“Um, yeah, I did,” I say, playing along.
He winks at me. “I think I’m going to get lucky tonight. Happy hunting!” Hendricks leaves the washroom and I linger for a moment to finish drying my hands. When I’m done, I go out into the nightclub and head for the front door. I notice that Hendricks is back on the divan with three of the women, having a grand old time.
Once I’m outside I circle the building to look for a limousine or something that might be Jon Ming’s car. There’s a Rolls-Royce parked in the special Reserved spot but two men are busy washing and polishing it. I’ll have to forget planting a homer this time around. The best thing for me to do is go back to my fleabag hotel, change into my uniform, and wait until twelve-thirty to check out the arms delivery.
I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.
15
AT midnight I take a taxi to a district known as Kowloon City, located near the former Kai Tak International Airport. This infamous area was once the site of the legendary Kowloon Walled City, the center of everything illegal in Hong Kong. Technically the enclave remained part of China throughout British rule and therefore became the primary stomping grounds for Triads. You name it, it was there—vice, prostitution, gambling, drugs, poverty, illegal dentists and doctors, and even black market organ trading. Even sensible Chinese were afraid to go into the Walled City, which consisted of dark, dirty, narrow streets and filthy tenement buildings. If a Westerner was foolish enough to venture inside, he took his life with him.
In 1984, though, the Hong Kong government acquired the area, rehoused the residents, and tore down the walls. Now, ironically, a beautiful park occupies the grounds. In my opinion the change certainly did away with an eyesore but it also meant the Triads had to integrate themselves throughout the rest of the territory. At least in the past they congregated in a single spot.
Today, Kowloon City is still a low-rent neighborhood and probably a place that Westerners should avoid at night. The “warehouse” I’m looking for is located very near the old airport. The building is condemned, the windows boarded over, and I’m beginning to wonder if Hendricks was given a bum steer. Nevertheless, I’m nearly a half hour early and it could be that these Triads are anally punctual.
I circle the place and consider using my lock picks to get inside the back door, a steel job that appears to have been broken into before. But there’s a window with only one board tentatively fastened to it, probably a weeks-old access created by a homeless person looking for a warm shelter for the night. I’m able to leap to the bottom sill, pull my body up, and peer inside the dirty glass. With my night vision goggles I can see that the floor inside is bare save for dirty pieces of junk metal lying along the sides of the space. The slat covering the window is about to come off anyway, so with one hand I pull it out and let it fall to the ground. Sure enough, the window isn’t locked—it moves inward via a rusty, squeaky hinge at the top of the pane. I wriggle inside, hold on to the sill, and then somersault into the room.
The place smells moldy. From what I can tell, it hasn’t been used in ages. Even the cobwebs have cobwebs. I’m about to label the so-called tip as bullshit when I hear the sound of vehicles outside. Headlights flash across the front windows, creating eerie slats of light streaming between the boards. I quickly look around for a decent place to hide and run to a large piece of scrap metal that’s leaning against the wall in a corner. I crawl behind it, crouch, and wait as another pair of headlights cross the windows.
After a minute I hear the sound of keys in the front door, which is approximately thirty feet away from where I’m hiding. The steel door opens and three Chinese dressed in cheap suits waltz in. One of them is carrying what looks like some kind of radio transmitter the size of a boom box. Three more guys come in and shut the door. I relax a little, now that I know the odds. That’s six to one, which is, of course, in my favor.
One of them hits a switch on the wall and bulbs in the ceiling flood the space with illumination. So, the building has electricity. It’s not condemned at all. Perhaps the Triad always uses the place for illicit purposes and they just want to keep people out.
I switch off the night vision and watch the men through a slit in the scrap metal. The guy with the radio thingy goes over to the wall, finds an electrical outlet, and plugs in the device. He unfastens something on top of it and removes a small satellite dish. Leading thin wire out of the machine, he places the dish on the floor about five feet from the box. I find it interesting that the other men aren’t watching him. Instead, they’ve drawn handguns and stand in a semicircle, facing out, as if they’re expecting someone. I begin to worry that my cover isn’t good enough and they’ll be able to see me back here.
