They’d gone only a few blocks when Jing Yo heard the sound of trucks approaching. He pulled Hyuen Bo back into an alley they’d just passed, and pushed her behind some garbage cans to hide. Then he ducked next to her, craning his neck to see.
Two pickup trucks drove by, the beds crammed with militiamen in street clothes, red rags and bandannas on their arms and heads to identify themselves, at least to one another.
As soon as the trucks passed, Jing Yo ran up to the corner. He watched as the trucks pulled into the middle of the intersection ahead. The men at the rear jumped out.
One of them yelled angrily. Several lifted their rifles and began to fire, spraying the nearby buildings with slugs. Men spread out in each direction, shouting and walking, firing indiscriminately at the buildings.
“They’re saying the Chinese citizens are traitors,” whispered Hyuen Bo. She’d come up so quietly that he hadn’t heard her. “They’re taking revenge for the attacks. This is Chinatown.”
“I heard them,” said Jing Yo. “Why aren’t you hiding?”
“I need to be with you.”
“The people who live here are Vietnamese.”
“Not in their eyes.”
Two of the men approached down the block. Jing Yo eased Hyuen Bo back against the wall, tucking her into the shadows, then edged to the corner.
Even if they both hid behind the garbage cans, the militiamen would have no trouble seeing them if they walked down the alley. Escape would be impossible.
Jing Yo would have the advantage if he struck them as they walked past, but doing that might bring the attention of the others.
Let them walk past? What if they turned at the last second and saw him?
Too much of a risk, Jing Yo decided as the first man drew parallel to the alley. The second followed a half moment later.
“Traitors!” yelled the first man, lifting his gun to the sky.
Jing Yo’s foot caught him in the throat as he leapt into him. Rolling off the kick, Jing Yo caught the second man with hard punch to his startled face. A second chop rendered him unconscious, collapsing his windpipe and making it impossible to breathe.
Jing Yo grabbed the man’s rifle as it clattered to the ground. Then he ran to the first man and with a fast kick to his forehead sent him to eternity.
“Stay!” Jing Yo hissed to Hyuen Bo, tossing her the gun. “Wait for me!”
He grabbed one of the bandannas, then ran down the block, in the direction of the trucks.
The other militiamen were too busy shooting their weapons to pay much attention to what was happening to their comrades down the street. The two men detailed to guard the trucks had their own pressing project — breaking into a small liquor store near the corner. They left the trucks to the drivers and began looting it.
The drivers had parked the trucks so they could talk to each other. They leaned out their windows, chatting, as Jing Yo ran toward them.
“What are you doing?” snapped one.
Jing Yo shot from the hip as he ran. His first bullets sailed right, but he pulled the gun back smoothly, and with three bursts killed both men.
The guards came out of the liquor store just as he reached the back of the nearest truck. Their arms were filled with bottles. Jing Yo stopped, turned, and fired, cutting both of them down with the last bullets in the magazine.
Jing Yo ran to the bodies, searching for more bullets and grabbing a bandanna for Hyuen Bo. As he did, he heard her shriek a warning from down the block.
He threw himself down, tumbling as the slugs from a militiaman’s rifle shot overhead. The man let go of the trigger and took a step forward, lowering his rifle.
A single shot rang out. Hyuen Bo had killed the man.
14
And he was angry. He wanted to just get the hell out of there, to go home.
And he was frustrated. He wanted to help — he was still awed by the president’s words, by the fact that the president himself had spoken to him. But sitting here, on the roof of a hotel, hiding — it was a waste of time.
“Here we go,” whispered Kerfer.
Josh wrapped M? in his arms. “Gonna be okay,” he whispered.
The door opened. A man with a pair of night goggles appeared in the doorway.
A light shone in his face — a flashlight blinding him. Before he could react, Kerfer had leapt from the side and run his knife across the man’s throat. He dragged him out of the doorway, blood gurgling from the slit in his throat.
Josh kept M?’s face buried in his chest.
Mara took the man’s gun. It was a Chang Feng — a small 9 mm Chinese submachine gun.
“Those goggles may be handy, too,” said Kerfer. “Still think this place is safe?”
“I didn’t say it was safe,” snapped Mara.
Mara put her hand to her ear, listening to something over the radio.
“Two more on the stairs,” she said. “Josh, let’s go. You okay with her?”
“I’m okay.”
Mara said something to the girl in Vietnamese. M? didn’t react.
Kerfer went to the door. Mara knelt on the other side, waiting.
Josh knelt next to Mara. He felt his mind empty, as if it were a dump truck and the back had just tilted up to let go of its load. He waited, sure that he would kill someone if it came to that, but not in the least having an idea how that would be done. His first job was to protect the girl.
The door opened slowly. It seemed to take an hour for it to move the first inch, then another hour for the second. Suddenly it was flung open.
Nothing happened. A minute passed. To Josh it felt like an entire day passing.
Then there was a yell, and one of the men leaped inside.
Kerfer took him out with a single shot to the head. Mara rolled on her shoulder, firing the small gun she had taken from the other man into the stairwell.
There was a quick burst in the stairwell below.
“Clear!” yelled Stevens.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” said Kerfer, grabbing the night glasses from the dead man and starting down the stairs.
Josh scooped up the fallen man’s submachine gun, then followed Mara down the steps.
15
“Put the bandanna on,” he told Hyuen Bo.
As he passed the alley, he saw the bodies of the men he had killed and got another idea. He stopped, grabbed the smaller of the two men, and threw him into the back of the truck. A few blocks later, he stopped
