Shukuma strode forward with her hands clasped behind her. She was not used to addressing Cheung as his direct subordinate. That was for Ivory, or Dinanath, neither of whom was here. Romero and Chino were dead. Tuan and Mads Hellweg had been eliminated.
Cheung was in his Temple Room, carving another little casket. Sister Menga was in her incense-clouded corner between the two Tosa guard dogs, who were sleeping at her feet like puppies. Her eyes were rolled back into her head, showing only whites to the world of mortals.
“Victory over an enemy,” Sister Menga mumbled. “The exposure of traitors. All as prophesized.”
“You said that before,” countered Cheung. She had said it in regard to Tuan. “Are you certain your bones and animal guts are not giving you recycled information?”
“More than one victory,” Sister Menga intoned, her silver eyes coming down to meet Cheung’s. “More than one traitor.”
“And Longwei Sze Xie is lost to me?” Cheung said. “No. He would go neutral, not virulent. Besides, I would miss him.”
The tall black bodyguard knew that, other than Sister Menga’s, Cheung rarely accepted counsel from females—more traditional Chinese horse manure, she thought. If the boys on the team could not handle everything falling to pieces, she could prove herself here and now. The lessons of the tenure of the Nameless One were lost on her. Venerable laws, likewise—she thought herself above their teaching, and in doing so made the error that always brings disaster to the prideful.
“The helicopter has returned,” she told Cheung. “It is in the middle of the street below, burning.”
“Then Dinanath failed,” said Cheung. “Let General Zhang handle the rabble.”
Shukuma dared to add, “You seem unconcerned.”
“The Killers of Men are within my grasp. The disparate threads are all finally twining together. Binding, as Sister Menga foretold, into the pattern of the future.”
“And the men that went to the pagoda with Dinanath?”
“Expendable,” Cheung said. “Shukuma, you are my new Immortal. You shall assume Ivory’s station from this moment forward. If you see the American woman, the Nameless One, Ivory, Dinanath or anyone else other than Mr. Gabriel Hunt, you are to retire them immediately and report to me. If there is fire and chaos in the streets, one or more of them will be coming.”
“What about Michael Hunt?” she said.
“Keep him under guard until my dealings with his brother are concluded. Then you may kill all of them.”
“You can depend on me, sir,” Shukuma said, happy with her promotion.
The paws of the sleeping Tosa dogs twitched, as though they were dreaming at the feet of Cheung’s sorceress. Dreaming of prey, thought Shukuma—human or animal, it didn’t matter, we all dream of our prey.
And the first place to check for her prey would be that helicopter in the street outside.
Gabriel conducted Ivory down the mountain, and Ivory chauffeured Gabriel into the city. Neither man spoke very much during the trip. Until Gabriel finally said:
“Tell me about the drug.”
Ivory inhaled deeply. Gabriel thought the man was preparing to sink into one of his stony silences as though the topic at hand was moot, beneath notice, or beyond discussion. But he surprised Gabriel with his specificity.
“The drug is a hydrochloride distillate of
xipaxidine
,” he said, pronouncing it knowledgeably:
zi-PAX-eh-deen.
“It is a true synthetic, refined using the Sturges Method. Do you know it?”
“You’re talking about three million dollars of equipment just to start the refining process,” said Gabriel.
“Yes. There are nine steps in all to the distillate.”
Gabriel recalled the nine jogs in the bridge at the Tea House. “Nine turns, to confuse evil spirits?” he said. It was a recurrent feature in Chinese design.
“Nine stages to seek purity,” said Ivory, knowing what Gabriel was referring to. “At each stage the substance is highly unstable, and there is an enormous wastage factor. Also a slender margin for error. Each
of these stages additionally requires a great deal of time and constant monitoring.”
“What does it attack?”
“The most primary programming of the brain—fight, flight or mate. In its pure form, the distillate allows for direct suggestion without hypnosis.”
“And in its impure form?”
“Each castoff stage has dangers. Psychosis, memory loss, violent self-destructive hallucinations, instantaneous addiction. The only cure for a Phase IV user is death. There is no withdrawal.”
“The version you gave me and Mitch?”
“You are in no danger. She had more prolonged exposure. She would require a hospital stay for detoxification—or lacking that, regular dosages indefinitely with periodic increases due to habituation. Interruption causes withdrawal-like symptoms; they are rarely fatal, but they are always severe.”
