peaceful state of well being.
“I don’t like your sense of humor,” Chuck said. He looked at the black man with curiosity.
The black man nodded at the Triad with the greased hair and the switchblade. “Feng, emasculate him.”
Chuck’s eyes came open with shock, and he was already sorry he’d insulted the man. “Actually, I meant no offense,” Chuck said. He glanced down the alley and saw a man crawling away, the screamer.
Feng rushed forward and slashed his blade at Chuck’s face.
Chuck ducked, but the switchblade sliced into his scalp. He yelled in pain and lifted Feng off the ground with a body punch. Feng landed on his shoulder and squealed like a pig.
Chuck felt warm blood from his scalp run down his forehead and drip off his nose. It ran over his lips, and he tasted the salty, coppery liquid on his tongue. Blood ran over his eyelash, and he wiped his eye with the back of his hand. He saw that Feng was getting up, so Chuck brought his foot into contact with the man’s face. Feng grunted and rolled.
Tree, the six-foot-eight Triad, came at him next. Emboldened by the giant, Bull Shoulders produced his own shiny blade and moved in from the other direction.
Chuck felt the raw edge of panic. The knife blade threatened to hypnotize him with fear. He hated knives more than anything....
He lunged f
or a piece of rusty pipe that was lying on the ground and swung it back and forth to keep Tree at bay. It worked for a few moments, but then Tree hammered Chuck in the chest with a long-legged kick. Chuck got up just in time for Bull Shoulders to yell and stab him in the shoulder.
Chuck yelled louder and kicked the big man’s knee cap hard with the bottom of his foot. The joint collapsed backwards. Chuck heard the bone and tendons pop and crunch. The big guy dropped and grabbed his crushed joint and ranted in Chinese. He screamed and spit and slapped the pavement and cried. Chuck enjoyed watching him suffer for a moment too long.
Tree kicked him again. This time Chuck flew with his hands spread out in front of him. He landed and felt the skin tear off his palm and wrist. As he got up, he pulled a fragment of a broken beer bottle out of the wound and threw it down.
Feng was waiting for the right moment to attack, but hadn’t scored yet. He waved his switchblade back and forth in front of Chuck.
Tree executed an impressive flying kick, but Chuck saw it coming. He deflected the leg with his forearm and delivered a sharp blow to the inside of Tree’s upper thigh—a clean shot to the femoral nerve. Tree buckled to the ground and crawled away. He tried to get up, but had lost coordinated foot movements. He crawled a little more and then managed to get up and limp a few feet before turning and facing Chuck, but his face was a picture of pain.
Chuck watched Feng closely. When the little guy realized that Tree didn’t have any fight left in him, he took a couple of steps back and looked over at the black man.
“Not bad,” the black man said. “I expected Feng to cut your balls off and call it a day.”
“Who are you?” Chuck said. He wiped a gallon of blood from his face.
“I’m the heavyweight champion of the world. I’m Joseph Stalin. I sell the best damn kitchen knives on the planet and I will slice and dice your veggies. Got a smoke?”
“Sounds like a lot of bullshit to me,” Chuck said.
A white van pulled into the alley and stopped next to the man.
He grinned. “Circus over.” He raised his pistol. “You’re coming with us.” He looked at the Triads. “Tree, let’s go.”
Tree and Feng helped the Bull Shoulders up and supported him as he hopped down the alley. They turned the corner and Chuck heard some car doors open and shut. Tires screeched. The black man remained there with his gun. Tree and Feng jogged back. “You’re staining the streets with your blood,” Tree said. “Get in the van.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Hurry up or I’ll drop you where you stand.”
Chuck walked over. He stood there as Tree slid opened the side door. As he stepped into the van, Tree shoved him, and he slammed into a wire cage as the door slammed behind him.
The ride took about ten minutes. Chuck was removed to a huge vacant warehouse. There was nothing in the massive open space but a picnic table and now a van. Tree and Feng took him to a back room.
“I need water,” Chuck said.
Tree grinned at him and locked the door, leaving Chuck alone. Chuck sat down on the floor and leaned against the wall. He shook his head and closed his eyes. He grit his teeth with pain and anger. They’d just been toying with him. They’d anticipated him and had Triad thugs waiting. The reference librarian was a set-up. Chuck was in a lot of pain, and he felt he deserved it. He should’ve known. He’d made a huge mistake, and now the search for Lydia was at a standstill. Maybe this was all a just a hoax and she wasn’t even alive. The thought gave him waves of agony and self-loathing that made his physical pain irrelevant in comparison. The thought of scumbags hurting her made him feel like he’d just been given a lethal injection. Rage burned through his pain.
Chuck heard voices arguing out in the warehouse. He hoped they took their time while he bled to death. As he heard snatches of the dialogue, he realized that the Triads wanted him dead, but the black man didn’t. He couldn’t understand all of what they were saying.
Chuck wasn’t sure which side he should root for—especially when he heard the compromise they were discussing.
The door handle rattled, startling him. Tree shoved the door open. His smile depressed Chuck. Anything that Tree was happy about could not be good news. Chuck noticed the shiny pistol handle under Feng’s jacket.
