John Sinclair - Beyond Death E-Book

Gabriel Conroy

• Herausgeber: Bastei Entertainment
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: John Sinclair: Horror Series Collections
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 322

Beschreibung

JOHN SINCLAIR. A Horror Series Compilation. Episode 10-12.

Episode 10. BLACK DRAGON RISING

For once, it seems, DCI John Sinclair has an easy job: Pick up Nicholas Croydon, a British citizen who's on his way back from Hong Kong via a special medical transport. But when a group of armed men infiltrate Heathrow Airport, Croydon is abducted. Soon, Sinclair and his new partner, Inspector Suko, find themselves fighting a deadly cult called the "Black Dragon" wants to plunge our world into darkness ...

Episode 11. RAGE OF THE BLACK DRAGON

Following the events of "Black Dragon Rising," John Sinclair and his partner, Inspector Suko, have to battle an unspeakable evil. When a deadly cult manages to resurrect the "Heilong," an ancient Chinese dragon, the serpent spreads its wings and unleashes its deadly wrath in a city of millions. Soon, the army is called in and a bloody battle erupts over the streets of London. Sinclair and Suko have to find the dragon's nest. But how do you stop a creature of legend?

Episode 12. SOME DARKER MAGIC

Cascabel is a deformed creature who lives on human flesh - despised, desperate, and hunted. The "Great Sourette" is a failed stage magician at the very end of his life. When their paths intersect, a dark plan is set in motion, a plan that brings them to Samdon Isle, a small cluster of rocks near the coast of Scotland. Here, underneath the twisted ruins of a forgotten castle, lies a gateway to the underworld. All they need now is John Sinclair - their messiah. Only his soul can open the gate and unleash hell on earth ...

"John Sinclair" is the relaunch of Europe's longest running horror series. Originally conceived in 1973 by Jason Dark and still going strong, the "John Sinclair" novellas are firmly rooted in the finest pulp traditions: true page turners with spine-tingling suspense, exquisite gore, and a dash of adventure.

For fans of the dark visions of Stephen King, Clive Barker and the "X-Files" and the fast-paced action and globe-trotting excitement of James Bond.

Gabriel Conroy was born in Los Angeles, California, in 1967. After high school, he joined the armed forces and was stationed in Germany for several years. He discovered his love for writing while traveling through Europe. When he returned to the States, he studied Journalism at Los Angeles City College and UCLA, and currently works as a freelance journalist, writer, and translator. Mr. Conroy is married and has a dog and a cat.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

John Sinclair — A Horror Series

A Compilation

About the Author

Title

Copyright

Black Dragon Rising

Rage of the Black Dragon

Some Darker Magic

John Sinclair — A Horror Series

“John Sinclair” is the relaunch of Europe’s longest running horror series. Originally conceived in 1973 by Jason Dark and still going strong, the “John Sinclair” novellas are firmly rooted in the finest pulp traditions: true page turners with spine-tingling suspense, exquisite gore, and a dash of adventure.

A Compilation

Episode 10: Black Dragon RisingWhen the body of a British businessman in Hong Kong is infected with an unknown organism, an ancient evil is about to be unleashed …

For once, it seems, DCI John Sinclair has an easy job: Pick up Nicholas Croydon, a British citizen who's on his way back from Hong Kong via a special medical transport. But when a group of armed men infiltrate Heathrow Airport, Croydon is abducted. Soon, Sinclair and his new partner, Inspector Suko, find themselves on the front lines of an escalating gang war. A deadly cult called the "Black Dragon" wants to plunge our world into darkness …

Episode 11: Rage of the Black DragonOn the outskirts of London, a dark creature is born and its reign of terror is about to begin …

Following the events of "Black Dragon Rising," John Sinclair and his partner, Inspector Suko, have to battle an unspeakable evil. When a deadly cult manages to resurrect the "Heilong," an ancient Chinese dragon, the serpent spreads its wings and unleashes its deadly wrath in a city of millions. Soon, the army is called in and a bloody battle erupts over the streets of London. Sinclair and Suko have to find the dragon's nest. But how do you stop a creature of legend?

Episode 12: Some Darker MagicThe forces of darkness are gathering. All they need is the soul of John Sinclair …

Cascabel is a deformed creature who lives on human flesh — despised, desperate, and hunted. The "Great Sourette" is a failed stage magician at the very end of his life. When their paths intersect, a dark plan is set in motion, a plan that brings them to Samdon Isle, a small cluster of rocks near the coast of Scotland. Here, underneath the twisted ruins of a forgotten castle, lies a gateway to the underworld. All they need now is John Sinclair — their messiah. Only his soul can open the gate and unleash hell on earth …

About the Author

Gabriel Conroy studied Journalism at Los Angeles City College and UCLA, and currently works as a freelance journalist, writer, and translator. He is married and lives in LA.

