Mark Gilleo - Sweat

“Does it matter where they are made?”

“I want U.S. military issue. Nothing but the best.”

“That might be tough. And they won’t be cheap.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know, but if I had to guess I would say at least five thousand dollars apiece. It really depends.”

“Okay. Whatever the price.”

“And legally, they can’t be exported,” Peter added for the benefit of his son. “I keep Winthrop Enterprises on the up-and-up.”

Jake did the math in his head. A thousand goggles at five grand apiece came to five million dollars. The cash register drawer opened in his mind and he heard “cha-ching.” Jake wasn’t sure of the legality of the deal being discussed, but he was damn certain it was unethical. There may have been a thousand night hunters, but Jake knew they weren’t hunting jackals, foxes, goats or anything else on four legs. The deal was shady at best, and wildly profitable. Five million dollars was a lot of money by any standard Jake could come up with.

Hasad, pig-in-slop happy with the possibility of a successful transaction, bought lap dances for everyone. In a back VIP room, Peter finished his hands-on experience and negotiated with the club owner. The owner refused the first, second, and third offer. But when the number hit the estimated price of a pair of military-grade night vision goggles , he caved. He pulled two willing girls off the stage rotation. Peter returned to the table with the women.

“Jake, could you escort the ladies out? Shawn, my driver, should be out front momentarily.”

Hasad and Peter had a short conversation and paid the bill with a stack of money thrown on the table half counted.

Jake walked the ladies through the club, leaving the hormone-driven patrons wondering who he was. He stepped up the stairs from the basement level club, a lady clinging to each arm, and stumbled head first into the path of Kate and her friends who were walking down the sidewalk on their way to the movies. Kate took one look at Jake and the two strippers—the heels, the mesh stockings, one with a push up bra, one without a bra altogether.

“You son of a bitch,” was all she said before slapping him. As Kate broke into a run, Hasad and Peter came up the stairs behind him.

“Now it’s time for a little fun,” Hasad said replacing Jake between the strippers. Jake put his hand on his cheek. Peter Winthrop smiled. Business. ***

Chow Ying boarded the bus from the West Falls Church Metro station heading toward McLean, Virginia. He was dressed in jeans and a dark button-up shirt, as incognito as a six-foot-four Chinese national can be entering the whitest zip code in the country. He got off the bus next to the Riggs Bank at the bustling intersection of Chain Bridge Road and Old Dominion Drive. He took one second to get his bearings and kept moving. McLean was not a town for gawking. He walked four blocks through the center of town, past a sushi restaurant named Tachibana and a small strip of retail stores catering to clients with more money than they could spend. An exotic grocery store with an exotic window display sold everything from rattlesnake meat to jellyfish. Next door, a boutique chocolatier offered chocolate-dipped strawberries made on the premises.

Chow Ying kept his eyes straight ahead and followed the edge of the road until the sidewalk gave way to a small path that led into Dolly Madison Park. Marching forward according to the map in his head, Chow Ying passed an elderly man walking a small dog and a blonde trophy housewife at the end of her evening jog. Chow Ying stopped for a moment on a footbridge spanning a small stream, looked at the water rushing through two large rocks, and continued over the bridge before turning left. He checked the direction of the road over his shoulder as the streetlights came on, the sun now beyond the horizon. He walked casually down the increasingly dark path, heading north, following the sound of the stream as it made its way toward the Potomac, still several miles away.

An hour later, Chow Ying stepped off the path and into the woods. It wasn’t his first time off the path, but it was the first time with intention. Looking around, he pulled a small flashlight from his pocket. Power lines hidden in the darkness nearby provided a steady hum to the air. A dog barked in the distance as Chow Ying popped the end of the light into his mouth and held it between his teeth.

He reached into his back pocket and unfolded the map he had printed out from the computer terminal at the MLK Public Library between Chinatown and the old D.C. Civic Center. The printout was a hybrid map from an application a twelve-year-old boy in the library had referred to as Google Maps. The Asian kid with the bright backpack and skateboard had shown Chow Ying a thing or two, just to get the Mountain of Shanghai out of the way for the real computer users. Whatever magic the kid had performed, Chow Ying now had a satellite photo of his target blended together with a roadmap and local geographical features.

Chow Ying’s eyes settled on the paper and he flipped the map ninety degrees in the ray of illumination. He checked the streets, the contour lines of the land, and the boundaries of the park. Feeling confident, he twisted the light until it went off. He rested in the dark for a moment, letting his eyes readjust to the night. The streetlights from a cul-de-sac on the hill in the distance, combined with his uncanny sense of direction, told him he was close.

The last mile was uphill and the progress through the pathless woods was slow. Trying to remain silent and move forward on uneven terrain in unknown territory was something for trained military and backwoods hunters. Chow Ying, born and raised on the streets of Beijing, was neither. With each stumble in the darkness he fought the urge to use his light. But he knew there would be nothing more suspicious than a lone beam of light in the woods behind ten million dollar homes.

At the top of the hill, Chow Ying stopped for a rest. He first put his hands on his knees and then succumbed to the urge to take a seat on a large rock protruding from the earth near the crest of the slope. He did his best to remove the twigs and leaves that had hitched a ride on his clothes and in his hair. He swiped at his body, having no idea if he was successful in his attempt to clean himself. He ran his fingers through his ponytail in a final effort to look civilized, to look like anything but a criminal.

Chow Ying checked the printout again and looked at the neighborhood. From the woods he saw the side view of a house with a massive fountain in the middle of the circular driveway and a small fishing pond complete with a tiny pier. It was the same house as in the satellite photo, the same house three doors down from the red circle on his map. Ten miles by subway, a twenty-minute bus ride, a dark hike through the woods, and Chow Ying found himself three houses away from his goal. Not bad for a guy from the city, he thought to himself.

He kept to the back of the property lines as he moved toward his target, his shape melting into the darkness, his feet bouncing slightly on the edge of perfectly manicured lawns. A direct view and bright lights from another neighbor forced him into the woods again and he snapped his way through fallen brush as he walked up another lot. Arriving, he stopped on the backside of a massive fence and ran his hands along the boards, looking up at the top of the eight-foot wooden structure that enclosed the yard.

He looked around at the shapes and shadows in the woods, and jumped once in an attempt to see over the top of the fence. He put his hands on the top of the wood and tugged, testing the structure for strength. Satisfied, he pulled himself up for a better look into the yard. Feet hanging, his frame suspended, Chow Ying peered over the fence. He looked left and right, and without returning his feet to the ground, flung his leg to the top of the fence and flipped his body over. The Mountain of Shanghai landed with a resounding thud that came with two hundred thirty pounds of muscle hitting the earth according to Newton’s magic formula.