Black dragon, p.17
Black Dragon, page 17
“My God,” mumbled Mitchell, starting to see a connection, as tenuous as it was, to Satomi’s staged kidnapping and his missing friends.
“My God indeed, Mister Mitchell.”
“You don’t think they are working together, do you?”
Satomi gave a world-weary shrug of his shoulders. “I hope not. The weapons described on the stolen papers may be dated, but with today’s technology, I am afraid to imagine what could be created.”
Mitchell slowly stood and turned to look out over the black waters of the bay. His mind was racing. He dug out his phone, then turned to face Satomi. “Sir, please excuse me, I need to make a few calls.”
“I thought you might,” replied Satomi, filling both of their glasses with a tall measure of Scotch.
21
High-rise Complex
Hong Kong
At the front entrance to the high-rise, a middle-aged security guard with a large potbelly sat behind his desk, bored out of his mind, while he watched the array of surveillance cameras situated around the outside of the building. Long retired from the police force, he had taken the job to get out of the house a couple of nights a week. A highly polished silver Rolls Royce limousine pulled up and stopped outside of the glass front doors. The side doors swung open and out stepped three beautiful young women in long flowing dresses, laughing loudly. They looked like they already had drunk far too much. The guard watched as they adjusted their form-fitting dresses before blowing kisses and waving their farewell to the limo driver. There was a tall, blonde-haired woman with her hair pulled back in a bun on the top of her head; in her hand was an opened bottle of expensive champagne. Standing on unsteady feet beside her was an athletic-looking girl with dark brown skin and a baldhead that the guard thought somehow suited her. Leading them to the front entrance was an Asian woman with short black hair and a gorgeous, well-proportioned face. She wore a traditional jade-green dress edged in gold and appeared to be the least inebriated of the women. He was used to expensive escorts coming and going from the building at all hours, so much so that he no longer paid much attention to them anymore. The fact that there were three of them made him chuckle. Someone must be having one hell of a party tonight.
After he buzzed the women inside, the guard politely asked the Asian girl where they were going.
With an alluring smile on her face, she told him that they were going to the seventh floor and that they would be back down in a few hours.
He shook his head, pointed them to the elevators and then watched as they made their way past him. The tall, blonde-haired woman tripped over her feet and was caught by the other two girls. Giggling, the blonde removed her high-heeled shoes, as did the other two women. The blonde winked at the guard and then took a deep swig of champagne. The exotic smell of expensive perfume hung in the air. Oh, to be young and rich . . . hell, just to be rich, thought the guard as the women entered the elevator.
The bald English bodyguard was growing restless. When their boss departed for England, he never told them that they would have to chaperone anyone around the city. He had hoped for a few nights off for a change. Instead, he found himself on duty. Still, he couldn’t complain too much as he was making ten times the salary he had been in the army.
Halfway down the hallway, the elevator chimed. A second later, three young women stumbled out into the hallway laughing and giggling merrily. The women waved and then noisily made their way down the hallway.
Perhaps tonight won’t be a total loss, thought the bald-headed bodyguard as he eyed the tall, blonde woman as she staggered down the hall.
“Excuse me, ladies, but would you mind telling me where you think you are going?” said the black-haired bodyguard in a firm but friendly tone of voice.
Stopping a few meters shy of the two men, the Asian girl smiled and said, “Is Mister Kincaid home?”
“Sorry, miss, he’s in England on holidays,” replied the black-haired bodyguard. The hair on the back of his neck went up. He had seen women come for business parties held in his employer’s home on several occasions over the past year. Something wasn’t right.
“We were told by our agency that he would be home tonight,” said the Asian girl, sounding more than a little disappointed.
“Perhaps they got the day wrong, sweetheart. I get off in a few hours if you would still like to party,” said the bald-headed man, leering at the women.
“I think you’re cute,” said the blonde-haired woman. Her English was heavy with a thick Russian accent. Handing her champagne bottle to the black woman, she took a step forward, only to trip over her feet and fall into the bald-headed bodyguard’s arms.
