Stephen Knight - White Tiger

She was surprised to see that Manning took her directly to his home without any attempt at subterfuge. No anti-surveillance maneuvers, barely nothing more than an occasional glance in the rearview mirror. He lived in a secure apartment building, though Maggie thought the “security” was a joke. Apparently, Manning did as well; as he parked his black GTO in the garage, he kept an eye on the mirrors as the door slid closed, and remained just as watchful even after he had exited the vehicle. He walked to the passenger side and opened Maggie’s door for her. She thanked him, then allowed him to lead her to his apartment directly. It was on the third floor, only a short elevator ride away. The unit was a two-bedroom affair, certainly not elaborate, but not cheap either-she knew San Francisco had the highest rents in the United States, and where Manning lived in Russian Hill was never considered cheap even in the worst of economies. It was sparsely furnished, though if by design or circumstance she could not tell. She knew Manning spent most of his time in Asia, so it seemed reasonable that his U.S. presence needn’t be terribly upscale. There were a few photos on the wall, most of them with a blond-haired woman and a young boy whose hair was darker. There was no official portrait, but Maggie saw much of Manning in the boy.

“My family,” he told her in a flat voice. “They were killed in a car accident in 2003, when I was in Afghanistan.”

Maggie nodded slowly. She knew all about the pain, the outright agony, such a loss could leave in its wake. She looked at Manning and studied him for a long moment. He stood beside her and looked at the photo with clear eyes, his face immobile, his body at rest. Though she doubted he could ever grow used to the fact his family was among the departed, it did seem that he had accepted it.

She didn’t know whether to judge that as a weakness or a strength.

Instead, she took his hand and led him to the bedroom.

The sexing was urgent, driven by a sudden desire that almost consumed her entirely. Two strong orgasms failed to even dent it. She climbed atop Manning and slowly impaled herself on him, then stretched out on his body and rocked her hips up and down. Their bodies slammed together in a hurried rhythm, their lips together, tongues touching as she pistoned up and down his length. He held out for as long as he could, and her next orgasm tore through her like a grenade blast. She felt her desire begin to unwind then, slowly uncoiling like a constrictor releasing its dead prey, only to have another wave of pleasure slam into her. She screamed into Manning’s mouth, and a moment later he moaned as he fired into her again and again and again.

Alexsey Baluyevsky walked the grounds himself even though it was almost four in the morning. The courtyard had been cleaned and returned to its original, pristine condition, as had the interior of the great house behind him. All occupants were safe and accounted for. Baluyevsky had his security team searching the house throughout the night’s festivities, poking about in all the rooms, ensuring that no one could hide out. Baluyevsky even went so far to look through the kitchen cabinets. Once, as a much younger man, he and his soldiers had been attacked by a Chechen youth who had hidden in the cabinet beneath a kitchen sink. Two men had died that day, and Baluyevsky never looked at a kitchen quite the same way again.

The house was clear. The grounds were clear. Lin was safe in his second story master suite, guarded by two of Alexsey’s best men. The suite’s doors and and walls were virtually impenetrable, and Baluyevsky would not be surprised if they could withstand the blast of a 155 millimeter artillery shell. The windows were likewise hardened and bullet-resistant. And if that failed, one of the master suite’s walk-in closets had been turned into a safe room. If an attacker decided to come after his employer, Baluyevsky hoped he or she brought a lunch.

Just the same, he watched as his security team checked the grounds, using flashlights, hounds, and night vision devices. Nothing more amiss than some unnoticed party garbage came to light. Baluyevsky had the men check again. Only after the second check was completed did he release them, and only after they left did he allow himself to relent in the face of what felt to be nearly bone-crushing exhaustion. It had been days since he had had a proper night’s sleep, but he dared not reveal that his performance was degrading. After all, his employer slept even less than he did, and had been doing so ever since the death of his prized son and heir Lin Jong. While Baluyevsky was not enchanted by Chinese in general or Lin in particular, he had to admire the older man’s ability to continue to function on almost no recuperative rest whatsoever.

Baluyevsky took in the view of San Francisco from across the bay. Many of the city’s lights had dimmed as the night wore on, but there was still a quality of sleeplessness that surrounded it. Even though the majority of its inhabitants were fast asleep, the city itself and those who tended it remained awake, watchful, never succumbing to exhaustion or fatigue. Baluyevsky stood and watched the city for a few moments, his hands clasped behind his back. A chill had crept into the air, but he barely felt it. He was from the Ural Mountains, and the bitter cold weather he had grown up with had left him almost invulnerable to simple chill such as this. He unclasped his hands and checked his watch. It was 4:40am. It was time to get as much rest as he could before starting over again tomorrow. Hopefully, that troublesome American Manning would be able to get something actionable out of Ryker and then they could put all this weariness behind them, once and for all.

As he turned, he heard the vague rustle of clothing over skin, barely audible over the whisper of the breeze that blew in from the San Francisco Bay. His right hand went for his pistol, strapped to his hip. At the same time, a shape disengaged from the darkness almost directly in front of him, visible only when it moved. Baluyevsky was surprised, and initially thought it was an animal of some sort-but it was no animal. He stepped back as his hand closed around the butt of his pistol. At the same time, the shape lunged toward him with more speed than Baluyevsky had thought possible from a human being. Pain flashed through his arms, and he found that he could no longer draw his pistol. Two more strikes on his biceps made the pain go away-in fact, all sensation in his arms faded, and Baluyevsky wondered if the radial nerves in his arms had been severed. He lashed out with one leg, launching a powerful kick at his opponent even though it was too late. His combatant was far too close for kicks to be effective, but it was all he had. The black shape avoided the crescent kick easily, then launched upward like a striking viper. Baluyevsky felt a peculiar thrill pass through his neck, then something like an electric charge blossomed in his head, crackling through his cranium like a bolt of lightning. He couldn’t make a sound, and he wondered if he had been hit with a stun gun of some sort. Then he felt the wetness pour into his mouth and tasted blood. He knew then that it was no stun gun.

It was a blade.

And then, the blade twisted inside his skull, and cohesive thought came to an end.

Manning awoke to find he was alone in his apartment. There was no note, no indication that he had ever not been alone, except for the vague smell of Maggie Shi’s perfume on his sheets. He ran a hand through his hair and prowled through the apartment. He found no trace of her, which was slightly unnerving. Manning was a light sleeper, both by nature and from training. How had she left the apartment without him knowing?