Hamburg, Germany
Cigarette smoke leaked out of the small bar - blazing with neon lights and beer conglomerates in the hazy nighttime air - as the man opened the door and stepped in. The smoke seemed to saturate the walls and ceiling, marinating the lungs of the intoxicated in a tar and tobacco cocktail. The man breathed in the smell deeply and shut the door. This was the smell of underground collaborations and clandestine back-scratching. It was the perfume of vice. The man smiled and walked toward the back table. He knew the scent well.
Wordlessly, the man joined Kemal at the table and folded his arms across his chest. He leaned forward and studied his client. Kemal's face was cold and hard with chiseled features so immovable that they could have belonged to a sculpture. But beneath his stony expression, the man saw a glint of eagerness. Greed, maybe. The lust was mirrored shamelessly in his black eyes. Kemal adjusted his spectacles and stared at the man.
“Is it done?”
“A drink first, maybe?”
“You're reward is enough. I'm not going to waste money on this sour German beer, anyway.”
“Alcohol is alcohol, my friend.”
“If you want to drink bottled urine, be my guest.”
The man smiled and toyed with the mustard jar on the table. “Maybe I will pass.” He paused. “But If we were in France, however, I would have to request a glass of Cru Borgeois - ”
“ - Much as I enjoy debating connoisseurship with you, I am in a hurry and cannot stay here long. Has it been done or not?”
“Oh, It's been done.”
“Do they suspect?”
“Not in the least. The beauty of a contract kill.”
Kemal breathed in deeply and drew a briefcase from beside his hip and rested it on the table. He ran his hand over it carefully, over the clasps and the straps and then pushed it towards the man.
“Paid in full.”
The man flipped the briefcase open and examined the contents. Kemal hesitated for a moment. “You know what that can do, right? Many, many men have died in obtaining these for us.”
The man nodded, smiled and shut the case. “'Handle with care'. I know.”
“That's not what I mean. Are you prepared to use this? To actually plant it and use it?”
The man studied Kemal. “We are each religious men, my friend. Your God lives in a heaven, my God lives in a Swiss bank. Both are omniscient. You are prepared to sacrifice other people's lives for your God and so am I.”
Kemal was silent. The man rose from his seat and patted the briefcase. “Terrorism is not confined to lofty goals and proving points, Kemal.
He straightened his jacket. “Goodnight. It was a pleasure doing business with you.”
And without another word, the man opened the door, wreathed in cigarette smoke as he stepped out onto the street, and disappeared into the late night drizzle.
Los Angeles, California
Booker checked into the motel under his alias: Bill St. Clare. He had a credit card which bore the pseudonym as well as a passport and a false birth certificate. Perks for being the son of a crime lord. Bill was an instant smokescreen, a decoy for the legal bloodhounds. Booker Lee could disappear in under ten minutes, evanesce from public eye for a year, and resurface after the heat had passed. No questions were ever asked. No suspicions ever raised. The alias was a full-body shield. Nothing could touch Bill.
But disappearing was the last thing on Booker's mind as he handed the credit card to the woman operating the front desk. He had just killed five men. Each had a life, each had a spouse or a partner, hopes and dreams, secrets. And Booker had just shattered them all. An earthly reaper. Oh, he had killed before. Many times. But the men he had killed were like him: people who should have been inductees into death row the moment they were born. Aptly christened as scum. Maybe he had justified their deaths as a public service.
After all, it was one less racketeering bastard on the streets.
He stared at the credit card as the woman ran it through the scanner and smiled at him. “Alright, Mr. St. Clare. Your room will be 276. Up the stairs, take a left. Have a nice stay.”
Booker didn't say anything.
As he climbed the warped and squealing set of stairs, his body screamed. Especially his shoulder. The wound had broken open again and blood saturated the t-shirt under his jacket. It was hot and seemed to burn his skin as a reminder that he had survived and the police officers hadn't. He had taken action, they had stood like crippled animals, unable to react.
Too slow, joe.
It had been a thirty second test. Survival of the fittest. He had been defending himself, hadn't he? He had the right to protect his freedom. No one wanted to be stuck in a prison cell for a century and a half and he was no different. Besides, he hadn't even killed Mao...
Booker shook his head and swore at himself. He could rationalize all he wanted, but the facts would stay the same. He was wanted for several other crimes anyway. He wondered to himself as he opened the door to room 276 if he should turn himself in and get it all over with. The long arm of the law was both persistent and unforgiving. Two undesirable qualities, in Booker's opinion.
You can run, but you'll just die tired.
He wondered what the use was. His criminal record had just been blown to pieces. If he moved to another country, they would find him. If he ran off into the wilderness of Canada, they'd find him. If he moved to the moon, they would find him eventually. There was no such thing as forever. There was a beginning and then there was an end. There was always an end. Booker shrugged off his jacket, pulled off his t-shirt, ripped the bandage from his shoulder, and collapsed onto the bed. He watched the rotors on the ceiling fan spin lazily.
He realized also he wouldn't be seeing Eva again for a long time. Undoubtedly, the police would have posted several men on her bedside, lying wait for Booker if he tried to spirit her away. They would tail her when she got out of the hospital, they would watch the apartment, they would bug the phones. The police would do everything in their power to catch Booker Lee. It was not a matter of 'if' for them, it was a matter of 'when'.
Booker's mind spun along with the ceiling fan. He had to do something. He needed to get Eva and their child out of the hospital and put as much distance as he could between him and L.A. But he knew both of those superman tasks were impossible alone. He needed help from the Tong. Biting his lip, Booker closed his eyes and shook his head. It would be like making a deal with the devil. He would be practically selling his soul to Tsao if he went to him for help. An ethereal peddler.
