White Tiger (28 page)

“The report, Mr. Han,” the woman said, sounding distressed. “It’s been sent to our offsite records facility by mistake, along with some other stuff. I’ve been trying to contact the driver, but I can’t get hold of him. You aren’t on your way to the M.E.’s office, are you?”

“As a matter of fact I am.”

“Oh dear. Mr. Han, would it be an inconvenience if I asked you to meet me at the records facility instead? I’m on my way there now to find that report.”

Han considered the request. It was not too outrageous, although clearly the San Francisco Medical Examiner’s administrative procedures were inadequate, oand the staff incompetent. “Where is this facility?” he asked.

She gave him the address, which he repeated to Baozong. The driver nodded and immediately moved into the right-hand lane. “No problem,” Baozong said. “Another couple of minutes, that’s all.”

“I will see you there, Miss Huang,” Han said.

“My car’s a red Toyota hatchback. It’ll be parked outside the rear entrance.”

“Thank you.” Han hung up and slipped the phone back into his pocket. “
Aiyah.
The stupid whore has managed to misplace the Medical Examiner’s report,” he told the two men. “We are to meet her at this other address. She drives a red Japanese whorehouse. A Toyota hatchback.”

Guolong said, “I bet she fucks with the hatch wide open. She likes the cool breeze on her ass.” They laughed, and Han conceded a smile.

As they navigated the streets their surroundings changed from a mix of stores and residential apartments to older office and utility buildings, some of which appeared empty. Traffic thinned, then became non-existent, with only a handful of vehicles parked in otherwise deserted alleyways. Baozong slowed while Guolong consulted a street map he took from the glove box. They reached agreement and the sedan entered a dark city of one-story buildings and tall warehouses. It reminded Han uncomfortably of times long past in his faraway homeland, of entire towns left populated only by ghosts.

The street narrowed so much that two cars would have found it difficult to pass. The shrinking dimensions gave Han an acute feeling of claustrophobia. “There,” Guolong said. He pointed to the alleyway directly ahead, in which a red car sat near a stairway that led up to a sheltered doorway.

Baozong said, “Is that it, Mr. Han?”

“It has to be,” Han said, irritated by the question.

“Maybe she’s fucking someone in the back seat, hey?” Guolong said.

“She can’t be, the hatch is shut,” Baozong said, cackling with amusement. But Han found himself focusing on something other than their asinine humor, something external and inexplicable that chilled his spine and caused his stomach to lurch.

Guolong leaned forward and twisted his head to look upward. A shadow passed over his face and he said, “What the fuck?” A heavy weight struck the sedan’s roof, the
boom
reverberating through the car like a gunshot. The windshield shattered a split-second later, showering Guolong with a storm of glass. Han, even as he reached inside his jacket to draw his pistol, a copy of the Russian Makarov, from its cracked leather holster, understood that someone had leaped from the roof of the warehouse. The analytical part of his mind calculated the height and distance, and told him that such a leap should not be possible.

Baozong’s side window exploded and the driver abruptly jerked sideways, his head dragged outside by his tie. He choked and fought back, pulling with all his strength. But then a knife descended and slipped so easily across his throat, opening Baozong’s carotid artery and windpipe in the same fluid motion, as if the tough cartilage of the throat posed no obstacle to the gleaming blade. Blood sprayed across the dashboard and Baozong began to die, his brain deprived of vital oxygen.

Han fired upward through the roof, five deliberate shots that drew a straight line from corner to corner. He didn’t wait to see whether he’d hit anything; while he remained inside the sedan with his back to the rear window he was at his most vulnerable. He kicked the rear door on the driver’s side open, a diversion, then opened the opposite door and threw himself from the sedan, trusting his fate and his life to the gods. He rolled as he landed and came up on one knee, facing the sedan with his gun in both hands, the hammer thumbed back, two rounds still in the magazine.

Guolong, his face cut to bloody ribbons by the glass, recovered sufficient presence of mind to pull an Uzi submachine pistol from inside his jacket and cock the weapon. Absurdly, Han wondered how he would have explained the Uzi if they had been stopped by the police for any reason and searched.
So sorry, officer, I didn’t realize automatic weapons were illegal here, they’re all the rage in Shanghai, don’t you know?
Guolong screamed his rage and blindly unloaded his Uzi into the sedan’s roof, even as Han realized there was no one up there.

Death came to Guolong not from above but from beneath the sedan, as a figure clad all in black slid out between the wheels, wrenched Guolong’s door open and, with a clinical precision that a surgeon might have admired, inserted the point of a long, straight sword into his exposed lower back. Han watched, utterly fascinated, as the blade slid up and completely disappeared inside Guolong’s torso. There seemed to be no resistance at all. Guolong threw both arms wide and arched his back, his mouth open but making no sound. Han could barely imagine his agony. The Uzi barked once more as confused nerves caused dying fingers to tremble. Brass cartridge cases pinged and bounced on the asphalt. Then the door was slammed shut and Guolong slid down out of sight, leaving bloody streaks on the side window.

Han’s eyes almost failed to pick out the black-clad figure crouched on all fours like an animal about to pounce. It blended into the shadows around the sedan
—
seemed to belong to a world of confused light and shade rather than be an individual human entity. And it was staring at Han over the barrel of his pistol. Han willed his finger to pull the trigger and send a bullet into the killer’s skull, but those eyes, those terrible eyes and the dark force behind them stopped the signal from passing along the network of nerves that connected Han’s brain to his hand. Try as he might, he could not pull the trigger. And for the first time in nearly forty years, Han Baojia experienced fear.