Gabriel Conroy

BEYOND DEATH

Books 10 — 12

»be« by BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT

Digital original edition

»be« by Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG

Copyright © 2018 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany

Originally conceived by Jason Dark in 1973

Written by Gabriel Conroy

Edited by Amanda Wright

Project management: Kathrin Kummer

Cover illustration: © grapestock/shutterstock

Cover design: Thomas Krämer

E-book production: Urban SatzKonzept, Düsseldorf

ISBN 978-3-7325-5371-6

www.be-ebooks.com

Gabriel Conroy

BLACK DRAGONRISING

John Sinclair: Episode 10

Wan Chai District, Hong Kong. 10:29 p.m.

Nicholas Croydon looked over his shoulder and saw that the man was still following him. The man’s face was barely visible in the crowd. For a moment, Croydon couldn’t see him, but then, suddenly, there he was again. Croydon felt his heart start beating faster. Who is he? Croydon wondered. What does he want?

Lockhart Road was lined with fast-food stalls and dance clubs. The neon lights were as bright as day. It all seemed like a fever dream to Croydon. He still couldn’t get used to it. The constant humidity, the heat, even the stench of the city. The street was alive with people, with shouts, music, cars and sputtering motorcycles.

Why is he following me? Croydon wondered again. He picked up his pace, walking faster and faster, almost running now.

Croydon was a tall, heavy-set man in a bright blue business suit, dark stains showing under his armpits. He wasn’t cut out for this, this city, this heat. For one thing, he was too tall. When he moved into his first apartment in Hong Kong, he couldn’t even fit into the bedroom, his feet were sticking out into the hallway. Everything was too dense, too crowded. He missed the relative quiet of South London. He missed trees — there seemed to be not a speck of green in this skyscraper nightmare.

Most of all, he missed his Carol, his wife, and his daughter. Gillian was six years old, and he was on the phone with her every day, but he still felt alone without his family, so alone that it was like a physical pain.

He missed being with a woman.

“Mister? Ham-shui-mui?”

The voice had come from his left. The man must have caught up with him. Croydon almost flinched, but then forced himself to keep walking, to keep pushing through the crowd.

“Ham-shui-mui? Salt water girl? You want?” said the voice.

This time, Croydon looked. Yes, it was the man who’d been following him. The man was smaller than him, and skinny. He wore baggy jeans and a torn Rambo III T-shirt that seemed too loose for him. He had black hair, and there was sweat on his forehead. He was almost jogging alongside Croydon, keeping up with his large strides.

“Salt water girl?” said the man. “Eh?” His eyes were gleaming.

So that’s what it was. The man was just another street hustler. The city was full of them. Walking up to him, wanting something, sometimes even touching him. It should have been a relief, but it wasn’t. What if he wants to rob me? Croydon thought? Drag me into a dark alley and knock me over the head?

Croydon, against his better instinct, stopped and looked around. There was no police officer nearby, only tourists. Surely the man wouldn’t try anything in the middle of the crowd?

“Salt water girl?” said the man again.

Croydon ran his hand over his forehead. Salt water girl. That’s what they used to call prostitutes in the old port of Hong Kong. Back then, sailors from all over the world came into the harbor, looking for a wife for one night.

Croydon gave a crooked, embarrassed smile. He was about to turn away and keep on moving, but the man grabbed hold of his arm. Alarm bells went off in his head.

“You want?” said the man.

Croydon stopped, suddenly conflicted. The answer was yes. Croydon wanted. He wanted a girl very badly. He was a businessman with Royal Crown Petroleum. He’d been with the Hong Kong office for two months now, a long time without his wife … a long time without a woman.

“I’m not sure …” Croydon stammered.

The man smiled, and there was something in his smile that made Croydon even more uneasy.

“Come in,” said the man and nodded toward one of the dance clubs. “You choose … You choose girl.”

Croydon shook his head. He’d never been unfaithful to Carol. He couldn’t. He’d seen the other men in the office, going out for drinks and meeting prostitutes in dance bars after work, but he couldn’t do that. He loved Carol.

And still …

The man’s fingers dug into his arm, and Croydon felt himself slowly being dragged toward a door.

It’d been a long time.