“What happens to all the impure material? Wastage at that level is incredibly expensive.”
“Cheung plans to offer it to the world as a new narcotic. His ‘freon’ is impure Stage VII. He and I have always been in disagreement on this. The pure distillate of xipaxidine has its uses. The impure forms are unspeakably dangerous.”
Gabriel’s hand searched his pocket for the capped syringe with the remaining eight cc’s of the drug he had given to Mitch. But it was gone, probably lost in his escape from the cavern.
Gabriel said, “He plans to sell this stuff? It’ll kill people.”
Ivory came back at him: “Certainly. But it will also make him rich. And warlords have always disregarded
the constraints of conventional morality. General Liu Xiang had eight concubines all trained to play tennis, so one would be available whenever the mood struck him.”
“Cheung may enjoy seeing himself as a warlord,” Gabriel said, “but he’s really just a two-bit criminal with delusions of grandeur.”
“This is your conclusion?”
“It’s the only sane conclusion.”
“You are suggesting one needs to find a new enemy,” said Ivory.
“I’m suggesting that you’ve already found one,” said Gabriel.
Ivory fell silent, his eyes fixed forward. Gabriel thought the man was simply retreating into stoicism again. Then Gabriel’s mouth dropped open as he saw what Ivory was staring at: the rolling column of smoke and flames from the crashed helicopter in the street ahead, and the hopeless traffic jam that would keep them from reaching it.
Adrenaline flushed through Mitch’s system and cleared her circuits long enough for her to register the proper response to the flames melting the synthetic fibers of her pilot harness and licking up her arm. The pain helped focus her.
This was no dream, no drug-induced hallucination.
She and Qi were ensnared upside down in the imploded cockpit, and everything around them seemed to have become flammable.
Past char-fouled Perspex and wide fractures in the canopy, they could both see elements of General Zhang’s police force advancing on them, weapons up. They were coming from all sides, snaking between
wrecked automobiles, shoving citizens out of the firing line, and maintaining a textbook group cover pattern.
Qi wrestled her harness as though it were a living thing bent on killing her. When the latches undogged, she was still trapped—one leg bent awkwardly behind a fold of steel, blood caking her dynamic new haircut.
Mitch quickly brought up the nearest available sidearm, a Beretta 9mm with a hi-cap mag, and quickly dispatched twenty shots to pin down the approaching mercenaries with some second thoughts about an easy sweep-and-clear. She chucked the empty gun and sought another.
“Take that rifle and hit the alley, over there,” Qi shouted. “I need you to cover me—I’ve got to get unstuck.”
“No. We go together.”
“Don’t be stupid. We go together, we both get shot. Do what I ask.”
Mitch could almost see the logic of it. One blind corner. One escape route not covered by Zhang’s police. If she could make it, and then cover Qi, if they could dump weapons and fade into the crowd, they might just walk.
Mitch fielded a few more shots with the LMT rifle she had recovered, although it was awkward to maneuver the weapon inside the crushed cabin. She wished she had a full-auto pistol like Ivory’s. The things had originally been designed for use by tank crews who might need to wield gunpower inside a confined space. But once she was out in the open, as Qi suggested, she’d be able to make every cartridge count.
“Go for it,” shouted Qi. “Go now. I am right behind you.”
Mitch scuttled out. Using the smoke and confusion as cover, she was able to crabwalk to the alleyway Qi had indicated.
Qi was not right behind her. In fact, the incoming cops had gained another ten yards on the ruined chopper. They were going to take Qi, and take her hard, if she did not move her ass double-quick.
Qi’s heart surged as she saw Mitch make a break for it. It was correct that Mitch should live. Just as Mitch should not have to know that Qi could feel the ruptured metal biting through her leg all the way to the bone, trapping her in the downed aircraft, making her one with its skeleton as it burned.
Zhang’s men crept closer. Qi could see the bores of their weapons, all trained on her, inside.
“Hold your fire,” said a voice. “It’s the Nameless One.”
Shukuma was not in evening wear for this little social event, and so was not packing her unobtrusive .380. She leaned closer to the cabin behind the more awe-inspiring muzzle of a no-frills military .45.
“Cheung will want her,” Shukuma told the cops.
“I have a gift for Cheung,” said Qi, nearly choking on her own blood. She smiled gruesomely, her teeth outlined in red.
And opened her hands to reveal two grenades, pins already pulled.