“Come with me,” Tree said.
“You know you’re being used,” Chuck said, “and when you’re all used up …”
Now the grin faded, but the vengeful look that replaced it gave Chuck little comfort. When he stood, his head throbbed in pain. “I’m losing blood. I need a doctor.”
Tree grinned again.
Chuck was led into the warehouse and ordered to sit at the picnic table. A doctor with a stethoscope around his neck stood next to a steel cart on which was an open laptop in a metal suitcase. A Chinese nurse with a clipboard in her hand stood at attention next to the cold contraption. Three video cameras on tripods were focused on the table.
“Take off your shirt,” the doctor demanded.
Chuck had a bad feeling about this doctor. The man had no compassion in his eyes and the nurse had a sinister look on her face.
Feng pressed the tip of his switch blade against Chuck’s back. “Now.”
Chuck did as he was told.
He felt Feng’s knife press into his back again. “Sit down.”
As Chuck eased into the chair, he kept a close eye on the doctor, who now had an eager look in his eye.
The man held out a razor and shaved several patches of hair off of Chuck’s chest without using shaving cream. Feng and Tree smirked at Chuck while the doctor worked. The doctor attached ECG electrode patches to the bare spots. The electrodes were connected by wire leads to the recording device.
When Tree got a butcher’s knife out of the van, Chuck cursed under his breath. He watched the big man closely as Tree approached the table. It was sickening the way Tree admired the blade. He recalled that outside the black man had told Feng to…
“No,” he said. “You guys are lunatics.”
Tree looked at the black man. “He’s talking to you, Owen.”
So now Chuck had his name. “What do you want from me?”
“Nothing,” Owen said. “Curtis wants you to know that he hasn’t forgotten your betrayal in Colombia.”
“He’s behind this?”
“You didn’t think he’d forget, did you?”
“Where is he? I want to talk to him.”
“That’s not going to happen.” Owen nodded at the Triads. Feng and another goon held Chuck’s left arm down on the table. Given the wound in his left shoulder and the pistol pointed at his forehead, there wasn’t much he could do.
“I wouldn’t do this,” Chuck said.
The doctor handed the nurse a stethoscope, and she placed it on Chuck’s chest. She listened to his heartbeat for a minute, then noted the results on her clipboard.
“What’s going on here?” Chuck said.
The nurse went over and got behind a camera, adjusting the lens a little. “I’m ready.”
“For what?” Chuck said, eyeing the butcher’s knife in Tree’s hand.
Feng held his hand on the table so that Chuck’s pinky was sticking out. “Got it,” he said.
Three other Triads held Chuck in place.
“Don’t do it,” Chuck said.
It sounded like Tree hit the table with a hammer. Chuck felt the blade sever his finger, taking off the first notch. Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt for the first few seconds, but after that it did—and a puddle of blood formed on the table. Chuck grit his teeth and pinned his eyes shut. They’d gone too far. He’d had it. The bastards were playing him.
“Should we continue?” Tree said his voice drunk with satisfaction.
Tree lifted the butcher knife.
Chuck tried to pull his arms loose, but the four Triads held him down securely. He thrust with his legs, and his powerful thighs bowled over the four men, who fell into Owen and knocked the black man to the groun
d. Seizing his moment, Chuck slammed his fist down into Feng’s throat and grabbed the pistol out of his holster. He never took his eyes off of Owen, who quickly regained his footing and threw the butcher knife at him. Chuck rolled out of the way and fired as the butcher knife sank into Feng’s stomach. His shots went in the general direction of Owen, but they failed to drop the fast-moving target.
Chuck climbed up on his knees as Owen zipped out the door behind the doctor and the nurse.
The first Triad who came at him paid for his mistake with two bullets to the chest. The man hit the ground. A second one went for his gun, but a bullet in his right shoulder rendered his hand obsolete and almost ripped his entire arm off.
Chuck saw Tree running out the door.
“You should have chopped off my trigger finger,” Chuck said, kneeling down by Feng.
“Who hired you?”
“Owen.” Feng grit his teeth in pain.
“Who does Owen work for?”
“Help me. Oh, please, it hurts.”
Chuck reached into Feng’s pocket and pulled out the cell phone. “First you tell me who it is.”
“I don’t know.” Feng’s lips quivered and his face twisted in agony. He made a grotesque choking sound.
Chuck pointed his gun at the thug with the bad shoulder who was looking around for an escape route.
“Who?” Chuck said.
“He pay cash. That all I—” He looked around in desperation.
“You’re a liar.” Chuck lifted his gun. “Start talking.”
The thug shook his head rapidly. “I don’t know, mister. He no tell me, please.”
Chuck frowned. He’d lost a lot of blood and didn’t have time for a full interrogation. He grabbed his fingertip off the table and started for the door.
The Triad made a break for it.
Chuck turned and fired two shots. The pistol’s kick vibrated through his arm as the report bounced around the warehouse walls. The first slug ripped into the Triad’s left leg and the second slug hit the other. “Bad idea,” Chuck said to the falling man.
With blood still pouring out of his left pinky, he clenched his hand. At the door, he verified that the alley was clear, then left.