Sex came easy in Hong Kong, he already knew that. Buying a girl for a night or a few hours, for a Westerner with money, it was nothing. Everybody did it. Everybody was lonely, and you practically had to fend them off.

Croydon had been fending them off for months now, and he could feel his resolve weakening. His first night here, he had been awakened in his hotel room at 3 a.m. by a busty woman in a long coat. She had smiled at him and opened her coat, and Croydon could see that she wore only a negligee underneath. She spoke no English. Croydon had slammed the door shut.

But he was lonely.

“Here,” said the man. “You come.”

He pulled Croydon toward the club. A green neon sign in the shop window read: “Paradise Dance Bar.”

The man pushed aside the bead curtain and they went in.

The dance bar was bathed in red light. Asian pop music was blasting from the speakers. There were few people in there, and even fewer Westerners. Croydon felt out of place. This was a mistake.

“Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea …” Croydon murmured.

“No, you come!” said the man insistently. Gently but firmly, he dragged Croydon deeper into the club. Nicholas Croydon felt sweaty in his blue polyester suit.

Girls in revealing outfits were sitting on bar stools or in booths. Some raised their heads to look at him. Their smiles were fake, and he could see the desperation in their eyes.

The man smiled at him. Croydon saw that two of his front teeth were missing.

“China girl, two-fifty,” said the man. “Malay, cheap, one-eighty. Russian, very expensive, five hundred.”

Croydon cleared his throat and said: “I think I’d better leave …” He thought of Carol, alone at home, and he felt a sharp sting in his stomach.

“No, you stay,” said the man. “Have fun! Yes? Fun!”

Croydon nodded weakly. His father had always admonished him for being a pushover. And perhaps he was. But he was tired and weak and lonely. He’d only stay for five minutes, and then go back home, to the tiny, empty corporate apartment by the harbor, with the ice-cold air conditioning and the noise from the courtyard.

One beer, he thought. What’s the harm?

“Hello,” said a seductive voice.

Croydon looked up.

The girl smiling at him was in her twenties. Her lips were cherry red. She was, Croydon thought, very beautiful.

“What’s your name?” she said in pretty good English.

Croydon nervously cleared his throat. “Nicholas. I’m Nick.”

She smiled and nodded.

“I am Jenny,” she said. “Buy me drink?”

And that’s how it started.

For Nicholas Croydon, it was the beginning of the end.

***

One beer followed another, and soon, they were dancing. Her skin felt warm and soft under his touch. When she pressed against him, he could feel himself getting excited. He was breathing hard now. Must be the heat, he thought, but he knew it wasn’t.

He was gently swaying with the music. Her breath on his neck, her tender arms around his shoulders, her lips were so close to his … it made him dizzy.

Less than two hours later, Jenny Chen — that’s the name she had given him — was leading Croydon through the courtyard of a vast apartment building, the Orchard Towers, just a few hundred feet away from the club. The skinny man who had dragged him into the club had vanished, perhaps looking for other customers. So Croydon had danced with Jenny. He’d had one beer too many, perhaps. He was feeling tipsy. More than tipsy, actually. He was having difficulties walking. Jenny had plied him with drinks, and he had accepted readily. Croydon wasn’t thinking about Carol anymore. Now, he only thought about what awaited him in Jenny’s room.

His hand rested in hers, and he allowed her to lead him through the front door, then up a staircase that never seemed to end. It was dark in there, much darker than outside.

“The light broken,” Jenny explained. “Man don’t fix.”

“What man?” Croydon said, suddenly alarmed.

“Apartment man,” Jenny said.

“Ah.” Croydon nodded.

After a few floors, he needed a break. That was another thing he hated about Hong Kong. Too many stairs, not enough elevators. And those buildings were so damn tall! He leaned against the wall.

“Come on,” Jenny purred and pulled on his hand. “This way, up here.” Then she leaned in and he could feel her hot breath in his ear. “I want you,” she said. Croydon felt himself flush.

I want you.

When was the last time he had been wanted? Carol was all right, but they hardly ever went to bed anymore, not since Gillian was born. And when they did, it felt rote. Routine.

He pushed off the wall and continued the climb. His heart was racing.

“What are you trying to do to me,” he said in a whiny voice. “Kill me?”

Jenny Chen merely giggled. “Yes,” she said. “We almost here.”

“You’re like a doll, you know that?” he said, his speech slurred. “So gentle … A little China doll.”

She led him all the way up the stairs to her one-room apartment on the fourteenth floor of the Orchard Towers.

