Chih Huang Hui. . .
Slowly, careful to make as little sound as possible, he drew his gun, then began to edge forward, trying to pinpoint the sound in the darkness up ahead of him.
the maid stood in the doorway to her room, rubbing her eyes. “Mistress?
What’s happening?
“Go back to bed,” Hannah told her, going across and pushing her back inside. “Lock your door and be silent. There are intruders in the House.” The young girl’s eyes flew wide with fear.
“Do what I said,” Hannah said, frowning at her. “Now!”
Bobbing her head, the girl backed off a step, then closed her door. Hannah turned back. They were trapped, the house communications cut. They could not have asked for help even if they’d wanted to. Not that help would have come, she thought acidly. Not for us, anyway.
“Hannah?”
She looked back at her father. He was watching her expectantly, as if she could save them somehow. As if...
“We’re dead,” she said quietly. “We’re—“
There was a shot. Much closer than before. Then another. Then, a moment later, a third.
Shang Mu moaned softly.
She stared at him a moment, woken from her own despair by the sight of his crumpled, frightened face, then nodded to herself, knowing what she must do. Chen was coming. He would be here . . . soon. Until then it was up to her to gain every second she could.
“Help me,” she said, going across to her father. “We’ve got to move things, Daddy. Put them in front of the doors. We’ve got to make a barricade and keep them out.”
He stared at her a moment, then nodded.
“Good,” she said, smiling, encouraging him. “But quick now. We’ve got so little time.”
he reached across, switching on the bedside lamp, then looked down at the woman, studying her in the sickly orange light. She lay on her back on the bloodied sheets, the jade-handled gun she’d used beside her. Her face looked surprised, her mouth open in a small o of shock, as if she’d expected some other outcome. But there had never been any doubt about it. His first bullet had smashed her right wrist, the second had removed the top of her skull.
On the floor on the other side of the bed lay the boy, facedown where he’d fallen, his back a sticky mess. He’d not expected the boy to be there. He turned, angry with himself for having got it wrong, then looked across to where his partner half lay, half sat, against the wall. A shame, he thought, saddened by the waste. He had been a good man, quick to leam and obedient to a fault. And to think one lucky shot. . . He leaned across and spat fully in her face, then, without looking back, walked back out into the hallway.
Let’s finish this, he thought sourly, certain now that no good would come of it. Let’s give the Great Man what he wants.
as the cruiser descended Chen leaned forward in the copilot’s seat, listening to the comset.
“It’s what?” he said, suddenly concerned. “You mean it’s engaged, surely?” “No, sir,” came the reply. “It’s dead. There’s nothing on that channel at all!”
“Shit!” He cut the connection, then turned, looking to the pilot. “Get the hatch open, quick now!”
“But, sir. Procedures . . .”
“Fuck procedures! I need to get down there quickly!” “Sir!” The man leaned forward and hit several buttons. At once there was a clunk, a sudden hiss, and then an inrush of cold air from behind them. Chen threw off his belt and clambered between the seats into the back of the tiny four-man craft. As it began to settle on the roof of the City, he jumped and rolled, then ran for the ventilation shaft.
the assassin pulled on his gas mask, then walked across. Stepping back, he took a deep breath, building his concentration, then launched himself at the door, his heel connecting crisply with the wooden panel. He moved back, studying the damage. The door had held, but the panel beside the lock was cracked and splintered. One well-aimed punch and he’d be through.
He hesitated. As far as he knew, neither the Junior Minister nor his daughter owned a gun, but then neither had Chih Huang Hui, officially. And that one mistake had nearly ruined things. Best, then, to make sure. To use a gun rather than a fist.
He sighed, a dark cloud of fatalism descending on him. This was to have been the culmination of his long career—the final task before he finished with it all—but even his own survival was doubtful now that the I Lung’s sister had been killed. The First Dragon was a vengeful man, so he’d heard, and would not take kindly to the news. Oh, he would keep his word, certainly, and pay him—even a bonus, perhaps, to show there was no animosity—but he would be lucky if he lived a week. Lucky if he lived long enough to spend a tenth of the blood money. He nodded to himself. Maybe so, but there was still the Guilds pride to consider. That special pride in a task well accomplished. Unsheathing his gun, he raised it and fired twice, then pushed his fist through the resultant hole, widening the gap. Holstering his gun, he took a grenade from his belt and primed it. Then, poking his arm through the hole, he lobbed it into the center of the room. There was a pop and then the sharp, sibilant hiss of escaping gas. He waited, counting, then, at ten, grasped the sides of the panel and kicked again, climbing up through the gap and into the smoke-filled room.
from where she crouched beneath the barricade, Hannah heard the metallic clink of the grenade as it bounced on the tiles in the next room, and braced herself for an explosion. The soft pop it made sent a shiver of surprise up her spine, but then she understood. That hissing—it was a disabling gas of some kind.
She looked behind her, then crawled across, pulling the silk cover from the chair and tearing it with her teeth. Handing half to her father, she showed him what to do. “Around your nose and mouth,” she said quietly. Yes, but would it make any difference? They had to breathe.
From the next room came a crashing, splintering sound.
They’re through, she thought. Oh gods, they’re through! She turned yet again, looking about her, forcing her mind to work. What could she use? What in the gods’ names could she use for a weapon? Hairbrushes and perfume bottles, books and holo-tapes, an ink block and a framed photograph of her mother. Useless, all of it useless. . . . And then her eyes focused on something that had fallen from the dresser they had dragged across. A pair of silver hair scissors. She reached out and closed her hand on them, noting, as she did, the faintest scent of gas in the room.
How long? she wondered. How long before we’re dead? But the thought was fleeting. Stronger, more urgent impulses were at work in her now. The barricade would slow them down. Would make it hard for them to come into the room. Yes, but not impossible. They had only to smash a hole. A grenade would do the rest.
She shook her head, frantic now, knowing that the barrier was the key to it—that she had somehow to use that small advantage, to make it count. But how?
A thud close by made her jump. The door juddered in its frame. Think, she told herself, staring down at the slender pair of scissors in her hand. For the gods sake, think!
But time was running out.
chen stood outside the main door to Shang Mu’s house, surprised to find it open. As he stepped toward it a voice called out from behind him. “Stay right where you are and don’t move!”
Chen froze, conscious that the voice had had a frightened edge to it. Slowly, very slowly, he raised his hands and turned toward the man. “It’s okay. I’m Security.”
The man was in his night clothes, and the weapon he held trained on Chen was ancient, a collector’s piece.
“My ID is in my breast pocket. Will you let me reach for it?” The man considered, his eyes uncertain, then he nodded. “Okay. But very slow.”