Marc Cameron - Act of Terror

Halfway down the smoky hall, an old man with wisps of gray hair like moldy cotton candy squatted, backlit by a grimy window leading out to the fire escape. A hotplate of boiling noodles and fish bubbled on the floor beside him. Like the rest of the place, he reeked of day-old alcohol and sweat.

Li Huang’s wooden door was just beyond the old man, under an exposed row of radiator pipes that ran like monkey bars across the stained ceiling.

Beg put a hand inside the pocket of his jacket, feeling for the wooden handles and reassuring coil of sharp wire. He walked past the old man, considering whether he would have to kill him or not on the way out. The old man was bony and frail as a stalk of drought-parched wheat, and such a thing wouldn’t be hard.

Li Huang normally stayed at one of the Badeebs’ much more comfortable homes on Long Island or in Pennsylvania. Out of an abundance of caution-and to get her in a place that he could more easily have her killed with no link to him-the doctor had asked her to hide in this horribly filthy hotel used by Chinese Snake-heads to hide their illegal human cargo until they paid off their debts.

State prison inmates had larger accommodations. Each room was barely six by eight feet, topped with chicken-wire mesh in a halfhearted attempt to discourage thieves. Devoted to terroristic jihad-she called it sheng zhan — Li Huang had readily traded her middle-class home for this wretched place that smelled like a restaurant trash Dumpster-all for the sake of keeping her dear husband’s plans safe.

And now that same husband had sent a very deadly man to kill her.

Beg knocked on the flimsy, hollow-core door, feeling more of a rush than he’d anticipated. Perhaps it was the fact that he had shared tea with this woman dozens of times while he’d discussed plans with her husband.

The door creaked opened a crack to expose one rheumy eye and the glint of charcoal hair.

Knowing that she would surely have a weapon, Beg didn’t wait to be invited in. The door gave easily to his weight and Li Huang fell backward in the tiny room, slamming her head against the edge of the wood two-by-four frame that made up her simple bed.

Li Huang flailed out as she fell, knocking over a rickety bedside table and sending a ceramic reading lamp crashing to the bare wooden floor.

Trembling fingers reached up to touch the knot where her head had struck the bedframe. They came back red with blood. Narrow eyes flitted back and forth around the room looking for a nonexistent escape route as Beg slowly took the wire garrote from his pocket. He grasped the wooden handles in each hand. Li Huang was a proud woman. She would not be a screamer as some were. He could take his time.

Staring up at him, her nostrils flared. Her tongue flicked against her lips, snakelike.

“Why?” she demanded, though the stricken pain in her eyes said she already had her answer.

Beg shrugged. There was no need to explain.

“My husband sent you?” Cold realization flushed across her face.

Beg bounded forward without speaking. He grabbed a handful of hair and jerked her away from the bed. Instead of fighting back, she threw a hand to her throat. Beg couldn’t help but shake his head. Such a weak defense would do precious little good against the unforgiving wire noose. This would be over much more quickly than even he had anticipated. The doctor was right, he thought, as he zipped the razor-sharp wire tight. She did smell like old fruit.

Quinn left the Ducati at the curb and sprinted up the short concrete stoop. He didn’t have to look back, trusting that Thibodaux had already sacked up Dr. Badeeb.

Removing his helmet, he gripped it in his left hand as he pushed open the door. Having the Arai gave him a good cover story if someone stopped him, and it made for a formidable weapon if he had to whack someone in the running lights without killing them.

Once inside the door he entered a dim lobby with chipped tile. The rusted mail cubbies along the wall to his left were covered with old bits of tape displaying the numbers of the rooms-but no names. A long staircase ran up to a dark hallway to his right.

Moving by instinct over intellect, Quinn padded quickly up the stairs, right hand covering the butt of his Kimber. The cry of a squalling baby met him at the top. Cell-like rooms lined the wall to his left; chicken wire covered the dusty windows facing the street on his right. The cloying desperation of the place reminded him of his time in the fake PRONA prisoner-of-war camp in SERE school.

The only other soul in the hallway was an old man squatting beside a boiling pot. Quinn raised an eyebrow in the universal sign for: “I’m here to help if you want it.”

The old man sat back on his haunches, heels flat on the floor as he stirred the steaming soup. He said nothing, but his watery eyes flicked up the dark hall.

A strangled cry two doors down confirmed the dark man’s location. Quinn had heard the sound all too many times before. It was woman-and she was dying.

Bounding past the boiling pot of fish, Quinn shouldered his way through the door to find his target, full Elvis pompadour hanging low across his brow from his exertions with the thrashing old woman in front of him. Li Huang had thrown a boney hand to her neck, but the thin garrote wire had already bitten deeply into the exposed flesh. Blood spilled from the terrifying wound as if from a fountain. The front of her tan cotton blouse glistened dark red.

The killer looked up with a start. He bared white teeth and tossed his head to get the hair out of his eyes. He gave a sudden yank on the garrote, severing one of the woman’s fingers and giving the deadly wire more access to the vital arteries and windpipe. The finger landed with a sickening thump on the floor next to her trembling leg, its manicured nail clicking against the wood.

Quinn swung his motorcycle helmet like a war club, connecting with evil Elvis’s forehead. The man staggered backward, releasing his grip on the garrote so it slipped off Li Huang’s neck. He sprawled against the low wooden bed with the weapon, glinting with fresh blood, dangling in one hand. Quinn dragged the injured woman toward the door. She slumped against the wall, clutching her neck with both hands in a vain attempt to stem the flow of blood.

Elvis bounced back from the bed, regaining his feet in an instant. Pressing forward, he flicked the wooden handle of the garrote at Quinn like a whip. He pushed the fallen lock of black hair out of his face and stood breathing for a long moment, lip twitching into a half sneer. A heartbeat later, he sprang, rushing forward and causing Quinn to regret not shooting him as soon as he’d entered the room.

Both men tumbled backward, out the flimsy door and into the narrow confines of the hall. They crashed into the chicken-wire wall in a writhing heap, pulling the wire away and exposing dusty, distorted glass of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The soup man abandoned his hot plate and scuttled into the dark recesses of the corridor.

Quinn used his opponent’s momentum against him, grabbing a fistful of cloth at both shoulders and hauling him face-first into the glowing red coils of the hot plate. He yowled in pain as the element seared his cheeks, branding him with concentric circles. The pungent odor of scorched flesh and singed hair filled the hall as he rolled away, reversing directions quickly to come after Quinn again. As they crashed together, he stomped on Quinn’s injured foot as if he sensed the weakness.

Riding on waves of nauseating pain, Quinn was barely able to keep from vomiting. Somehow, his hand caught the warm wood of a garrote handle. He flailed with the other, connecting with the opposite handle that the dark Elvis still clutched in his fist. Locked in a clench around the deadly garrote, they stood face-to-face, gasping, close enough Quinn could smell the soapy scent of the oil in his hair.