The few fluorescent lights in the stairway were buzzing. Water was dripping from a cracked pipe.

“My wife’s not like that, you know?” he went on. “She’s not gentle, not like you.”

The overhead lights were reflecting in small puddles on the uneven concrete staircase. Everything was swimming in front of his eyes. Twenty years ago, he’d been able to hold his liquor much better.

“I do many thing wife won’t do,” Jenny Chen whispered. For her, meeting Mr. Croydon from South London was a stroke of very good fortune.

If she played her cards right, perhaps they would let her live.

She fished around her tiny patent leather purse for her keys. With shaking fingers, she unlocked the apartment door.

It opened with a creak.

Her apartment consisted of only one room with a bed. A fan was stirring the stale air. Faint light came in from the street far below. It smelled of sweat in here.

There were two men inside the apartment. One of them, a Caucasian with a scar on his face, was sitting on the edge of the bed. The other was standing by the door. He was Chinese, and less muscular than the man on the bed. He was in his twenties, perhaps, but he already had a bald spot on his head. They both wore black leather jackets and black gloves. The Chinese man had a knife, and he was glancing at it casually, as if it just happened to be in his hand.

“Who are you?” Croydon said, and he could feel fear racing through his veins.

“About time,” said the man with the scar as he uncrossed his legs.

Both Jenny and Croydon took an involuntary step backward.

“I’m … I’ve got to go …” Croydon stammered and tried to turn around, but the man with the bald spot and the knife blocked his path.

The man with the scar said: “You’re not going anywhere, mate. We need you.”

“What do you want?” Croydon said, his fear boiling up inside him, like nausea. He knees felt weak. “Who are you?”

“I’m no one,” said the man with the scar. “How about you? What’s your name?”

“Nick,” Croydon said tonelessly.

“Sit down, Nick.”

“I don’t understand …”

The man with the scar smiled at him, but there was malice in that smile, and it made his scar move like a snake.

He patted the spot on the bed next to him.

“Come on, have a seat, Nicky,” he said. “You don’t mind if I call you Nicky, do you?”

“I’m leaving …” Croydon said firmly, resistance flaring up within him. He moved decisively toward the door and reached for the handle. But the man with the bald spot slammed the door shut. His eyes glared challengingly at Croydon, as if testing him, as if to say: You want to try something?

“Open the door!” Croydon said.

The man with the scar glared at him and said: “Sit. Down. Now.”

Jenny Chen turned to Croydon. She was in on it, he knew. But she looked scared, too. He could see tears in her eyes, and she was shaking.

“Please,” she whispered. “You do what he say. He very bad man.”

“That’s right,” the man with the scar said. “I very bad man.”

Croydon exhaled, and then, with a feeling of sick surrender, he slowly lowered himself on the creaking bed. This wasn’t what he had had in mind. He sat stiffly. He could feel a rivulet of sweat running down his neck.

“There’s a good boy,” said the man with the scar as he put his arm around Croydon’s shoulder. The man with the bald spot was leaning against the door and — seemingly absentmindedly — began playing with his knife again. His eyes were half-shut and he didn’t appear to be paying much attention to what was going on around him.

“You know, I used to be just like you,” said the man with the scar. “I was lost. And I didn’t even know it.”

“If it’s money you want …”

The man sneered. “Now that just proves my point, doesn’t it? You think it’s money? You think that’s what we’re after?”

Croydon was sweating more profusely now. His hands were beginning to shake.

“What do you want?” he said in a small, scared whisper.

The man with the scar made an expansive gesture with his hand.

“Everything,” he said. “Look around you. This world is lost. All this … it’s a hellhole. Guys like you … You’re the disease.” He leaned in closer and whispered. “And we are the cure.”

Croydon nodded stiffly. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and it seemed as if that was all he could feel. His limbs were numb.

“We want your body,” whispered the man. “Your soul.”

“I … I don’t know what you’re talking about …”

“You will,” said the man with a nod. “I promise. I was lost until I met him. You’re very lucky, you know that? You’ve been chosen.”

“Listen,” Croydon said in a hoarse whisper. His throat was dry. “I really need to …” He started to move, but the man wouldn’t let him.

“Stay. Where. You. Are!” he hissed and glared at him. Then he said: “Now, I need to ask you this, and let me tell you, your answer, what you’re about to say, right now, it’s very important. Very important. You ready?”

Croydon shook his head. “I …” he began, but his words ran dry.

Then the man with the scar said: “Do you accept the Father into your heart? And do you accept the Mother into your body?”

