White Tiger

and smashing his face into the asphalt.

The numbness lasted for a count of five. Then agony tore through his body. Blood filled his mouth; he’d bitten the end of his tongue off. He curled into fetal position and suppressed the groan that sought to escape his lips. He became aware that his ankles were bound by a length of wire attached to teardrop-shaped iron weights at either end. He’d been tripped, brought down expertly like some jungle animal hunted for sport. Barbs fixed along the wire had torn his flesh to ribbons. He suspected their points might be grating against the bones of his ankles.

The killer bent over him and inspected him thoroughly. Hands grabbed hold of his jacket. Han was lifted and spun around and slung over the killer’s shoulder. He struggled to remember the term. Fireman’s carry. Han ground his teeth together, determined not to make a sound that would give the killer satisfaction, even though he had no idea whether that was what the killer sought from him. Only now, through the haze of pain, did he begin to perceive a true impression the killer’s size. He was not a large man. His frame was surprisingly small, his shoulders narrow, his arms wiry, his hands tiny. Was the killer a young boy? Could that be possible?

Small or not, the killer carried Han all the way back toward the sedan without any apparent effort. Keeping Han balanced on his shoulder, the killer opened the driver’s door and took the key from the ignition. He went to the back of the sedan and unlocked the trunk, which swung open to reveal the spacious interior, occupied only by a plastic box containing a flashlight, tire iron, and foot pump.

The killer twisted and dipped his shoulder, dumping Han into the trunk without ceremony. It was simply too much; a moan escaped Han’s lips. He instantly detested himself for exposing his weakness to his enemy. But the killer didn’t appear interested; he slammed the trunk shut. The light bulb dimmed, became a glowing pinhead, too small to illuminate Han’s surroundings. His ragged breathing filled the darkness. Now that he was alone he sucked air deep into his lungs and permitted himself a full-blown groan. Moving his legs proved impossible, the nerves refused to respond. His hand burned, distracting him further.

He sought, and found, the flashlight, which was made of tough plastic, with a handle above the body. He thumbed the switch on. When his eyes adjusted he played the light over his other hand. It was unnaturally twisted, the fingers bent backward, dislocated or broken, he couldn’t tell which. In terms of pain it probably didn’t matter, one was as bad as the other. He laid the flashlight on the floor. The beam waned and he thought the batteries might be drained, but the beam’s strength returned again without explanation. Han gripped his twisted forefinger and wrenched it straight. The pain made him weep. He spat blood that had pooled in his mouth, then pulled his other fingers straight in rapid succession. Three had been dislocated, and his smallest finger was indeed broken. He tried gripping the flashlight but it slipped from his numb fingers. He jammed his useless fingers between the flashlight’s handle and the cylindrical body, an exercise in self-mutilation, but it gave him a club that would, with luck, be enough to distract the killer for a split-second. He switched it off to preserve battery power. Next he searched for the tire iron and took comfort from the feel of the chill, hard metal. As soon as the trunk opened again he would turn on the flashlight and swing it at the killer’s head, masking his real attack, the pointed end of the tire iron which he would thrust at the killer’s solar plexus with all the strength and speed he could muster.

Thumping noises came from the front of the sedan. The car rocked on its suspension. The engine started. Han imagined the killer must have got behind the wheel, having pushed Tao Baozong over into the passenger seat with Fan Guolong. Their failure to safeguard his life angered Han. The ineptness of the Russian’s “special training” couldn’t be more obvious. Baluyevsky’s competence would be called into question as soon as Han saw Lin Yubo….

The sedan moved off. Han relaxed as best he could, conserving what strength he had. The numbness began to spread up his legs, to his knees. That suggested blood loss as well as nerve and muscle damage. After he dealt with the killer, assuming he could, what then? Somehow he would have to get out of the trunk and into the driver’s seat. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. For now his focus must be entirely upon the killer. Exacting revenge for the deaths of Lin Yubo’s sons was paramount. To Han, this objective was more important than his own life. He closed his eyes and mumbled a prayer to all his ancestors. Let me perform my duty well.

