White Tiger (29 page)

“How does it feel, Han Baojia?”

The trunk light revealed the killer, a black shape against a black background. Where were they? Han couldn’t hear anything above his own rasping breathing.

He shook his head, forcing himself to concentrate. What had he missed? Something important. Something his senses had tried to tell him before now, but he’d ignored the information, relying instead upon his misconceptions.

A woman’s voice.
Muffled by her mask but nonetheless recognizable. She’d spoken in Cantonese. Her hands were empty. There was no sledgehammer. The truth stunned him. She’d broken his forearm and his wrist using only her hands.

“How does it feel to be helpless, and alone?”

He wanted to ask,
Who are you?
but suspected he would receive no meaningful answer.

“Does it bring back memories?”

Very probably a Michelle Huang did work at the Medical Examiner’s office, but she had not called Han about the preliminary report. No, the killer had called him, briefly assuming Michelle Huang’s identity. She’d lured him from a position of security and safety. Then she’d called again, with perfect timing, and asked him to meet her at another location. Like a fool he’d fallen for her trickery.

She knew his name.
Evidence that she must have been gathering intelligence. Or had been given it by an unknown third party.

“Think back, Han Baojia. Think back to Shanghai.” She leaned into the trunk, so close to him that he felt the warmth of her breath on his cheek. “Think back to Pudong. Does the name Shi mean anything to you?”

Her eyes, blacker than black, were only inches from his own. Power radiated from those orbs, a terrifying elemental power that seeped into him and made his heart flutter.

“Do you remember a boy? Twelve years old. Frightened of the People’s Army officer who shouted into his face. So frightened that he could not answer the officer’s questions.”

Han shook his head, denying the memories, but they insisted upon casting the earth aside and rearing up out of the ground like rotted corpses suddenly come to life.
There had been a boy.
Where? When? In the poorest quarter of old Shanghai. A village in its own right. Han had denounced the elders who were then displayed for all to ridicule. The boy, he’d been part of the crowd, standing near the front. No, not part of the crowd. He’d been in the crowd. But somehow detached, unresponsive to the emotion that hung in the air, showing nothing. Han had watched him until he felt sure the boy disapproved of what was happening. He’d called him forward. The crowd had pushed him into the center of the square.

He didn’t want to remember but the dark force behind those eyes pressed down upon him, allowing him no escape.

Han had questioned the boy but received only the most basic answers. He began to suspect the boy was retarded. When asked to explain why the Revolution was so important to the Chinese people, he could not. Han saw smiles appearing in the crowd, as if the peasants found the boy’s stupidity amusing. Those smiles had forced Han to punish the boy. The Party could not be seen to lose face. Stupidity was no excuse. If the boy was retarded then his family should have tried harder to educate him. The fault was entirely theirs. Han dragged a wooden box into the square, put the protesting boy inside, and nailed the lid shut. He then stood upon the box while he addressed the crowd, explaining the new policy and what it meant to every one of them. He was pleased with his impassioned speech and how it seemed to affect them. Only when he stepped off the box over an hour later did he realize it had no air holes.

The killer straightened. Han sighed with relief, glad to be away from her. She pulled off her mask. Her hair cascaded down over her shoulders. Some might have judged her beautiful; to Han she was a demoness in human form, who had worked dark magic upon him.

“His name was Shi Jiawen. He was my brother. As Lin Yubo shall pay for the death of my father, you must pay for the death of my brother.”

She slammed the trunk shut.

He heard no footsteps, nor the sound of a door opening and then closing, entombing him within the building, wherever it was. But he knew she had left him here to die.

Han had always wondered what the boy’s name was. Now he knew.

CHAPTER 13

At 6:25am, the morning was much like the one before it: murky and gray from the marine layer, with a chill wind winding its way through the streets of San Francisco. Manning found that the jet lag he’d hoped to avoid had nestled upon his shoulders like a waiting falcon poised to launch itself into the sky. There was no getting away from it; the exhaustion he felt was enormous, just like it always was when he returned to the U.S. from Asia. He would just have to suck it up and deal with it the best way he could.

His primary weapon to combat the effects was coffee, and lots of it. He drank half a pot of Arabian he found in one of his cabinets while keeping a bleary eye on the television. The same old news was playing. More trouble in the Middle East, a faltering economy, political farce after political farce played out on the American stage, terrorism and gasoline prices were still in the forefront of everyone’s mind. Not a lot had changed in the months Manning had been away.

When he felt human enough, he roused himself from the embrace of his sofa and padded into the second bedroom. There he worked out for forty minutes with the Bowflex that dominated the center of the room, then went through a series of repetitions with the free weights for a while, followed by a vigorous set of crunches and deep knee bends. By the time he was finished, his heart was pumping and the blood sang through his veins and sweat stood out on his brow.

Human at last,
he thought.

He showered and shaved, then slowly dressed, pulling on a dark suit over a white Brooks Brothers shirt, accented with a yellow tie. He knelt and reached into the closet, pulling up the small metal hatch hidden there beneath the carpet. The floor safe was one of the more useful things he’d come across, and he quickly pressed his thumb against the bioscanner lock and opened it. Inside were two items: a pair of NVS-7 night vision goggles, and a Smith & Wesson Model SW990L .40 caliber pistol. He removed the weapon and closed the safe, replaced the hatch and covered it with the carpet.

