This is the longest, most pivotal chapter yet. Tell me how you like it!
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Unanticipated, the evening rain fell in dense curtains, creating puddles in the roads, rippling to watery pentameters, always moving. Always dancing. Streetlights glowed like beacons in the semi-darkness, turning the raindrops into shards of light and flashing blades, attacking cars and passerbys as they drove and sprinted through the storm. Tsao's house stood upright in the rain, massive and dark, brooding. Two guards hid in the shadows of the gate, their guns concealed underneath their ponchos. Dry and dangerous. The house itself, though, appeared to be empty. There was no sign of a Black Dragon leadership ceremony. The rain hid everything beneath her gauzy skirt.
But Booker knew better. As the guards recognized him at the gate and waved him through, he saw the lack of windows in the house and blinds drawn on those it did have. He noticed the contingent of security guards at all of the entrances and several others making rounds. The important Tong members were all paranoid. Someone was always trying kill them. There was always a big gun pointed at their heads. Those precious heads. The heads on the wanted posters in the city hall. The heads with reward money and price tags attached to their ears. Dead or alive. One shot: the end.
Maybe they did have the right to be paranoid. After all, important and influential men were always afraid of dying. They locked themselves in their castles and sent others to do their dirty work. To live and die for them. Besides, what cause could be worth life? What cause could be worth sacrificing the fine wine and finer women of earth?
There were no prostitutes in heaven.
Booker parked the car underneath the eaves, stepped out, and shrank into his jacket, shivering. His father's laughing and I-told-you-so's echoed in the back of his mind. My jian, transferring himself to Columbia to follow in his father's footsteps. I'm very proud of you. You'll be better without the whore and the brat anyway...
Booker shoved Jin Lee out of his head and walked up to the door. Screw you, Daddy.
He suddenly needed a glass of scotch. Check that; a bottle of scotch. And maybe a good cigarette too. He wanted to forget everything. To hell with Jin Lee. To hell with Columbia. To hell with Eva. He was sick and tired of the guns and the drugs. He was tired of watching his back. He was sick and tired of living. But Booker Lee was not suicidal. His heart would keep beating, his blood would keep pulsing. Alive, but dead. Yes, he had been killed already. Life was only transit into death, after all. And it would be a long trip for Booker. There were miles and miles for him to cover, years and years for him to live dead.
But at least there was no such thing as forever.
A servant showed Booker into the house and guided him down a hallway. Signs Tsao's affluence were subtle. He managed to decorate his house both humbly and richly at the same time. The hallway was lined with modest mahogany desks and gilded with Renaissance styled paintings in simple frames. Crystal lights and dim table lights glowed like orbs in the dimness, giving the hall an atmosphere of quiet intellectuality. It was all a facade, though. Everything was behind a mask. The good taste hid the fact that many men had died there, tortured, lifeless, hopeless. It hid the heroine in the walls and attics. It hid the laundered money. Tsao strived for culture. Tsao strived to be a gentlemen. A highbrow of society. Respected. Wise. Elite.
But Italian suits couldn't hide the bloodstains.
And class couldn't conceal the sadist.
Booker was shown into a lounge with the upper members of the Tong milling about, laughing, smiling, trading war stories. They held flutes of champagne and crossed their legs. He saw Tsao near the back of the room talking politely with a pair of Jin Lee's old police contacts. There were no foot soldiers in this group. There had been no dirty-workers invited. Only the important ones in their castles had attended. No one got up to greet him.
Two-faced bastards, all of them.
Booker moved forward, scanning the wet bar for a bottle of scotch, and noticed Ben coming toward him. His friend was stocky and tall, the tips of his spiked hair bleached white. A single diamond piercing hung from his left ear, accenting the tattoos gripping his neck. He smiled and clapped Booker on the shoulder.
“Glad you could make it, Booker.”
“How can you stand these people?” Booker whispered, sipping a martini. “Any humane god would've had this trash in hell a long time ago. I mean, look at them, Ben. They're laughing. They're telling jokes.”
“He has a sick sense of humor.”
“Who does?”
“God.”
“Don't remind me. Life is a pain in the ass, Ben.”
Ben smiled and picked up a martini as well, plucking the green olive off of the toothpick. “And you just discovered this?”
Booker shrugged and watched the ceremony-goers carefully. Ben gulped down the rest of his drink and set it on the bar. “Well, I've gotta go. You can call me anytime, remember. I'll give my best to Eva.”
