Stephen Knight - White Tiger

It was a moonless night, and Lin Yubo had been with him. So were Boss Hong and Boss Sun. Nominally business partners, technically rivals, they had worked together for almost a decade, abiding by the terms of a truce hammered out by the previous leaders of the Green, Red and White Dragon Tongs. They’d all benefited from the truce, no denying that, but some recent territory disputes had led to friction and so Lin Yubo had suggested they meet at a neutral location to agree who owned which streets. It would be a simple matter of give and take, he’d assured them; in the end no one would leave the meeting unhappy. Which was true.

“There,” he said, pointing at a red-tiled house surrounded by a high wall. The gates swung open as the two cars approached, and swung shut again as soon as they were inside. As the cars rolled to a stop on the oval courtyard’s dark flagstones Chen Gui saw Pak waiting at the front door, small and wiry, his arms folded inside the sleeves of his black silk jacket.

“Who’s that?” Chen Song asked, leaning forward to peer through the window.

“An old acquaintance,” Chen Gui said. He reached for the door handle. Chen Song took the hint, got out his side and hurried round to open Chen Gui’s door.

Chen Gui went up the steps and greeted Pak. He motioned for Chen Song to join them. The four gunmen waited by the cars in their rumpled suits, looking around but finding nothing to impress them. The same gunman checked and rechecked his magazine, ramming it in with the heel of his hand, heedless of the fact he might damage the weapon.

“Stand very still,” Chen Gui told Chen Song. “No matter what happens, make no move to interfere.”

“Uncle?” Chen Song said.

“Watch, and learn.”

A shadow flew over the roof of the house and landed in the courtyard without a sound behind He Who Constantly Reloaded His Weapon. The shadow moved into the gunman, who screamed as both his arms were hideously twisted and quite plainly broken, his weapon and its magazine spinning away in opposite directions. The scream cut off suddenly as vertebrae were expertly dislocated; the gunman flopped like a sack of rice. The other three men drew their guns but not one shot was fired as the shadow moved among them, making examples of them as Chen Gui had requested. Chen Gui felt nothing for these men. They were street trash who owed him no loyalty and would gladly have killed him if someone came along and offered them more money than Chen Song had. Or, perhaps, if Chen Song gave the order. Did his nephew possess such aspirations? Knowing his mother as Chen Gui did, and remembering his idiot father, that seemed entirely possible.

Chen Song, stupid as ever, ignored Chen Gui’s warning and reached inside his jacket, but Pak tapped two fingers against Chen Song’s wrist, stopping him. The last of the gunmen sprawled face down in the courtyard below, quite dead. Pak’s brother, clad in a suit, hood and mask that exactly matched the dark of the flagstones, came to a stop at last and stood facing the house. Chen Gui bowed to him. The bow was returned.

“I can’t move my arm!” Chen Song said, panic in his voice. He only distracted Chen Gui for a second but in that second the shadow was suddenly gone, as quickly as it had appeared, and leaving no trace of its passage or whereabouts. Had it ever been there? Four broken bodies leaking blood into the courtyard suggested it had.

Chen Song’s expression betrayed his pain and his astonishment at his inability to make his arm work. Pak tapped his wrist with two fingers again, and Chen Song had control of his limb once more. He cradled it to him as if it were a long-lost child.

Chen Gui slipped the envelope containing the agreed sum of money into Pak’s hand. It disappeared inside his sleeve and he retreated into the house, closing the door behind him, their transaction complete.

A light breeze blew across the courtyard, stirring the leaves. Chen Gui returned to the first car. Chen Song, quite dazed, staggered down the steps and joined him. He bent to examined one of the corpses, stepped over to another, checked a third. Chen Gui could have told him he was wasting his time.

“Uncle, what…?”

“We’re leaving. You’re driving.”

Chen Song opened the door for Chen Gui, moving like a robot. Chen Gui climbed into the passenger seat. Chen Song took up position behind the wheel, still wearing a dazed look. Chen Gui slapped him hard. Chen Song shook his head and came out of his trance.

“Start the engine. Take us home.”

Chen Song started the engine. The gates swung open again to permit them to leave, and swung shut behind them as soon as they reached the street, blocking their view. The bodies, of course, would be disposed of forthwith. Just like the bodies of Boss Hong and Boss Sun had vanished that fateful night years ago when Lin Yubo brought them to this same house to meet Pak’s brother, the night tiger, who slew them and their helpless bodyguards without mercy, clearing the way for Lin Yubo to command the united Shanghai Dragon Tongs. They had not left the meeting unhappy, as Lin Yubo promised.

They negotiated the light traffic in silence. When they were very nearly back where they started, at Chen Gui’s house, Chen Song said, “Uncle. I think we are being followed.”

Chen Gui looked in his side mirror. A black sedan cruised behind them. “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “Just keep on driving.”

“They could be Fujianese! We have no protection!”

Chen Gui took pleasure in saying, “They are our protection.” He watched for a reaction. Chen Song’s expression changed from open-mouthed surprise to blank-faced puzzlement as he tried to deduce what was going on. And finally, frowning realization.

“Why did you have them killed, uncle?” he asked.

“To demonstrate the power of the night tigers! The name is not to be mocked under any circumstances. You understand?” Chen Song nodded. Chen Gui opened a pack of American cigarettes, and regretted not having sufficient time to purchase his maximum duty free allowance before they fled Japan. He lit one using the car’s lighter. “The night tiger you saw is the older brother of he who met us at the door,” he continued. “You may guess his age. Yet he went through your best men like a knife through rice paper. Tell me, did any of them stand a chance against him? Huh?” Chen Song stared straight ahead, the muscles of his jaw working. “You already know the answer. Good. The night tiger and his brother have trained together since childhood. Consider how easily the brother might have killed you for your stupidity. Out of respect for me he allowed you to live. And for no other reason!” Chen Song flinched, obviously having thoughts of his own mortality, which pleased Chen Gui further. “Tell me, Chen Song. Did I do the right thing in not leaving you back there?”

Chen Song swallowed loud enough for him to hear. “Uncle, you have my full loyalty and devotion. You know this. All I was thinking about was your safety. Nothing else.”

“Just keep driving,” Chen Gui said. “And think of what you have learned today. This is not a movie! Death is not heroic. It comes swiftly and without warning. There is no time for posturing or strutting.”

“No, uncle.”

Sentries opened the compound doors and they rolled inside. The black sedan followed them in. Chen Song climbed out and hurried to open Chen Gui’s door. Ignoring him, Chen Gui climbed out, flicked his half-smoked cigarette away and greeted his cousin, Yuan Lau, who had answered his call and brought his soldiers with him, older men, gray haired men, hardened men who had proved their loyalty to the family during the worst of times, before Lin Yubo brought peace and order to Shanghai.

Chen Gui took Yuan Lau inside and explained the situation. Chen Song followed them at a respectful distance and kept his silence. Yuan Lau accepted his instructions as if he had never left Chen Gui’s side all these years, and rejoined his men to pass on the orders. Chen Gui felt safer already.