Stealing the Dragon

Xan stopped. “Who?”

“The girl who was here tonight,” said Hui. “The one who took the pictures-the one you and my father called little dragon.”

“What of her?” demanded Xan, conscious of the tone creeping into his voice.

“She knows,” said Hui, matter-of-factly.

Xan didn’t move. “She will tell no one.”

Hui nodded. “I know she won’t,” he said, his tone light. “But after we’re done here, you’ll bring her to me, won’t you? Just so we can talk.” Hui didn’t wait for a reply as he stepped around the other side of the desk, his eyes turning even darker as he looked over the ruined body of his father.

Xan said nothing. He was suddenly conscious of the burns on his arms and hands, the blood where his shirt was sticking to his body. He could still smell the fire in his clogged nostrils and taste the soot in the back of his throat, and he realized that he had done more than pull Sally and Jun out of the fire. He had brought a little bit of hell with him, too.

And that meant the devil must be very close.

Chapter Thirty-eight

San Francisco, present day

Cape pulled into the parking lot adjacent to Marina Green, checking his watch as he turned off the ignition. The morning fog had burned off, but the afternoon sun was already low on the horizon, shards of light ricocheting off the bay. Grabbing his sunglasses off the passenger seat, Cape locked his car and headed across the grass.

The field at the Marina was a San Francisco landmark, the biggest patch of open grass outside Golden Gate Park. At any time of day you’d find runners headed toward the Golden Gate Bridge, visible from any point along the wide sidewalk fronting the field. The crowded jetties marked where the grass stopped and the ocean began, the docks home to scores of fishing boats, sail boats, cabin cruisers, and even the occasional yacht.

Mitch Yeung sat on a low retaining wall that separated the field from the sidewalk, maybe twenty yards from a cluster of teenagers flying kites. About fifty yards farther down the field, another group that looked older-maybe college students-were playing touch football, and beyond that a volleyball game was underway. Mitch held a hot dog in his right hand, which he waved like a baton as Cape approached.

“Have a seat,” he said amiably, jabbing the hotdog toward the kites. “You’ll get a kick out of this.”

Cape studied the group. The boys ranged in age from maybe fourteen to twenty and were all Chinese. Two of the older kids stood side by side facing the open field, clutching large plastic handles to which multiple kite strings were tethered. Behind them, the rest of the boys had split into two groups, each shifting right and left as the boys controlling the kites circled each other in a bizarre dance. Both groups were yelling excitedly in Cantonese and throwing money on the ground as their champions’ kites soared.

The boy on the left was controlling three separate kites, each in the shape of a different animal. A green dragon, a phoenix, and an eagle plummeted and swooped only a few feet above the heads of people running across the field, the strings of his kites criss-crossing those of the boy next to him. The boy on the right held sway over only two kites, a red dragon and a butterfly.

“Look at the kite strings,” said Mitch, his mouth full as he swallowed the last of the hot dog. “See those flashes of light?”

Cape looked skyward and saw the reflection, darts of light shooting out randomly from the strings. “What are they?”

“Razor blades,” replied Mitch, smiling.

“You’re kidding,” said Cape. He narrowed his eyes, but the kite strings were a blur. The boy on the right did a quick stutter-step, grabbed the plastic handle with both hands, and twisted his wrists violently counterclockwise. Both dragon and butterfly lurched to the left, the breeze off the bay making an angry slapping sound against the fabric of the kites. A sudden twang signaled his move had worked, and Cape watched as the phoenix fell into a flat spin and plummeted to the ground.

The boys on the left started shouting vehemently as their opponents scooped money from the ground and yelled back, exultant for the moment. Each contestant slowly passed the plastic handle to another boy from their team, careful to keep the two remaining kites aloft. Once the hand-off was completed, the shouting resumed as the new combatants squared their feet and planned their next attack.

“Pretty cool, huh?” asked Mitch, hand raised to block the sun.

“I come down here a lot,” said Cape, “but I’ve never seen this before.”

Mitch nodded. “They come here maybe once a month,” he said. “These are two local gangs, settling minor differences. In the old days it would be a knife fight, sometimes swords-even over a slight insult. Don’t get me wrong-they still kill each other from time to time, but for minor stuff they let the fighting kites decide.”

“Maybe there’s hope for today’s youth, after all.”

“Well, it’s fun to watch, anyway,” said Mitch, leaning forward. “You wanted to meet?”

Cape nodded. “How’s it going on Treasure Island?”

Mitch shook his head. “Nothing new,” he said in disgust. “The people who can talk, won’t. And the people who are still too sick probably couldn’t tell us anything, either. I’ll probably go back to my real job after tomorrow.”

“What do you think?”

Mitch hesitated before answering. “I think those people were going to be slaves when they landed, and they knew it.”

“But they came anyway.”

Mitch shrugged. “My parents once told me that slavery can look a lot like freedom when you’re desperate. Maybe being an American slave is better than being a Chinese peasant.”

Cape knew this was personal, so he waited, watching the kites twist and turn. The green dragon had sent the butterfly spinning toward the bay, but the red dragon was still flying high. Mitch tore his gaze from the kites and looked at Cape for a full minute before saying anything.

“You want to know what I think?” he said quietly. “I think someone decided to kill the bastards that ran that ship. And speaking as a cop, I hope we never catch the guy who did it.”

It was the answer Cape had been hoping for. Reaching into his jacket, he removed the card with the red triangle.

“This mean anything to you?” he asked, handing the card to Mitch.

When Mitch saw the red triangle etched into the back of the card he flinched, dropping the card as if it were on fire. Glancing at Cape with an expression that was half consternation and half embarrassment, he gingerly picked up the card and turned it over in his hands.

“Where did you get this?”

Cape told him of the orange-haired youth that had almost knocked him over.

Mitch shook his head as he stared at the card. “Incredible.”

“You want to let me know what’s so incredible?” asked Cape, snatching the card back from Mitch.

Mitch blinked. “You’ve been summoned.”

“By whom?” asked Cape. “On the card it says One-eyed Dong. Is that a person or a Chinese euphemism?”

Mitch managed a short laugh. “Is this where you start in with the dick jokes?”

“You’ve heard them before?”

“When you’re Chinese, you hear them all,” replied Mitch. “I had friends named Wang, Dong, Long, Ding, Hung, you name it.”

“And I thought I had it rough.”

“Not by a long shot,” replied Mitch. His tone turned serious again as he added, “but this isn’t a joke, Cape.”

“What is it, then?”

“See this?” said Mitch, his index finger following the lines of the triangle. “It’s a Triad symbol.”