Seal Team Seven #20: Attack Mode (5 page)

“A little entertainment,” Tung said. “My mind remembers many pleasant times that my body can no longer perform. It is comforting. Tell me about your work with the U.S. Navy. Your father tells me you are a SEAL. I understand it is the most dangerous job in the armed forces today.”

“Yes, Honored Grandfather, it is dangerous, but we are highly trained and specialists in the work we do.”

“Friends of mine tell me that the SEALs kill people, men the government does not want to go on living.”

Chin hesitated. They had been instructed repeatedly how to field questions such as this one. He frowned, then looked the old Chinese in the eye. “Officially there is no assassination in the U.S. operations,” Ching said.

“Yes, but unofficially?”

“That’s something I can’t comment on, Honored Grandfather.”

“Inscrutable, I like that. Now it is time to eat and drink. I hope you like Peking duck. We have a chef who is one of the best in the world at cooking it.”

Another panel opened and two women brought in trays filled with covered dishes. They set five plates in front of each man, then added cups of green tea and bowed as they backed out of the room.

“Yes, food, one of my many weaknesses,” Tung said. “Enjoy. Take off the covers and enjoy. If you want more or something else, we can serve you any dish you wish.”

“Oh, no, this is fine. Much fancier than the food we get in the mess hall.” He uncovered the dishes. They included three kinds of vegetables, two kinds of meat from the Peking duck, and sauces and biscuits made of rice flour. They ate.

Partway through the meal, Tung looked up at his young visitor. “Your father never did tell me why you chose not to go into business with him. Your two brothers have, and they are well respected and leaders in the Chinese community in San Francisco. They are also both well off and soon will be wealthy. Both are younger than you. Why did you not stay with your father’s businesses?”

Ching finished a bite of the delicious duck, then smiled. He’d known he would be asked the question and was ready. “I have no talent or feel for the business world. I’d go broke in a year. The Navy is where I feel I can contribute to our nation’s security. I love the work I do.”

“You kill people.”

Ching shifted on the cushion. He looked at the ancient Chinese and wondered how old he was, ninety, ninety-five? Slowly, Ching nodded. “Yes, but only the bad people and only when it is necessary.”

A gleam of satisfaction came from the ancient eyes.

“Ah yes, now we have it. ‘But only the bad people.’ ”

The old Chinese laughed, and it echoed around the room.

When the meal was over, the two serving girls brought in delicate desserts for each. Ching ate his not knowing
for sure what it was. Part ice cream, part flaked chocolate, part whipped cream and something else he couldn’t tie down. The whole thing was carefully layered into a crisp pastry shell that tasted of cinnamon and nutmeg.

There was no talking for a time. Then the host looked up.

“Kenneth Ching, your father has decided it is time that you quit the Navy and come to function with your own people, and live and work here in Chinatown. You will be given an opportunity to hold a position that will interest you and at which you will be well compensated. Your enlistment is up next month. Your father has commissioned me to counsel you, and to make a place for you in my organization. I hope that you still listen to the commands of your father and that you will show proper respect for his wishes and for mine as well.”

Kenneth Ching stared at the old man. He knew of the power and influence the ancient Chinese man had. He had heard of the way the Tung family operated in San Diego. Even so, he could not do what this man, and perhaps his father, had asked.

Slowly he shook his head. “Honored Grandfather. I am Chinese, and I have great respect for my father and his wishes, but he does not control my life. I’m sorry, but I can’t accept your gracious offer of employment.”

“You would defy your father’s wishes?”

“My father has not told me what his wishes are. No disrespect to you, but this is something he should have told me himself. He can afford to fly to San Diego.”

Tung gave a curt gesture with his right hand. Two panels behind him opened and three of the largest Chinese Ching had ever seen walked in and stood behind Tung. All wore black jeans and black T-shirts. Ching estimated that they must each weigh over three hundred pounds and stand six feet six inches tall.

“Honored Grandfather, are you trying to scare me, to intimidate me into working for you?”

“I have said nothing of the sort, young Kenneth. You
are not yet mature, not yet capable of deciding your own life’s path. You need counseling.”

