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In the rearview mirror, the generator-powered lights of the villa were cloaked in smoke and brightened by flames.
So far, it seemed the enemy had failed to note their escape.
Let’s hope it stays that way.
A portable radio on the dashboard squawked, then Monk’s voice came over the air. “What about Kowalski?” he asked, a reminder that one of their group was still missing.
11:07P.M.
And I thought cancer was going to kill me.
Kowalski forded across a street full of milling people. He held a bundle of napkins pressed to the side of his face, where a piece of broken glass had sliced his cheek.
Before the quake, he had been holed up in a SoHo-district bar called the Old Man. He had chosen the place for its name. He certainlyfeltold after his cancer treatments. The bar had also been small and dark, which matched his mood. It was open until two in the morning, and he had planned on closing it down. He had started with a drink called Men without Women, a coffee-tasting blend of clotted Irish whiskey, stout cream, and salted arabica.
The cocktail had seemed fitting as he was traveling without his girlfriend. Maria and her sister were in the second week of a six-week anthropological project outside Stuttgart, Germany. Before she had left, he and Maria had celebrated the New Year in D.C. Then Kowalski had realized he could indulge in asecondNew Year if he traveled to Hong Kong.
He could not resist.
Especially as he had plenty of reason to celebrate.
His last biopsy result had shown no sign of a relapse. Ten months ago, he had undergone a bone marrow transplant to treat stage-three multiple myeloma, a cancer of his plasma cells. Three weeks ago, he had finished a regimen of immunosuppressive drugs. From here, it was all a matter of regaining his strength, eating well, and limiting his intake of alcohol. He had followed those instructions diligently—or at least,two out of the three. A guy needed a little fun in his life, or it wouldn’t be worth living.
He had been in the middle of his second cocktail—a rum and lemon soda concoction called Soldier’s Home—when the entire bar started shaking. Bottles had rattled off shelves. Mirrors had shattered. He had ducked low, keeping his drink in hand, and rode out the five-minute-long temblor. Once it ended, he and most of the city had emptied out into the streets, vacating the tall buildings and skyscrapers, wary of an aftershock.
With his cheek on fire, Kowalski crossed the street, crunching glass underfoot. He climbed the steps under a sign that read ????? and under it,KWONG HON TERRACE GARDEN. The elevated park offered some clearance from the neighboring structures and a bit of height to view the damage. As he reached the top step, he found he was not the only one to have picked this spot.
A mob crowded the grass and the children’s playground. Still, at six foot four, he could easily see over most heads. His muscular bulk and deep scowl cleared a path ahead of him. He aimed for a rail that overlooked the lower street and across the dark city. A few areas glowed with generator-powered lights. Other areas flickered with patches of flames. Sirens blared all around, adding to the cacophony of honking horns, shouted calls, and spats of gunfire.
It reminded him of something that Painter Crowe, the director of Sigma, had once warned him:Despite appearances, the world is only one disaster away from barbarism. At the time, prone to creating those disasters, Kowalski had tried not to take the warning personally.
Reaching the park’s rail, Kowalski surveyed the quake’s aftermath. Across the dark city, all the skyscrapers appeared to be still standing, though the corner of a nearby building had crumbled into the street. Lamp poles and streetlights had toppled across roads. Vast swaths of windowpanes had exploded out of their frames.
As he stood there, a hand snatched his elbow and yanked him hard. He turned with a raised fist. Before he could punch down, he recognized one of the triad guards who had accompanied him down from the hilltop villa. He was a lean-faced strap of muscle.
“Must go now,” he warned Kowalski.
“Where?”
“To meet the Mountain and the others.”
Kowalski knew Guan-yin was sometimes called the “Mountain Master,” an honorific for her position as the triad’s dragonhead. The guard turned and led Kowalski back across the park. He shoved his way through the crowd. From the man’s haste, Kowalski knew something was wrong, though he wasn’t sure if this summons was just because of the quake or something more dire. He followed after the man, struggling to pick out his short form through the milling throng. He nearly lost him a few times. Then the guard swung around, clearly impatient. The guard raised an arm, as if ready to scold him, but blood poured from his lips instead.
The man staggered a few steps, clutching the hilt of a knife impaled through his throat. A hand reached from behind and ripped the blade out with a savage twist. The man fell to his knees. The attacker—his face masked with a wrap of black—knocked the guard aside and stalked toward Kowalski.
Another four masked figures closed from other directions. Kowalski back-pedaled and crouched lower, attempting to hide his height among the press of people, but it was like trying to bury a watermelon in a bin of oranges.
He spotted two more masked assassins driving toward him.
Seven against one.
Bad odds.
Especially as Kowalski had no weapon, except his fists. He balled them up, ready to fight. By now, others in the crowd had noted the dead man, the masked figures. People fled for the stairs on the far side of the park.
As the mob thinned around him, the lead attacker tossed aside his knife and removed a pistol from a shoulder-holster under his jacket.
The odds were worsening by the second.
