Dragon Head
Page 1
CRITICAL ACCLAIM
FOR JAMES HOUSTON TURNER’S NOVELS
“Ludlumesque!”
—The Dallas Morning News
“Jason Bourne meets The DaVinci Code meets Tom Clancy.”
—LA’s the Place Magazine
“Masterful.”
—Who Magazine (Time Inc)
“One of those searing cliffhanger books that simply defy you to put the thing down.”
—The Advertiser
“Pulsates on every page.”
—BookPleasures
“Unputdownable!”
—The Sunday Mail
“Unlike any spy hero you’ve encountered before.”
—NewsBlaze
“Starts fast and picks up speed!”
—San Francisco Book Review
“Hits the ground running!”
—IndieReader
“Absolutely riveting!”
—Midwest Book Review
“A highly enjoyable, plot twisting potboiler.”
—The US Review
“Don’t start this book in an airport. You’ll miss your plane.”
—News Ltd
“James Houston Turner and his Talanov thriller series
... definitely one of our favorites!”
—The Mystery Tribune
JAMES HOUSTON TURNER
DRAGON HEAD
AN ALEKSANDR TALANOV NOVEL
Published by Regis Books
An imprint of Ruby Rock Films LLC
First Edition
Copyright © James Houston Turner, 2020
James Houston Turner has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and all characters contained herein are fictitious, or if real, are used fictitiously, with no bearing on actual behavior, except by coincidence. In instances where the names of characters are identical or similar to actual persons, in no way does this indicate or imply an endorsement by those persons of this story or the characters bearing their names, nor do the actions of the characters bear any resemblance to the personality or behavior of actual persons, except by coincidence.
No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
For more information about the author, visit
www.jameshoustonturner.world
To follow James, visit his official Facebook page:
@officialjameshoustonturner
Cover art by Frauke Spanuth
ISBN: 9780958666480
Manufactured in the United States of America
CONTENTS:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Epilogue
Publisher’s Note
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book has been a long time coming since its announcement in 2011. During that time, many of you helped Wendy and me through some difficult periods of personal loss. At times we were on the verge of being crushed, but we endured those losses and challenges and here we are, and here this book is . . . finally! Thank you for supporting us along this journey.
The person I want to thank most is my wife and best mate, Wendy, who endures with grace and humor the highs and lows of being married to this idealistic, determined writer. I could not have done this without you.
And because books are judged by their covers, I would like to acknowledge the graphic arts genius of Frauke Spanuth for yet another spectacular cover. Thanks also to my editor, Flo Selfman, who helped make this book shine.
I would also like to thank all of the young men and women who contributed to my “Team Talanov” creative writing competition. In brief, I asked students to submit names and character profiles for the three orphaned kids you will meet in this book. Due to storyline changes, I was not able to use the winning character names, although the profiles received from these talented young writers helped me frame three spunky young personalities whom you will soon meet. I would therefore like to applaud winners Taylor Johnson, Daria Dragicevic, and Susan Sullivan, and finalists Rylan Brown, Ashley Chen, Fulton Costa, Taylor Doxey, Rebecca Ford, Morgan Garrett, Zoe Brigid Gray, Adam Grumman, Mollie Hobensack, Montana Holman, Christina Imboden, Caoilfhionn Illes-Hall, Devin Johnson, Makayla Kemper, Adrienne Mabry, Rose Richter, Abby Rimer, James Seely, Haley Sheets, Bridget Short, Brooklyn Small, Tiffany Tyers, Jake Villies, and John Walker, Jr.
An extra shout also for Rebecca Ford, whose emails brought laughter and support during those dark times mentioned above.
Thanks also to Cheryl Masciarelli, of “Partners in Crime” tours, for her invaluable help with publicity.
A special thanks also to Ricardo Valerdi, for his expertise on cyber crime, Sylvia Rowland, for her awesome graphics, and Matt Peterson, for his help with cyber lingo.
A huge thanks also to Walker Hanson, who has traveled many years with me on this roller-coaster journey, and to Taylor Hanson, for reminding me to value what I do.
In closing, I want to thank the incredible people who have worked faithfully to bring Talanov’s story in Greco’s Game to film audiences around the world: Thomas B. Fore, Ross C. Hartley, Jeffrey Bowler, and Bret Saxon.
Speaking of Greco’s Game, I would like to express enormous relief that my longtime friend, Bill Rich, did not get arrested while taking book setting photos for me in Los Angeles. I am so glad I do not have to visit you in prison, Bill!