“Drive safe, you lush”
Ben snorted and headed for the exit. “Yeah, yeah. You sound like my mother, Bookie.”
Booker smiled and finished the martini. Columbia. The home of the devils. The home of a thousand drug lords and dealers. As the “street pharmacy” capital of the world, the variety and availability of drugs would be vast. Booker would be kept busy twenty four hours a day, seven days a week making deals, breaking deals, running. Always running. And since there were at least thirty farms on the market, the snow would also be cheap and plentiful.
He hoped though, they would at least have good bars and quality beer down there. He had the feeling waking up to a hangover might become a habit for him there.
Amnesia in a bottle, all over again.
Shaking his head, Booker started making his way over to Tsao. The man had been his father's right hand man, his protégé, his own personal lap dog. Jin Lee had practically groomed him for leadership. The new Tong leader was charismatic, smooth, controlling persuasive, and cruel: traits of a leader. Traits of a miniature Hitler. And Booker hated him. There were no limits with Tsao. He would get what he wanted, when he wanted, and he didn't care how it was done. A Prima Donna of the underworld.
Booker watched as Tsao suddenly excused himself from the two police contacts and turned to exit a back door leading into another hallway. Frowning, Booker shouldered his way passed a group of gossipers and caught the door as it was closing. He watched Tsao hurry down the hall – practically at a sprint – and disappear around a corner, coat jacket whipping out of sight. Booker had to follow him. It was necessary to get the transfer orders tonight with the police on his tail, unforgiving and efficient. It was leave now or get caught later type of situation. Booker glanced over his shoulder, slipped out the door, and trailed after Tsao.
The man was in hurry, that much was obvious. Booker watched as Tsao threw open a study door halfway down the corridor and rush in, not even bothering to close the door or look behind him. Booker wondered if he should turn around and walk away. What the man was doing was evidently private.
Probably changing his bladder pads, Booker thought with a smirk. Get nervous, take a leak, change your inserts. That was what getting old was all about.
But he kept walking. As Booker neared the door, he heard a second voice with Tsao in the room. It was metallic and machine-like and fake. The owner of the voice was using a voice disguiser. Tsao was obviously on the phone with an important individual, someone who must have set a specific time for a call.
So that's what his hurry was.
Curious, Booker eased up to the door, flat against the wall, and held his breath. Something inside of him urged him to get out of the house as fast as possible. Something else had taken hold of his feet and cemented them to the floor.
Tsao spoke. “I don't know about this. What if we're caught? What if they find out?”
“They won't. No one will.”
“You can't say that.”
“I just did, Tsao. And I hope for your sake you aren't having second thoughts. The project is too far along for that.”
“No, of course not. It's just - ”
“Extreme?”
“Yeah.”
“That's what Jin Lee said.”
Booker frowned. Tsao paused.
“No more doubts, Tsao. What's done is done. There's not an out anymore.”
Silence. And then the new Tong leader said quietly, “Do you have it then?”
“Yes. Nearly a half-gallon, compressed.”
“Half a gallon? Do you know how dangerous that is? It could spread into the city.”
“I doubt it. When we make our demands, the government will understand what we have and pay within the hour.”
“But the president is as anti-terrorist as they come.”
“He won't have a choice.” The voice disguiser couldn't hide the caller's brittle coldness. Booker fidgeted nervously. Terrorism? Even Tsao wouldn't sink so low. What was this all about? He glanced over his shoulder down the hall.
I should go.
This was none of his business. He had his own problems as it was. Booker sucked in his breath and tensed. Only a minute more. He just couldn't help himself.
Terrorism?
He suddenly felt like a seven year old again, balancing on a crate, eavesdropping on his father's conversations. For a moment, his mothers face – twisted with disgust and rage – flashed in front of his eyes. And he was sure if Tsao found him listening in on this clandestine phone call, he would likewise be an unhappy man. There would be no questions asked. Pull the trigger, call the maid, burn the body, clean the blood. Tsao's guillotine would fall fast and pitiless.
No return, no return.
“NoirMorte is like nothing anyone in homeland security has ever seen,” The voice continued. “Oh, they've planned for contingencies like this. They've trained and executed thousands of drills. But the government has never actually come across something like NM. Biological warfare is still in diapers. It's true potential as a weapon has only been dabbled in. Much less used.”
“They'll find a way. They always find a way. The kidnapper never gets paid.”
“Only in the movies, my friend.”
Booker's heart was racing. He bit his lip to keep from shouting out until it began to bleed. The copper pricked at his tongue painfully.
