J.F. Kirwan - 88° North

‘We are Green Dragon triad. We operate by a code,’ Blue Fan added. ‘We live and die by it.’

That’s what Nadia had been told before, by one of Salamander’s men, right before he died.

‘Take it, Nadia,’ Hanbury said. ‘Best offer you’ll get today.’

‘Now,’ Salamander growled.

Hanbury’s lips quivered. ‘Just remember, Nadia. It’s not always about the big picture. The small pictures. They’re what really count.’

She stared at the Beretta. A small part of her hoped the Chef would burst in, any second. Her life’s history told her otherwise. But if Jake would live … She knelt down and picked up the gun, her head level with Hanbury’s. ‘I’m sorry.’

She stood, breeched the weapon, snapping the bullet into the chamber. She pressed the end of the muzzle against his forehead, tenderly, as if it was a caress, and firmed her right arm. He closed his eyes. She took in a ragged breath, then let it out slowly, as if through a straw, like her father had taught her … and spun around and fired straight at Salamander, aiming for his right eye.

The shot rang out in the room, like a sledgehammer striking a bell. A ricochet. Bullet-proof after all, a tiny smear on the glass in front of Salamander’s face.

Hippo seized her in a bear hug and pulled her to one side, while Heron prised the weapon from her fingers, and re-loaded the magazine. Heron then moved into position next to Hanbury’s trembling frame.

‘Lift your head a little, Mr Hanbury,’ Salamander said. ‘And your butler James’s brother, and Ma-Lee’s mother will live to see dawn.’

Nadia tried to scream ‘NO!’ but Hippo’s fat palm smothered her mouth. She kicked, but to no avail; the guy’s legs were like dead tree stumps.

‘Tilt the barrel down a fraction,’ Salamander said, and continued giving instructions, choreographing the scene until the pistol and Hanbury were exactly where they had been while Nadia had held the gun to his head.

‘Hold it just there,’ Salamander said. ‘Now.’

Nadia flinched with the gunshot, and watched in disbelief as Hanbury’s head flopped backwards, as if he’d simply fallen asleep, a neat hole in his forehead, scorch marks around the wound’s circumference. Blood oozed out and pooled there, until a single drop ran down his temple, like a tear.

Nadia stopped struggling.

Hanbury’s face was serene. She wished she’d had more time to get to know him. But then, if there was anything after , there would be plenty of time very shortly. The Chef would arrive too late.

She looked at Jake, still unconscious. He’d see the video, sooner or later, seamlessly spliced. Her placing the gun against Hanbury’s head, the weapon firing, him falling backwards. Everyone would see it. At first he wouldn’t believe it, but then he’d wonder, just enough to crack the bond between them.

Salamander had won. Maybe not the big game, whatever that was. But this small one. Her small life – her picture, mainly full of death and pain – was over. Like Hanbury’s.

Salamander walked to the two cameras and ejected the memory sticks, pocketing them. He uttered something in Cantonese to his granddaughter and left. Heron and Hippo hauled Jake up and dragged him away, while the cameramen packed up their gear. She heard a car engine start out front.

She guessed Blue Fan was the executioner here.

‘I’m ready,’ Nadia said.

Chapter Five

Nadia was led outside by Blue Fan, where four armed men awaited her, which seemed a trifle excessive. The road was quiet, except for the night breeze rustling the trees. Salamander and Jake were gone. The hazy lights of a beach – Repulse Bay, she reckoned, the only true beach on the island – beckoned far below.

Blue Fan walked up to her, close. ‘If you make it to the beach, you live.’

‘Bullshit,’ Nadia said. ‘It will look better for the headlines if I’m shot in the back fleeing the crime scene.’

‘You make it to the beach, you live. Our code, remember?’

‘Salamander doesn’t live by a code. He twists the rules any way that suits him.’

Blue Fan seemed to consider this for a moment. ‘I am not my grandfather. You will have a five second head start.’

Nadia scanned the bushes and trees descending at a thirty-degree angle to the beach, five hundred metres below. Dense vegetation. Almost no light. There would be roads crossing her path every now and again. It was a chance, a slim one. And there was one good reason to try.

Jake.

She turned back to the four men. Three of them looked eager for the hunt, removing their jackets, revealing heavily-tattooed torsos and arms. The fourth one stood back. At his feet was a long holdall. A sniper rifle. Just in case. There was an open, flat stretch of land between the tree line and Repulse Bay. He’d have a clear shot.

She spoke to Blue Fan. ‘If we meet again, just bear in mind that for me, there are no rules.’

‘Everyone follows rules. Most are not aware of the rules they follow. Now, run, Nadia Laksheva. Run for your life. One .’

Nadia sprinted across the tarmac into thick bush, ducking just in time beneath a low hanging branch. In her head, she counted. Two . She tripped over a root, and tried to roll in the soft earth and leaves, but ended up sliding on her front. Three . She got up and start running again. Fou r. Taking large, loping strides, each one threatening to twist her ankle on treacherous undergrowth, she thought about alternative tactics: lying low, climbing a tree, breaking off to the left or right. No. The quickest route to life was a straight line. Five. She heard the thrashing of the three men entering the bushes behind her, their footfalls thumping the ground. They probably knew this terrain, and would spread out in case she was stupid enough to hide.

The headlamps of a car rounding a bend lit up the foliage below, and a clearer passage emerged to the left. She bolted for it. Darkness flooded in again, but the route was etched on her retinas, and she ran as fast as she could. Suddenly she spilled onto asphalt, an empty road, her knees buckling as she hit solid terrain. No cars, just the men closing on her. A high-pitched pfft sound to her right announced a bullet from a silenced weapon. She dashed for the other side of the road and dived into the bushes.

She rolled the way she’d been taught, knowing that at this speed, if she hit a tree trunk, she’d be stunned long enough for them to catch her. But she came up on her feet and continued, arms in front of her in a crude triangle, hands in front of her head. A thick branch whacked her ribs, making her spin around, but she kept her balance. She kept her arms up. Protect the head, always. That’s what the Chef had taught her. She heard the whine of a motorcycle, maybe a local on his way home on the road she’d just crossed. But Salamander’s men were already charging through the bushes behind her. She had maybe another four hundred metres to go. She wasn’t going to make it. Not even close.

She kept running.

A second pfft told her they were trying to down her in the woods before she reached the next road, so that became her goal. Just make it to the road. A branch exploded to her left, so she began zigging and zagging. Maybe if she was lucky, she’d hit the road just as the motorbike was coming along it, and maybe … Too many maybe’s.

Just fucking run!

She spotted the white lines of the road through a gap in the trees, and pushed off for one final sprint, but the next bullet found her left shoulder and sent her sprawling forward. Her hands instinctively went down to brace against the fall, and a branch struck her in the face. It felt like she’d been punched on the nose, and she tumbled out of the woods, her head smacking onto the warm tarmac.