Henry Chang - Red Jade

Big statements from Lucky, thought Jack. Comatose at Downtown now.

There were three hundred thousand triad members in Hong Kong. Not counting the members across the waters, in China and Taiwan.

The RHKP’s voice continued after a quick breath. Jack wondered if he was being read a prepared statement.

“Paper Fan faces numerous warrants for currency and credit card fraud, money laundering, human trafficking, child pornography, prostitution, and copyright piracy.”

Jack listened patiently, feeling his lips going dry.

“Billions of dollars of theft. He is suspected of involvement in three homicides in three different countries. While he is highly insulated in Hong Kong, and well protected in Canada, he avoids Amsterdam, where he is vulnerable to drug charges. He travels infrequently but we believe he can be taken in the United States. Therefore the Red Notice to your headquarters. As always, we are grateful for your cooperation.”

Jack glanced at Alex, who had slipped on a robe, and was sipping sambuca again.

“Why Seattle?” Jack asked.

“The triad believes there’s a woman there who they want badly.”

A woman?

“A woman who stole something from them. A woman they believe killed someone in your precinct, in Chinatown New York.”

Mona , Jack knew immediately. Here in Seattle? How much “destiny” could he take?

“What do you have on her?” he asked.

“They believe she visited a temple.”

“Temple?”

“And we have an address. It’s on South King Street”

“What about Paper Fan?” Jack redirected.

“Find the woman, and you’ll find him.”

Thanks, thought Jack, another shot in the dark.

In the dim light he could see Alex giving him the look, asking, What’s up? They were losing the moment, had lost the moment, passion dissolved into the coffee and the background music.

“And she’s where? ” Jack asked.

“She’s in south Seattle, somewhere in the five-mile area of Chinatown. We don’t know where exactly. Yet.”

Jack rubbed his temple, trying to clear his head.

“I will keep you posted,” the RHKP voice promised, “since we have a direct connection now.”

“Ten-four that,” Jack acknowledged, making a note of the address.

“The Red Notice covers everything.”

“Ten-four that,” Jack repeated, hanging up as Alex nuzzled into him. “I’m sorry,” he apologized to Alex, and briefly explained the new developments.

When she heard “human trafficking,” she said, “I’m going with you.”

He considered the situation as she changed into a sweater and jeans. Because the scent of Alex still lingered, and against his better judgment, he would allow her to come along. It may come to nothing, he thought.

It was past 1 AM as Jack passed the updated INTERPOL information into Detective Nicoll’s voice mail.

“We need to get to South King,” Jack said.

Alex borrowed a car from a member of the local ORCA chapter and they got directions from the hotel concierge. They drove toward the waterfront until they found the temple on South King at the edge of Chinatown. The street was deserted during the graveyard hours, but in the yellow light of streetlamps they could make out the signage above a storefront. The words PURE LIFE WORLD TEMPLE ran across the front, which bore a pagoda motif.

The temple was closed but Jack observed a dark sedan parked farther down the empty street. It had California plates, and he associated that with San Francisco. He saw two occupants, male, as he drove past. And there was a big dent on the rear fender.

“Let’s circle the block,” he said, wheeling the car right around the corner.

They came around again, well behind the parked sedan this time. Jack pulled in half a block away and killed the headlights. Two men, at this hour? He wondered if they had noticed him, wondered if it had been wise to allow Alex to tag along.

“Stay put,” he told her. “I’m going to have a look.”

“Careful,” she said quietly, unable to conceal her concern.

“Yeah, sure,” he said as he exited the car. Could be anything, he told himself, could be nothing. Play it by the book.

Alex watched as Jack went down the dark street. He was still three car lengths away when a Chinese man wearing wire-frame eyeglasses stepped out of the passenger side and walked away from Jack. The man, who was slightly built, took off his glasses and pocketed them as Jack neared the driver’s side.

Jack reached into his pocket, palming his detective’s gold shield. Could be nothing, he thought again. He leaned toward the car and flashed the badge as the driver powered down his window.

“Aww, chaai lo ah?” the thick Chinese face said, smiling. A cop, huh?

Cantonese , Jack recognized, his eyes darting momentarily toward the man who’d left the sedan, who’d thrown a look back over his shoulder.

“Jouh matyeh a?” Jack asked the driver. “What’s up?”

“ Mo yeh , nothing much, ah sir ,” the driver answered with sarcasm in his voice.

The second man stopped walking and turned toward Jack. His hands went into his jacket pockets. Let me see your hands, Jack was thinking, his attention divided. The slim man muttered something under his breath; it sounded like dew nei louh mou. Fuck you, motherfucker.

Suddenly, the driver threw the car door open, knocking Jack backward.

The second man stepped toward Jack as the driver sprang from the car. He was tall and rangy, maybe six foot two.

Alex watched with astonishment when the shorter man reached back and flung something that struck Jack with great force. Reflexively, he clutched at his ribs, and was distracted long enough for the big man to whip out a pair of nunchakus.

To Alex it was like a chop-socky sequence in a bad kung-fu movie.

The smaller man took two quick-bounding steps and then threw a high kick at Jack’s head. Jack blocked the kick with a bow arm , deflecting it with his elbow, but the contact threw him off balance. The big man flailed wildly with the metal nunchakus and caught Jack across the shoulder, then slammed him a second time before he could pull his service revolver. The second man pulled a knife from his waist as Jack fell to the pavement.

Jack could hear Alex screaming as the smaller man lunged at him with the thick blade. Snapping a straight kick upward into the man’s knee, Jack rolled instinctively just as the iron nunchakus slammed into the asphalt near his head. He pulled his Colt Special and aimed it, but the knife man lashed out a front kick that sent the gun clattering across the street.

Alex’s screaming got louder, closer.

“Jouh!” he heard the big man yell. “Split!” The goon hadn’t figured on assaulting a woman.

Struggling to his feet, Jack saw Alex dashing his way as the big man started up the sedan.

“Stay back!” Jack yelled, but Alex had already flashed past him, still screaming like a madwoman.

The knife man cursed and dove into the passenger side as the car screeched away.

Jack retrieved his Colt, watching the sedan disappear around the corner and into the black night. Alex came back to him, her face flushed and gasping for air. He caught his breath, patting his ribs and left side. Something had struck him and was embedded in the thick folds of his jacket. When he worked it loose he saw it was a razor-sharp five-pointed shuriken , a throwing star, a weapon that ninja assassins used centuries earlier. It had pierced his bunched-up garments but had barely broken his skin.

“What the hell was that all about?” Alex asked incredulously.

“They were waiting for someone,” Jack answered, pocketing the shuriken , “and it sure wasn’t Buddha.”