His instinct was against it, but he did what the man said, his movements painfully slow. “There,” he said, tilting it toward him. “Throw it down.”
Aiya . . . Every second was precious, and here was this fool. He threw it down.
The man bent down, his eyes never leaving Chen, the gun aimed tensely at him. Chen watched as he lifted the card until it was slightly to the left of his line of sight; saw how he took tiny glimpses at it, as if frightened to take his eyes off his captive for even a fraction of a second.
And quite right, too, Chen thought, wishing some of his own officers were half as careful.
“A Major, huh?”
“Yes. Now, for the gods’ sakes, let me go. There’s been an incident. The Shang household—“ “I heard shots,” the man said, throwing the card back and lowering his gun. “One shot. Then three. Then another two. Just now.” “Yes!” Chen said impatiently. He had heard the last two himself. “Now if you’d excuse me ...”
“You want help?”
Chen shook his head angrily, then, knowing he had already pissed away valuable seconds, he drew his gun and turned, running for the door, praying he wasn’t too late.
the assassin stepped back from the door, nodding to himself, undipped a fresh cartridge from his belt and reloaded his gun. He turned, looking about him through the thick mist of the gas, then, thinking he heard a sound, took three paces toward the outer door. Something crunched beneath his booted foot. He bent down and looked. It was a bowl. A broken ch’a bowl. On a low table nearby was a pot and another bowl. He reached out and felt the side of the ch’a pot. It was still warm. Good. That meant they were definitely inside.
He crossed to the inner door and stood there a moment, listening, hearing nothing. But they were there—trapped, with no way out. Okay. It was time to end things and get out, before Security sent someone to check. He raised his gun and fired: three shots, splintering the lock. He stepped up to it and knocked it out with the gun’s stock. That should do it, he thought, bending down and peering through. And now to end it. ...
“hannah!” her father whispered urgently. “No!”
She turned and looked at him, grimacing, putting a finger to her lips. Then, turning back, she carried on, hauling herself up on top of the barricade.
Her ears rang and it was getting painful to breathe, but it could be their only chance.
She could hear footsteps in the other room, the sound of a bowl breaking beneath someone’s tread. One of them. She shivered, feeling the faintest ray of hope. There was only one of them!
Yes, but what’s he waiting for?
The footsteps went away, returned. Then there was silence. An awful, terrifying silence.
She was beginning to feel drowsy, nauseated. The gas . . . For a moment her vision blurred and she felt herself sway slightly, as if she were about to faint. Then it came clear again. As it did, there was a glint of silver just beside her knee, where the hole was. She struck. Grasping the hand that held the gun she forced it down savagely onto the splintered wood, at the same time stabbing down with the scissors. There was a groan of pain from behind the door and then a fierce tugging as the assassin struggled to get free. But Hannah had put her full weight into holding him. She knew that to release the hand was to die. The feeling was awful, the most dreadful thing she had ever experienced. She could feel the metal blade of the scissors gouging against the bones of his wrist: could feel the hot stickiness of his blood as it pumped from the ruined hand. And his groans . . .
The sound of his pain made her feel ill. A raw, grunting sound that frayed her nerves and set her teeth on edge, even as she struggled to hold him. But slowly, very slowly, she felt the hand slide from her grip.
The gas . . . She felt so weak.
The hand slipped wetly from her grasp, was gone. She rolled, knowing she had to get down, off the barricade, but it was too late. As the door above her splintered, she felt a hot wash of pain from her shoulder and knew she had been hit. There was another shot and then another.
Dead, she thought. I’m dead. But her thoughts rolled on. And in the silence that followed, it was not the God of Hell’s voice she heard calling her, but Kao Chen’s, muffled, as if from behind a mask. “Are you all right in there? Hannah! Are you all right?”
yin tsu stared at his daughter, then shook his head, beckoning his body servant across to see to him. “No . . . no, Fei Yen. You must have misheard them. Youthful high spirits, that’s all it was. You know these boys ... a drop too much of wine and all kinds of addled notions come to them.”
She stared at him, trying not to lose her temper. He hadn’t listened! He simply hadn’t heard a word she’d said to him! “No ...” he went on, smiling at her reassuringly, then turned to let his body servant remove his jacket. “I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding. I’ll speak to Yin Chan in the morning and sort it all out. I’m sure he’ll be able to clear things up. Now you go and get some rest. You must be tired—“ “Father!” she said sharply. “Listen to me! I am not imagining things, nor am I suffering from some misunderstanding. I know what I heard and it threatens all of us. All of us! Don’t you understand?” He stared at her, then went to speak again, but she wouldn’t let him. “No. You listen to me for once. Because it’s my child—your grandchild—who’ll suffer if this idiocy continues.” The old man frowned, taken aback by her outburst, then tugged at his beard. “But, my dear—“ “No buts, Father. You must act, and act decisively. You have no choice.” His head came up at that. “No choice?”
She huffed, exasperated. “Treason, that’s what we’re talking about here.
Treason, punishable by death. To the third generation.” Again he shook his head. “No . . .” But she could see she was beginning to get through to him.
“Your WU,” she said, a sudden flash of inspiration hitting her. “Consult your Wu! After all, he’s never wrong.”
His face lit up. “My Wu. Of course!”
“Then call him. Now, while the moment is upon us. Have him cast the oracle right here, for both of us to see. You’ll see. I tell you, you’ll see!” He stared at her, the smile fading slowly. Then, with a tiny nod to her, he gestured to his body servant. “Shen, fetch Master Fung. Tell him I have urgent need of his skills.”
“Master!”
He turned back, looking at her, a new seriousness in his manner. “What you heard—have you told any other of it?”
“No, Father.”
“Good.” He nodded to himself, but there was a slight sourness in his face that had not been there a moment before, as if he had come halfway to believing her in those few instants. He glanced at her again. “And if the yarrow stalks show nothing?”
She shivered, then shook her head. “The Way of Heaven is clear, Father. We mortals cannot change it.”
“No.” But when he looked away again, it was with a deeply troubled expression.
hannah sat in a chair in the corner, letting one of the medics check the dressing while the other packed up. The wound wasn’t as bad as it had first seemed. Most of the damage was superficial. Even so, her collarbone had been fractured and the pain from that had quite taken her breath. Local Security had arrived only minutes after Chen, summoned by their neighbor, and had taken brief statements from all three of them. Right now a special camera team was working through the house room by room, making a visual document of the carnage. She had glimpsed it only briefly, and then only part of it, but it was enough to confirm what she’d known instinctively—that this was a matter of the utmost seriousness. They had to tell Li Yuan.