James Swallow: Jade Dragon

“It wasn’t a gangcult,” he said automatically. “Not like the Americans have. Just stupid kids and fast cars.”

“And yet you made something of yourself.” The words were so bland and neutral, Frankie could not be sure if she were complimenting or insulting him.

Ko saw the second Vector coming when the backwash from the bridge spotlights caught the gunmetal shape in their glow, a silver shark on dark asphalt. Then he was rumbling over the causeway and on to the bridge proper. The two kilometre stretch of flyover arced from Ma Wan to Tsing Yi island over the Lamma Channel, and below Ko could make out the boxy shapes of cargo submersibles, nosing through the sluggish water toward the floodlit freight terminal. All he had to do was get down there, and he’d be golden.

Feng was standing on the lip of the bridge and pointing into the sky. Ko sped past him, almost too quick to register the guardsman there with one hand pressing a smoke to his lips and the other stabbing at the northwest. Ko looked where he pointed and saw flickers of light moving toward the bridge, the glint of reflection from the spinning rotors. Police helo-drones, fast little ducted-rotor aircraft bristling with gun pods.

The other Vector was coming up fast. Ko swerved to avoid another slow mover and boldly cut across the path of the pursuing car. The corp driver gunned his engine and followed him across the lanes, never once losing a moment of concentration. The second Merc surged forward and slammed into the rear of Ko’s car. He heard the rear bumper crack under the impact, the deep hum of electric discharge.

Ko had the weapon pallet open already. He didn’t really like dropped munitions-they always seemed a little unsporting to him-but this wasn’t a situation he could be friendly about. Ignoring the fans of lasers sweeping down the bridge toward him from the drones, he tap-tapped the drop switch and let a cluster of poppers tumble from the rear compartment as he pulled away. The size of tennis balls, the small spheres bounced once-twice-three times to arm and then detonated in loud, bright explosions. More a disorienting, less a destructive weapon, poppers were designed to baffle a tailgater rather than kill them.

The second Vector skidded a little as one of the front tyres deflated; but in the next moment the wheel was refilling itself and the Mercedes made up the distance again. Ko swore under his breath. The driver of the other car was now visible in the wing mirror. Was that guy wearing an opera mask?

The Vector rammed him again and broke off the rest of the bumper and number plate, grinding them to shards beneath the Merc’s wheels. Ko flicked a glance up at the drones. The robot flyers were deploying taser catapults, ready to fire electro-harpoons into the car’s hood to shock the computer-controlled engine to death. One hit would turn the Vector into an expensive roller skate and Ko would coast to a halt, sealed inside a steel coffin until the APRC came to arrest him.

“I don’t think so.” Ko thumbed another switch and ignited the one-use smokescreen canister in the boot. Instantly, a thick cloud of inky blue haze coughed from the back of the Vector, fogging the highway.

The Monkey King made the little tutting noise again as the smoke enveloped the car, and he tapped a control on the steering wheel. A glimmer of light washed over the windscreen and suddenly the highway ahead was rendered in computer-generated gridform, data feeding from the hood’s radar sensors to the head-up display. He turned the Vector into the fugitive car and rammed him a third time, pressing the arcing electric probes into the exposed innards of the vehicle. The thief swerved again and slammed on the brakes, dropping away past the driver’s side. In the back seat Frankie saw a blur of silver vanish behind them; then they emerged from the smoke cloud and into a glitter of red targeting lasers.

The police drones lost the stolen vehicle just for a moment in the swath of blue mist, the metallic particulates in the discharge baffling their sensors. But traffic control had given them a target sillhoutte to look for, and, when the shape of a sliver Mercedes Vector flying YLHI colours presented itself, both the robots fired without hesitation. The first harpoon went wide, clattering uselessly against the crash barrier; the second struck the bonnet and locked, a combination of molecular glue and magnetic coils holding it fast. The dense capacitor in the harpoon’s head released a massive bolt of power into the engine and killed it instantly. The Vector turned into an uncontrolled skid that rammed it into a bridge stanchion. The car described a seven hundred and twenty degree spin before coming to a shuddering halt in the nearside lane.

The drones started to bark pre-recorded phrases, ordering the people inside to remain where they were and not attempt to leave their vehicle. Neither unit spent any time scanning the other silver Mercedes Vector that raced away past the stalled vehicle, the horn sounding three times in a rude salute.

In the back seat of the dead car, Frankie Lam watched the other Vector vanish toward the city and fought down the urge to laugh.

Rikio had an Ushanti sub-machinegun in his hand as Ko stepped out of the sedan. “What the hell is this?” he demanded, waving the weapon around, taking in the whole of the dockside warehouse around them with an exasperated gesture.

“Reckon you might like it.” Ko showed teeth, keeping his tone fast and light. He knew better than to underplay it when dealing with triads, even low-level Red Poles like Rikio. “Mostly intact, bit of bumper damage…”

“I’ll say,” said the gunman, craning his neck to look at the wounded rear end. “Why’d you bring this trash here?”

“Trash?” Ko spat. “How many of these you get to see, Rik? It’s hot off the highway, man. Hell, even if you chop-shop it, this sweet ride will make you your bonus for the month-”

“Hot is right,” said the other man, letting his free hand wander through his five-toned punch-perm. “Get this outta here. I don’t know you. I ain’t seen you.”

All at once, Ko’s studied cool disintegrated in a jolt of anger. “The fuck? What did you say to me?” He grabbed a handful of Rikio’s green silk shirt and snarled at him, oblivious to the machinegun. “You just cut me off ’cos you’re too chickenshit to take this?” In a flash, the adrenaline rush and the latent anger he’d been nursing all day came together in a single outburst. “We came up together, man! Now you act like you don’t know me?”

“Back off.” Rikio pushed him away with the muzzle of the Ushanti. “You’re not 14K, Ko. You could be, but you’re not. You’re a loner. That means I don’t have to do you any favours-”

“What’s going on here?” The voice halted both of them. Ko’s anger froze solid. The man approaching them was a small, wizened figure. In his youth, the elderly fellow had probably been a big guy, heavy but dangerous with it. What he had lost to age, he’d replaced with presence. Rikio’s manner was instantly obeisant.

“Sifu Hung. Sorry, sorry, sir. Just a small disagreement. Nothing important. ”

Big Hung. Ko’s blood ran cold. This old man was the senior boss of the entire 14K triad, half of Hong Kong’s criminal enterprises firmly in the pocket of this dumpy doughball ex-contender. The youth marvelled at the idea of it; the stories he had heard about Big Hung’s ruthless nature, of the fear he instilled in other men-and now to look at him, the mobster looked like nothing more than a fat old geezer in an expensive suit. The elderly guy leaned closer. Ko smelled cologne and the faint aroma of tiger balm.

Hung gave Ko a measuring stare, and he made it clear he didn’t like what he saw. “You don’t belong here, boy. Stop bothering my lads and get lost.” More men were approaching now, Hung’s personal guard. All of them held shiny handguns in deceptively casual stances.