“I don’t …” Croydon began, but the man wouldn’t let him finish. He reached out and grabbed Croydon’s middle finger. Croydon tried to pull his hand away, but the other man’s movements were swift and strong. Then, with a quick and merciless motion, he bent Croydon’s finger backward until it broke. A sharp pain shot from his hand down through his body, like a knife running through his skin. The pain was instant — it clouded everything, it took his breath away. He writhed in agony, then bent over and screamed so loud that the windows in the tiny apartment vibrated for a second.

Jenny Chen closed her eyes. She was breathing fast.

Croydon continued screaming, but the man with the scar started talking over him, his voice loud and assured and smooth as silk.

“Wrong answer,” he said. “The vessel has to be willing. Do you understand? Are you willing?”

Tears were running down Croydon’s face. He was shaking with pain, still moaning, his heart thumping, the pain throbbing through him.

“Yes …” he whispered.

“I need to hear you say it. I am willing.”

The man reached for another finger, and again, Croydon heard the sickening crunch of a bone breaking as a new wave of pain flooded him. Dark spots were dancing in front of his eyes. He screamed.

“Yes!” he said, his voice unsteady and wracked with sobs. “I’m willing! I’m willing!”

“Now there’s a good boy,” said the man with the scar, and gently patted Croydon’s back. He turned to his companion and said: “Get the larva.”

The other man nodded slightly, slipped the knife into his pocket and bent down. He pulled out a briefcase from under a desk by the wall. He put it on the bed and snapped it open. With careful, almost tender movements, he took a glass container from the case, the kind used for laboratory specimens.

“Open it!” said the man with the scar.

The Asian man unscrewed the container’s lid. Jenny Chen looked at the vial, and she saw something moving inside. A fluttering.

She put her hands over her mouth and gasped.

“You shut your mouth, girl, if you want to live,” said the man with the scar. “This isn’t about you.”

She nodded slightly. Her body was stiff with tension.

“Careful!” said the man. “Don’t hurt it!”

The other man nodded. He turned the glass vial over and Jenny saw something emerge from within. She heard a hissing sound. It sounded like a snake. The noise was loud in the stillness of the room. The only other sound was Croydon’s whimpers.

Then she saw a small, black, snake-like creature slowly slithering out of the vial. Its eyes were tiny, and seemed to be firmly shut. The creature moved tentatively, uncertainly. It coiled itself around the Asian man’s hand and raised its head, as if sniffing the air.

The white man with the scar nodded. A smile played around his lips.

“Bring her here. I’ll hold his mouth open.”

“No,” whispered Croydon.

“Shh,” said the man. His voice was almost tender now. “No point resisting. This is your destiny.”

“No!”

“You try anything, mate, I’ll break every bone in your body.”

Croydon started to move, tried to push the man away, but his motions were weak and feeble.

The man with the scar pressed both hands against Croydon shoulders and shoved him flat on his back against the bed. Then he swung his leg around and sat bow-legged on top of him. His left hand pressed against Croydon’s chest. Croydon’s eyes were bulging with terror.

“Give it to me,” said the man with the scar.

The other man carefully handed him the creature.

Jenny Chen watched, with terror in her eyes, as they brought it closer to Croydon.

“No!” Croydon said loudly. “What are you …”

He never finished his sentence. The man with the scar reached out with his left hand and forced his mouth open.

“Now take your medicine like a good little boy.”

Croydon gave muffled, panicked moans. His eyes darted about wildly. His arms and legs were flailing.

The creature was following its instincts. It needed a place to nest. It turned its head toward Croydon’s open mouth.

Croydon’s moans became panicked screams.

The man with the scar smiled.

“That’s right,” he said. “There’s a good boy!”

And then, the thing entered him.

Croydon’s screams turned to sick gagging sounds as the creature slithered into his wide-open mouth.

Its smooth scales pressed against his lips, then pushed down his throat. Nicholas Croydon felt its muscles moving inside him. His heart was pounding. He felt nausea rising deep within him, and he was gripped by panic.

Oh God, he thought. Oh Jesus, oh God, get it out of me, get it out of me, get it out of me …

Then everything went black.

***

Orchard Towers, Wan Chai District, Hong Kong. 1:14 a.m.

Inspector Zhou Kou kicked open the glass door and aimed his L85A2 assault rifle into the darkness of the lobby. The large, empty hall shimmered a ghostly shade of green in rifle’s night vision scope.

He swiveled around and took in the rest of the perimeter, the corners, the stairs.

Nothing.

