by Marc Cameron
Ryan raised Chavez on the net, quickly bringing him up to speed. “I don’t know how you plan to convince Medina to come with us, but you’d better do it now. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to be coming your way at a run.”
56
Domingo Chavez was a smart man—and he knew it. Sure, he started off a little slow, barely getting out of East L.A. to enlist in the Army. He’d gone on to become the first male in his immediate family to attend college, and then later, under the mentorship of John Clark and the man’s brainiac daughter, he’d finished graduate school. Fluent in three languages, he was conversant in two more. He could hold his own in forensic accounting, had enough flight time to land a small plane if he had to, or rig a communications radio with little more than a few household items and a foil wrapper from a stick of Juicy Fruit.
He was good at a lot of things, but he was best at brute force. That was probably why he got along so well with his father-in-law.
Unfortunately, force was off the table for the moment. He had to appeal to his kinder, gentler angels, to sweet-talk a woman who had aligned herself with a bunch of terrorists . . . freedom fighters . . . convince her to come with him of her own free will. Now there was another team out there, poaching the leads Adam Yao had come up with. They were surely the ones following Lisanne—and they also wanted to talk to Medina Tohti. Judging from the body count they’d left behind in Huludao and Albania, their kinder, gentler angels had gone on terminal leave.
Chavez had to get to her first. Doing that without getting shot was going to be tricky.
The area in front of the cabin had been cleared of brush and trees, making a stealthy approach impossible. Chavez ruled out working their way around to the rear of the cabin. It had likely been cleared as well, and the time it took to check would be wasted.
“We’ll ride in on the horses,” Yao said. “They’ll think we’re tourists who got lost on the trail.”
“That could work,” Chavez said, though he didn’t relish climbing aboard the fuzzy little gray again. “If we try to creep up, they’d just shoot us for sure—”
The harsh voice from brush behind them caused both men to roll onto their backs. Chavez let the binoculars fall against their strap and reached for his Beretta.
He froze when he saw Medina Tohti and her Han friend, both with pistols aimed directly at them. Medina looked at Chavez’s gun hand and gave a tut-tut shake of her head. Her pistol remained rock-steady, finger on the trigger.
“You are correct,” the Han man said in perfect English. “Had you tried to creep up to the cabin, we certainly would have shot you. But that raises a question. What is to keep us from shooting you now?”
* * *
—
The Han man, whom Medina called Ma, obviously had some military or police experience. It took him only a few seconds to zip-tie both Chavez’s and Yao’s hands behind their backs, then pat them down for weapons. He was particularly interested in the Beretta, but said nothing. Satisfied for the moment, he dragged the men to their feet and gave a shrill whistle as he walked them none too gently out of the clearing.
The two men who’d arrived earlier in the Great Wall pickup came out of the cabin, each assuming control of one of the prisoners, shoving them through the door.
A woman sat at the back window, her eye to what looked like a Russian-made infrared scope.
“No movement,” she said when the men came in.
Though they were Uyghur, everyone spoke Mandarin, apparently in deference to Ma, who was clearly their leader.
The young man beside Chavez held up the Beretta, which he had already cleared, along with the Bowers Group Bitty.
“An assassin’s weapon, to be sure,” he said.
The one next to Yao played with one of the Microtech knives, actuating the button so the dagger blade sprang out the opening in front. A few years older than Chavez’s guard, this one had several days of dark scruff on his face. “Assassins indeed,” he said.
Ma took the Beretta and inserted the magazine, then tipped up the barrel to replace the round in the chamber before reattaching the Bitty suppressor. He aimed the pistol at the floor, giving a satisfied nod at its heft—before turning to point it directly at Adam Yao’s face, three feet away.
The Uyghur guard stepped clear, obviously having seen Ma shoot someone in the head before.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Chavez said in English. “We’re friends.”
The Han man stayed aimed in, but took an almost conciliatory tone.
