Stephen Knight - White Tiger

Lin gave an involuntary bark of laughter. Han had served his family for decades, but he had also worn the uniform of the People’s Army. Alexsey, upon witnessing Han’s shooting skill on the firing range, had declared there was no need for him to adopt the cadre’s methods lest Han’s natural ability become impaired.

“I should have known your instincts would alert you,” Lin said. “But, be careful, won’t you? Call me when you get there, and when you leave to return.”

“As you wish, Lin Yubo.”

Han bowed and withdrew, leaving Lin to his thoughts, which turned now to business, and specifically to his latest dealings with his American partners, which could not be ignored. The investment was huge, the stakes enormous, and if an unknown enemy hoped that these petty distractions would incapacitate Lin or sway him from his path, then they would be sadly disappointed.

Han relaxed as best he could in the rear seat behind Tao Baozong, who confidently maneuvered the sedan through San Francisco’s swollen traffic stream en route to the Medical Examiner’s office. Han didn’t expect to find any surprises in the M.E.’s report. After all, there was little doubt that Lin Dan had been murdered by the same hand that had slain his older brother. As Lin Yubo had intimated, the killer could still be in the city of San Francisco, planning further mayhem against the Lin family, and its adopted members. Han found this possibility unsettling. They were dealing with an unpredictable psychopath, the worst kind of enemy, against whom ordinary security precautions might well prove useless, unless the Russian and his men maintained round-the-clock vigilance. Which, as Han knew only too well from personal experience invited tiredness, disorientation, and fatal error.

“We should be there in another five minutes,” Baozong said over his shoulder.

“Traffic could be a lot worse,” Fan Guolong, in the front passenger seat, said.

Han’s cell phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket and opened it. He expected to see Lin Yubo’s name on the display, but instead “Caller unknown” showed. “Hello?” he said cautiously.

“Ah, Mr. Han? This is Michelle Huang in the Medical Examiner’s office.” He recognized the woman’s voice; they had spoken half an hour ago. Evidently she had stored his cell phone number, an impertinence. “I’m really sorry to bother you again, Mr. Han. There’s been a mix-up here.”

“What kind of mix-up, Miss Huang?” He detested the Americanization of Chinese names, the willingness to blend into the alien environment. Lin Yubo himself used the pseudonym James Lin when dealing with American politicians and businessmen, which was necessary, but what Chinese family would willingly name their daughter Michelle?

“The report, Mr. Han,” the woman said, sounding distressed. “It’s been sent to our offsite records facility by mistake, along with some other stuff. I’ve been trying to contact the driver, but I can’t get hold of him. You aren’t on your way to the M.E.’s office, are you?”

“As a matter of fact I am.”

“Oh dear. Mr. Han, would it be an inconvenience if I asked you to meet me at the records facility instead? I’m on my way there now to find that report.”

Han considered the request. It was not too outrageous, although clearly the San Francisco Medical Examiner’s administrative procedures were inadequate, oand the staff incompetent. “Where is this facility?” he asked.

She gave him the address, which he repeated to Baozong. The driver nodded and immediately moved into the right-hand lane. “No problem,” Baozong said. “Another couple of minutes, that’s all.”

“I will see you there, Miss Huang,” Han said.

“My car’s a red Toyota hatchback. It’ll be parked outside the rear entrance.”

“Thank you.” Han hung up and slipped the phone back into his pocket. “ Aiyah. The stupid whore has managed to misplace the Medical Examiner’s report,” he told the two men. “We are to meet her at this other address. She drives a red Japanese whorehouse. A Toyota hatchback.”

Guolong said, “I bet she fucks with the hatch wide open. She likes the cool breeze on her ass.” They laughed, and Han conceded a smile.

As they navigated the streets their surroundings changed from a mix of stores and residential apartments to older office and utility buildings, some of which appeared empty. Traffic thinned, then became non-existent, with only a handful of vehicles parked in otherwise deserted alleyways. Baozong slowed while Guolong consulted a street map he took from the glove box. They reached agreement and the sedan entered a dark city of one-story buildings and tall warehouses. It reminded Han uncomfortably of times long past in his faraway homeland, of entire towns left populated only by ghosts.

The street narrowed so much that two cars would have found it difficult to pass. The shrinking dimensions gave Han an acute feeling of claustrophobia. “There,” Guolong said. He pointed to the alleyway directly ahead, in which a red car sat near a stairway that led up to a sheltered doorway.

Baozong said, “Is that it, Mr. Han?”

“It has to be,” Han said, irritated by the question.

“Maybe she’s fucking someone in the back seat, hey?” Guolong said.

“She can’t be, the hatch is shut,” Baozong said, cackling with amusement. But Han found himself focusing on something other than their asinine humor, something external and inexplicable that chilled his spine and caused his stomach to lurch.

Guolong leaned forward and twisted his head to look upward. A shadow passed over his face and he said, “What the fuck?” A heavy weight struck the sedan’s roof, the boom reverberating through the car like a gunshot. The windshield shattered a split-second later, showering Guolong with a storm of glass. Han, even as he reached inside his jacket to draw his pistol, a copy of the Russian Makarov, from its cracked leather holster, understood that someone had leaped from the roof of the warehouse. The analytical part of his mind calculated the height and distance, and told him that such a leap should not be possible.

Baozong’s side window exploded and the driver abruptly jerked sideways, his head dragged outside by his tie. He choked and fought back, pulling with all his strength. But then a knife descended and slipped so easily across his throat, opening Baozong’s carotid artery and windpipe in the same fluid motion, as if the tough cartilage of the throat posed no obstacle to the gleaming blade. Blood sprayed across the dashboard and Baozong began to die, his brain deprived of vital oxygen.

Han fired upward through the roof, five deliberate shots that drew a straight line from corner to corner. He didn’t wait to see whether he’d hit anything; while he remained inside the sedan with his back to the rear window he was at his most vulnerable. He kicked the rear door on the driver’s side open, a diversion, then opened the opposite door and threw himself from the sedan, trusting his fate and his life to the gods. He rolled as he landed and came up on one knee, facing the sedan with his gun in both hands, the hammer thumbed back, two rounds still in the magazine.

Guolong, his face cut to bloody ribbons by the glass, recovered sufficient presence of mind to pull an Uzi submachine pistol from inside his jacket and cock the weapon. Absurdly, Han wondered how he would have explained the Uzi if they had been stopped by the police for any reason and searched. So sorry, officer, I didn’t realize automatic weapons were illegal here, they’re all the rage in Shanghai, don’t you know? Guolong screamed his rage and blindly unloaded his Uzi into the sedan’s roof, even as Han realized there was no one up there.