Page 116 of Feral King

Baranov snickers. “That’s a lot of hope for a man with no proof.”

Before I can say another word, my phone buzzes. I snatch it out of my pocket, desperate for good news.

But it’s not a message from Misha or Lyra.

Two minutes. Be ready for me.

—Yang

My eyes widen as my hand involuntarily rubs my forehead.

“Who is that?” Baranov asks. “What’s going on?”

I slip my phone back into my pocket and turn to the room.

“I can tell you now, with total certainty, that Yang isn’t dead, because he just texted me.”

Just then, a trio of cars pulls into the driveway. I step over to the window and watch as men pour out of them, a dozen or so in total. None of them are visibly packing weapons, but there’s no doubt in my mind that they’re all armed.

The last man to exit the vehicles is Yang.

Chen Yang is shorter than one might expect—five-foot-five, maybe five-foot-six. He’s seventy years old but moves with the briskness of a man who practices Tai Chi every morning.

He’s dressed in a dark overcoat. I spot field dressings beneath it.

He’s been shot.

He and two of his men approach the front door while the others stay back. I open it to greet them. Yang’s eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, but I can tell he’s looking at me. As he approaches, I spot a bit of blood on his dressing from a wound that’s still seeping.

“Mr. Volkov,” he says. “I apologize for the unannounced visit. I understand that you’ve had a difficult evening.” His English is accented but precise.

“Indeed I have,” I reply. “But it looks as if yours wasn’t much better.”

He lets out a snort of amusement. “That is certainly one way to put it. I would shake your hand, but my arm is a bit difficult to raise at themoment.”

I step aside, gesturing for him and his men to enter.

“You’re supposed to be dead, Yang,” Baranov says.

“Mrs. Lee would prefer that, yes.”

He makes his way over to the couch, one of his men helping him slip out of his coat before he sits. I watch as the man checks the dressing and the wound underneath. Yang winces a bit as his man pulls the bandage back in place.

I quickly introduce everybody before asking the question that’s on all of our minds. “What happened?”

A small smile spreads across his face as he takes off his sunglasses.“Would you believe it if I told you it was an assassination attempt?”

“Lee.”

He nods. “Indeed. But you wish to know the circumstances.” He sits back. “Over the course of the last few weeks, I’d been receiving disturbing reports that Mrs. Lee was not acting in the capacity that I’d envisioned for her here in the States. Her role was to be the embodiment of my will, to execute my commands without question, and to report information back to me.”

Baranov speaks. “It would appear she expanded the parameters of the role.”

“And you would be right in that assessment,” Yang says. “I’m no fool—I have men here who are loyal to me, who report back to me regarding Lee’s moves. It became clear that she was planning something. So I prepared a trip to New York to check in, in person. It was kept secret, not on her itinerary. Unfortunately, however, her people managedto get word of my visit, and they made their move on the way to the airport. One bullet, left shoulder.”

“One bullet that she assumed was fatal,” I say.

“Correct. And I let her keep that assumption.” He shifts in his seat, wincing a bit more. “I wanted to see what she would do in my absence. And now I know.