His cell phone rang, vibrating warmly against his thigh. It was Ben. Booker flipped it open.
“Hello?”
“What the hell were you thinking?”
“They were going to arrest me, Ben.”
“And now you've made it worse. Instead of going to prison for forty years, you're in it for life. You killed four policemen. That's taboo wherever you go.”
“What would you have done then? Huh? I've got a wife, I've got a kid. What would you have done?” Booker asked angrily.
“Not kill anybody, that's for sure.
“Well, maybe I don't have your self-control.”
Ben sighed. “I'm glad you weren't arrested.”
“Really? Ten seconds ago it sounded like you wanted me behind bars.”
“Well, I don't.”
There was a moment of silence.
“I can't believe they went for me,” Booker said. “I didn't leave anything behind at the raid. Why would they have gone for me?”
“Yes, you did.”
“Yes, I did what?”
“You left something behind. Your blood. They must have gotten a DNA sample from you a couple years ago and matched it to the blood on the knife. It's been all over the radio.”
Booker sat up on the bed. His blood. He swore inwardly at Mao Enlai for the thousandth time and rubbed his shoulder. That bastard and his deathbed courage...
“So what are you planning on doing now?” Ben asked.
“I'll go to Tsao. I need to get Eva and company out of the hospital and get out of the country.”
“Then you're going to Columbia.”
“What?”
“You'll get drug duty. If you really want a transfer, he'll set you up in Columbia as a buyer. You'll go to the cocaine plants, haggle with some of the most dangerous men on the planet, and end up running from the law there. You're not getting out of L.A any other way.”
Booker hadn't thought of that. Ben was right. Tsao would keep Booker under his finger until one of the two died. He couldn't escape the Tong that easily. He frowned.
“Well, I can't stay here.”
“Probably not.”
Booker swore. He was stuck. There was no way out but down. He could go to hell as a drug dealer or go to hell as an inmate. It had to be Columbia.
But what about Claire? Columbia was ten times worse than downtown Los Angeles. The education was poor, the health services were poor, the streets were swarming with ten year olds laden with sacks of cocaine and teenagers wielding handguns. It was no place for a little Chinese girl. It was no place for anybody. Booker was being selfish to even think about moving to Columbia. He would be dragging his family down with him.
Divorce.
He was a liability now. He could provide nothing for Eva and his daughter with the police always one step behind him and drugs in the closet. It just wouldn't work. Divorce was the fair option, the noble option, the only option. Without him, Eva and Claire would lead a normal life. He would move to Columbia and disappear into the elephantine folds of the drug trade. His wife would only be a memory. Her warmth would only be retrospection. And she would have no choice. He would file whether she liked it or not. It was for her own good. It was for Claire's good.
Booker swallowed heavily and closed his eyes. Let go of it. Let go of her. You knew it wouldn't last anyway. She's not yours. She was never yours. Let go of Eva.
Hell, it was hard.
Booker felt his throat contract, a heavy pit form in his stomach, and his heart seize. He had to do this. This was the best -
But what gave him the right to be such a masochistic martyr, anyway? He hadn't been brought up selfless. He had been raised by Jin Lee, for God's sake! He had no right to be generous and altruistic. It wasn't his place. There were certain stereotypes he was supposed to fit into. Selfish, greedy, egocentric. This was who he was, wasn't it? He was a killer, a thief, a felon...
Then it was time to turn over a new leaf.
But there were so many trees. The leaves were all over the place.
Suck it up. This isn't about you. Let go of her!
“Booker?” Ben asked. Abruptly, Booker was in the motel room again, watching the fan blades spin.
“Yeah?”
“So what's it gonna be?”
Booker took a deep breath. “I'm leaving Eva here. I'll go to Columbia alone. The heat will pass eventually. I guess this is just how it's got to be.”
There was a long silence. “I'm sorry,” Ben whispered.
“Don't be. It was my own fault for having a relationship outside of the Tong.”
“But you love her - ”
“Exactly. I love her. And that's why I'm doing this.”
“Sacrificing on the altar of love. What is this? Some sort of repentance? A make-up-for-my-sins -quick by being a hero. Fight for her, Booker! There's got to be another way.”
“There is no other way!” Booker shouted. His voice surprised himself. The line fell silent. “Look,” he said, calmer. “You wouldn't understand.”
“Obviously, not.”
“It's something I have to do. For Eva.”
“She'll hate you.”
“For a year or so. And then she'll move on.”
“You gotta do, what you gotta do.”
Booker smiled in spite of himself. Ben sighed. “Well. Are you coming to the ceremony in an hour? They've chosen Tsao as the boss, as expected. It would be a good time to ask him for a transfer.”
Booker sat up and looked at the clock. It was four in the evening. Might as well get it over with. He sat up pulled the bloody t-shirt over his head and shrugged on his jacket. “Yeah. I'll go.”
“I'll see you there, then.”
Booker grunted and hung up. He sat back on the bed and stared out the window, through the blinds. The city's downtown was sprawled before him, skyscrapers reflecting the setting sunlight, transforming themselves into monolithic beacons and illuminated by a halo of pollutants. There, people rushed from place to place, leading a normal life, coming home, leaving home. What he wouldn't give to be one of them. Their concerns seemed so insignificant compared to his own. What's for dinner? How will I finish this proposal on time? Where's the newspaper? How will I ever pay this bill?
The slow life.
Booker grabbed his keys from the nightstand and exited room 276. He would go to Tsao, request being transferred to Columbia, and file for divorce. He would be the hero. He would be the martyr. They would thank him for it eventually. They would all thank him for it.
He could just hear his father's voice in the distance, laughing, as he opened the car door. I told you so, my jian. I told you it would never last.
There was no such thing as forever.
Just bear with me. ^^
Common mistake. 
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