“These are your counselors? This goon squad is going to reason with me?”

“These men are my bodyguards, to see that no harm comes to these old bones.”

“Yeah, sure they are, and I’m a millionaire twice over.” Ching shifted his legs and lifted to his feet. Two of the huge men moved around the table and one stood on each side of him six feet away.

“Kenneth Ching. The San Diego Chinese Cultural Society wishes you to join our ranks, to help us with our large number of community services to our people. There are no Chinese in San Diego who are on welfare. There are no Chinese who are homeless or street people. We serve an honorable and noble purpose.”

“I’m sure that you do. But there are several sidelines the tong also performs. For example I know that your tong controls all Chinese gambling in the city, that you have a strong and protected prostitution ring. The most disgusting of all is the protection racket that your goons run bleeding every Chinese merchant who has the guts to open a store in this town.”

Tung scowled and spat out Mandarin Chinese words quickly, but Ching understood them.

“So now you tell your muscle men not to let me leave. Your Mandarin holds no secrets from me. I will leave. I do not take this type of pressure lightly. Remember this, old man Chinese. If I take a blow, I will repay it tenfold. If I happen to stumble and break a bone, I will repay the man who did it fiftyfold. If these dolts don’t understand English, you better tell them right now.”

Kenneth Ching saw each of the men at his sides start to move toward him. He sprang backward to the only solid-looking wall in the room. On a table lay an ancient Chinese fighting long sword, two feet of tempered steel. He picked it up. The two-inch-wide blade was surprisingly heavy, but well balanced. He held it a moment. The thug nearest him stopped.

“That sword is a priceless artifact from the Ming Dynasty,” Tung said. “If it is harmed in any way …”

“Blood won’t harm it; let your men here demonstrate that. You are right. I can’t take out three of them, but surely two will go down before I do. Take your choice.” The old Chinese remained silent.

A half a step at a time, watching the three bodyguards, Ching edged toward the panel he had entered the room by. The guards didn’t move. Ching made it to the door, slid it open, and kept the sword as he ran down the corridor. He was halfway down when he glanced backward. There was no pursuit. He grinned. Then, before he could stop or dodge it, from an open panel a heavy chair flew out directly in his path and only a foot away. He crashed into it, the sword flew ahead of him a dozen feet, and he tried to stay on his feet but stumbled, felt the blow of the arm of the chair into his belly, and crumpled on the floor hurting all over.

When he tried to sit up, a heavy boot pressed down on his stomach, pinning him to the floor. Ching looked up at one of the goons who had been in the private dining room.

“Move your fucking foot,” Ching bellowed with all the air he had left in his lungs. Surprisingly the boot moved, only to return a fraction of a second later, kicking him in the side just above his kidney.

“Bastard,” Ching shrilled. He rolled over, and got to his knees when the boot came again, jolting into his stomach, lifting him off the floor, and dumping him near the chair. He had to get off the floor or he was dead. He surged toward the chair, grabbed it, picked it up, and swung it with all his strength. He didn’t even know if anyone was behind him. The big man had moved in again and Ching’s sudden surge caught him by surprise. The heavy chair legs caught the man in the side and slammed him against the side of the corridor, through a rice paper panel, and out of sight. Ching dropped the chair and ran down the hallway, hunting the restaurant.

Before he got there, a smaller man blocked his path. He held a thin fighting knife six inches long, waving it
back and forth in front of him. Ching never hesitated. He ran full speed at the man, jumped, and thrust out both feet at the waving knife and the man behind it. The tough sole of his black Navy shoe caught the knife almost at the point and spun it out of the man’s hand, and his feet continued on to strike the Chinese in the chest, jolting him backward into the hall and leaving him gasping for breath.

Ching jumped over him, only to find two more men at the end of the hall. To Ching’s surprise, one of them spoke.

“Mr. Ching, we hope there will be no more violence. We have been asked to escort you through the kitchen and to the street. If you will follow us, please.” They turned and walked down the hall to the door, then turned away from the restaurant section. Ching bolted the other way and was almost into the serving section of the eatery, when a heavy blow hit the back of his neck and he felt his whole body turn to jelly as he sank to the floor, fighting to maintain consciousness.