“Steady, love,” said the man as he held her in his arms.
The attack was swift and deadly.
With one man distracted, the Asian woman waited for the split-second that the black-haired man’s attention was not on her but on his foolish partner. As if out of thin air, she deftly pulled a slender knife out from under her dress and threw it straight into the man’s unprotected throat. With a sickening, wet thud, the blade sunk home. Instinctively, the doomed guard reached up for his throat.
The bald-headed guard saw the blood spray out from his partner’s throat. He let go of the Russian girl and tried to reach under his jacket for his concealed pistol.
With a snarl on her lips, the Russian launched her right hand straight onto the man’s throat, shattering his windpipe. Like his dying partner, the bodyguard reached up for his throat. The last thing he saw before he died was a carbon-bladed knife in the hand of the Russian. She smiled at him and then thrust the blade into the side of his head, killing him.
“Well done,” said the black woman as she looked down at the two dead bodies with an evil glint in her eye. “Less than five seconds. A new record. I am very proud of you both.”
Born into abject poverty, all three women came from broken homes. Before they were twelve years old, they found themselves on the streets, selling their bodies just to survive. Found by men loyal to Cypher, they were taken away from the nightmare they were living and given a new life. Educated at private schools in Europe and Asia, all of the women were given a choice when they completed their education: to go out into the world and begin life anew or to join a fraternity of women who would never again allow themselves to be exploited and abused. To date, each and every one of Cypher’s disciples chose to join his organization. Trained in the martial arts and weapons handling, the women became the means by which Cypher dealt with those who stood in his way. Their loyalty to their benefactor was absolute. They would kill and die willingly at his command. They adopted the name the Black Widows and relished in the deadly power they exerted over others.
Reaching under their dresses, the three women pulled out the .32 caliber semi-automatic pistols that had been strapped to their legs. Looking about to make sure that they were still alone in the hallway, the black woman stepped over the dead bodyguards and listened at the door to the apartment. She didn’t hear any voices and took it as a good sign that their target did not know they were coming for him. The door was undoubtedly bulletproof; they would have to get someone from the inside to open the door for them.
With a smile on her face, the black woman looked over at the Russian blonde and pointed at the nearest dead body. Bending down, the blonde-haired woman ran her hand through the growing pool of blood on the dark green carpet and smeared some across her face. She pulled her hair down, messed it up and then stepped over to the door, so she could easily be seen through the peephole.
With a bloodcurdling scream on her lips, the Russian girl started to bang away on the door.
Even out on the terrace Mitchell heard the scream and turned his head back toward the apartment.
“What the hell was that?” asked Satomi.
“I don’t know,” replied Mitchell, regretting that he didn’t have a sidearm with him.
Inside the apartment, Satomi’s bodyguard drew his pistol and ran over to the locked door. He looked out through the peephole and saw a distraught looking blonde-haired woman with blood on her face. A second later, she began banging frantically on the door.
“What is wrong?” called out the bodyguard in English.
“The men . . . the men out here have been shot. I think one of them is still alive,” cried out the Russian.
Confusion flooded the bodyguard’s mind. He hadn’t heard any shots being fired.
“Please help me,” begged the woman.
“What is going on?” asked Satomi as he entered the apartment closely followed by Mitchell.
“Sir, a woman says that the two British men have been shot,” replied Satomi’s bodyguard in Japanese.
“Well, don’t just stand there, open the door and help them,” ordered Satomi.
Mitchell hadn’t understood a word, but the instant he saw the bodyguard move to open the door, alarm bells rang inside his head. “Wait,” called out Mitchell.
The warning came a split-second too late; the instant the door was unlocked, the blonde-haired woman kicked it open. Like a cobra striking at its prey, the Asian woman dove into the room and fired off two quick shots into the chest of the stunned bodyguard. Landing on her side, the Asian woman fired off another shot, which missed Satomi’s head by mere millimeters.