DRAGON HEAD
CHAPTER 1
Wu Chee Ming looked anxiously behind him. Where were they? Who were they? When would they strike? An attack in a crowded street like this would be over in seconds. A silenced pistol. A knife. A needle. Death would be quick and the assassin would vanish. One face in an ocean of faces.
He was not even sure they were onto him. In fact, they probably weren’t. He had taken extreme care over the last few months to make sure his movements went undetected.
One does not seek what one does not see.
It was a proverb that guided his every move.
And yet, in spite of his meticulous planning, he had to proceed as if they had noticed, which was why he had chosen Lan Kwai Fong, a small, bustling tourist district in the heart of Hong Kong, to make his escape. The narrow streets of Lan Kwai Fong were perfect for what he was planning. Flashing neon. Music. Thousands of people surging in and out of nightclubs and restaurants. The perfect place to disappear.
The perfect place to be killed.
The proverb, however, held the secret to his survival; namely, that the best place to hide is often in plain sight. That people usually do not notice what is right in front of them. Hence, his choice to pass through Lan Kwai Fong each night on his way home from work, so his being here tonight would not attract any undue attention.
Suddenly, an elbow caught him in the chest and knocked him into a group of Chinese girls texting one another. They were holding their phones so close their eyes glistened with light from the tiny screens.
“Kàn tā!” one of them barked.
Wu Chee Ming pushed on.
Ahead, the street bent ninety degrees and sloped downhill for a short block before meeting D’Aguilar Street. Wu Chee Ming turned at the corner and threaded his way uphill along another street filled with partygoers. Within minutes, he reached a short flight of steps that branched away from the street. Taking the steps two at a time, he reached the top and began running along a darkened walkway that angled between a pair of highrise office towers. Before long, the sounds and smells of Lan Kwai Fong had receded into the distance.
Wu Chee Ming knew he would miss those sounds and smells. But at least he would be alive to remember them. He glanced behind but saw no one.
One does not seek what one does not see.
His survival hinged on the truth of that proverb, and yet if he truly believed it, why was he running? Why was he not relaxed in the knowledge that he was but another face in an ocean of faces?
Under normal conditions, Hong Kong was the perfect city in which to vanish. But these were not normal conditions. He was running from a crime boss who knew every inch of the island. A crime boss with eyes and ears everywhere. A crime boss so skilled in the art of death that some people considered it an honor to die by his hand. Dexter Moran was his name, although no one dared address him that way. To everyone in Hong Kong and the New Territories, he was known as Dragon Head, and he was the supreme leader of the Shí bèi organized crime society, which was based in the Zhongzhen Martial Arts Academy.
The name “Dragon Head” was actually a title that had been seized by Moran in the same manner a lion becomes the alpha male of his pride: by defeating or killing his rivals. And not just known rivals, but anyone suspected of being a threat. Which was why Wu Chee Ming had chosen to run. He wanted to make sure he was not among them.
Ahead, beside a tree, was an old bicycle. Wu Chee Ming had purchased it from a repair shop with instructions that it be placed beside the tree this afternoon. It had a basket above the front fender and a tiny dome bell on the handlebar. Lifting the bike onto the path, Wu Chee Ming walked it to an intersecting walkway, where he turned left, jumped on, and began pedaling. In less than a minute he emerged onto a busy street.
Like New York, Hong Kong was a city that never slept. Even at this late hour, cars filled the streets and the sidewalks were gorged with people. A few dings on his bell caused pedestrians to stop long enough for him to bicycle across the sidewalk and into the bicycle lane, where he turned left and began pedaling with the flow of traffic. He kept pace for two blocks, then cut across to the other side of the street, where he began pedaling with the flow of traffic in the other direction. He bicycled past noodle bars, restaurants, and retail outlets offering everything from designer clothing to electronics, phone cards, and cosmetics. Before long, he turned down a side street and raced to the next corner, where he turned right and raced to the next corner, where he turned again. The zigzag pattern took him away from the neon madness of the tourist district and into Hong Kong’s shadowed side streets.
Within twenty minutes, Wu Chee Ming had made his way to a four-story apartment building in a rundown part of Wan Chai. Unlike the glamour and polish of the financial precinct where he worked, this part of town was stained with the gloom of poverty. There were no gleaming office towers of tinted glass. No stepped terraces with architectural flourishes. The buildings were rectangular and squat. Rust and soot were the predominant colors.
