The Killing Hands (39 page)

I walk the block back to the bar's entrance, which is simply a door with flashing neon above it, and make my way up a narrow staircase to the bar's internal door. Once I'm inside I quickly scope the place and the patrons, as if I'm looking for someone. To my disappointment, about three-quarters of them are Asian, which will make it much harder for me to blend in. The fact that I'm a single woman in a bar won't help matters, either. I look for the most likely target, someone I can approach. Two men sit on a table by themselves and I can imagine it would be easy for me to join them, although it may lead to complications later. Instead, I go for a group of three women.

I focus on the nearest one and make a beeline for her. “Hi, Jane, isn't it?” I put on my best American accent and place my hand on her shoulder.

The girl turns around. “No, sorry.” She smiles. “I'm Emily.”

“Emily. That's right.”

The smile stays, but becomes more uncertain. “I'm sorry, I can't…”

“I'm Tiffany. Don't tell me you don't remember me?” I say it with what I hope is enough indignation that Emily will feel too embarrassed to admit that she doesn't remember me…she doesn't even know me.

“Tiffany,” she repeats. “Yeah, hi, Tiffany.”

She introduces me to her friends, Beth and Mary.

“Do you mind if I have a drink with you guys while I'm waiting for my friend?” I ask. “Don't you just hate drinking alone?”

The girls all agree and soon I'm firmly entrenched in Emily's girls' night out, sipping a gin and tonic. I edge myself around in the booth slightly so I can see more of the bar.
Suzuki is nowhere to be found, but I presume he's out the back somewhere, perhaps in an office. Maybe the front-of-house wasn't the best place to stake out. How will I see him if he leaves via the back door? I decide to give it another twenty minutes before going back to my car and waiting for Suzuki to make a move—assuming I haven't already lost him.

I only just manage to keep my head above water with Emily, Beth and Mary, but my attention isn't really on them, it's on the other patrons. I study each Asian male carefully, wondering if perhaps one of them is our hit man in one of his many disguises. It's the height I concentrate on, and there are only five men I'd judge to be around six feet. One man sits by himself, but I can only make out a partial profile, not enough to be sure one way or the other.

I glance at my watch. “Gee, my friend's running real late. Hope you don't mind me sitting here a bit longer?”

The girls all agree it's fine, and I continue to superficially contribute to the conversation. It's hard going when they mostly seem to be talking about fashion and the latest TV shows, but every now and again I'm able to add something or move the conversation to a celebrity or movie I have seen.

The solitary man stays by himself, still nursing the same beer. I'm about to excuse myself and go back to my car when Suzuki comes out of a side door near the stage, marked Employees Only. I wait for him to make a beeline for the man's table, but he doesn't. Instead, he looks around the bar. I manage to be engrossed in conversation as his eyes pass quickly over our table, a group of four women not holding his attention. He's looking for someone specific. He looks around once more, before taking a seat by himself in a corner table with a Reserved sign on it. Again, I keep myself half in the conversation and half on the lookout.

It's a full five minutes before the man moves from his table to Suzuki's. The man gives Suzuki a little bow, and at first Suzuki's face is blank, but soon he smiles. From this angle I get a closer look at the man's face and I'm sure it's our guy, our hit man. Time to call in backup.

I'm about to excuse myself and find a quiet corner—if that's possible in a karaoke bar—when both Suzuki and Ling stand up. They make their way to the Employees Only door. My mind races with possibilities. Are Mee Kim and Dan Young out the back now, and Ling's about to execute them? Or are they just going out the back to talk privately? I can either make a run for the door and hope to sneak in before it latches, or I can wait it out. In the split second I have to make the decision, I decide following Suzuki and Ling is too risky. But it's also time for a move.

I sigh. “Looks like my friend stood me up.” I stand up. “Great to see you again, Emily. And nice to meet you, Mary and Beth.”