Taking Satomi by the arm, Mitchell pulled him back away from direct line of sight from the doorway. He dragged Satomi through the living room and out onto the terrace, Mitchell knew that he had seconds before their attackers were upon them. Realizing that there was only one way to go, Mitchell tightly grabbed Satomi’s arm with his left hand. Before Satomi could say a word, Mitchell pulled him off his feet and then threw him over the side of the terrace and out into the night. Grabbing hold of the terrace railing with his right hand, Mitchell leapt after Satomi. He prayed that his grip would hold. A second later, Mitchell felt a bone-jarring tug on his arms. Below him, Satomi cried out in panic. Like a swinging pendulum, Mitchell used their weight to propel Satomi down onto the terrace only a few meters below them. Mitchell let go of Satomi as he dropped to safety. Right away, he let go with his right hand and fell. A second later, both hands grabbed hold of the railing on the terrace below. His shoulders screamed in pain at the sudden, jarring stop, but Mitchell had no time to worry about how bad his body felt; he had one thought, and one thought only on his mind. He had to protect Satomi from his attackers. Digging his shoes in, Mitchell scrambled up and over the railing. From above he heard a woman curse in Russian. A second later, he heard a pistol firing. With a loud ping, the bullet struck the railing. He dropped onto the marble-tiled floor of the terrace. Mitchell looked over at Satomi, who was sitting on the ground, grimacing in pain, holding onto his left ankle.
“Are you all right, sir?” asked Mitchell as he stood and made his way over to Satomi. They had gotten away, but he knew their attackers would be coming for them. Mitchell knew they had a minute or less until they would be on them.
“I think I sprained my ankle when I landed,” replied Satomi.
“Sir, we have to go,” said Mitchell as he bent down and helped Satomi up onto his feet.
“Who were they?”
“I don’t know, but I think I tangled with them once before in Washington.”
Without warning, the lights on the terrace were switched on, momentarily blinding Mitchell. Voices called out in Chinese. An elderly man and woman in silk pajamas and robes opened the terrace doors and stood there with their mouths agape at seeing Mitchell and Satomi.
“There is not time to explain. Please help us. Someone is trying to kill us,” said Satomi in fluent Chinese.
Seeing the look of fear in Satomi’s eyes, the man said, “Get inside off the terrace right away.”
“I’ll call the police,” said his wife.
“Sir, we can’t stay here. They’ll come for us,” said Mitchell to Satomi.
Satomi asked the elderly man, “Do you have a gun?”
With a sharp nod, the man strode over to his desk and pulled out an old British Army Webley revolver. “It was used in the Boer War,” said the man proudly in English as he handed it to Mitchell. Looking at the antique, Mitchell prayed that it wouldn’t blow up in his face when he went to use it.
“It’s loaded,” said the man, seeing the look of hesitation on Mitchell’s face.
“Do you have a car we can borrow?” asked Mitchell.
“Here,” called out the man’s wife as she tossed over a set of car keys to Mitchell who grabbed them out of the air.
“It’s a silver 2014 Mercedes SUV on the far side of the parking garage in parking spot two hundred twenty-three,” hurriedly explained the man.
“Thanks,” said Satomi in Chinese.
Mitchell moved to the door of the apartment. He took a quick peek outside and was relieved to see that their attackers hadn’t made it down to their floor yet.
“Lock this door behind us and don’t let anyone in unless it’s the police,” said Mitchell.
“Good luck,” said the man, before closing and locking the door behind them.
Mitchell helped Satomi move as fast as he could down the long hallway to the dual elevator and then pressed the down button. He glanced up at the display above the elevator and saw that there was an elevator stopping on the floor above them. Cursing, he thought about trying for the stairs when the door in front of them parted. Mitchell dragged Satomi inside the empty elevator and pressed the button for the garage several times, as if it would somehow speed up their descent. Praying that their attackers would stop on the sixth floor, they needed time to escape; even a few seconds would be better than none. Mitchell took a deep breath, dug out the ancient revolver from his pocket, and steeled himself for the coming storm.