“Friends . . .” he said. “Well, my friends, if you have found me, then others surely will as well. Now, I need one of you to talk to me, but I do not need you both.” He took a deep breath, head canted in thought. “I will give one of you five seconds to tell me how you found me. I do not care which one.”
Yao spoke, also in English.
“Hala Tohti.”
Medina gasped, springing forward.
“What did you say?”
“Please understand,” Yao said, looking at Ma. “We have no issue with you. We need to speak with Medina about her daughter.”
Ma’s face darkened. The nail bed on his trigger finger whitened. “So you bring an assassin’s weapon.”
Medina’s face went pale. “What do you know of Hala?”
“There are men looking for you,” Chavez said. “Men who would use Hala to get to you—”
“Is she—”
“She is safe,” Chavez said. “My friend is protecting her.”
Ma moved the pistol to Chavez, disgusted. “Your friend is holding the child prisoner?”
“No,” Chavez said. “My friend got her away from danger. Away from the men who are after her.” He looked at Medina. “To get to you.”
Medina blinked, shaking her head as if she were in pain. “I . . . She . . . Where is my daughter now?”
“Safe,” Chavez said.
Tendons knotted in Medina’s neck. Her jaw clenched. “Safe where?”
“At this moment, she’s in Kyrgyzstan,” Chavez said. “On her way out—”
“I want to speak to her,” Medina said.
“We can try,” Chavez said. “But right now, they’re driving toward Bishkek. I’m not sure if they can get a signal.”
Medina choked back a sob. “I must speak to her . . .”
“Listen to me,” Yao said. “We have to hurry. There are very bad men here, in the park, the same men who would have used your daughter to get to you. We are on your side. I swear it. But the others have killed many people trying to locate you. Even now they are following one of my friends.”
Ma seethed, the Beretta lower now, at his belt, but still pointed at Yao. “This friend, he will come to you for help, and lead these men straight to us.”
“No,” Chavez said. “She is leading them away from you.”
“How?” Ma asked. “How did you find us?”
Yao told him about the ticket stubs from the tour boat, speaking quickly. “I will explain when we are on the road. But we must leave.”
The female at the window shot a scornful look at the youngest Uyghur man. “Perhat,” she said. “You did not think to check your pockets before giving away your coat?”
Perhat hung his head. “I—”
“My friend is right,” Chavez said. “You are all in grave danger. We need to go. Now.”
“Enough!” Medina sprang forward, shouldering Ma out of the way and pressing her pistol to Adam Yao’s chin. She turned to scowl at Chavez. “We are not going anywhere. You will let me speak to my daughter, or I kill your friend.”
57
Lisanne picked up her pace, attempting to put distance between herself and the two men. They’d fallen in beside each other now, not even trying to hide the fact that they were following her. Her first thought was to run inside a café, but when she turned to look through the wi
ndow, she saw families inside with small children. She considered turning around and running back to the police station, but realized these men had likely come from there. That would be a dead end in the purest sense of the word.
So she hustled forward at a fast walk, a hand wrapped around the little Beretta Bobcat in her pocket. She heard . . . felt static vibrate on her Molar Mic. Jack and Adara were en route. The lake was fifteen miles away. With any luck, they’d be here before Leather Jacket and Gray Coat attempted to make contact. Jack and Adara were likely trying to contact her now, just out of radio range—hence the static.
She made a left toward a large hotel, looking left as she crossed the street. The men were less than fifty feet away and closing. Rounding the corner, out of sight of her pursuers for a few seconds, Lisanne broke into a run. She cut down a side street, behind the hotel, skirting two large trash bins, before settling among a small group of elderly Chinese tourists, strolling back to their hotel from dinner.
Adara’s voice came across the net, vibrating her jaw via the Sonitus Molar Mic.
“. . . read me?”