“Clear,” he said and raised his left fist, a signal for his men. He stepped aside, and four soldiers filed in through the door. Like him, they were all dressed in black, all wearing helmets and Kevlar vests, and were carrying assault rifles.

Without speaking, Zhou Kou pointed two fingers at the staircase. The man behind him nodded and signaled the others.

They moved up the stairs in combat formation.

The stairwell was empty. Fluorescent lights were flickering overhead on some of the floors, but mostly, there was darkness, a deep, impenetrable black. There were no windows here. One of the pipes was broken, and water was dripping steadily.

They went up.

On the third floor, they heard a loud, metallic banging.

Zhou Kou carefully approached the door.

He motioned to his men to stand back.

The door was slowly swinging back and forth. The creaking sound grated on Zhou Kou’s nerves.

Then, with a swift motion, he lunged forward, catching the swinging door with his right foot and kicked it open. He immediately swung his rifle forward and aimed it at the doorway.

Nothing.

He signaled his men. They continued up the stairs.

Behind one of the apartment doors, music was playing. Behind another, they could hear a couple arguing.

On the ninth floor, a door was suddenly torn open. The men swung around instinctively and aimed their assault rifles.

A small, skinny man with a bowl of noodles in his hand stood in the doorway. He paled when he saw the soldiers. His chopsticks seemed frozen in his hand. He dropped the bowl and it shattered on the concrete floor. He said a few words in hurried Cantonese, a mumbled apology, then he slammed the door shut.

Zhou Kou shrugged and they continued their long march up the seemingly endless stairs.

After a few more minutes, they reached the fourteenth floor.

“This is it,” Zhou Kou whispered. With small, controlled hand gestures he positioned his men around the door.

They crouched down into position and aimed their rifles.

Zhou Kou raised his left hand.

Their bodies tensed. He motioned again. Two of them moved forward and brought a battering ram into position, a small, black steel cylinder.

When they were ready, they nodded at Zhou Kou.

Zhou Kou looked at them.

He nodded.

The two men slammed the battering ram into the wooden door. It burst open at once.

Zhou Kou crouched behind the doorpost.

“Go, go, go!” Zhou Kou shouted.

The unit swarmed into the apartment. Zhou Kou trailed his team, moving in swiftly, his rifle ready.

He saw a middle-aged man in a sweat-soaked blue suit, lying in the fetal position on the floor. He was unconscious.

“Careful!” Zhou Kou said. “We need him alive!”

A young Asian man was crouched behind a bed.

“Don’t move!” Zou Kou shouted in Cantonese, but the man suddenly drew a .45-caliber pistol and fired off a shot.

The sound thundered through the small room.

“Take cover!” Zhou Kou shouted. Two of his men slid back behind the doorpost. Zhou Kou crouched down to the floor. Then he aimed his rifle at the man behind the bed and fired a single round.

The man was hit, and collapsed. He moaned softly.

Turning, Zhou Kou could see a second man, a muscular Caucasian man with a shaved head and a scar on his face, standing against the far side of the room.

Zhou Kou pointed his rifle at him.

The man with the scar was pressing a gun to the temple of a young woman.

“Lester Channing,” Zhou Kou said. “You’re under arrest.”

The man with the scar — Channing — shook his head.

“Don’t think so, mate,” he said. “Seeing how I got this pretty little flower.”

Zhou Kou didn’t waste any time arguing.

He squeezed the trigger on his rifle.

The shot echoed through the room, and in that moment, he heard Lester Channing scream. A fine mist of blood sprayed from the man’s left shoulder. The woman pulled herself away from him and stumbled toward Zhou Kou.

“Help!” she shouted, and for a moment, she stood between him and his target.

Zhou Kou tightened his lips and lowered his rifle.

“Get down!” he yelled at the woman.

Her eyes were wide with fear. She threw herself to the ground.

He saw Channing stumble toward the window.

Shots whipped through the tiny room. Channing screamed, his back arching.

“Cease fire!” Zhou Kou shouted at his men.

He heard a crashing sound, and he saw Channing throwing himself through the glass window.

Zou Khou jumped across the bed and over the dead man on the other side, toward the large, broken window.

He looked out. Wind tousled his hair.

Just one floor below, Channing was lying on a lower-level rooftop that extended from the Orchard Towers apartment building.

He was still alive. He was bleeding from his leg and shoulder, but he was unmistakably alive. He struggled to get to his feet.

On the rooftop were small wooden shack, belonging to squatters who had built their homes up here. Zhou Kou saw families on the roof, hiding behind the tarp and wood of their ramshackle buildings, staring in disbelief at the bleeding man scrambling to his feet.