“When will it be planted?”
“Tomorrow night. Are your men ready?”
“Yes. Thirty-two of them.”
“We should plan for company. They will do everything in their power to stop us. Can you provide equipment?”
Tsao didn't say anything for a moment. “Tell me how it'll work.”
“You didn't answer my question.”
“I don't care. Tell me again. This time in detail. I want to know exactly what I'll be working with.”
“We don't have much time, Tsao.”
“Just do it.”
The caller was silent. “Fine. The NM strain was developed by a Saudi Arabian terrorist cell about a year ago. They took strains from the same bacteria which caused the pnuemonic black plague and exposed them repeatedly to several different types of antibiotics. It was genius really. They made certain some bacterium survived each exposure, which eventually made the strains immune to the antibiotics. All antibiotics known to treat outbreaks of modern bubonic plague are now ineffective against this new strain. We exchanged our...” The caller searched for a word. “...services for a half gallon of NM. Tomorrow your men and I will combine NM with the water for the airport's fire sprinkler system, lock down the airport, and make our demands. It's as simple as that.”
Tsao paused and then asked softly. “And if our demands are not met?”
The caller answered quickly, “We kill them all. NM will work quickly.”
Booker felt his joints freeze and his mind go numb, icy fingers caressing his heart.
Terrorism! An airport, the bubonic plague, demands, biological warfare.
What the hell was going on here?
Booker began backing away from the doorway slowly, willing himself to be absolutely silent. But he was afraid his heart beating his ribcage to sawdust was all too audible. He half expected to see Tsao step outside the door and point a gun at his chest, alerted by his thumping tachycardia.
Stay calm, you are in control of the situation, you can get out of this.
Behind him, steady footsteps suddenly echoed into the hallway. Booker stopped breathing. He had to run, he had to make a break for it. They would kill him. He knew these people. Tsao would do it himself. He would then kill Eva and their new child. He would burn down their apartment. Booker Lee would cease to exist. All because of a few words over a phone line.
“They will try to escape, they will beg for mercy. To be killed. And so will anyone else who tries to stop us,” the voice was saying. The footsteps were growing louder.
We will kill them all.
I should go.
Booker tensed, scrambled to his feet and tore down the hallway, blind, terrified, but running as hard as he could, as fast as he could. At that moment a security guard rounded the corner, saw him and began shouting. Tsao burst out of his office soon after armed with a gun, aimed and began firing at the escaping man. Booker could feel the bullets carving the air near him, shattering the wood wall paneling and impaling the framed rennaisance-style paintings as he took a corner.
Mona Lisa bled.
His feet slipping on the exhaustively waxed tile floor, Booker shoved a ceremony-goer out of the way, bellowed at the top of his lungs, and erupted out of the door, bullets chasing him. He saw several other guards join the pursuit. He swore and dove to one side onto the damp and manicured lawn as a machine gun chattered to life and a flash-bang grenade exploded to his right. The grenade burned Booker's eyes and his ears seemed to bleed but he kept sprinting, darting into the jungle of parked cars, avoiding explosions of windshield glass and ignoring the shouts.
Run, Booker, run!
He saw his Mercedes up ahead and shakily pulled his car keys out of his pockets. There was a gun in the car. Maybe if he reached it in time, he could hold of the volley long enough to burn rubber out of Tsao's driveway and run, run forever, run nowhere, anywhere. Another grenade exploded near him and he buckled to the pavement, entirely deaf for a moment, covering his eyes.
Keep moving, you fool!
Tears streamed down his face and blood trickled out of his ears as he reached the car door, ignoring the bullets ripping the German made vehicle, opened it, jammed the keys into the transmission and stepped on the gas. His back widow shattered and Booker leaned forward, simultaneously groping in the glove compartment for a semi-automatic and steering. He whipped around, gun in hand, and began firing at the group of sharpshooters as the car screeched and fishtailed dangerously towards the gate. The gunfire from the guards on the lawn lessened. Out of the corner of his eye Booker caught a glimpse of the gateway and swore. It was closing. Urging as much speed from the bullet ridden car as possible, Booker prayed the Mercedes would bulldoze through the iron wrought bars.
Sixty...Seventy...Eighty miles an hour...
Ducking down, Booker collided with the gate, which jerked his car with a sickening, metal twisting wrench. One set of bars flew off it's hinges and spun down the street, spewing sparks and grinding pavement. And the Mercedes whipped into traffic, skidding at the meridian, squealing forward. Booker gasped. He was safe. The physical gravity of the fact punched him in the stomach and he sagged against the chair.