“Five by five,” Lisanne said, breathless now. She made a quick right, thinking it would lead her to the front of the hotel. She’d misread the signs. The main hotel entry was at the far end. What she thought was the back had been the side. The Chinese tourists had gone in the back doors, and now Lisanne found herself on the other side, on a vacant street, with nothing but a line of dark woods beyond.
Footfalls on the pavement behind her grew louder. She turned to see Gray Coat trotting toward her, open hands out to his sides, as if to say, “What’s going on?” She turned to run, but saw Leather Jacket ahead of her. He’d continued straight when she made the turn, sprinting around the building to meet her head-on.
“They have me trapped,” she said, searching frantically for a way out. “I could really use some help here.”
Adara’s voice buzzed again, “inside” Lisanne’s head, on her jaw. “How many?”
“Still two,” Lisanne said. “I’m between a hotel and the woods, can’t read the name. Southeast corner of town.”
“We’ve got you on the COP,” Adara said. “Hang on. We’re two minutes out.”
Two minutes . . . This would be over long before that.
Lisanne sidestepped inside a concrete alcove as the men closed in. Recessed into the wall of the hotel, the alcove put her in a box, but it also put her back to the wall. A large rolling metal door told her it was a service entrance. She tried the smaller door to the right of the roll-up, but found it locked. Thought about pounding on it, then decided she might be better off handling this without witnesses.
Gray Coat still had his hands open. “Miss!” he said. “Hey, Miss! We do not hurt you. Want to talk.”
“You guys better hurry,” she said over the net, not caring if the men heard her or not.
“Ninety seconds,” Adara said.
Leather Jacket rushed her before she had time to respond.
He slowed as he got closer, stepping from side to side, herding her backward, into the corner—which was where she’d planned to go as soon as she saw it. She would use the angles to her advantage, forcing both men to come at her head-on rather than flanking her. No man wants to be beaten by a woman, and these two seemed confused that she did not simply submit and let them take her into custody.
“We are police,” Leather Jacket said, rolling his shoulders and puffing out his chest like a little bantam rooster. “You come with us, Miss.”
Neither Adara nor Jack could hear what the men were saying, but they would be listening to her side of the conversation. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” she said. “You’re not police.”
“You are correct.” Gray Coat laughed. “We are not police. And you are not from Finland.” He nodded to Leather Jacket, who moved in. Out of the corner of her eye, Lisanne saw Gray Coat take a syringe from his coat pocket—big, metal, like something you’d use on a horse.
Leather Jacket came in low and fast, attempting to take her in a flying tackle. She shuffle-stepped out of the way at the last minute, grabbing a handful of leather collar as he went past and using his momentum to help him headfirst into the concrete wall. Stunned, he staggered sideways in time for Gray Coat to rush in, attempting to stab her with the horse syringe.
Lisanne parried with both arms, attempting but missing a grab for the man’s wrist for an arm bar that would have knocked him on his ass—and, with any luck, destroyed his shoulder. Surprised at her sudden aggression, he twisted away, presenting the perfect opportunity for her to deliver a lateral kick to his knee.
Gray Coat yowled in pain. The syringe slipped from his hand, but he flailed out, catching Lisanne directly in the temple with his knuckles. Accidental or not, the blow rattled her. She staggered backward, seeing stars, vaguely aware of the short one coming at her. He drove a fist into her ribs, knocking the wind out of her and driving her sideways, bouncing her off his partner, who was still cursing and clutching his knee. Lisanne used Gray Coat as cover, darting around, wheezing, trying in vain to draw a full breath. Leather Jacket grabbed his own partner by the shoulder and yanked him out of the way, eyes ablaze.
Lisanne fished the little Beretta out of her pocket and brought it up a hair too late. Leather Jacket swatted it out of the way, jarring her radial nerve so her hand opened reflexively. The pistol clattered to the concrete. She sidestepped again to avoid another bum rush, catching a glancing scrape as his shoulder impacted her chest.