The police were already backtracking, diving for cover. Shukuma, however, could not wrest her gaze from the bulkhead tank right behind Qingzhao that was stenciled
NO NAKED LIGHT
.
It was the last thing she saw.
Gabriel and Ivory were out of their vehicle and running. The explosion knocked them both to the pavement.
The secondary explosion bathed Mitch’s view in white fire, sprawling her backward.
Smoke rolled to make a huge fist in the night sky.
Ivory pushed up, glass fragments in the palms of both hands, to come face-to-face with General Zhang.
“I have lost men,” Zhang said sternly. “What is Cheung doing? Tell me or I shall have to expedite you.” He had the backup to prove he was serious.
“The helicopter was stolen by assassins,” said Ivory smoothly. “The plot was to kill Cheung in the Peace Hotel.”
“Massacre in the streets does not reinforce his position,” said Zhang. “The Tong leaders will want an explanation.”
This seemed pretty slick, coming from the man who had watched Cheung blow Mads Hellweg into the afterlife right in front of the Tong bigwigs at Tuan’s funeral and not said a word against it. Of course, while that had been public violence, too, it had been less public than this.
“Do what you do best, General,” Ivory said with respect. “Order needs to be restored here. Cheung shall answer fully.”
Gabriel swore he could see telepathy passing between the two men, and Ivory saying:
I shall fix it.
“Very well.” Zhang turned, pointed and barked
orders to his men. “You say that this assassin—the one who has been trying to kill Cheung—is now neutralized at last?”
A quick check of the steaming wreckage of the chopper, now cordoned off by men with chemical extinguishers, confirmed this. Gabriel saw Ivory’s stature warp almost imperceptibly; the cool-as-ice operative’s shoulders bowed slightly in sadness.
Qingzhao Wai Chiu had been incinerated. Gabriel felt the regret settle on his shoulders as well.
But there was no sign of Mitch.
“Cheung needs to be told immediately,” Ivory said. “And he will not believe it unless it comes from you or me.”
“I have duties here,” Zhang sniffed with harried-bureaucrat superiority. “It is
your
burden.”
Ivory’s performance was pretty spectacular, thought Gabriel. But damn it all, the man had not
lied
to Zhang. He had merely found a way to circumvent the truth. And in the bargain, won both himself and Gabriel an armed police escort right up to the entrance of the Peace Hotel.
Mitch finally unlocked her limbs from her frozen fetal position in the alleyway when someone, a stranger, tossed a few coins at her, thinking she was a beggar.
She could not see Gabriel and Ivory palavering with General Zhang less than fifty yards away. Too much smoke, too many people, confusion squared. Her face was scuffed, scabbed and blackened. Blood on her fatigue jersey.
She snugged her fatigues and retied a wayward bootlace. She had to make it out of this alley and into the Peace Hotel—she had to. And she could, she knew
she could find some way in, if only her brain would stop slamming against the walls of her skull.
She slid the syringe from her pocket. Yes, she had deceived Gabriel back at the leaning pagoda when she’d clutched onto him and implored him to watch his ass. She’d meant what she’d said—but it had not been as important as liberating the hypodermic she knew he carried, the syringe that held all the solutions to her distress. She could seek forgiveness later, if they all lived.
She stuck the spike in her arm and gave herself the full remaining eight cc’s of the drug, all the while repeating her own instructions to herself. She didn’t want to lose her plan to the drug, slip away into sleep or waking dreams of unrelated combat. Somehow she needed to hold onto enough mental control to steer herself even when—
The hit when the drug took effect was similar to a great orgasm, the kind you still remember years later, yet contoured with vitamins and excellent speed, like an energy drink made with plutonium.
A deep breath, and her vision seemed to clear, though it was almost too clear at the edges, realer than real. She would have to concentrate, focus.
She moved directly to a Zhang soldier on the sidewalk who was shouting directives to an apparently deaf gentleman who wanted to argue that he could not extricate his big tricycle from the grille of a wrecked car because it was augured into a phone pole. When the soldier made to strike the man with the butt of his rifle, Mitch grabbed the gun barrel and yanked the soldier off balance. As he turned, Mitch shot a fist into his exposed throat. The weapon came free in her hands as the man went down bug-eyed and crimson-faced,
unable to draw air. She gave a quick thumbs-up to the citizen, who looked horrified rather than properly grateful. No matter. She appropriated the Zhang man’s helmet and moved on down the street.