With quick, practiced motions he went through the routine of stripping down the pistol and quickly ensured that all its parts were lubricated and in working order. It was in pristine condition, never once having been fired in anger, and he kept it meticulously maintained. The action moved smoothly beneath his fingers, the only resistance being that which had been designed. He loaded a magazine with .40 caliber glazed rounds and slapped it into the weapon. He pulled back on the slide and charged it, then safed the weapon and placed it in its self-securing holster. Manning then looped his belt through the holster and pulled on his jacket. He inspected himself in the mirror, and was satisfied that the weapon was as concealed as it could be. Not that it mattered to him personally; in California, he was licensed to carry such things. For added measure, he also slipped an ASP3 baton into the mix, clipping it to his belt next to his cell phone holster. When fully extended, the device would act as a deterrent in a physical altercation where the pistol might be inopportune. Manning was adept enough with the device to shatter an assailant’s collarbones or forearms.

At eight o’clock, he ran a comb through his short brown hair, made one last inspection of his face to make sure he hadn’t missed a spot while shaving, threw on a London Fog dress coat, and left the apartment. His destination laid only a hair less than a mile and a half distant, so he chose to walk. The morning rush hour traffic was mounting, and he didn’t want to have to deal with any unplanned interruptions—that and the fact that parking in the business district was almost impossible. Therefore, on foot is what it would be. On the way, he stopped by a Starbucks and grabbed another small coffee, something to keep him warm in the cold late-Autumn air. The streets were already clogged with cars and buses, and the sidewalks weren’t much easier; twice, Manning had to react quickly to avoid being run down by bicyclists who illegally used the sidewalk instead of the street.

It’s a shame I can’t shoot these guys and get away with it.

On the way, he practiced his usual surveillance detection routines, using storefront windows and the like as mirrors, looking for any possible tails. He also walked in a circle twice, navigating two blocks that took him well out of his way but afforded him the opportunity to examine the path he had covered. No one was following him. As far as he could tell, the rest of the humanity in the city of San Francisco merely regarded him as another businessman on his way to work downtown...if they regarded him at all.

As he walked, he fished his cell phone from his pocket and flipped it open. He had no text messages nor voicemails, and their absence made him feel almost poignantly lonely. He wondered how Ryoko was doing, and wished he hadn’t agreed to honor her request for privacy.

Despite the circuitous SDRs, Manning arrived at 101 California Street ten minutes early. He finished the dregs of his Starbucks and tossed the empty cup into a nearby trashcan. He pulled his wallet from his pants pocket and removed his conceal carry and driver’s licenses, then pushed his way into the building’s ornate, seven story lobby with several other similarly-dressed men and women. He made his way to the front desk, holding the licenses out before him. 101 California had some history; it had been the site of a mass murder in the early 1990s, when a disgruntled businessman had executed eight other workers. In response to that firearms and the like were absolutely illegal on the premises. Manning planned on declaring his weapon as soon as it was prudent; he wanted no mistakes.

“Can I help you, sir?” asked one of the security guards behind the desk, a skinny black kid in his early twenties.

“Jerome Manning. I’m here for a nine o’clock appointment with Lin Industries on the 45th floor.” Manning handed over the licenses. “I’m a licensed security contractor, and I am armed. These are my credentials.”

The guard took the licenses and examined them. Manning’s declaration had also caught the attention of another security guard. This one was also black, but older and much, much larger. He walked around the desk and approached Manning slowly from the left side.

Manning looked at him quickly.

“Let’s take it easy, boss.”

“Weapons aren’t allowed on the premises sir,” the guard said. “You have to surrender it or leave.”

“No problem. How do you want to do this?”

The skinny kid behind the desk pulled out a plastic bin and placed it before Manning.

“Empty your pockets in this, including the gun,” he said. “You can’t carry it with you up to 45th floor.”

Manning nodded and opened his coat, showing the guards the Smith & Wesson. The guard behind the desk looked at it, then nodded in return and pointed to the plastic bin again.

“Unload it and make sure the safety’s on, then put it in here.”

Manning removed the pistol. He ejected the magazine and cycled out the round in the chamber, which he then pressed back into the magazine. He placed them in the bin. He also tossed in the baton, cell phone, and his keys as well.

“That’s it,” he said.

The big guard stepped back and indicated the metal detector off to one side. He seemed much more relaxed now that Manning had voluntarily surrendered his firearm.

“I’ll need to ask you to go through the metal detector. Who is it that you’re here to see?”

“James Lin.”

The big security guard hiked his brows momentarily.

“The big fish himself. Okay man, step through the detector and then we’ll call up and get you a pass.”

Manning made it through the metal detector without any difficulties, but the big security guard used a wand on him anyway, checking for any hidden items which might have avoided the detector’s magnetic sensors. He was thorough but swift.

“Sorry about this,” the man said, motioning for Manning to lift his arms at the shoulders and hold them steady. The wand remained mostly silent, chirping only once when the man brushed it against Manning’s belt buckle.