The radio guy goes back to the box and fiddles with some knobs on the side. I see a red light glow and a low hum fills the room.
What the hell is going on?
Then it’s almost as if a bolt of lightning answers my question. My ears are suddenly bombarded by a high-pitched electronic shriek that is excruciatingly painful.
Oh, my God! Shit, turn it off!
I’m squinting in torment but can see that the six Triad gentlemen are still out there, standing calmly, looking for signs of movement in the room. They’re not affected by the noise at all.
Damn! Stop it! For the love of Christ!
I realize I’m bending over, embracing the floor. My hands are clutching the sides of my head and I can’t shake away the torture. This is the fucking worst thing I’ve ever felt in my life!
The implants. That’s what the device is targeting! It’s sending some kind of electronic signal to the implants in my inner ears. This has turned me into a dog, susceptible to pitches beyond the scope of human hearing. And, like a dog, I’m now crawling on the floor, unable to control myself. I must be drawing attention to myself, for the Triads look in my direction and walk toward me, guns pointed. One of them rips away the sheet of scrap metal, exposing me. I’m helpless at their feet, writhing in agony, pleading with gods that don’t exist to somehow stop the punishment.
Two of the men grab me under the arms, take my weapon, and drag me to the center of the room.
Do something! I command myself. I can’t be this vulnerable! I’ve been trained to withstand the worst torture imaginable and do everything I can to fight back. I can’t let them win!
I’m lying on my right side in a fetal position, my legs curled to my chest. I sense that the five gunmen have surrounded me and are aiming their handguns at my quivering shape. They’re going to execute me here on this cold, dirty wooden floor.
I swear I’m about to black out as my right hand instinctively moves to one of the pockets on my right calf, the side I’m lying on. I grasp one of the frag grenades I keep outside of my backpack in case I need one for an emergency. If ever there was an emergency, this is surely it.
Activating it is easy. Tossing it toward the transmitter is another thing altogether. Instead, I elect to simply roll the damned thing right between one of the goon’s legs. The grenade wobbles across the floor and the five gunmen follow it with their eyes. The look of surprise on their faces is priceless, for they realize there is absolutely no time for them to do anything about the inevitable—
KA-BOOM!
The pain in my head abruptly ceases. I’m able to think clearly and summon all the strength I have left to leap out of the pitiful position I was in. I ram one of the men, knocking the weapon from his hand, and throw him into the fellow to his right. They collide and fall to the floor. Before they hit it I’m already swinging my right boot up and into the next closest Triad, kicking him onto his ass.
As the smoke clears, I can see that the frag grenade destroyed their little toy and killed the operator and the one goon that had been standing closest to the blast. Another man was severely wounded by it—he’s crawling around in his own blood, looking for his arms. That leaves the three men I just attacked, and they’re quickly rebounding from the surprise. One of them manages to retrieve
his dropped weapon but I move in with a solid kick to his chin. The thug’s head jerks backward so hard that everyone hears the snap of his neck. He goes down and won’t be getting up again. Ever.
Two happy campers left. Their weapons are out of reach but they don’t hesitate to go on the offensive. Both men rush me and use some expert kung fu moves to try to disable me. A side kick delivered to my stomach succeeds in doubling me over, allowing the second guy a clear spear-chop to the back of my neck. It’s a standard maneuver and I’m trained to deflect it by propelling myself forward just a few inches so that the blow hits my back instead of the neck. It still hurts and could easily break one’s spine, but the bones there are tougher than neck vertebrae.
I fall forward, roll, and lock my right boot behind one man’s leg. I flex my knee and he falls to the floor. The other guy tries to kick me but I grab his foot with both hands and twist it as hard as I can. He yelps and is forced to flip in the direction of the turn to avoid having his ankle broken. He, too, is now on the floor, giving me the time I need to get to my feet. I perform a forward roll from the prone position, thrusting my upper body up and over my legs, a nice move that took a complete day of practicing to master. It’s especially tough on the abdomen and thigh muscles. I quickly gain my balance and I’m standing between the two Triads.