The blow spun her, but bought her some distance. She clawed the sides of his face with both hands, raking, screaming, fully intending to rip both the ears off his head. Pain caused him to come up on his toes, allowing her to drive a knee into his unprotected groin.
Leather Jacket doubled over, gagging like he might vomit. He yelled something at his partner. Lisanne gave him a slap across one ear for good measure, then wheeled to face a new assault. Jack and Adara would be here any second.
Gray Coat didn’t rush her, or try to attack her at all. Instead, he stepped to the side, moving closer to his partner. Lisanne spun to put her back to the wall again, keeping them both in view.
Tires squealed around the corner, on the other side of the hotel. The glow of approaching headlights cut through the falling snow, playing across the woods. Lisanne wanted to call for them, but didn’t have the breath to waste.
Leather Jacket pushed himself off his knees with both hands. He spat on the ground and reached behind his back, drawing a black pistol.
“No!” Lisanne screamed, turning to run. Jack and Adara were almost here—
The first bullet took her in the left arm, high, under her deltoid, shattering bone. It felt like she’d been hit with a hammer. She was vaguely aware of the report of a second and then a third shot. Had he missed? She hadn’t felt another impact . . . Arm dangling, she dug in, trying to run. Something was wrong. She coughed. Her feet . . . Would. Not. Move. Rooted in place, she tasted salt . . . Blood.
Headlights lit up the night, blinding her. Doors opened. Disjointed voices shouted behind the light.
Lisanne sank to her knees, gasping for air. A thousand-pound weight bore down against her chest. The headlights began to dim. Were they leaving? No, no, no. She needed help. They wouldn’t leave her. Jack wouldn’t leave her . . .
* * *
—
Fu Bohai stood in the snow on the aft deck of a thirty-foot cabin cruiser tied at the end of a pier behind the Lake Kanas Resort and listened to Qiu’s voicemail. This was his third unsuccessful attempt. Fu cursed to himself and snugged his hat down tighter against the chill. For a brief moment, he considered what his life would be like if he simply threw the mobile phone over the side and into the cold, black water. Mountains and lakes were beautiful, to be sure, but they were also an incredible nuisance.
He slipped the phone in his pocket and returned
his attention to the boat’s skipper, a Uyghur man named Qassim. Qassim had proven to be more than talkative from the time they’d found him waiting alone on the boat. In fact, Fu thought, he might have to shoot the man to get him to shut up. Qassim was forty-six years old, had two children—both sons, thanks be to God, because his brother had two daughters and daughters were a curse. His wife nagged him, as he suspected all wives did, mostly about money and the creature comforts of life that she believed a wife like her deserved to have. She hardly cooked for him anymore now that his boys were grown, and the house was always a mess. She was, he pointed out, his father-in-law’s daughter, and, like all daughters, a curse . . .
Fu finally put a boot to the man’s shin to get him to focus. He freely admitted to being hired over the phone by a Chinese man to take a group of foreigners on a night excursion. He did not know the details, only that he was to be paid in cash when they arrived. The appointment had been made less than an hour earlier and he’d come down to the boat to get it ready. His wife had nagged him about going out again after dark and accused him of having a mistress. The old ewe would eat her words when he brought home all that money—
Fu kicked him again. “Are night excursions commonplace?”
Qassim shook his head. “Not common, but not unheard of. Crazy foreigners think they can get a better glimpse of the Kanas Lake Monster at night. We took a television crew out last fall.” He raised his brow up and down, winking at Fu. “The producer was quite attractive. My wife was certain I was . . .” He trailed off, at least smart enough to stop before he earned another kick.
“Where are you to take these foreigners?” Fu asked.
“I do not know,” Qassim said. “It is that way sometimes. Monster hunters bring a chart of the lake and tell me they have heard of sightings here or there or some other place. I charge by the hour, so it does not matter to me where we go.” He smiled, unable to help himself. “Plus, it lets me get away from my bothersome wife.”
