Authors: Stephen Knight
“Same thing. More politics, though. Tough to get work done.”
“Tell me about it.” Terrell punched the UP button and turned back to Ryker. His expression still wasn’t very friendly, but it was more welcoming than the one the kid had shown him at the door. “Politics are the death of the department. When that lesbian became the chief a few years ago, that absolutely blew my mind.”
“She’s gone. Replaced by a guy named Hallis.”
“He and I worked Tenderloin together, and later in the 80s, Western Addition. He was an okay cop then, I thought. How is he as a chief?”
Ryker shrugged. “Not a lesbian.”
Terrell allowed himself a glimmer of a smile, then looked up as the elevator arrived and the doors slid open. He preceded Ryker inside and pressed the button marked 45.
###
The ceiling collapsed before Manning could do anything more than fling himself forward, out of the secretary’s chair. Even as he did, he felt something bite the back of his left shoulder, something that penetrated the fabric of his jacket and the shirt underneath. As he hit the carpet, he cursed himself for not having the foresight to wear body armor. What the hell had happened to all his training?
He rolled onto his back as quickly as he could, moving fast, the injury to his shoulder not slowing him for a moment. Behind him, the chair he had sat on was flung into the wall, striking it so hard that it shattered into two pieces and cracked the expensive mahogany paneling. A figure clad in black from head to toe caught itself on its hands, folded at the waist, and alighted on its feet like some sort of circus performer. A small slit in the black hood was just wide enough for the assassin to see through. Black eyes glittered there, eyes that Manning recognized, though when he had last seen them they were full of a different kind of passion.
“Shi Meihua,” he said quietly, as he brought up the Smith & Wesson. His training had reasserted itself fully now. He pushed his personal feelings aside and allowed it to take over. The person who stood before him wasn’t his lover of no more than sixteen hours ago; the person there now was a target, someone who intended to kill him unless he struck first.
There was no hesitation on her part, and she hurled the knife she held at him with expert accuracy as Manning fired, aiming for her center of mass. Two rounds found their target, and she was flung against the credenza, arms flailing beneath the power of the double impacts. At the same time, her knife slashed through Manning’s abdomen; it had been skillfully thrown, and it cut deep into his liver. Manning ignored the spike of pain as he gathered his feet beneath him and stood, reaching across his body with his left hand. He grasped the knife and pulled it out, gasping slightly as a greater degree of pain lanced through him, a kind of agony he had thought he’d grown used to. As the black-clad figure rebounded off the credenza and fell toward the carpet, Manning tracked it with his pistol, but he was off by just a fraction. His responses slowed by the spreading web of pain, he was slow to respond to the change in her body’s attitude. She wasn’t slumping to the floor, a victim of what had to be two fatal shots. Instead, she gathered her legs beneath her and hurtled toward Manning like a guided missile.
She’s wearing a ballistic vest!
he thought, too late.
He fired again, twice. The first shot tore through her left thigh and blasted a path out of her calf. The second missed entirely. And then the pistol was sent flying as her left hand knifed out and struck his wrist with all the power of a sledgehammer, making his entire arm light up with pain. Manning pivoted at the waist and lashed out with his left fist, driving it into the side of her head with as much power as he could muster, which wasn’t much given his current position. He knew her target would be the knife wound. The liver was one of the most vulnerable organs in the human body, and he doubted her knife had perforated his entirely by accident.
Her body slammed into his, and the force of the impact made him stumble backwards as she wrapped her arms around his waist. Her uninjured leg scythed out, describing a brief crescent as it tangled up with one of his own legs. Manning fell onto his back, his right arm flopping uselessly at his side as he fired off another punch. Meihua’s head rocketed back under the force of the impact.
And then she punched the knife wound.
###
As the elevator reached the 45th floor, both Ryker and Terrell heard the gunshots, two fired close together, another a moment later. Ryker pulled his pistol as the doors slid open and held it in a combat stance, feet spread, crouching slightly. The elevator bay was empty, so he stepped into it, panning the pistol from left to right. There was no target for him to engage.
“What do you want me to do?” Terrell asked. He had no weapon, and he had pressed himself against one of the elevator’s walls.
“Call nine one one, tell them shots fired at this address and floor, and tell them I’m on scene. Then let the cops up here as soon as they arrive. It’s probably going to be a few minutes, though.”
“No kidding?” Terrell knew the traffic patterns of San Francisco as well as anyone.
“Where’s Lin’s office?”
“Far corner. Left out of the elevator lobby, walk to the wall, then hard right. Office suites are at the end of a hall, his is the last one. Secretary’s office outside, and then Lin’s office is past that. Here, you’ll need this.” Terrell held out a magnetic card, but did not leave the elevator. Ryker was forced to sidestep into the elevator and take it with his left hand, crossing it under his right arm to do so. It was awkward and left him momentarily vulnerable, but there was no helping that.
“Later,” Ryker said. He moved toward the glass doors that led to Lin Industries and swiped the card across the reader there. Magnetic locks clicked loudly—too loudly, he thought—and he pulled open one door with his left hand. Keeping to a crouch, he turned left and hurried toward the far wall.
Behind him, the elevator doors closed.