Now that my two sparring partners are lying on either side of me and preparing to defend themselves, I figure it’s best for me to take out one of them completely so I don’t have to split my attention. I turn slightly and deliver a whammy kick to the guy on my right, catching him square in the sternum. Before his pal can stop me, I leap over the stunned man, get behind him, crouch, and grab him in a headlock. I twist hard and hear the sweet melody of singing vertebrae. I then drop him, a lifeless blob of dead weight.
The last guy now realizes he’s in trouble. Instead of attacking me, he plays it safe and runs toward the front door. He thinks fast, too, for he knocks over an old wooden ladder that was standing by the exit. The ladder falls and blocks my way before I can retrieve my handgun and get through the threshold myself. It takes me a mere second and a half to toss the ladder aside, but by then the guy is climbing into one of the cars—a Toyota Camry—and starting it up.
I run out, draw my Five-seveN, and aim at the hoodlum through the windshield. But instead of backing away, like I expect him to do, he slams his foot on the accelerator and drives straight at me. I have to dive to the right to avoid being bisected, dropping my gun in the process. The Toyota’s tires screech, spraying gravel into my face, as the driver reverses, turns around, and speeds away from the building.
I retrieve my weapon and run to the other car, a Nissan Altima, and can’t believe my good fortune—the keys are in the ignition. I get in, start her up, and take off in pursuit of the Toyota.
“Sam?” I hear a woman’s voice in my ear. Someone at Third Echelon.
“Sam, are you there?” she says again. “Are you all right?”
I concentrate on pulling out into the street to follow my prey before I answer. “Yeah, I’m here. Who are you?”
“It’s Frances Coen.”
“Oh. Right.” The business with my implants temporarily threw me. I didn’t recognize her voice. “What do you want?”
“What’s going on? What are you doing? We lost your homing signal for a few minutes. I’m afraid your implants are malfunctioning.”
“No, they’re not,” I answer. “The bastards had some kind of transmitter that did something to them. I don’t know what it was, but I swear it almost killed me. I’m all right now.”
The Toyota heads for the expressway, known as Prince Edward Road, merges onto the eastbound side, and nearly collides with a truck carrying new cars. I follow him at seventy miles per hour, barely missing the truck as it swerves to get out of the way. Even though it’s after midnight, the expressway is crowded. This is going to take some concentration.
“Frances, I can’t talk right now. I’ll get back to you later.”
“Colonel Lambert wants a report. He says—”
“Tell the colonel I’m in a situation here and—”
Shit! Some jerk in a Volkswagen doing fifty miles an hour just pulled into the lane in front of me. I have to jerk the Altima’s steering wheel hard to the left to avoid hitting him, but that puts me in front of a BMW going faster than I am. The horn blares as the car slams into the back of my car. I accelerate to eighty-five and get away from him since he’s probably not too happy with me.
“I heard that,” Coen says. “I can see you now on the GPS. Check back when you can. For God’s sake, be careful.”
I play zigzag through the maze of automobiles as I attempt to catch up with the Toyota. He’s ahead nearly ten car lengths and is moving dangerously fast. I push the pedal to ninety, which is about the limit I dare to speed through the thick traffic.
We go over a bridge and head east into San Po Kong, a suburb just north of the old airport. The highway forks up ahead—we can stay on this road, which bends to the southeast, or there’s an alternate route directly south onto the Kwun Tong Bypass. The Toyota elects the bypass and makes a jarring exit across two lanes. I lean on my horn and turn the wheel in pursuit. A taxicab nearly hits me but the driver slams on the brakes. His tires screech, the car swerves, and he smashes into the rail.
Sorry about that, I say to myself.