Leaning his bicycle against a metal roller door, Wu Chee Ming entered a darkened stairwell and dashed up a flight of steps. There were no lights in the stairwell because Wu Chee Ming had broken the bulbs. No one must remember his face to anyone asking questions. And there would be questions, and Dragon Head would be asking them. By that time, however, he would be long gone, which meant Dragon Head would have no choice but to hunt down the only other person who could give him answers. That person was former KGB colonel Aleksandr Talanov. Talanov, of course, would have no answers because he would not know what had happened. Torture would be employed, and Dragon Head would be merciless, but Talanov would not be able to reveal what he did not know. Yes, Talanov was a walking dead man, while he, Wu Chee Ming, was about to become a ghost.
CHAPTER 2
With sweat dripping from his brow in a basement in Cedarville, Maryland, Talanov cranked the jack-post higher and paused to check its stability. The adjustable steel post was supporting one end of a two-by-twelve floor joist that supported a kitchen floor. Over the last few years, the floor had suffered water damage from a leaky dishwasher and Talanov had just replaced the rotten joists. The new joists of freshly cut Douglas fir made the basement smell like Christmas.
“Are you sure that’s going to hold?” asked Dr. Pam Monahan. Dressed in a navy blue skirt suit and heels, Monahan’s honey-blonde hair had been pulled back in a ponytail that hung to the middle of her back.
“I’m sorry, doctor,” said Talanov, “but I still don’t get why you’re here.”
“Bill said you needed some help.”
“With these joists, yes, I do, and with the ton of sheetrock I’ve still got to put up. No offense, doctor, but you’re not exactly dressed for the job.”
“None taken,” replied Monahan brightly. “Is that coffee fresh?”
Talanov followed her line of sight to a French press on the workbench. It was full of dark-roast coffee that had been steeping for twenty minutes. Beside the carafe was an empty mug. Monahan walked over to the bench and peered inside the mug. She recoiled at the sight of coffee stain that had turned the inside of the mug brown. She then brightened when she saw a shiny porcelain mug holding a selection of large nails. After emptying the mug of its contents, she blew out the dust and filled it with coffee. She then looked at Talanov and gestured inquiringly with the carafe.
With a sigh of resignation, Talanov dismounted the ladder and stepped over to the workbench to watch Monahan fill the stained mug.
While she poured, Monahan looked Talanov over and smiled at what she saw. Leather tool belt, sweaty tank top, cargo shorts, clunky work boots. Definitely a man’s man, she thought, glancing at his hair, which was standing upright in places from caked-on sawdust. His face was likewise covered with dust, except for an outline where protective goggles had shielded his eyes and a dust mask had covered his nose and mouth. “Here you go,” she said, handing Talanov the mug.
While they each took a sip, Monahan let her eyes roam the basement. On the wall abo
ve the workbench was a large panel of pegboard. On it was a wide variety of hand tools on hooks. To her right was a stack of lumber on a pair of handmade sawhorses. Across the floor were some bundles of insulation, and to the right of those, leaning against the wall, was a stack of drywall sheets. At the far end of the basement was a miter saw on a metal stand. On the floor beneath the saw was a pile of sawdust and some scraps of wood.
“This is quite a man cave,” Monahan remarked. She looked at the pegboard and removed an adjustable wrench. “What’s this?” she asked.
Talanov took the wrench from Monahan and put it back on the hook. “You’re not here to assist me with joists and drywall, are you?”
“Of course I am,” Monahan replied.
Talanov raised a skeptical eyebrow.
Monahan pulled a wooden stool over to the workbench and sat. “Bill thought it might be easier for you to talk in an informal setting.” She scooted aside some galvanized steel brackets and placed her coffee mug in the clearing.
“No disrespect, but I’m reinforcing the kitchen floor of Bill’s house, which has been rotting for several years because of a water leak. I don’t need to talk. I need to work. No offense.”
“None taken, and, please, call me Pam. Doctor sounds so formal.”
“And you want this to be informal?”
Monahan smiled and took a sip of her coffee.
“I don’t need to talk,” Talanov said again. He downed the remainder of his coffee and grabbed one of the brackets.
“Are you certain about that?” asked Monahan.
“I’m certain,” Talanov replied, returning to the ladder.
“Bill thinks differently.”
“Which is why he drafted you.”
“Sometimes, friends see what we don’t want to see.”
“Sometimes, friends don’t listen very well.”
“Are you certain you don’t need to talk?”
“I don’t need a therapist, Pam. I need an extra set of hands. No offense.”
“None taken. But are you certain that’s all you need?”
Talanov repositioned the stepladder beneath the far end of the two-by-twelve joist he had just installed.