The China Dogs (45 page)

He jumps to the worst conclusion. “Is she all right?”

“Yes, sir. The First Lady is just fine. But I'm afraid your dog, Emperor, has been shot.”

“What?”

“Apparently, there was an incident while transferring him from the presidential vehicle and then another one after Mrs. Molton had left him.”

“Go on.”

Jordan reads from his notes. “‘The animal had been sedated and was being checked over as part of a routine admission, when it woke from a seemingly placid state and bit two male attendants. One needed four stitches to a hand, the other was badly mauled on the arm, shoulder, and face.' ”

“Dear God—is he in the hospital?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you must get me a contact number there so I can ring him. And for the other attendant as well.”

“Yes, sir, I will.” Jordan hesitates. “Mr. President, the dog was shot with a pistol by a police officer, and he—well, the dog is still alive. The manager of the unit wants to know if he has your permission to destroy him.”

For a second Molton thinks of his family and their attachment to the family pet. Jack isn't going to understand all this. Not one bit. He swallows hard and gives the only answer he can. “Permission granted, but no one speaks about this until I've handled it with my family.”

169

Big Cypress National Preserve, South Florida

T
he former Seminole settlement is riddled with rugged tracks and trails far too dangerous for the Dodge.

Ghost parks and jogs deep into a dark maze of swampy forest. He's way off the beaten track. Far from the open water where airboats skim and miles of boardwalks lead tourists around more cultivated areas. Every ten steps sees a change of terrain, from dry to wet, from gluey mud to hard ground. Around him he knows there are dozens of reptiles, everything from gators to geckos. His right foot goes down in an unseen hole and a brown water snake wriggles away from him.

Half a mile of energy-sapping swamp leads to trees, bushes, brambles, and finally a narrow track that winds up to higher ground.

The GPS on Ghost's smartphone leads him to three Army ORVs, camouflaged personnel carriers, adapted swamp buggies, driven deep into a copse of evergreens. From this moment he knows hidden eyes and guns are trained on him. He walks with his hands held high above his head, fingers spread wide, to show without a shadow of doubt that he's not carrying a weapon and isn't a danger.

A female voice hushes out an angry reassurance to her colleagues, “He's a cop. He's with me.”

Ghost lowers his arms as Gwen Harries approaches. She's in combat blacks and her face looks like a thunderstorm about to break. “What the fuck are you doing here? And how the hell did you find me?”

“One good bug deserves another.”

“What?”

“The surprise hug I gave you in Washington. It wasn't a sudden rush of affection. I slapped a transparent tracer on the back of your ID. It was on top of your purse.”

A burst of gunfire from off in the distance cuts short the volley of outrage she was about to hurl at him. “Keep back and don't get in the damned way.”

He follows her into a cluster of trees. “That's Li Chen, I presume.”

“And his wife. They're holed up in a shack we've been watching. It's why I left early.”

Ghost slides up against a tree. Harries is still talking, but he's not listening. His mind is playing over the connections between Chen, the killer dogs, and Zoe lying in a hospital bed fighting for her life. He slips his hand beneath his jacket and pulls out one of the Glocks.

More gunfire breaks out. Short bursts of automatic fire. A Mac-11 or maybe an Uzi. He places it 150, maybe 200 yards away. Close to Harries he sees men in black start to spread out and move in on their prey. It should be over quickly now. He'll have the satisfaction of looking into the faces of the pair who've brought death to Miami, then he'll head to the hospital.

A loud explosion throws water, soil, and busted tree branches high into the air.

More gunfire follows.

Smoke bombs.

More automatic fire.

Ghost edges toward the action. He gets the feeling the Chens are putting up more of a fight than Harries and her chums expected. Another explosion goes off to his right, and he instinctively peels left. His brain tells him the CIA unit will be drawn to the action and it might be a ruse. Chen could be putting on a show to draw the fire while his accomplice heads in the opposite direction.