We say our goodbyes and I head out the front door. But instead of going back to my car, I slip around to the laneway that runs alongside the double-story building. I move past Suzuki's Mercedes and farther into the laneway until I find a spot behind a charmingly smelly Dumpster. From here I can see his car, and if I step out a bit farther I can see the back door to the bar. I lean on the Dumpster, despite the smell, with my head peering out for a clear line of sight of the door. I've spotted Park Ling and I should ring Petrov, but I know he'll kill me for being out from behind my desk when I'm still recovering, so I try De Luca first.

“De Luca.”

“Hey, De Luca,” I whisper, “it's Anderson.”

“What's up?”

“I've spotted Park Ling. He's with Takeshi Suzuki at his karaoke bar.”

“Really!”

“You guys wanna come back me up or what?”

“You're there by yourself? Injured?”

I sigh. Maybe De Luca is going to be as bad as Petrov. “Long story. Just get your ass down here.”

“What about Petrov? You called him?”

“No, thought I'd leave that to you.” I disconnect. Just as I hang up, the door creaks open. I lean harder into the
Dumpster, ready to crouch down or move farther behind it, but also wanting to make sure I get a good visual.

Suzuki and Ling walk out the door, both smoking. Suzuki says something, Ling nods, and then Suzuki makes a call before getting in his car. The men don't formally say goodbye, only the slightest nod before Suzuki drives off.

I stand in the shadows, gun ready, safety off. Ling's only a few feet away. I can smell his cigarette smoke, getting closer. I pin myself against the Dumpster and edge backward. Fear takes a tight grip on me. I know what the man is capable of, and even though I'm armed, if I let him get much closer, it'll be too close for me to draw before he disarms me. His kung fu skills are too good.

I try to steady my breath, but now I can even hear the faint tread of his footsteps. I'm not sure what shoes he's wearing, but he's able to walk extremely softly in them. I kneel down slowly, desperate not to make a sound. Even a crack of my ankle or knee would alert him to the fact that someone's here, only steps away from him. Thankfully my joints are good to me. My right knee is on the ground; my left leg steadies my weight, planted out in front. My gun is aimed high, at where I estimate his chest will be. I take deep, but hopefully silent, breaths.

The footsteps get closer so I take a breath and hold it, ready to take the shot. I can't let him get too close, can't give him even a split second. But just as I see his shadow on the pavement before me, he stops. A cigarette butt lands on my side of the Dumpster and Ling extinguishes it with his shoe, a black, rubber-soled shoe with a soft leather upper. The shoes of a hired killer. Next his hand reaches down. My heart beats faster—will he see me? He picks up the cigarette butt but his head doesn't come into view, which means I'm still out of sight, too. He takes the butt with him; he wouldn't want to leave his DNA lying around, especially near the business of his employer. The footsteps move away and, keeping low, I peek around the corner. On the street he flags down a taxi and I sprint down the laneway, catching up to him just as the taxi takes off. The traffic is slow, so I
decide to make a run for my car. I force myself to jog the hundred yards, but the pounding motion takes a toll on my body.

I ring De Luca from the car. “He's on the move. Traveling south on Central. I'll call you again soon.” I disconnect and concentrate on keeping Ling's cab in my sights. I can't afford to lose him.

Just over five minutes later, the cab pulls over. I pass the taxi and keep Ling in my rearview mirror, before parking in an illegal space a few yards in front of him. I take out a map of L.A. that I keep in my car in case my navigation system ever goes down—today it serves as good cover. If Ling looks in the car as he passes, all he'll see is a lost tourist. But Ling doesn't come my way. Instead, he crosses the road and disappears into another small alleyway.

I call De Luca with our new location.

“We're about five to ten minutes away. I'll see if I can get an LAPD patrol car to you sooner, but in the meantime keep your distance.”

“Will do,” I say, but immediately get out of the car. There's no way I'm letting Ling disappear for good. As I'm crossing the road a car turns into the alley, so I hang back, pressing myself against the corner building. The car comes to a screeching halt and someone is shoved out of the backseat before the car spins around and makes a hasty exit from the lane. What the—?