The gun settled comfortably into her grasp. With the helmet and weapon, she could pass for another uniformed solider, if no one looked too closely in the midst of all the commotion.
And while Gabriel and Ivory were still occupied with Qi’s few remaining molecules and the contentions of General Zhang, Mitch made straight for the Peace Hotel.
“Zhang and the Tong leaders will expect treachery,” murmured Sister Menga, not looking up from her steaming chalice of entrails.
“We shall be allies,” said Cheung, making the knot in his necktie hard as a walnut. He was clad in his conventional businesswear, augmented by the sort of veneered body armor Ivory had favored.
“You are children in a nursery, squabbling over toys,” said Sister Menga. Each of her pronunciations seemed to issue from the haze of incense smoke just before her. “You carve coffins and hope events turn in your favor. You are losing your grasp, but not the strength of your grip.”
“And
you
are starting to sound like a fortune cookie,” said Cheung. “Why not feel my skull and tell me the future? I might as well burn Hell Money or seek the favor of paper gods.” He spun on his adviser. “Ivory is lost to me.
Guanxi
is lost. That is what it takes to achieve what I want, and I do not shrink from it.”
One of the Tosa dogs rose from Sister Menga’s nest
and padded out into the Junfa Hall. The other followed soon after. Since Dinanath was gone and Shukuma was occupied, stewardship of the dogs would currently be the purview of a man named Yu Peng, who had come to be in Cheung’s service from the Gedar Township of the area formerly called the Tibet Autonomous Region after the devastating earthquake there in 2006. Another Ivory recruit.
Cheung wondered how many of Ivory’s recruits might turn, how many remain loyal.
The dogs’ barking echoed through the museum ambience of the hall. They, too, were impatient for action.
Yu Peng would calm them down.
The other man in the hall was a Brazilian, newly hired by Cheung to salvage his skills from a murder rap in Sao Paulo. His name was…was…
Cheung hated the imprecision in his own mind. Romero? Chino? No, they were dead. Ayala, that was it. Dagoberto Ayala.
The Russian soul of Anatoly Dragunov, smoldering inside the shell of the persona he presented as Kuan-Ku Tak Cheung, resented his inability to enforce brutal fixes to essential, simple problems. In Shanghai the protocols were about ritual first, then political gain. This was frustrating. He understood peace through dominance and reflected that his plays were all logical and effective. Pawn for pawn, he reigned among ruthless men. Gabriel Hunt had come to China for a reason, and that reason had nothing to do with Valerie Quantrill’s unfortunate but necessary murder, or with her deranged militant sister. All these events were threads of a tapestry of challenges and rebuttals which Sister Menga had foretold in her cloaked fashion,
but which Cheung had also seen in terms of his own destiny. Gabriel Hunt was here because now was the time for Cheung to discover the Killers of Men. Gabriel Hunt’s brother was here because a bargaining chip was needed in reserve. If this revelation required the betrayal of Ivory—Cheung’s Immortal—then so be it. He had sacrificed his Number Ones before and would probably be required to do so again. Right now, he had no one in mind to sacrifice. While he had carved another little casket, he remained uncertain to whom it should be assigned.
According to a transmission from one of Zhang’s lieutenants, the wrecked helicopter in the middle of Zhongshan Road contained none of the nearly twenty men sent with Dinanath to investigate the homing beacon with which the Nameless One, Qingzhao, had been kindly belled by Ivory. This spoke as evidence in Ivory’s favor. Yet Qingzhao had no pilot skills. There was a fatal gap in information and hence, treachery was afoot everywhere today.
The soldier had reported back—not Shukuma. Another failure.
Dinanath had not reported back from the leaning pagoda.
His men, his men—were they all cowards or corpses?
Cheung was going to have to demonstrate once again that his leadership was unequalled. True generals, true leaders were unafraid to walk point.
The radiant sense of confidence with which he stood and strode forth was obliterated by the abrupt sound of a single gunshot, a hollow bang largely absorbed by all the fabric hanging in Cheung’s Temple Room. Cheung’s flesh contracted in a full-body flinch.
Sister Menga fell face-forward into her dish of guts,
the coals from her brazier scattering to pit the fireproof carpeting with acrid contrails of smoke. The seer had failed to foresee the bullet that would pierce her skull right where her third eye ought to have been.
Foretell the future? The future was only told when you made it yourself, thought Cheung as he turned to face Michelle Quantrill one final time.