He felt someone pick him up and carry him. Then the coolness of the evening air hit him and he knew he was outside. Probably in the alley. He was getting back more of his senses, but he kept his arms and legs limp so they would think he had passed out. One man tried to stand him up. He collapsed. Another man lifted him; then, through slitted eyes, he saw one of the huge goons swinging his fist. He was directly in front of Ching. The SEAL’s legs stiffened and he kicked his right foot upward, slamming it into the big man’s crotch, driving higher, smashing penis and testicles against pelvic bones and bringing a bellow of agony and protest before the man slumped to the alley holding his crotch with both hands.

Ching twisted and came free of the man who held him, but a third man blasted a hard fist into his left kidney and Ching knew he was going to vomit. He slumped to his knees. He couldn’t stop the kick that came to his right kidney; then he was on the ground trying to pull his legs up into a fetal position. He wrapped his arms over his
head to protect it and waited for the next kick.

It didn’t come. He thought he heard scuffing as shoes and boots moved up the alley. A door closed. He tried to open his eyes, but they refused.

It took Kenneth Ching ten minutes before he could sit up. He had vomited twice and the bile taste in his mouth almost made him gag. When he sat up at last, he looked around. It was an alley, with back doors of several businesses. There were no cars or trucks, only some garbage cans and one streetlight halfway down. Ching gulped in air to try to stabilize his system. He’d never been beaten up so severely. A few barroom blasts but nothing like this.

More than an hour passed before Ching could get to his feet. He crawled over to a garbage can, held on to it, and slowly lifted up to his feet. His kidneys still drilled pain into his system. The goons knew what they were doing.

By the time he made it to the end of the three-hundred-foot alley, he could walk almost normally. Where did he leave his car? He checked his pocket and found his car keys where they should be. His Mazda was west of the restaurant. How far? He couldn’t remember. On the way up the sidewalk he checked every car he came to. He looked farther up the street and saw the restaurant sign. His car had to be this side of it. His was the tenth up the block. He nearly fell down getting the key in the lock, then he swung the door and eased into the driver’s seat.

At once he smelled something all too familiar. It was the coppery odor of fresh human blood. His eyes snapped wide open and he looked in the backseat. There lay a woman with blood all over her throat and chest. She was half-nude, and without checking Ching knew she was dead. How in hell? Tung did it, the bastard. The cops were supposed to catch him red-handed. The bastard.

No time to figure it out. He heard sirens in the distance. Police or ambulance? He didn’t know. Tung could have dumped the body in the backseat and called the cops. What the hell, Ching had to get out of there. He started the engine and eased away from the curb; then, driving
cautiously and obeying every traffic law and sign, he worked his way away from downtown and along Market Street until he was near Fortieth Street. There he parked near a vacant lot, shut off the engine, and killed the lights. He sat there breathing deeply and trying to control his heart rate. He was feeling a little better. His kidneys still pained him, but he could live with it. Tung wanted him down and out. The bastard! Ching looked around and saw no one. Nobody on the street. No stores around. Old buildings, and a vacant area, four or five lots. He opened the door and stood there watching the whole area. Two men up the street going the other way. No houses or businesses nearby. He took a deep breath and opened the back door. He grabbed the Chinese girl by her bare feet, tugged her out of the backseat, and lay her on the parking lot. No blood on his hands at least. He looked around again. Closed the car door. He couldn’t see a single soul. No lights came on. He got back in his car and drove away sedately. With luck no one had seen him dump the body. With luck, no one had spotted his car or his license plate.

Must be blood all over the backseat. He’d have to worry about that later. An anonymous tip to the cops could put them crawling all over his car. That damn Tung probably got his license plate to give to the cops. There might be an APB out on it right now. Once they found the car, he was dead. The DNA in the blood all over the backseat would be a perfect match with the murdered girl’s and he’d be in prison for life.

He drove slowly toward Coronado. What could he do with the car? Tung must know where he lived, or could find out easily enough. He couldn’t park at his condo. No way. Put it in a storage area somewhere? Change the license plates? He wasn’t used to trying to dodge the cops.