Tom Aston - The Machine

The killer could be watching Stone right now. Possibly following him. All to the good. He stopped and stood tall to show himself. If someone was watching, Stone wanted to be seen. And he wanted to be found.

Stone clenched his jaw to channel the anger. Calmed his body and slowed his breathing. Analyzing. The primitive thirst for revenge was something he hadn’t felt for years, and he was going to use it. Junko had been lured to that hotel. Stone was going to lure the killer in turn. For Hooper, for Junko — someone was going to pay an exorbitant price.

His mind and senses switched to full alert in the crowd — cycling through motives, possibilities, methods. One thing didn’t make sense for a start. Why so crude? It was crude for Semyonov’s SearchIgnition people, with their cool suits and master’s degrees. It would take the police all of two hours to work out Junko wasn’t a prostitute, and find her real identity. And yet the whole thing had been timed to draw Junko away from Semyonov, and give Semyonov’s people their alibis as they attended his “event” at the Zhonghua. The killing had been contracted out for sure. The couple of hours before identification would give time for a hitman to make his exit. That’s all anyone needed in Hong Kong.

Stone checked his watch. He itched to go to that party, to confront Semyonov face to face, to drag him out from his pampered five-star hotel. But this was a time for ruthlessness and cunning. He would give it a few more minutes to gather what information he could, then he would have to give it up and go after Semyonov. But he’d be coming back to this place.

Stone walked out from the market into the main street, all traffic and noise. He walked about 300 metres around three sides of a square, back round to a dark doorway where he could observe the police vans, by the entrance to the Snake Market, and check for anyone tailing him

Stone stood in the shadows as the police operation proceeded. Amongst the Hong Kong Police were a number of tall Chinese men in olive uniforms. They were speaking Mandarin, not the Cantonese language used in Hong Kong, and the heavy “R” sounds of their accents told Stone they were from Northern China. Officers of the Gong An , the Public Security office from Beijing.

This didn’t make any sense either. Stone had spoken to Junko only an hour or so before. She’d been murdered a matter of minutes ago, and yet the Beijing Public Security people had taken charge from the Hong Kong Police already. Question mark. How did the Beijing Gong An know Junko was here? They’d followed her. And who’s to say that they hadn’t followed Stone?

Stone stayed hidden in the shop doorway for another ten minutes. He saw the Gong An come out of the Snake Market with a body bag, and place it into their olive green truck. No chance to identify the body. Most of the police had gone away, though not all. Things were getting back to normal and cars drove past once more.

It was dusk already. The street was alive with neon, heavy with traffic again. The Gong An’s truck finally pulled away, and the little crowd of onlookers from the Snake Market had finally dispersed. Only the prostitute remained there, chain-smoking cigarettes in her cheap miniskirt and high-heeled ankle boots, arms crossed in boredom.

Stone watched as a man approached her, a regular “john” by the look of him. But what happened next was a surprise. Stone saw the girl shake her head and turn away a few steps, looking back down at her phone. Didn’t she want the business? Who was he? The man followed her and grabbed her shoulder. Stone stepped instinctively forward, but the girl swivelled fast from her hips, eyes flashing. The man stepped back.

Stone realised she’d just spit in the guy’s face. The man raised his hand to slap her. Again she was too quick. Stubbed the cigarette on his arm and deftly flicked a foot behind his ankle.

The punter lay on his back with the spittle still on his cheek. The woman flicked her cigarette down at him in an extravagant gesture of disgust, then stalked away, hips swinging on the high heels, through the traffic in Stone’s direction. This was no tart after all. She’d been observing the whole thing. Police, Gong An , body bag. Everything.

Stone looked from the shadow as she stepped up onto the pavement in front of him. She languidly lit up another cigarette, holding it in pouting lips. Close-up, she looked too good to be a tart. Her eyes were bright behind the smoky eyeliner, and her skin clear. She leaned her hip against a lamppost and took out her phone once more, using her thumb to work the keys while her other arm trailed lazily behind her, holding the cigarette. The smoke crept in blue tendrils into the still, hot air.

Stone could just about see her phone screen in the darkness. This girl wasn’t texting. She was looking through photos. The hotel, the police, and then one picture after another of the Gong An . Stone counted twenty at least, and then finally, the pictures he’d been expecting. Three photos of Ethan Stone.

Well, well. Time to tempt this woman into a quiet alleyway for a “conversation”.

But at that moment a large motorcycle roared up to a stop beside the tart. Stone saw her glance towards his way as the bike arrived. A glimmer of a smile too. She’d seen him all right. Been watching him. She swung her rear onto the seat of the motorbike, still holding the phone in one hand as she flicked another cigarette onto the sidewalk. There was an unspoken insult in the ping of the cigarette towards Stone. The bike’s engine burbled in readiness while she sat, sidesaddle, feet up on the rest. Looking at the phone like she was on a barstool.

Change of plan. It was too good to resist. Stone stepped from the shadow and grabbed the phone from her hand as the bike pulled off. A shout. The bike jerked to a halt. The rider in black leathers jumped off and faced up to Stone. Gesturing, shouting. But opening a knife in his palm.

Stone didn’t look up. He stood on the sidewalk, looking through the photos on the phone. The blade in his peripheral vision stayed a safe two metres away. He felt the smooth rush of adrenaline through his body, but let his heart rate drop. This was the kind of confrontation he was good at. The rider was screaming at him, but it was all bluff. As long the knife stayed at that distance, it was cool. Stone flicked through the photos some more, just to annoy the guy.

The guy was agitated, but he’d left it too long to be credible. Stone goaded him. Shot a cheeky glance, then looked back down. ‘Nice photos. The lady has a thing for men in uniform.’ He was acting cool, but his thumb was scrolling fast through the photos looking for confirmation. And there it was. The tart had been very scientific. A close-up photo of Junko Terashima going into the hotel; then another shot, later, of a body covered in a blanket, but with a slender arm trailing from it, wearing Terashima’s watch and bracelets. It was Junko all right. Stone felt it like kick to the stomach.

The knife jabbed towards him. Still a safe distance. Stone didn’t move, but watched the guy’s feet with sly eyes, in case he was foolish enough to get closer. Stone’s anger had just congealed into cold hatred and this guy with the bike leathers had picked the wrong time to look for trouble.

The girl’s heeled ankle boots came into view. She stepped in front of the rider, put her hand on his chest. A gesture of authority, that. Almost ownership. The rider palmed the knife.

‘You kill Junko,’ she said simply to Stone. There was no anger in her voice, but Stone sensed it in her nonetheless. She wanted to blame someone.