“Do you think we’ll make it?” asked Satomi.
“Not a problem. We’ll have you safe and sound with the Hong Kong police in no time,” replied Mitchell, praying that they’d make it out of the garage alive.
The doors to the elevator slid open.
Mitchell raised his pistol. They were alone. Mitchell and Satomi stepped out of the elevator into the brightly lit garage filled from wall to wall with expensive cars and SUVs.
“Come on,” said Mitchell as he helped Satomi to the far end of the garage where their ride was supposed to be parked.
With a pained moan, Satomi let go of Mitchell and reached down for his ankle.
Looking down, Mitchell swore. Satomi hadn’t sprained his ankle; from the way it was swelling up like a grapefruit, he had most likely broken it.
“You’ll have to leave me and go get help,” said Satomi, through clenched teeth.
“That’s not going to happen.” With that, Mitchell bent down and heaved Satomi over his shoulder. The man was quite light. It was far easier to carry him than a wounded soldier in full body armor.
A shot rang out.
Beside them, the windshield on a red Jaguar sports car exploded inward.
Mitchell pivoted on his heels and saw the blonde-haired woman standing there with a pistol in her hand. He brought up his revolver and fired off a shot. Without bothering to see if he had hit her, Mitchell turned and began to run as fast as he could through the parked cars, weaving from side to side hoping to throw off the aim of their attackers.
The lifeless body of the blonde-haired woman lay face down on the cold, concrete floor of the garage; a deep-red river of blood flowed away from the gaping hole in her chest. Rage swept through the black woman as she looked down at her dead friend. Someone was going to pay with their life for her death. Turning her head, with hate in her eyes, she looked for the man who had foiled all of their carefully laid plans. Satomi was supposed to have been an easy kill. No one had told her that there would be someone else there who was as deadly as he was resourceful. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man with Satomi on his back dodge around a black Land Rover and then move out of sight.
Turning to the Asian girl, the black woman said, “Make your way to the exit and wait in ambush for the two men when they try to leave.” With a quick nod, the girl sprinted away.
“Time to die,” said the black woman as she began to slink her way toward the men. Like a panther on the prowl, she moved carefully, almost unseen, through the sea of parked cars. Her mind was focused on vengeance.
“There it is,” said Mitchell as the silver Mercedes SUV came into sight like a welcoming port during a storm.
Mitchell couldn’t wait to get inside the vehicle and get out of the parking lot. Pressing the automatic door opener, Mitchell ran over to the passenger side of the vehicle and quickly buckled Satomi into his seat before sliding over the hood and hurriedly jumping into his seat. He pressed the start button. The SUV roared to life. Quickly throwing the vehicle into reverse, Mitchell jammed his foot down on the accelerator. Speeding backward a couple of meters, Mitchell hit the brake pedal. The sound of the tires loudly squealing as they dug into the concrete garage floor filled the air. He turned the wheel hard over, changed gears and jammed his foot back on the accelerator with no intention of letting his foot off until they were free of their pursuers.
As they sped straight for the closed garage door, Mitchell prayed that there was a motion sensor nearby to raise the door or he was going to have to drive his car straight through the doors, relying on the SUV’s mass and velocity to smash their way to freedom.
In the blink of an eye, the passenger-side window exploded inward, showering Satomi with glass. The bullet travelled straight through the car, barely missing Mitchell’s neck before blowing out his window as well.
“Get down,” yelled Mitchell to Satomi, who was already hunched over in his seat. Gripping the steering wheel tight in his hands, he kept his foot pressed down on the accelerator. No matter what, he had no intention of stopping.
The garage door slowly sprang to life and began to rise. It wasn’t moving fast enough. Mitchell knew that the top of their SUV was going to hit the bottom of the door. Bracing himself for the impact, Mitchell was stunned to see the Asian woman from upstairs step out from behind a parked car and stand in front of the exit, her pistol aimed at the onrushing SUV.