I’m on the new highway now and it’s even more crowded than the first. But the Toyota is now five car lengths ahead and I’m gaining on him. Unfortunately, we pass a police car. The cop turns on his lights and picks up speed behind me. I floor the accelerator and push the Altima to a hundred as I pass a couple of SUVs. Within seconds I’m running side by side with the Toyota. The driver looks at me, scowls, and then he points a pistol out his window. The bullets smash my passenger side, spraying broken glass over the front seat and me. Two can play at that game, so I draw the Five-seveN, aim it across the passenger seat, and squeeze the trigger. The Triad accelerates just enough so that my round smashes the driver’s side rear window, missing him completely.
The cop behind us has apparently radioed for backup because another patrol car enters the expressway just past the Richland Gardens exit. I can’t be bothered with the police; I focus solely on catching my prey. The gloves are off now and no prisoners will be taken.
I speed up to position my car parallel to the Toyota again and then I swerve to the left, ramming him. The Toyota screeches and scoots into the far left lane. Changing lanes to stay beside him, I take another shot at the driver. This time his back windshield shatters and I hit him in the shoulder, I think. The car skids into the rail, bounces off, and wavers perilously in front of me. The guy manages to gain control of the car and moves around a slow-moving bus. The damned thing is now between us, and the two police cars are right behind me. I attempt to pass the bus on the right but a van moves into the lane. My only option is to pass on the far left, a lane crowded with vehicles entering and exiting the expressway. I wait until I pass another taxi and then push the speedometer to the breaking point. The Altima speeds to a hundred and ten as I zoom alongside the bus and eventually overtake it. The problem is that the two police cars do the same thing. Alas, the bus driver doesn’t see them because they’re in his blind spot. He blasts his horn as he changes lanes behind me and the two police cars are forced against the rail. One of them smashes through it and dives off the expressway onto the streets below. The other one spins, overturns, and slides into the center of the expressway.
I hear the sounds of car horns, crashing metal, and squealing tires. The pileup behind me involves at least twenty automobiles but I can’t let it bother me. My prey is making a move toward an exit and I must stay on top of him.
The Toyota takes the ramp to Kowloon Bay and I follow him off the expressway. If he thinks he’s going to lose me in the crowded narrow streets of the city, he’s got another think coming. Traffic essentially halts to a standstill as soon as we’re at street level. There’s nowhere
for him to go. What a dumb move on his part. I’m right behind him and we’re sitting in a line of cars waiting for a red light to change. So what does he do? He gets out of the car and begins to run.
Hell, it ain’t my Altima, so I get out and chase after him. More car horns blast annoyance as we maneuver through the traffic and onto a sidewalk. The Triad, who’s holding his wounded right shoulder, cuts around a corner and into a dark alley. When I get to the entrance I lower my goggles, flip on the night vision, spot him, crouch, and aim the Five-seveN. I squeeze the trigger and he goes down in a tumble.
As I walk toward the wounded man I hear so many police sirens that it’s difficult to tell where they are. Most of them are probably on the expressway, dealing with the pileup. But some could be after me as well, so I have to make this fast and get the hell out of here.
My Triad friend is crawling on the ground, bleeding to death. I place my right boot on the wound in his back and say in Chinese, “Talk to me.”
He curses at me in English. It’s funny how some words are universal.
“How did you know I would be at the warehouse tonight?” I ask.
The man curses again so I apply a little more pressure to the wound. He screams and I let up a bit. “Well?”
“It’s just what we were told,” he says.
“So it’s true you were expecting me to be there?”
He moans but doesn’t answer. I apply pressure and he cries, “Yes!”
“Good. Now tell me: Was there an arms deal going down tonight? Anywhere?”
He curses at me again so this time I practically stand on the guy’s back. I don’t normally go in for torturing an enemy to get information, but when time is of the essence and there’s no other way around it then I’ll do whatever it takes.
When he finishes screaming and I let up, he says, “It’s in the morning. At Kwai Chung.”
Kwai Chung is the big container port for all of Hong Kong.