The hard ground quickly becomes swampy and he starts to have doubts. The gun battle still wages off to his right but there is nothing but stink, slime, and silence out here.

And a gator.

He's seen enough not to get easily spooked, but this is a big boy and the sudden noises have left the gator with his mouth open, and he's not looking for his teeth to be cleaned.

Ghost levels the Glock and pumps a shot down its throat and another in the side of its head as it lurches left. If it hadn't been so close and the circumstances had been less tense, he might have given it a chance to back off and find a watery hole to disappear into.

He watches the gator spasm. Way beyond it, another big reptile moves. Seems at first he's stumbled into a nesting area, then he sees fresh movement and makes out a human form.

The distant figure is exposed. Out in the open. Vulnerable.

It's about a hundred yards away, and Ghost can't make out whether it's male or female.

A single gunshot rings out. The bullet slashes water just a couple of feet from him. Whatever the sex, the person behind the weapon is a good shot. And the single shot means either they're testing distance or have limited ammo.

He has no option but to fire back. He's just as exposed as the shooter, and diving for cover is not an option in this stretch of gator-strewn swamp. The G22 jerks in his hand. He's firing high and left to allow for the distance and a slight breeze coming in off the Atlantic.

Two more shots hit the swamp near him. Barely a foot away. Ghost shifts to his right and returns fire. This time he sprays and prays as he empties the rest of his fifteen round mag.

The figure's still standing.

Ghost goes for the second Glock.

A bullet thumps his shoulder.

The impact spins him. Drops him on his side in the swamp. Mud and water fill his mouth. For a second his head fills with bouncing lights. Adrenaline pumps through his body. Masks the pain. He reaches into his waistband. Finds the second gun. Not that it matters. The shooter will be far away by now.

He gets to his knees and looks across the swamp.

A Chinese man is twenty yards away and closing in on him. A gun dangles from his right arm.

Ghost raises his pistol and fires.

The shot misses.

Chen lifts his weapon, and Ghost knows his time is up. He always thought he'd realize the moment when it came. And now is that moment. He closes his eyes and hears the shot ring out.

170

Beijing

G
eneral Zhang sits in his silent vice presidential office. He reflects on his forty years of life, how after starting with so little he now stands on the edge of so much.

His family come from Ningxia, a bleak and barren autonomous province that has been christened the poorest place on earth. It is one fall of rain short of being a desert, with little sanitation and the barest of crops to feed a near anemic population.

His father was the first of the Zhangs to move away from the area, to trek across China and enlist as a full-time soldier. The toughness of his father's upbringing laid the basis for him to develop into a brutal and much feared professional soldier. He rose through the ranks and married a young secretary from Beijing named Jin Leung. Two years later they had him—their only permissible child.

In his young, formative years he witnessed brutality. His father beat his mother and she in turn would beat him. He grew up knowing only that you had no control over your life unless you were ruthless, duplicitous, and strong.

All traits that he recognizes now in the big soldier being shown through to his office to sit with him.

“How are your wounds?” Zhang pours whiskey from a decanter and hands a glass to Luo Kai.

“I have no wounds, only lessons, General.” He takes the tumbler and puts it on the edge of the desk but doesn't drink. Alcohol has never touched his lips and never will.

“Where did you learn to fight so well?”

“Foshan, sir. Where I was born. A school with historic connections to the great master Yip Man.”

“You learned Wing Chun, I can tell from your style.”

The soldier smiles. “You have great powers of observation, General.”

“You are correct. I do.” He leaves the desk as he talks and walks around the other side so he can stand behind the muscled soldier. “But you can never know so much that you shouldn't seek to learn more. So I asked about you, soldier. Inquired as to your suitability to serve me.”

Kai turns around to see him. “I am honored—”

“Face the other way! Look at me only when I tell you.”

The young man turns, so he stares only at the wood walls behind the great general's desk.

Zhang paces. His strides cause the wooden boards to clump and squeak.

Kai hears the door open. More feet rush into the room.