Zhou Kou swung his rifle over his shoulder. He turned to his men and pointed at the man on the floor, in the baby blue suit.

“Get him in an ambulance. And call for backup.”

Then he swung his legs out the window and jumped.

He landed hard on the concrete rooftop. He rolled off to his side, and a moment later, was back on his feet.

He heard a gunshot and felt a sharp rush of air by his cheek. The bullet had missed him by inches.

He moved to his right and took his rifle in his hand. He heard screams. He looked around and saw men and women clutching their children, throwing themselves to the floor.

“Stay down!” he said in Cantonese.

Then, he saw Channing emerge from behind a corner. Channing fired off two shots, but he was firing blindly, and the shots missed Zhou Kou by a wide margin.

Channing limped toward a steel door, opened it and vanished in the darkness.

Zhou Kou ran after him. When he reached the door, only seconds later, he tore it open and aimed his rifle.

He looked through his night vision scope, but he saw no sign of Channing.

But he heard him. He heard his strained breathing and his heavy footsteps as he ran down the stairs.

Zhou Kou started running, taking the steps two at a time. His heart was pounding. There was sweat on his forehead.

Suddenly, the barrel of his rifle got caught on the banister of the stairs. Zhou Kou slipped and fell painfully.

When he got up, he found the sling of his rifle tangled around his arms.

He quickly untangled himself and threw the rifle away.

He pulled his .38 from his hip holster and continued. He had lost precious seconds.

When he reached the lobby entrance of the apartment building, he saw no sign of Channing. What he saw instead was that the glass door was half-open and slowly swinging closed.

Zhou Kou pushed against it with his shoulder and stepped outside.

He ran across the dark courtyard toward Lockhart Road.

Despite the late hour, the street was still remarkably full of people. Hong Kong never slept.

Zhou Kou looked down.

He saw blood spatters on the ground in front of him. His eyes followed the trail, and when he looked up, he saw Channing running down Steward Street, headed north. He was hobbling.

“Stop!” Zhou Kou shouted.

The man briefly turned to look, then continued running. Zhou Kou swore he saw a flicker of uncertainty, maybe even fear in his opponent’s eyes.

He raised his gun, but a moment later, the man was swallowed by the crowd.

Zhou Kou began to push through throngs of businessmen, tourists and late-night pleasure seekers, roughly shoving people aside with both hands.

Then he saw the man running straight across Gloucester Road, forcing traffic to stop.

He leapt across the center divider in the middle of the road. Zhou Kou was close on his heels, darting through the oncoming cars.

On the other side of Gloucester Road, he saw Channing turn into a small side alley.

Zhou Kou sped up and reached the alley.

He saw the man moving through the dark shadows of one of Hong Kong’s enormous skyscrapers. There were fewer people here.

He suddenly had a clean shot.

Zhou Kou stopped, aimed and fired off three shots, in rapid succession.

But Channing was too far away. Zhou Kou missed.

Channing turned a corner.

They were at the harbor. The skyscrapers of Hong Kong were shimmering in the distance, their looming shapes set off from the night sky by glittering lights.

A few feet in front of Zhou Kou was the water, blocked off by a chain-link fence. Behind that fence were boats.

When Zhou Kou reached the corner where Channing had vanished, he suddenly felt a blinding pain explode across his chest. He screamed and staggered backward.

Channing hit Zhou Kou a second time across the chest with a metal bar.

All air was knocked out of Zhou Kou.

The next thing he felt was the man kicking him in the stomach.

He doubled over, gasping for air.

He dropped his gun.

“That’s what you get,” said Channing, breathing heavy.

On the next kick, Zhou Kou was prepared. His hands shot forward and grasped the man’s leg. Zhou Kou pulled hard, and the man lost his balance. He fell over backward. Zhou Kou heard him scream.

Slowly, and still dazed by the pain, Zhou Kou struggled to stand up straight.

Suddenly, Channing’s right leg whirled around, kicking Zhou Kou’s feet out from under him.

Zhou Kou felt weightless for a brief moment, then he came down hard on the unforgiving asphalt. He groaned.

Channing got up and stumbled a few steps away.

Zhou Kou rolled onto his knees and lurched forward. His hands clasped the butt of the .38. He whirled around and pointed it at where Channing had been standing, just a moment ago. But a moment can be a lifetime, and now there was no more Channing, just empty darkness and the faint mist that was drifting in off the water.

A moment later, he saw Channing staggering toward a row of motorboats on the pier.