###
The pain was so intense that Manning had no choice but to scream. As Meihua’s fingers rammed into the slit that had been opened by her knife, she tore the wound open even further. Manning screamed again, but rocked to his right. At the same time, he wrapped his left arm around her head, cupping her chin in his hand. He made to spin her head around with all his strength; he doubted he could break her neck this way, but he would doubtless damage ligaments and tendons there. She knew what he was up to, and she released him, rolling with his arm’s motion, but her movements were slowed by her damaged leg. Manning ripped his arm out from beneath her and powered another strike at her head, and his fist caught her full in the face this time. His choices after that were to roll up on her and pin her beneath his body mass, but with one arm out of commission there wasn’t much he could do; she would doubtless immobilize his left arm and break it, leaving him mostly helpless. So he rolled away from her and sprang to his feet as quickly as he could. He reached inside his jacket and pulled the Asp from his belt and flicked it open to its full 42-inch length. At the same time, Meihua pulled herself up onto her good leg, using the secretary’s desk for support. Manning took a step back, using his peripheral vision to scan for his pistol. He didn’t see it, which meant he was either standing right over it or it was behind him. Warm wetness made the front of his shirt stick to his body, and the wound in his side throbbed sickeningly. He knew the damage to his liver was bad, and was very likely bleeding profusely into his body cavity. He didn’t have much time left before he passed out from blood loss.
Meihua sprang toward him suddenly, moving with more speed than she should have been capable of, given the damage done to her left leg. Manning swung the Asp expertly, cracking her across the right forearm with enough force to snap her radius. He then reversed the swing as she continued to close and raked her across the skull. The blow was mostly ineffectual, for at the last moment she dipped her head, and the tip of the Asp managed only a grazing strike. She kept coming, and Manning stepped forward, lifting his right leg, snap-kicking her with his knee against her chest. The force of the blow was strong enough to knock her back, and for a moment she tottered on her injured leg. Manning swung the Asp again, striking her in the chest, and she grunted in pain.
“Let me do this!” she shouted finally. “Let me do this, and I’ll let you live!”
“Not hardly,” Manning said. He swung the Asp again in a vicious backhand, and his target was her throat. The force of the strike would have shattered her larynx and promised a long, lingering death.
Despite her injuries, she spun on her damaged leg and took the strike on the back, right between the shoulder blades. At the same time, her right leg lashed out in a ferocious spin-kick that Manning couldn’t block—his right arm still hung limp at his side, the nerves tingling as if on fire. He tried to duck down, but there just wasn’t enough time—she was much faster than he could ever be.
Light exploded behind his eyes as he took the kick right to the side of the head.
###
Ryker heard the sounds of struggle somewhere on the floor. His Glock at the ready, he advanced toward the office suites in the far corner, glancing into cubicles as he passed by them. Through the ceiling to floor windows, he saw the sun was already below the horizon. The city of San Francisco was lighting up, ready to repel the darkness of night. In counterpoint, half the lights on the office floor switched off suddenly. Ryker cursed the lack of illumination, as now every shadow could offer cover to a potential attacker.
Only two lights were on in the dark hallway that led to the office suites. Ryker considered his chances for a moment. There were many, many places for an attacker to hide, but at the end of the hallway, a thin strip of light beckoned. Light that escaped from beneath a shut door.
And then he heard a woman shout something, and then a loud crash.
Ryker firmed his grip on the Glock.
Time to join the party.
###
Meihua watched as Manning collapsed face-first to the floor in an awkward sprawl. The Asp slipped from his grasp, and the bend in his left arm told her she had indeed broken it as she had intended. His jacket and shirt were darkened by the blood pouring from the injury in his side. She hadn’t meant it to be a fatal wound, but he had rushed her; the speed at which he had pulled his weapon, turned, and fired hadn’t left her with much choice in the matter. She had hurled her knife as she had been trained to do those many, many years ago in China and Taiwan. The liver was one of the human body’s most important organs, and as such, it was incredibly vulnerable to injury. Even the smallest wound could impair its function, and of course, it bled a great deal. If she hadn’t struck him there, she knew his next shot would be to her head, and that would be that.
Convinced Manning wasn’t going anywhere, she limped toward the office suite’s inner door. She was bleeding badly, from the wound in her left leg and from her nose, which Manning had broken with his punch. And her right arm was damaged as well; in just a matter of seconds, Manning had rendered her almost combat-ineffective. It was by more luck than skill that she had persevered and overcome him, but she had known that fighting him would be a great challenge. She felt no euphoria at the victory, just a deep, hollow fatigue.
She threw open the office door and leaped inside with as much vigor as she could summon, landing in an awkward crouch, her right arm curled before her chest, her bleeding left leg extended behind her for balance. The pain was starting to mount now, interfering with her ability to concentrate, to remain focused; she used every ounce of her conditioning to hold it at bay, to short-circuit the nerve impulses carrying useless messages of pain before they reached her brain. She looked from right to left, but the office appeared to be empty. All the lights were on, but where was Lin—?
The sound of trickling water captured her attention, and she looked to her left. The sound came from behind a closed door, and she saw a strip of wan light radiating from the small gap between the door and floor. Through her damaged nose, she could still smell the lingering Chinese food, and the glance to the credenza to her right revealed the remains of a large dinner, in foil trays and white cardboard boxes. Back to her left, the trickling water beckoned to her.
He’s in there,
she thought.
She rose and advanced toward the door at a slow, hobbling pace. As she walked, she reached to her waist, where the belt of blades was cinched tight around the thin, high-tech ballistic armor that protected her chest. She pulled a long, thin blade from its sheath. Its hilt was made from white pearl. White—the color of death in China.