Stealing the Dragon

“This wasn’t the refugees,” said Vinnie.

Beau nodded. “Most didn’t look strong enough to walk without help, let alone kill someone holding a gun,” he said, adding, “But they did a number on that guy who fell.”

Vinnie grimaced again. “Don’t remind me.”

Beau turned to look along the length of the deck. “The others were clean, Vinnie,” he said into the wind. “Really clean.”

Vinnie followed his gaze, then looked at the windows of the cabin. They were streaked with grime but otherwise unremarkable. He knew there were three more bodies inside, but you couldn’t tell from where they were standing. There had been no signs of a struggle and almost no blood.

“After this guy out here, it happened fast,” mused Beau. “Not a lot of people know how to kill like that.”

“That could narrow the field.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.” Beau’s eyes drifted out of focus as he stood facing the Golden Gate Bridge in the near distance. The wind picked up and Beau hunched his shoulders, seeming to feel the cold for the first time that day.

Vinnie noticed the expression on his partner’s face. “You’re not thinking of someone in particular?” he asked incredulously.

Beau shook his head, his eyes shifting their focus to Vinnie. He forced a smile before answering.

“No, not necessarily.”

Chapter Five

Hong Kong, present day

“The snakes are poisonous, you know.”

The man behind the desk seemed calm as he spoke the words in Cantonese with practiced ease, his voice deep and resonant. His black hair shone dully in the subdued lighting of the office, slicked back from a high forehead that was smooth and unlined. The corners of his mouth curled into a smile as he talked. It was only his eyes that betrayed anger. They were utterly black, each pupil indistinct from the iris, two bottomless wells that threatened to swallow anyone who met his gaze. That was one of the reasons Chan did not look him in the eye.

The other reason was that Chan was hanging upside down, a heavy, braided cord wrapped around his right ankle. Directly beneath him a trap door had opened in the hardwood floor, revealing a hole roughly four feet square. In the dim light it was difficult for Chan to see the bottom of the shaft, but every few seconds something stirred in the darkness, the reflected light betraying sudden animal movement.

And if Chan ever doubted what lay beneath him, the sound made it all too clear. When the hatch opened, a reptilian susurrus flooded the room. To Chan it sounded like the rasp of silk sheets being dragged over a corpse, and in his mind’s eye he saw his own face revealed.

A heavyset man of around forty, he swung awkwardly above the opening. His hands opened and closed reflexively as he tried to stop turning in circles.

“You’re positive it’s missing?” The man’s voice was calm but insistent. The same question had been asked several times already this evening.

“The case was empty, lung tau,” Chan cried, his voice unnaturally high.

The man behind the desk did not acknowledge the title, lung tau.

Dragon Head.

He’d carried the appellation for so long, at times he forgot his real name.

“I see, the cabinet was empty,” he said pleasantly. “And who was guarding the room?”

Chan jerked frantically, trying to face his captor. “I was on guard, shan chu,” he said, trying to sound respectful. “But I swear-” He gasped abruptly as the rope lurched downward three feet.

Chan’s inquisitor took his finger off a button set into the wide teak desk. As he did, a figure standing in the shadows behind him leaned forward and spoke quickly in his ear. The second man faded into the shadows almost as quickly as he appeared, but not before Chan caught a glimpse of the ragged scar running the length of the man’s face. Even from his inverted position, Chan recognized his accuser and knew, at that moment, there would be no escape.

“I will find it!” cried Chan. “I will bring it back-it is my responsibility.”

The man behind the desk pursed his lips as he placed his index finger on the button. When he spoke again, his voice was almost friendly.

“Not any more.”

As he pushed the button, the rope slipped through the pulley and released. He watched impassively as Chan disappeared from view, and the slithering became a dull roar, the movement of the snakes like a crashing wave.

The trap door snapped shut, cutting short Chan’s scream and chasing the liquid sound of vipers from the room.

The Dragon Head leaned forward, his hands steepled in front of him. Without turning, he spoke to the man in the shadows, his voice sounding loud in the sudden quiet of the room.

“A bit melodramatic.”

“But there is something to be said for tradition.” The man with the scar stepped from the shadows. His black hair was cropped close to his skull, the scar starting just below the hairline on the right side and zigzagging past his eye until it ended at the corner of his mouth. As he smiled, it twitched like a lurid bolt of lightning trapped in his skin, the scar tissue catching the light at odd angles. “He talked quickly, wouldn’t you agree?”

The man behind the desk nodded. “Too bad he had nothing to say.” He sighed deeply. “You will find it and bring it back.”

The lightning bolt danced in the shadows. “Of course, lung tau.”

“And you will find the one who took it from us.”

“And bring them back, also?”

“Only the heart,” came the reply. “I only want the heart.”

Chapter Six

San Francisco, present day

“Are you trying to take advantage of me?”

Cape Weathers sat behind his desk and tried to think of a suitable answer. The man asking the question was supposed to be his client, after all, so he should take the question seriously. On the other hand, the man in question was a pretentious prick, a subspecies found crawling around the upper echelons of San Francisco society. They were known to consort with unctuous assholes and pseudo-intellectuals, two other life forms common to the Bay Area.

“Actually, I was trying to decide whether or not to shoot you,” replied Cape pleasantly. He leaned forward in his chair and began rummaging through his desk drawer.

“I beg your pardon?” Richard Choffer was clearly used to being in control. He pursed his lips menacingly as he tried to force Cape to make eye contact with him. The scion of a famous publishing magnate from New York, Richard had moved to San Francisco fifteen years ago to start his own publishing empire with Dad’s money. Now he had a successful line of titles that the critics liked to call picture books for adults-a series of heavily art-directed books on photography, music, and pop culture. Batman, Pez Dispensers, Diners Across America. Every photo was given its own page and two lines of copy, then bound into a handsome volume suitable for gift-giving when you ran out of ideas for gifts.

Cape had no problem with the way Richard made his living. It was arguably more respectable than the way Cape made his. And the books were undeniably successful-he’d even bought one or two himself over the years. He