A speedboat was moving along the edge of the water.

It pulled up to the pier. Channing was waving at the two men in the boat. Zhou Kou couldn’t make out their faces in the darkness. But he knew what they were: Black Dragon.

He pulled his gun and saw Channing stagger like a drunk toward the boat.

Suddenly, a shot was fired from the boat.

Zhou Kou threw himself to his right, taking cover behind a Dumpster. The bullet struck the metal Dumpster like a hammer ringing a bell.

Zhou Kou peered around the corner of the Dumpster and saw Channing climbing into the speedboat. It took off, splashing water on the pier.

Zhou Kou looked around. He ran toward a motorboat, and with a few quick, efficient movements, unmoored it. Then he jumped inside. He pulled open the plastic cover of the cable box right behind the wheel. His trembling fingers searched for the correct cables, and when he found them, he pulled out a knife and stripped the ends down to bare wire. Then he touched the metal ends together and the boat started sputtering.

Then it picked up speed.

Zhou Khou scanned the dark waves and very quickly saw a white speck in front of him. The speedboat.

He pressed down harder, and as the boat got going faster, the wind whipped past his face. Zhou Kou clenched his teeth together.

Two, maybe three minutes later, the other boat came into full view. The men saw him and sped up, the hull of their speedboat bouncing up and down against the waves. Zhou Kou didn’t hesitate.

He pressed the throttle farther. He aimed his gun at the speedboat.

He fired off a few rounds.

At first, he didn’t know whether he had hit anything, but then he heard the other boat sputtering. It began slowing down. He was getting closer. He could hear the men cursing. Channing stumbled around on deck, enraged. He aimed a gun at Zhou Kou and fired indiscriminately.

Zhou Kou ducked, and the bullets whipped by above his head.

He heard a dull thud, and knew his boat had been hit.

He nudged the wheel and pressed harder against the throttle. It was a straight shot now.

The men were screaming, less angry now. Panicked.

Seconds later, Zhou Kou heard an all-engulfing crunching noise. His boat had rammed past the other one, slicing its side open.

They were sinking fast.

Zhou Kou held on to the railing of his boat with his left and fired at the speedboat driver.

The bullet went into the man’s throat, and a massive cloud of blood exploded behind him. His trachea and parts of his spine and skull were blown clean out.

Gunshots rang out from the other boat.

Zhou Kou fired another bullet, and watched the other man stagger backward and give an almost indignant-sounding groan as he fell overboard.

Zhou Kou got to his feet and staggered across the bow of his boat, onto the deck of the speedboat.

One man left. Channing.

“You’re under arrest,” Zhou Kou said.

But Channing lurched forward toward Zhou Kou and rammed his shoulder into his stomach, wrapping both hands around Zhou Kou’s body.

Zhou Kou felt his feet slipping, and then he was upside down, and falling into the water. It flooded his nostrils and mouth. Deep, instinctual panic rose up within him. He fought hard against it.

Seconds later, he broke through, gasping for air. His head whirled around, and he saw Channing come up next to him.

Behind Channing, the propeller of the sinking motorboat was raised up out of the water. It was spinning wildly, kicking up a mist of water, its high-pitched roar angry amidst the slapping of the waves.

Zhou Kou turned and pulled both legs in. Channing was swimming toward him, his face distorted with rage. Then Zhou Kou thrust out his legs, pushing them forward.

They connected with Channing’s chest, pushing him back a foot or two in the water.

That was enough.

Channing turned his head just in time to see the propeller right next to him, and in that instant, the blade sliced into his face, cutting it open, through his cheek, his chin, his skull. The engine sputtered and died as a spray of blood and brain tissue whirled across the dark waters.

Channing’s body sank into the water, lifeless, arms drifting out.

He looked, Zhou Kou thought, almost peaceful now.

***

Heathrow, London. 1 p.m.

I was headed west in my Bentley. Behind me, I could hear Big Ben, always a soothing sound. The day was overcast and there was a slight drizzle in the air. It was a cold day. The radio said something about a storm front headed our way. I was on my way to Heathrow International Airport. Sir James had given me a rather mundane assignment — we were expecting a flight from Hong Kong. I was supposed to meet the passengers and take them to the Special Division Clinic in Wiltshire. Things had been a little slow lately, but I was still surprised. I wasn’t an errand boy. When I tried to raise the point with Sir James, he cut me off and reminded me in no uncertain terms that I was under his command, and that I better do as he said.

I turned off the radio and weaved into the heavy traffic heading toward the airport.