Too late, his troubled mind acknowledged the object that whirled through the air and struck the gun from his hand. Red-hot pain lanced up his arm. At least one bone in his hand had been shattered by the impact. He looked down and saw what looked like an iron rod, no more than six inches in length, lying beside his foot. Further back up the street, the way they’d just come, a car hissed by. Han clutched his hand to his chest and ran for his life. If he could find someone, if he could surround himself with witnesses whose presence might deter the killer, he might stand a chance. His footsteps echoed up the lonely street, vying with the thump of his heart against his ribcage and his laboring, wheezing lungs. He shifted left and right, hoping to avoid any thrown objects. Another car passed by only a hundred paces away, perhaps even less. The possibility that the killer had chosen not to pursue him grew in his mind, until the split-second when his ankles snapped together and he fell headlong, landing on his broken hand and smashing his face into the asphalt.

The numbness lasted for a count of five. Then agony tore through his body. Blood filled his mouth; he’d bitten the end of his tongue off. He curled into fetal position and suppressed the groan that sought to escape his lips. He became aware that his ankles were bound by a length of wire attached to teardrop-shaped iron weights at either end. He’d been tripped, brought down expertly like some jungle animal hunted for sport. Barbs fixed along the wire had torn his flesh to ribbons. He suspected their points might be grating against the bones of his ankles.

The killer bent over him and inspected him thoroughly. Hands grabbed hold of his jacket. Han was lifted and spun around and slung over the killer’s shoulder. He struggled to remember the term.
Fireman’s carry.
Han ground his teeth together, determined not to make a sound that would give the killer satisfaction, even though he had no idea whether that was what the killer sought from him. Only now, through the haze of pain, did he begin to perceive a true impression the killer’s size. He was not a large man. His frame was surprisingly small, his shoulders narrow, his arms wiry, his hands tiny. Was the killer a young boy? Could that be possible?

Small or not, the killer carried Han all the way back toward the sedan without any apparent effort. Keeping Han balanced on his shoulder, the killer opened the driver’s door and took the key from the ignition. He went to the back of the sedan and unlocked the trunk, which swung open to reveal the spacious interior, occupied only by a plastic box containing a flashlight, tire iron, and foot pump.

The killer twisted and dipped his shoulder, dumping Han into the trunk without ceremony. It was simply too much; a moan escaped Han’s lips. He instantly detested himself for exposing his weakness to his enemy. But the killer didn’t appear interested; he slammed the trunk shut. The light bulb dimmed, became a glowing pinhead, too small to illuminate Han’s surroundings. His ragged breathing filled the darkness. Now that he was alone he sucked air deep into his lungs and permitted himself a full-blown groan. Moving his legs proved impossible, the nerves refused to respond. His hand burned, distracting him further.

He sought, and found, the flashlight, which was made of tough plastic, with a handle above the body. He thumbed the switch on. When his eyes adjusted he played the light over his other hand. It was unnaturally twisted, the fingers bent backward, dislocated or broken, he couldn’t tell which. In terms of pain it probably didn’t matter, one was as bad as the other. He laid the flashlight on the floor. The beam waned and he thought the batteries might be drained, but the beam’s strength returned again without explanation. Han gripped his twisted forefinger and wrenched it straight. The pain made him weep. He spat blood that had pooled in his mouth, then pulled his other fingers straight in rapid succession. Three had been dislocated, and his smallest finger was indeed broken. He tried gripping the flashlight but it slipped from his numb fingers. He jammed his useless fingers between the flashlight’s handle and the cylindrical body, an exercise in self-mutilation, but it gave him a club that would, with luck, be enough to distract the killer for a split-second. He switched it off to preserve battery power. Next he searched for the tire iron and took comfort from the feel of the chill, hard metal. As soon as the trunk opened again he would turn on the flashlight and swing it at the killer’s head, masking his real attack, the pointed end of the tire iron which he would thrust at the killer’s solar plexus with all the strength and speed he could muster.

Thumping noises came from the front of the sedan. The car rocked on its suspension. The engine started. Han imagined the killer must have got behind the wheel, having pushed Tao Baozong over into the passenger seat with Fan Guolong. Their failure to safeguard his life angered Han. The ineptness of the Russian’s “special training” couldn’t be more obvious. Baluyevsky’s competence would be called into question as soon as Han saw Lin Yubo....

The sedan moved off. Han relaxed as best he could, conserving what strength he had. The numbness began to spread up his legs, to his knees. That suggested blood loss as well as nerve and muscle damage. After he dealt with the killer, assuming he could, what then? Somehow he would have to get out of the trunk and into the driver’s seat. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. For now his focus must be entirely upon the killer. Exacting revenge for the deaths of Lin Yubo’s sons was paramount. To Han, this objective was more important than his own life. He closed his eyes and mumbled a prayer to all his ancestors.
Let me perform my duty well.

The sedan slowed. How far had it been driven? He’d no idea. He thought it turned a corner, though his limited perspective from within the dark trunk couldn’t be entirely trusted. It slowed again, then stopped. The engine was switched off. The sedan rocked again. Had the killer got out? Han gripped the tire iron tight and placed his thumb over the flashlight’s switch.

The trunk opened! Han switched on the flashlight and swung his arm up and around. It seemed as if a sledgehammer struck his forearm, the force tremendous, the pain too much for any man to bear. The flashlight spun away, torn from his hand, and smashed itself to pieces. He screamed even as he rose up on his elbow and aimed the tire iron at an imaginary point where he imagined
—
hoped,
prayed
!—the killer must be standing. His makeshift weapon only found air before the sledgehammer struck again, shattering his hand. The tire iron made a clanging noise as it hit solid ground. Concrete? Could they be inside one of the warehouses?

The flashlight was gone. The tire iron was gone. All that remained was the pain. His arms were as useless as his legs. He lay on the floor of the trunk, gasping and helpless.