Metal slides on metal.

The unmistakable sound of rifles being cocked.

“Stand up.” Zhang barks out the order. “And spread your hands on the desk.”

He does as he's told. His mind on the tiny item that he concealed on his body, the one which if discovered will lead to his death.

The general keeps his distance.

He stays far behind and off to one side of the dangerous young soldier. Far enough back for the man to be cut down by several soldiers should he suddenly turn and try to kill him. “Cuff his hands behind his back. Manacle his feet, then search him.”

The four soldiers set about their tasks. Two keeping their weapons sighted on Luo Kai's head, the others applying the restraints.

Once the prisoner has been secured, Zhang walks back in front of him, pulls his pistol, drags Kai's head up by his hair and puts the gun in his mouth. “You are an assassin. Everything about you betrays the fact. It is in your eyes and the steadiness of your hands. It is in your faint praise and the fearless odor of your young skin. And it is in the fact that you keep the regular acquaintance of people like Minister Chunlin.” He stares into the man's wide and now frightened eyes. “My only interest in you is how you intended to kill me.”

171

Big Cypress National Preserve, South Florida

T
he extra pain never comes.

Ghost is on his knees in swamp water waiting to check out of a life he's loved to the best of his abilities. But the bullet to the heart or head never arrives.

He opens his eyes and sees figures running into view from the right. There's no sign of the gunman. Of Chen. Now he sees Gwen Harries. She's at the front of the pack, a gun held in clasped hands. She's pointing her weapon at the ground some fifteen yards from him and others are joining her.

She shot him. Harries shot Chen. His brain finally makes the connection. The sneaky, duplicitous CIA agent who he never had time for has just saved his life.

He gets to his feet and almost falls over. Pain has come now. Arrived like a sledgehammer blow to his left shoulder. He eases the muddy jacket off and sees his shirtsleeve is soaked in blood.

“You best get that cleaned and stitched.” Harries is only a couple of feet away from him. She glances back to where her colleagues are. “Chen's dead, unfortunately. I didn't have time to shoot selectively.”

“Not too unfortunate for me.” He pulls the bloody shirt off his skin and tries to locate the exact point of entry. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“You're welcome.” She can see what he's trying to do. “Let me help.” She loops a finger into the tear above his biceps and rips the sleeve wide. “You're lucky, it's outer shoulder muscle, through and through, not bone.”

“I don't feel so lucky.”

“You will when you reminisce. People like Chen are trained assassins. He came to finish you off because he only had limited ammunition. The firefight back at the shack left him low because his ‘wife' used most of what they'd stashed when she made her covering run. Let's walk back, there's some morphine in the ORV, a shot of that will see you right.”

Ghost is glad to be pulling his feet out of the stinking swamp water. His suit is pretty much ruined but he couldn't give a damn. A few yards from dry ground his cell phone rings. He has to stop to fish it out of his pocket and instantly smears mud over the display. It's no doubt someone from the task force wanting to know when he'll be at work.

“Walton.”

“Lieutenant, this is Jude, Zoe's friend.”

“Jude. Are you in Miami already?”

“Arrived a couple of hours back. I'm at the hospital.”

The pause told Ghost something was wrong. “What's happened?”

“Zoe's back in surgery. She's taken a real turn for the worse.”

172

Pacific Ocean

P
resident Molton talks first to the doctors at Washington Memorial, then to Tyler Hutchins, the male attendant whose hand was bitten by Emperor.

After giving his apologies and wishing him the speediest of recoveries, he speaks next to Ashton Stephens, the forty-four-year-old who was more severely hurt.

“I'm told that you've suffered some very nasty injuries, Mr. Stephens, and I'm extremely sorry that my dog did that to you.”

“Not your fault, Mr. President. I been reading the news. I know these poor dogs are goin' crazy and it ain't no one's fault but Nature's for turnin' them that way.”

“All the same, I'm very sorry. Are you in a lot of pain?”