hum fills the room.
Then it’s almost as if a bolt of lightning answers my question. My ears are suddenly bombarded by a high- pitched electronic shriek that is excruciatingly painful.
I’m squinting in torment but can see that the six Triad gentlemen are still out there, standing calmly, looking for signs of movement in the room. They’re not affected by the noise at all.
I realize I’m bending over, embracing the floor. My hands are clutching the sides of my head and I can’t shake away the torture. This is the fucking worst thing I’ve
The implants. That’s what the device is targeting! It’s sending some kind of electronic signal to the implants in my inner ears. This has turned me into a dog, susceptible to pitches beyond the scope of human hearing. And, like a dog, I’m now crawling on the floor, unable to control myself. I must be drawing attention to myself, for the Triads look in my direction and walk toward me, guns pointed. One of them rips away the sheet of scrap metal, exposing me. I’m helpless at their feet, writhing in agony, pleading with gods that don’t exist to somehow stop the punishment.
Two of the men grab me under the arms, take my weapon, and drag me to the center of the room.
I’m lying on my right side in a fetal position, my legs curled to my chest. I sense that the five gunmen have surrounded me and are aiming their handguns at my quivering shape. They’re going to execute me here on this cold, dirty wooden floor.
I swear I’m about to black out as my right hand instinctively moves to one of the pockets on my right calf, the side I’m lying on. I grasp one of the frag grenades I keep outside of my backpack in case I need one for an emergency. If ever there was an emergency, this is surely it.
Activating it is easy. Tossing it toward the transmitter is another thing altogether. Instead, I elect to simply roll the damned thing right between one of the goon’s legs. The grenade wobbles across the floor and the five gunmen follow it with their eyes. The look of surprise on their faces is priceless, for they realize there is absolutely no time for them to do anything about the inevitable—
The pain in my head abruptly ceases. I’m able to think clearly and summon all the strength I have left to leap out of the pitiful position I was in. I ram one of the men, knocking the weapon from his hand, and throw him into the fellow to his right. They collide and fall to the floor. Before they hit it I’m already swinging my right boot up and into the next closest Triad, kicking him onto his ass.
As the smoke clears, I can see that the frag grenade destroyed their little toy and killed the operator and the one goon that had been standing closest to the blast. Another man was severely wounded by it — he’s crawling around in his own blood, looking for his arms. That leaves the three men I just attacked, and they’re quickly rebounding from the surprise. One of them manages to retrieve his dropped weapon but I move in with a solid kick to his chin. The thug’s head jerks backward so hard that everyone hears the snap of his neck. He goes down and won’t be getting up again. Ever.
Two happy campers left. Their weapons are out of reach but they don’t hesitate to go on the offensive. Both men rush me and use some expert kung fu moves to try to disable me. A side kick delivered to my stomach succeeds in doubling me over, allowing the second guy a clear spear-chop to the back of my neck. It’s a standard maneuver and I’m trained to deflect it by propelling myself forward just a few inches so that the blow hits my back instead of the neck. It still hurts and could easily break one’s spine, but the bones there are tougher than neck vertebrae.
I fall forward, roll, and lock my right boot behind one man’s leg. I flex my knee and he falls to the floor. The other guy tries to kick me but I grab his foot with both hands and twist it as hard as I can. He yelps and is forced to flip in the direction of the turn to avoid having his ankle broken. He, too, is now on the floor, giving me the time I need to get to my feet. I perform a forward roll from the prone position, thrusting my upper body up and over my legs, a nice move that took a complete day of practicing to master. It’s especially tough on the abdomen and thigh muscles. I quickly gain my balance and I’m standing between the two Triads.
Now that my two sparring partners are lying on either side of me and preparing to defend themselves, I figure it’s best for me to take out one of them completely so I don’t have to split my attention. I turn slightly and deliver a whammy kick to the guy on my right, catching him square in the sternum. Before his pal can stop me, I leap over the stunned man, get behind him, crouch, and grab him in a headlock. I twist hard and hear the sweet melody of singing vertebrae. I then drop him, a lifeless blob of dead weight.
The last guy now realizes he’s in trouble. Instead of attacking me, he plays it safe and runs toward the front door. He thinks fast, too, for he knocks over an old wooden ladder that was standing by the exit. The ladder falls and blocks my way before I can retrieve my handgun and get through the threshold myself. It takes me a mere second and a half to toss the ladder aside, but by then the guy is climbing into one of the cars — a Toyota Camry — and starting it up.
I run out, draw my Five-seveN, and aim at the hoodlum through the windshield. But instead of backing away, like I expect him to do, he slams his foot on the accelerator and drives straight at me. I have to dive to the right to avoid being bisected, dropping my gun in the process. The Toyota’s tires screech, spraying gravel into my face, as the driver reverses, turns around, and speeds away from the building.
I retrieve my weapon and run to the other car, a Nissan Altima, and can’t believe my good fortune — the keys are in the ignition. I get in, start her up, and take off in pursuit of the Toyota.
“Sam?” I hear a woman’s voice in my ear. Someone at Third Echelon.
“Sam, are you there?” she says again. “Are you all right?”
I concentrate on pulling out into the street to follow my prey before I answer. “Yeah, I’m here. Who are you?”
“It’s Frances Coen.”
“Oh. Right.” The business with my implants temporarily threw me. I didn’t recognize her voice. “What do you want?”
“What’s going on? What are you doing? We lost your homing signal for a few minutes. I’m afraid your implants are malfunctioning.”
“No, they’re not,” I answer. “The bastards had some kind of transmitter that did something to them. I don’t know what it was, but I swear it almost killed me. I’m all right now.”
The Toyota heads for the expressway, known as Prince Edward Road, merges onto the eastbound side, and nearly collides with a truck carrying new cars. I follow him at seventy miles per hour, barely missing the truck as it swerves to get out of the way. Even though it’s after midnight, the expressway is crowded. This is going to take some concentration.
“Frances, I can’t talk right now. I’ll get back to you later.”
“Colonel Lambert wants a report. He says—”
“Tell the colonel I’m in a
“I heard that,” Coen says. “I can see you now on the GPS. Check back when you can. For God’s sake, be careful.”
I play zigzag through the maze of automobiles as I attempt to catch up with the Toyota. He’s ahead nearly ten car lengths and is moving dangerously fast. I push the pedal to ninety, which is about the limit I dare to speed through the thick traffic.
We go over a bridge and head east into San Po Kong, a suburb just north of the old airport. The highway forks up ahead — we can stay on this road, which bends to the southeast, or there’s an alternate route directly south onto the Kwun Tong Bypass. The Toyota elects the bypass and makes a jarring exit across two lanes. I lean on my