The sedan slowed. How far had it been driven? He’d no idea. He thought it turned a corner, though his limited perspective from within the dark trunk couldn’t be entirely trusted. It slowed again, then stopped. The engine was switched off. The sedan rocked again. Had the killer got out? Han gripped the tire iron tight and placed his thumb over the flashlight’s switch.

The trunk opened! Han switched on the flashlight and swung his arm up and around. It seemed as if a sledgehammer struck his forearm, the force tremendous, the pain too much for any man to bear. The flashlight spun away, torn from his hand, and smashed itself to pieces. He screamed even as he rose up on his elbow and aimed the tire iron at an imaginary point where he imagined-hoped, prayed! — the killer must be standing. His makeshift weapon only found air before the sledgehammer struck again, shattering his hand. The tire iron made a clanging noise as it hit solid ground. Concrete? Could they be inside one of the warehouses?

The flashlight was gone. The tire iron was gone. All that remained was the pain. His arms were as useless as his legs. He lay on the floor of the trunk, gasping and helpless.

“How does it feel, Han Baojia?”

The trunk light revealed the killer, a black shape against a black background. Where were they? Han couldn’t hear anything above his own rasping breathing.

He shook his head, forcing himself to concentrate. What had he missed? Something important. Something his senses had tried to tell him before now, but he’d ignored the information, relying instead upon his misconceptions.

A woman’s voice. Muffled by her mask but nonetheless recognizable. She’d spoken in Cantonese. Her hands were empty. There was no sledgehammer. The truth stunned him. She’d broken his forearm and his wrist using only her hands.

“How does it feel to be helpless, and alone?”

He wanted to ask, Who are you? but suspected he would receive no meaningful answer.

“Does it bring back memories?”

Very probably a Michelle Huang did work at the Medical Examiner’s office, but she had not called Han about the preliminary report. No, the killer had called him, briefly assuming Michelle Huang’s identity. She’d lured him from a position of security and safety. Then she’d called again, with perfect timing, and asked him to meet her at another location. Like a fool he’d fallen for her trickery.

She knew his name. Evidence that she must have been gathering intelligence. Or had been given it by an unknown third party.

“Think back, Han Baojia. Think back to Shanghai.” She leaned into the trunk, so close to him that he felt the warmth of her breath on his cheek. “Think back to Pudong. Does the name Shi mean anything to you?”

Her eyes, blacker than black, were only inches from his own. Power radiated from those orbs, a terrifying elemental power that seeped into him and made his heart flutter.

“Do you remember a boy? Twelve years old. Frightened of the People’s Army officer who shouted into his face. So frightened that he could not answer the officer’s questions.”

Han shook his head, denying the memories, but they insisted upon casting the earth aside and rearing up out of the ground like rotted corpses suddenly come to life. There had been a boy. Where? When? In the poorest quarter of old Shanghai. A village in its own right. Han had denounced the elders who were then displayed for all to ridicule. The boy, he’d been part of the crowd, standing near the front. No, not part of the crowd. He’d been in the crowd. But somehow detached, unresponsive to the emotion that hung in the air, showing nothing. Han had watched him until he felt sure the boy disapproved of what was happening. He’d called him forward. The crowd had pushed him into the center of the square.

He didn’t want to remember but the dark force behind those eyes pressed down upon him, allowing him no escape.

Han had questioned the boy but received only the most basic answers. He began to suspect the boy was retarded. When asked to explain why the Revolution was so important to the Chinese people, he could not. Han saw smiles appearing in the crowd, as if the peasants found the boy’s stupidity amusing. Those smiles had forced Han to punish the boy. The Party could not be seen to lose face. Stupidity was no excuse. If the boy was retarded then his family should have tried harder to educate him. The fault was entirely theirs. Han dragged a wooden box into the