Cameron, Marc - Tom Clancy's Shadow of the Dragon

Clark bought a hot samsa at the first stand he came to. The Central Asian meat pie was similar to an Argentine empanada, this one plucked straight out of the tandoori-style oven. Filled with chopped carrot, garlic, onion, and fatty pieces of lamb, it warmed him as he made his way through the market, working east, where he hoped to avoid most of the cameras long enough to check out the house where Hala Tohti was supposed to be staying with her aunt.

A slender man with thick, pink lips like a carp shouldered his way past, cursing at Clark in Mandarin as he went by. He was going in the same direction, obviously in a big hurry to get somewhere.

Hala lay under a quilt in front of the oil stove, fully clothed, chewing on the sodden collar of her shirt. She covered her ears with both hands, trying to block out the noises coming from her aunt’s room. Soon it was quiet, but she did not move until the fat baboon Suo yelled for her to get him some tea.

Ren flung open the door before she’d made it to the kitchen. Cold air swirled in around him, and Hala imagined he was a devil, come to curse their house. Then Suo came out with nothing but his sagging undershorts and she did not have to imagine devils any longer.

Zulfira followed him out of the bedroom. Her hair mussed, she clutched the throat of her simple cotton robe with one hand. The other hand she kept in her pocket.

Zulfira stopped cold when Ren shut the door behind him.

“We agreed,” she said. “Hala is not to be touched.”

“We did agree,” Suo said, fat chin to soap-white chest. “That is the truth. But it is also true that I made an agreement with my assistant—and that agreement was made before yours.”

Hala glanced at the door, but Ren grabbed her by the arm.

Zulfira set her jaw. “No …” she whispered. “You … cannot do this …”

Fat Suo breathed deeply, as if taking in her smell, and gave her a smug smile. “I have decided that I am hungry after all.”

Zulfira’s voice rose in pitch and timbre. “This is my home. I will not allow—”

Suo struck her hard across the face with the back of his hand. “My dear, you will allow—”

Her hand came out of her pocket with an ornate Uyghur blade that Hala recognized as one of her uncle’s. Zulfira struck like a scorpion, hitting hard and fast, pounding over and over at the spot where Suo’s neck attached to his shoulder. The knife was more decorative than practical, with an eagle pommel and rosewood grips inlaid with jade and mother-of-pearl—but Zulfira’s husband believed that all knives, even those meant for decoration, should be kept sharp enough to shave the hairs on one’s arm. The blade was no longer than five inches, but the wicked upturned point did an incredible amount of damage as Zulfira drove it home again and again. A great arc of blood spouted across the room at the first blow, deflecting off her hand and spattering her face and chest each time she struck.

Suo slapped a hand to his neck, eyes wide, collapsing to his knees. Blood poured between fat fingers and ran down his arm in a red curtain to the floor. He opened his mouth to speak, but managed no more than a horrible croak.

Ren relaxed his grip in shock, allowing Hala to pull away and run to her aunt. She floundered midway, slipping and almost falling in the growing pool of blood. Suo’s hand that had been holding his neck fell to his side, noodlelike. His eyes fluttered and he pitched forward, smashing his face against the linoleum floor with a horrific thud.

Zulfira brandished the Uyghur knife at Ren. Her attack had been so furious she’d not noticed that she’d cut her own hand each time she’d plunged the knife into Suo’s fat neck. At some point in the process the blade had snapped at the tang, leaving her with nothing but the handle in her blood-drenched hand. She dropped it and grabbed Hala, yanking her out of the way just in time.

Dumbfounded, Ren cried out in rage. His eyes shifted to the cleaver on the table, and he snatched it up. Zulfira blocked his exit, screaming for Hala to go in the bedroom and lock the door.

Ren brandished the gleaming cleaver. His voice was high and pinched. His chest heaved. “I promise you this,” he hissed. “I will not be so easy to kill.”

And he was right.

22

At once terrified and enraged at the sudden murder of his boss, Ren rushed forward, slashing wildly, intent on slicing Zulfira in half. She picked up a wooden bowl and pushed it out in front with both hands like a shield, but Ren had her on size and reach. One of his swings connected, opening a sickening smile of meat along the length of her forearm. The Uyghur knife she’d used so well to kill Mr. Suo clattered to the floor. Ren cackled maniacally, pressing forward slowly. Zulfira was now unarmed, bleeding profusely.

Without thinking, Hala grabbed one of the wooden chairs near the table and ran as fast as she could, pushing it ahead of her across the slick linoleum floor toward Ren like a battering ram.

Ren wheeled too late, catching the heavy wooden seat directly below his kneecaps.

A ragged scream boiled out of his throat. “You filthy Uyghur bitch! Do you think to win against a full-grown man? I will cut you into litt—”

Hala’s trick with the chair afforded Zulfira the opportunity to scoop up a paring knife and throw herself against Ren before he could react with the cleaver. Throwing her head back in a terrifying scream, she leaped onto his back and buried the little knife again and again in his neck and shoulder.

Unlike his boss, Ren expected the attack. He ducked his head to his shoulder, twisting and turning, making it virtually impossible for Zulfira to get the right angle. Though the blade did some damage and drew a copious amount of blood, none of the wounds were arterial or anywhere close to fatal.

The cleaver fell from Ren’s grasp at the same moment Hala’s feet squirted out from under her in the blood. She landed almost on top of the cleaver, grabbing it up as she rolled and bringing it down on top of Ren’s dress shoe, burying the sharp blade across his arch. It would have cut the front of his foot off, had Hala been stronger and her footing more secure.

Ren yowled, flailing for the cleaver, but missing it as his other foot shot sideways, like a goat trying to walk across a frozen pond. He hit the ground with a crack, groaning, rolling in blood. Zulfira fell, too, slashing, opening his cheek with her blade as she sought out his throat. The knife found a home in his shoulder. Ren roared, swatting her away. She landed on her butt, sliding backward, mopping blood on the floor.

Hala rolled away, crouching now, cleaver in hand. Ren wallowed to his feet, looking like he’d been dipped in blood. He drew the paring knife from his shoulder, dragging his injured foot as he hobbled toward a panting Zulfira. Hala slashed at his legs with the cleaver. Ren turned, coglike, catching himself with his good foot to stay upright at every shuffling step. He shook the knife at Hala. Blood and spittle spewed through clenched teeth.

“Whore! Mosquito. I will open your—”

On her feet again, Zulfira smashed a wooden bowl over the man’s head.

Stunned but far from out, Ren shoved her sideways, staggering backward from the blow.

Zulfira barely regained her footing. Blood covered her face and arms. “Run!” she wailed at Hala. “Go!”

Hala scrambled sideways, wheezing, unable to draw a breath. She tried to stand, but her muscles were made of stone. Her aunt’s sobbing cries, the wicked man’s screams, rattled inside her head, muffled and disjointed. Her back hit the wall. She was cornered.

Howling like a madman, Ren lunged for her—but Zulfira threw herself between them, grabbing the hand that held the knife and drawing it into her own belly, driving forward to topple Ren.