Dragon Head
Page 45
Carrying a small handbag and wearing a shimmering black micro-dress that showed every curve of her statuesque body, a woman smiled her way past the bouncers and entered the club, where she paused to survey the layout. To her left was a lengthy bar of gleaming liquor bottles. To her right was a darkened mezzanine of tables and chairs. At the far end was an elevated platform, where a caramel-skinned DJ operated a vast electronic console from behind a glass partition.
The DJ pumped his fist in the air several times, then flipped a switch that turned the green laser beams into a rotating red and blue light show that bathed the dance floor from numerous angles.
None of this interested the woman. Her eyes were on a guarded staircase to the left of the elevated platform.
With beams of red and blue flashing across her face, the woman made her way through the crowd to the four guards who were stationed there. Wiry and thin and dressed in suits that concealed their pistols, all of them were a full head shorter than the woman.
“I’m here to see Chakrii,” the woman said.
The men all glanced at one another before one of them waved her away.
“No speak English?” the woman asked.
With one hand on his pistol, the man pushed her away.
With a patient smile, the woman repeated her request in Chinese.
“Chakrii does not accept visitors,” the man replied, also in Chinese. “Go, and do not come back.”
“He will want to see me,” answered the woman, handing the man her clutch handbag and nodding for him to open it.
The man hesitated, then accepted it, then looked at the woman, still unsure, then guardedly opened it. Inside was a Ruger SR40c semiautomatic pistol, which was a compact handgun, in matte black, loaded with fifteen rounds of forty caliber ammunition, which packed more stopping power than nearly any other compact handgun on the market.
The men drew their weapons when they saw the pistol.
With a smile, the woman casually held up her hands. “It is a gift for Chakrii,” she said, “and there are more where that came from. I thought he might be interested in acquiring some for himself.”
While keeping the woman covered, the men gathered together to look at the pistol. Very few handguns were forty caliber, and none of the men had ever seen such a weapon.
“I will get you one as well,” the woman said. “Provided you show it to Chakrii.”
The man looked back and forth between the handgun he was holding and the beautiful woman.
“What is your name?” asked the woman. “I am here to help. Not to cause trouble.”
“Mongkut,” the man replied. “Where did you obtain this pistol?”
The woman smiled but did not reply.
Mongkut thought for a moment, then motioned for the woman to follow him up the stairs. When one of the other guards asked if that was a good idea, Mongkut rebuked him, then motioned again for the woman to follow.
The other men watched them climb the stairs, mostly to see the woman’s long slender legs and shapely figure.
At the top of the stairs, Mongkut led the way to a black door at the end of the corridor, where two more guards were stationed. Both were short and thin, like Mongkut, and both had black hair tied back in ponytails. On the wall beside the door was a lighted keypad.
Mongkut told the woman to sit on a bench while he presented the pistol to Chakrii. The woman smiled and sat, and when she did, her micro-dress slid up her thighs.
Both guards brightened with interest, especially when she smiled back at them.
Mongkut entered a series of numbers on the keypad and the door clicked open. An instant later, the woman sprang from the bench and punched the other two guards in the throat, dropping them to their knees, gasping. Mongkut did not have time to react before the woman pushed him through the door, grabbed the Ruger from his hand and closed the door behind them.
With Mongkut in her grasp, the woman approached the seven men seated around a polished mahogany table, playing cards. All had drinks in glass tumblers and several were smoking cigars. In the center of the table was a pile of poker chips. Across the floor was a pool table brightly lit by three conical billiard lamps suspended from the ceiling. On the green felt of the table was an assortment of eight pistols normally carried by each of the players.
Three of the men lunged for their weapons.
“Sit down or I will kill you,” the woman said in Chinese.
The men grudgingly obeyed.
After shoving Mongkut to the other side of the poker table, the woman said, “Which one of you is Chakrii?”
The men instinctively looked at one man in particular, and the woman smiled.
“Do you know who I am?” said Chakrii.
“Do you know who I am?” asked the woman.
“I don’t care who you are,” Chakrii replied. “When my men get through with you . . .”
“Do you really want to finish that sentence?” asked the woman, stepping forward and pointing the Ruger directly at Chakrii.
Chakrii averted his eyes.
The woman stepped over to the pool table, picked up the eight handguns and carried them to the table, where she dropped them on top of the poker chips, which scattered them in all directions.
Chakrii and the others exchanged surprised glances, then backed away from the table instinctively.
“You want an excuse to kill us,” Chakrii said, commanding the others not to move.
“I am not here to kill anyone,” the woman replied with a smile. “Especially not you.”
Chakrii looked quizzically at the woman.
The woman tossed her pistol to Chakrii. “I am here to apply for a job.”
Chakrii caught the pistol, then jumped up and pointed the Ruger at the woman while everyone else grabbed their pistols just as the door flew open and Chakrii’s guards swarmed into the room with guns drawn.
The woman raised her hands. “If I had wanted to kill you, I would have. The pistol in your hand holds fifteen rounds of forty caliber ammunition . . . enough to have silenced everyone in this room while still allowing me time to escape. Like I said, I am here to apply for a job. But I needed to get your attention.”
“Well, you’ve got it. But you may not like what happens next.”
“Are you sure? Look how easily I bypassed your security.”
Chakrii glared at his guards, then licked his lips. An indication that what he had just heard had grudgingly piqued his interest.
The woman lowered her hands and approached the poker table, where the others backed away while keeping her covered. She placed her hands on the edge of the table and looked directly at Chakrii. “Someone like me could have prevented this from happening,” she said. “Like I said, I am here to apply for a job.”
Chakrii stared at the woman for a long moment, noting how she was stronger and more agile than any woman he’d ever seen. “What kind of a job?” he asked.
“Bangkok is full of gangs,” the woman replied. “Ever wondered what would happen if you could unite those gangs? Get them to quit fighting each other over who controls which prostitutes on which corner? Get them to channel their resources into a cyber army that can steal anything from anyone on earth?”
“Is that what you’re offering?” asked Chakrii.
“Is that what you want?” asked the woman.
Chakrii grinned a mouthful of yellowed teeth. “When can you start?” he asked.
Sofia smiled. “I already have.”
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
Thank you for reading Dragon Head. Please take a moment to leave a rating and/or comment on Amazon or B&N. Our hope is that that you were treated to a few enjoyable hours with Talanov and his friends, who will return soon in a new adventure.
James Houston Turner is the bestselling author of the Aleksandr Talanov thriller series, as well as numerous other books and articles. Talanov the fictional character was inspired by the actual KGB agent who once leaked word out of Moscow that James was on a KGB watch-list for h
is smuggling activities behind the old Iron Curtain. James Houston Turner’s debut thriller, Department Thirteen, was voted “Best Thriller” by USA Book News, after which it won gold medals in the Independent Publisher (“IPPY”) Book Awards and the Indie Book Awards. A cancer survivor of more than twenty-eight years, he holds a bachelor’s degree from Baker University and a master’s degree from the University of Houston (Clear Lake). After twenty years in Australia, he and his wife, Wendy, author of The Recipe Gal Cookbook,
now live in Austin, Texas.
For more information about Wendy Turner’s gluten-free, sugar-free recipe book, visit www.recipegalcookbook.com.
For more information on James, visit his global website at www.jameshoustonturner.world.