I can't make out who the figure is from this distance, so I quickly reach for my pocket binoculars. It's Dan Young…beaten up. This is the drop, this is the plan. And it's happened fast, much sooner than we were expecting. Suzuki is in a hurry and has forced Park Ling to change his usual routine.

Then it hits me. This is the alley from the dream I had before I was shot—I was fighting someone extremely well-trained in kung fu. I must have seen it from Young's perspective. Hopefully my presence will alter the outcome.

Ling runs toward Young, as he's still trying to get to his feet. But our hit man actually allows Young to stand fully
before he starts his attack, a Double Back-fist aimed at Young's eyes. Ling's diving into the fight, into his next kill with his calling card—a Killing Hand move. Young, still obviously disorientated, moves just in time while also holding his hands up in a cross block to catch the punches. If Ling's using
dim mak
strikes, any contact could be deadly for Young.

I move in quickly, gun drawn. I know my physical fitness is below par…way below par…but Ling's fifty yards away and no match for a gun. He can't reach me now. “FBI, freeze.”

Both men stop, midstrikes. Young staggers backward, out of Ling's reach, and Ling spins around.

“Let me guess…Agent Anderson.” Although his accent is strong, each word is enunciated perfectly. He's well practiced in English, not surprisingly.

“Hold it right there, Ling.”

But Ling doesn't hold it there. Instead he moves closer to me. “I'm going to enjoy this, Sophie.” The way he says my name, with an almost tenderness, is disturbing.

“Stop right there, Ling. I will fire.”

He smiles, hesitates, but keeps moving forward, holding his arms up. “You wouldn't shoot an unarmed man who's surrendering to you, would you?”

The answer would be no under normal circumstances, but I can't let this man get within striking distance of me. I give him a final warning, but he doesn't stop. I take a breath, hold it, and fire.

Two shots, direct hits into his chest.

Ling's body jumps backward from the force and he falls onto the ground.

“You all right?” I yell out to Young.

He nods, but he's still bent over, nursing his ribs. Just like my vision, Ling struck and broke Young's ribs. Plus whatever else Suzuki's thugs did to him before they dumped him in the lane.

“Where's Mee?” I ask.

Young shakes his head, straightening slightly but wincing from the pain. “I don't know. We were being held together
but then they beat on me, blindfolded me and dragged me here. They would have taken her somewhere else by now.”

We both move toward Ling's body. Young's still closest, at only a couple of feet away, but I'm closing the distance, fast.

“Is he dead?” I ask, still not able to see Ling's face and any rise and fall in his chest, in this light.

Young bends down over him and presses his finger to Ling's neck. “He's alive. Pulse is very slow, though.”

I nod, reholster my gun and bring out my BlackBerry to call for an ambulance. It may even get here before our backup. I bend down and notice it.

“Dan, there's—”

But my sentence is cut short as Ling puts a foot on either side of my ankle and brings his legs toward his butt, upending me.

I hear Dan wheeze out, “no blood.”

I'm on the ground and Ling's instantly on top of me, grabbing my gun out of its holster. But instead of shooting me he tosses it to the other side of the laneway and then rolls over onto his back. I guess shooting me wouldn't be any fun.

Dan straightens up as Ling rocks his weight back onto his shoulders and then pushes his legs skyward, pushing off the ground with his hands behind his head at the same time. In one fluid movement he's standing. Yes, he's probably got two almighty bruises from my bullets hitting his bulletproof vest, but that's it. And slowing your heart rate is part of traditional kung fu training in China. Damn it, why didn't I think of that?

My shoulders aren't up to Ling's maneuver, so I move my legs over my body and head in a circular scissor movement before using their momentum to come to a standing position. My gun's twenty yards away, and while I'm interested in it, Ling isn't. He prefers to use his bare hands.