Jeffery Deaver - The Stone Monkey

The Ghost considered how best to attack the family. Sam Chang had a wife and an elderly father or mother with him, he'd been told. The main risk, though, would be any older children, like teenage boys. Life was for them just a video game and when the Ghost and the others broke in, a teenager might charge them with a knife.

"Kill any sons first," he instructed them. "Then their father and the old people." Then he had a thought. "Don't kill the wife yet. Bring her with us."

The Turks apparently understood the reason for this and nodded.

The Ghost surveyed the quiet street, across which were two long warehouses. Halfway along the block was an alley between the buildings. According to the map, the Changs' address was just on the other side of the warehouses. It was possible that Chang and his sons or father would be watching the front of the house so the Ghost would speed down the alley to the rear and they would rush in through the back door, while one of the Turks ran to the front door in case the family tried to escape that way.

He said in English, "Wear the masks on top of your heads like hats until we're at the house."

They nodded and did so. With their dark complexions and the stocking caps they looked like black gangstas in a bizarre rap video.

The Ghost donned his own mask.

He felt a moment's fear, as he often did at times like this, just before going into battle. There was always a chance that Chang had a gun or that the police had found the family first, had taken them to detention and were themselves waiting for the Ghost at the apartment.

But he reminded himself that fear was part of humility and it was the humble who succeeded in this world. He thought of one of his favorite passages from the Tao.

Yield and you need not break.

Bent, you can straighten.

Emptied, you can hold.

Torn, you can mend.

The Ghost now added his own line: Afraid, you can be brave.

He glanced at Yusuf, sitting next to him in the passenger seat. The Uighur nodded firmly in reply. And with the skill of seasoned craftsmen they began checking their weapons.

Sonny Li had found some very good cigarettes indeed.

Camels, without filters on the end, which tasted pretty close to the brand he regularly bought in China. He inhaled deeply and said, "Bet five." Li pushed the chips forward and watched the other poker players consider how to respond as the bet went around the cheap fiberboard table, stained from years of sweaty hands and spilled liquor.

The gambling parlor was on Mott Street, in the heart of Chinatown, the neighborhood to which he'd come to buy his cigarettes. Such a long trip probably wasn't what Loaban had in mind when he gave Li permission to buy some smokes. But no matter. He'd return soon enough. There was no hurry.

The parlor was a large one, populated mostly with Fujianese (he wanted to avoid running into the Cantonese guard he'd mugged that morning), and featured a full bar and three cigarette machines. The room was dark, except for dim lights over the tables, but with his sharp security bureau officer's eye he had spotted five armed guards.

This was not a problem, though. No stealing guns now or beating up pretty boys. He was here only to gamble, drink and chat.

He won the hand and laughed then poured mao-tai into the glasses of everyone at the table, except the dealer, who was not allowed to drink. The men lifted the glasses and quickly tossed back the clear, potent liquor. Mao-tai was Chinas version of moonshine and you didn't sip it; you poured it into your gullet as fast as you could.

Li struck up conversations with the men hunched over the table around him. A bottle of liquor and a dozen Camels later Sonny Li estimated his net loss to be merely seven dollars.

He decided against another glass and rose to go.

Several of the men asked him to stay. They were enjoying his company.

But Li told them that his mistress awaited and the men nodded enthusiastically.

"She fuck you every way," an old, drunk man said. It wasn't clear to Li if this was a question or a statement.

Sonny Li walked to the door, giving them a smile that confirmed the high quality of his love life. The truth, however, was that this particular gambling parlor had turned out to have little for him and he wanted to try another.

The Blazer, speeding down the alleyway that led to the rear of the Changs' apartment.

The Ghost, gripping his Model 51 pistol in one hand, the leather-clad steering wheel in the other.

The Turks, poised to leap from the SUV.

They burst from the alley into a large parking lot – and found a huge semi truck bearing down on them, head-on.

With a deep groan of brakes the truck began to skid.

The Ghost shoved his foot down on the brake pedal – instinctively striking the floor with his left foot as well, hitting the spot where the clutch in his BMW sports car was. The Blazer swerved and skidded to a stop door-to-door with the truck. He gasped and felt his heart stutter from the near-miss.

"What the fuck're you doing?" the truck driver shouted. He leaned down toward the Blazer's driver's-side window. "It's one-way, you fucking Jap! You come to this country, learn the fucking rules."

The Ghost was too shaken to answer.

The driver put the truck in gear and pulled past the Chevy.

The Ghost thanked his god, Yi the archer, for saving him from death. Ten seconds later and they would have collided head-on with the truck.

Starting forward slowly, the Ghost glanced at the Turks, who were looking around with frowns. They were confused, troubled.

"Where it is?" asked Yusuf, who was gazing at the large parking lot in which they found themselves. "The Changs' apartment? I cannot see it."

There were no residences anywhere around here.

The Ghost checked the address. The number was correct; this was the place. Except… except that it was a large retail shopping center. The alleyway that the Ghost had turned into was one of the exits from the parking lot.

"Gan," the Ghost spat out.

"What happened?" one of the Turks in the back asked him.

What had happened was that Chang hadn't trusted Jimmy Mah, the Ghost realized. He'd given the tong leader a fake address. He'd probably seen an advertisement for this place. He glanced up at the big sign over their heads.

The Home Store

Your source for every house and lawn need

The Ghost considered what to do. The other immigrant, Wu, probably hadn't been so clever. He had used Mah's broker to get an apartment. The Ghost had the name of the broker and they could find out the location of that family quickly.

"We'll get the Wus now," the Ghost said. "Then we'll find the Changs."

Naixin.

All in good time.

Sam Chang hung up the phone.

Numb, he stood for a moment, staring at a TV show, which depicted a living room very different from the one he was now in and a content and silly family very different from his own. He glanced at Mei-Mei, who was looking at him with a querying glance. He shook his head and she dutifully returned to Po-Yee, the baby. Chang then crouched down beside his father and whispered to him, "Mah is dead."

"Mah?"

"The loaban in Chinatown, the one who helped us. I called to ask about our papers. His girl said that he was dead."

"The Ghost? That was who killed him?"

"Who else?"

His father asked, "Did Mah know where we are?"

"No." Chang hadn't trusted Mah. So he'd given the address of one of the Home Stores in the flyer he'd found at the shopping center where they'd stolen the paint and brushes.

The Changs were, in fact, not in Queens at all but in Brooklyn, a neighborhood called Owls Head, near the harbor. That this had been their destination was a secret he'd kept from everyone except his father.