But they weren't going to give up that easily.
Booker glanced at his rearview mirror at Tsao's driveway as he weaved in and out of road lanes. To his horror, two black BMWs sped out of the driveway and cut in front of the oncoming traffic, chased by honking horns and slamming brakes. Gritting his teeth, knuckles white on the wheel, Booker swerved down a side street and sped up.
Persistent bastards.
Trees and business fronts and cars whipped by, painting themselves for a split second on the inside of Booker's eyes. The two pursuing cars were close behind him now, sleek and powerful looking in the fading daylight, like predators on a hunt. Booker whipped the steering wheel around and turned violently down another street. An oncoming semi-truck blasted it's horn and Booker weaved to one side, ignoring the dancing needle on his pedometer. Sweat poured openly from his hairline, his neck and his palms, making the wheel slippery in his grip.
Terrorism!
Where should I go? Where do I start?
Booker's eyes snapped back to the road and he lurched forward – head hitting the horn on his steering wheel – as one of the BMWs sideswiped him and forced him off of the road and onto the sidewalk. Tires screeching, hands aching, Booker wheeled the car back onto the road and slammed with equal force into the pursuing car. It slowed, but remained beside him, gaining speed.
The gun.
Shoot him!
Booker snatched the gun from the passenger's seat, rested it on his steering arm and fired four times out of his broken window. The driver slammed on his brakes, swerved, and fell behind slightly, still moving. Booker turned onto a highway entrance and felt his seat belt bite into his waist again as a BMW rammed into his tailgate. The second car pulled up alongside him again as they began climbing up an overpass onto the highway. Railing whipped by at dizzying speeds and the hollow road hummed incessantly beneath Booker's wheels. Swearing and bracing himself, Booker saw the adjacent BMW swerve for another sideswipe on his Mercedes. Booker's neck snapped back violently, stars erupted behind his eyes and his car skimmed the railing, sparks lighting up the dusk like a fireworks display. The BMW behind had opened fire at Booker and he ducked down in his seat, praying they would miss his tires. Booker adjusted his car onto the road again in time to see the other car dropping at him for another swipe. He knew immediately he wouldn't survive another encounter with the guardrails on the overpass and the gunner behind him would pop his tires eventually.
How could he lose them, for God's sake?!
The brakes. Booker smiled in spite of himself.
As the sideswiping BMW swerved for him, Booker slammed on his brakes, the anti-lock pulsing beneath his foot. The car beside him continued at the same speed, turned harshly, and rammed the guard railing on the overpass at eighty miles an hour. The driver punched through the metal like paper and roared into nothingness, the dead weight of the BMW bringing the car down to the railway tracks below in an instant.
One down...
The other car – unable to stop – clipped Booker's Mercedes as he put on the brakes, swinging Booker forward and then crashed into his side, spinning him savagely. Booker's seatbelt snapped and flew into the dashboard. Every inch of him screamed as his chin collided with the CD player and the rest of him crumpled into passenger's seat. His car's pirouette slowed to a stop, cars honking as they flew passed him. Bleeding freely and coughing, Booker groped for his gun, opened the crushed side door and spilled out. He saw the BMW on the opposite side of the road in equal ruin, several other cars stacked up behind it, totaled. Slowly, the driver opened his front door and stepped out, an AK-47 in hand and caught sight of his target.
Booker didn't even hesitate.
Yelling out loud, he fired at the driver, once, twice, three times. The man jerked back, shocked, stumbled for a moment, dropped his gun and fell to his knees. Booker moved forward, ignoring the oncoming traffic as they swerved to avoid him, emptying his entire clip at the prostrate man. The bullets tugged at the body like a puppet masters strings.
And that's for my car.
He walked up to the man and kicked him. There was no response. Dead.
Booker had survived again. He was still free. He was still alive. His heartbeat was still there, for better or worse. When would his nine lives run out?
Dazed, he began walking back down the overpass, towards no particular destination, leaving the wreckage behind. Another day, another kill. Booker felt dead inside. And he was now utterly screwed. He was running from both the law and from the Tong. There was nowhere to turn, no one to run to. He was trapped. Simple as that. The only question now was: who would catch him first?
Eva...Eva! How did this happen?
Jin Lee responded, You are a Black Dragon now, my jian. You strike and you strike hard. No mercy.
No mercy.
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