White Tiger

“Dalian?!” Chen Gui cried. “Why Dalian and not Shanghai? I hate Dalian!”

“Shanghai’s just a little hot right now, Chen Gui. You’d be better going into Dalian, and then lying low for a few days. I’ll arrange for transportation on the other side. I trust that Lin Feng is still the appropriate contact?”

“Yes, yes, Lin Feng is still-wait, you’re not coming with us, Bai Hu?”

Manning shook his head and checked the mirrors. “I’m afraid not. I don’t have a visa.”

“Wah! Poor planning on your part-what am I paying you for?” Chen Gui wailed.

“There’s no way the Fujianese can get to you in Dalian, so long as you’re still in good with Boss Tao,” Manning said. He checked his watch. He preferred to stay in the slow lane-that made for leaving only one side of the van open to a strafing run from a passing car, if it came to that. But the flight he had booked for his two charges would depart Haneda within a few hours, and it would take a good 75 minutes to get there. He had to burn up some time.

“Of course I’m still in good with Tao! That toad owes me more than I should have ever allowed him!” Chen Gui said.

“Then tonight you’ll collect on some of that,” Manning told the Shanghainese gangster. “Boss Tao won’t be able to say no, and in two days you’ll be back in Shanghai. The Fujianese might be able to tag you at the airport, but that’s the only chance they’ll get, and you won’t be there, anyway.”

“I see.” Chen Gui was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, there was a more respectful tone in his voice. “Bai Hu, your mind works in ways I can’t fathom. I’ve always acknowledged your professionalism, but now I must say I find it…respectable.”

Most Americans would have accepted the praise with pride; Manning knew enough about Chinese ways to be more mindful of how he responded.

“Thank you for your words,” he said in Mandarin, “but perhaps you should save them for after you get to Shanghai, yes?”

“My words are nothing, Bai Hu. I know what it is you value, and you’ll have it. As I said before, we Shanghainese are a generous people. You’ll see.”

“Can we get up now?” Chen Song asked from the very back.

“The Bai Hu will tell us when it’s safe to get up, Chen Song!” Chen Gui roared. “Now be quiet! I need to think of some things.”

For a moment, silence reigned. Then Chen Song let out a heavy sigh.

“But I have to piss,” he said, almost whining. “My kidneys are floating!”

Manning grinned. Japan had some very fine roads, but he was determined to hit every bump he could find on the way to Haneda Airport.

A little over an hour later, the black Bongo Friendee pulled into a parking space at Haneda Airport, just outside of Tokyo. It had been Japan’s primary international gateway, until the busier Narita International opened up some 70 kilometers to the northeast. However, Haneda still offered limited international traffic, though it was designated as the primary domestic hub serving the greater Tokyo area.

As they left the Friendee, Manning collected Chen Gui and Chen Song’s weapons. They most certainly couldn’t make it through the security checkpoints while carrying them, and they were no longer of any use. It was unlikely the Fujianese could catch them, since they still believed the two Shanghainese were in the Narita area. And even if they did have lookouts at Haneda, they would be covering the international terminal, not the domestic. The Fujianese couldn’t be everywhere, and it was doubtful the Japanese yakuza would wish to get involved in something as bloody as what lay ahead.

Chen Song demurred when it came to handing over his Beretta. He looked at Manning’s open hand as if it were a snake, his handsome face set in hard lines.

“Give him the gun, nephew,” Chen Gui said tiredly.

“I’d rather throw it in the trash can,” Chen Song spat, “than give it to this yinwi waiguoren! ”

The insult was more than Manning was prepared to take. Before Chen Song could do more than summon a nasty look, Manning clipped him in the right arm, knocking his hand away from his holstered Beretta. He then grabbed Chen Song’s wrist and yanked him forward; off-balance, Chen Song could do nothing more effective than stammer a quick curse before Manning snatched him up in morote-jim, a three-point judo chokehold. Even Chen Gui had just started to inhale to speak by the time Manning had flung Chen Song onto his back and shoved his head into the triangle formed by his left arm. Chen Song struggled at first, but Manning merely increased the pressure; he anticipated Chen Song’s strike at his eyes, fingers curled into claws. Manning blocked the move with his right fist, rapping his knuckles into Chen Song’s wrist. After that, it was over-Chen Song began to choke out, losing consciousness. To his credit, he did so without sound, but Manning’s senses were finely attuned and he could sense the microscopic muscle relaxations cascading through Chen Song’s body as his awareness ebbed.

“Bai Hu!” Chen Gui finally gasped. “People will notice!” He cast a worried look at the parking attendants, standing in the next aisle.

Ever the practical man, Manning mused. Only Chen Gui would be more worried about attracting attention than the fact a white barbarian is choking the life out of his nephew.

Manning release Chen Song before he lost consciousness completely. He came to his senses a few moments later as oxygen returned to his brain. Chen Song’s brow clouded with anger, and as he rolled to his feet, he reached for his holstered Beretta, eyes on Manning. It was no longer strapped to his side.

Manning lifted his right hand and showed Chen Song the weapon, still in its holster. Chen Song’s lips compressed into a thin, hard line. Even though the Beretta was mere feet from him, it might as well have been a million miles away. He could no more take it from Manning than he could jump to the moon.

“Never call me a filthy foreigner again,” Manning said. “You owe me far too much for that.”

“So you think,” Chen Song hissed.

“Enough of this fighting! We need to leave here, now!” Chen Hui snapped. “Chen Song, wipe off your pants- there’s dust all over them! You look like a street beggar!”

Chen Song looked down and slapped at the filth on his dark trousers angrily. He avoided looking at Manning as the taller man tossed the Beretta to the Friendee’s rear floorboard.

“Bai Hu, how much time?” Chen Gui asked. He checked his watch nervously.

“Not much. We need to hurry. I’ve paid for the tickets, but we still need to get them.”

“Let’s go,” Chen Gui said, and he began striding toward the elevators. They were painted with yellow flowers. Chen Song shuffled after him, casting a baleful glance at Manning. Manning kept his expression blank.

Next time you won’t be so lucky, sonny-boy.

Manning handed the E-tickets to Chen Gui and pointed out the gate information to him. Chen Gui nodded and handed Chen Song his ticket, which he accepted sullenly.

“You should go now,” Manning said. “You’ll need to hurry-your flight’s boarding in less than fifteen minutes, and you still need to get through security.”

“Chen Song, go ahead. I’ll meet you at the gate,” Chen Gui said.

Chen Song looked surprised. “Uncle?”

“Do as I say! No discussion!” Chen Gui snapped.

Chen Song hesitated for a moment, then made a hissing noise through his teeth and spun on his heel. He marched toward the security checkpoint.

Chen Gui turned to Manning. His eyes, while mindful of the environment and virtually every passer-by, were no longer full of panic and fear. The old Chen Gui, Shanghai crime lord, had returned.

“Bai Hu, I’ll transfer your fee into your account by tomorrow morning. But I would like to know if you might be interested in another task while I’m in transit.”

“What would that be?”