The backhanded slap had brought clarity to her thinking. She gazed at him again. Yes, she made herself admit, it was Shaomin. She had been deceived. She was a gullible fool.
He spun her around, then seized the back of her neck. She remembered how Shaomin had always prided himself on the strength of his hands. His daily martial arts drills included smashing through layers of fiber board with the edges of his hands.
“The enemy has come here to destroy the Dong-jin,” he said. She could feel the powerful fingers burrowing into her flesh through the collar of the black utilities. “And it was you who brought them, wasn’t it.”
She didn’t answer.
The fingers tightened. “Answer me. It was you, wasn’t it?”
She tried to close her mind to the pain. She kept her silence.
“Bitch! The interrogators will make you answer. They will peel away so much of your flesh you’ll look like a skinned rat.”
Keeping one hand clamped on her neck, he shoved her toward the door. On the way out, he flipped the light switch, extinguishing the red overhead lamp. The room was plunged into darkness.
In the pathway outside the briefing room door, she was still blind. She stumbled on the hard surface, nearly suspended by the vise-like hand on her neck. She knew she was being taken to the Laogai—the dreaded place she had never seen but everyone in the PLA knew about. People who went there never came out.
She was dimly aware of the box-shaped Bei-jung parked in the pathway — the vehicle she thought looked like Shaomin’s old car. The truth struck her. Because it was Shaomin’s vehicle, you idiot. How many clues did you need?
He was holding her at arm’s length, shoving her head down so that he could stuff her into the right seat of the Bei-jung, when she caught something — a dark blur of movement in her peripheral vision.
Shaomin saw it too. He whirled, almost in time, but not quite.
Thunk. The object — she saw that it was the barrel of some kind of weapon — struck him a glancing blow on the shoulder, dropping him to his knee. Mai-ling felt the grip release on her neck as Shaomin spun to confront his attacker.
She glimpsed a figure in ninja-like utilities, blackfaced, wearing NVG. One of the commandos? Chiu?
No. She saw that he was swinging the assault rifle like a baseball bat. Mai-ling’s heart sank. Only an American klutz would do something like that. “Shoot, you idiot! Shaomin will—”
Too late. Shaomin aimed a kick at him, hitting him in the chest and knocking him backwards. The assault rifle spun out of his grip, clattering on the concrete.
Hearing the breath whoosh out of him, seeing the awkward way he fought Shaomin — she knew who it was.
Shaomin launched another kick. The man dodged, seizing Shaomin’s ankle. With the intruder clinging to his leg, Shaomin danced on one foot, yanking him around, while he drew an automatic pistol from his shoulder holster.
Mai-ling leaped on him. The three went down in a heap, writhing on the concrete, Shaomin atop the man in black, Mai-ling on Shaomin’s back, clawing and flailing at him.
The man on the bottom — she knew now it was Catfish Bass — had both hands fastened on Shaomin’s gun hand, trying to wrest the pistol from him.
With a violent lurch, Shaomin flung Mai-ling loose. Using his left hand, he swung a roundhouse blow that caught her on the side of the head, sending her rolling across the concrete.
The two men rolled over each other, still grappling for possession of the pistol. Reeling from the blow to her head, Mai-ling rose to her knees, trying to see in the darkness. Six feet away she saw the dark shape of Bass’s assault rifle.
Scuttling like a crab across the concrete, she snatched up the weapon. She jumped to her feet, training the gun on the bodies grappling on the ground. Without the NVG it was hard to see who was on top. She had to be careful. She might shoot through one and hit the other.
In the dim light she picked out the drab flight suit of Shaomin. He was the one on top, at least for the moment. They were still fighting for the pistol.
She aimed the rifle. Was it on automatic or single fire? She couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. Shoot the damned thing. See what happens.
She squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened. Damn it.
She squeezed the trigger harder. Nothing.
Was the safety on? No. She stared at the receiver mechanism, at the trigger guard, ran her hand around the barrel. It was some kind of PLA weapon that she vaguely recognized but had never fired. The magazine rattled inside the receiver as if something didn’t fit.
Why doesn’t the damned thing shoot?
She had no idea except that it was some piece-of-shit Chinese knock-off assault rifle that didn’t work. Period. Which was why Catfish Bass, the klutz, had been swinging the thing like a bat.
She heard the pistol fire.
Horrified, Mai-ling froze, still clutching the useless rifle. For a moment, neither man on the ground moved.
She saw Bass start to sit up. He stared at her for a moment with an intense, serious expression. He gasped, closed his eyes, and dropped back to the concrete.
Shaomin rose to his feet. In his eyes was something she hadn’t seen before — a gleaming that sent a chill through her. He looked at the useless rifle in her hands. Then he glanced at the body of Catfish Bass.
“Incompetent bitch. You and your gwai-lo lover would have killed me if you weren’t so stupid.” His eyes fixed on her like lasers as he raised the pistol.
Mai-ling didn’t try to escape. Better a bullet than the interrogation chamber of the Laogai. Get it over with.
She flinched as a gunshot split the air.
CHAPTER 20 — PREFLIGHT
He missed.
Damn, thought Maxwell. He was always shocked by the ferocity of the Colt .45. The muzzle flash and deep-throated boom felt like a Howitzer going off in his hand. Sparks and shattered plaster erupted from the shelter wall next to the man’s head.
From thirty feet away Maxwell fired again. Another flash, another shower of concrete and sparks from the wall behind the man.
He was a pilot or crewmember, Maxwell guessed. He was wearing a PLA flight suit and some kind of torso harness. The man had released his grip on Mai-ling. He whirled and got off a snap shot with his own pistol. Maxwell felt the 7.62 bullet whiz past his ear. After the heavy boom of the Colt, the Chinese pistol sounded like a popgun.
The man was scooting backwards toward the cover of the parked vehicle. Maxwell fired again. And missed.
Why didn’t you practice with this damn thing? He got off two more fast shots. Damn! Both went wild, spraying more concrete and sparks.
The man was backing up to the vehicle, aiming the 7.62 with both hands — when he stumbled over the body of Catfish Bass. Off balance, he lurched backwards, firing another round into space.
Maxwell followed him with the muzzle of the .45. He fired again. Sparks and a metallic twang came from the vehicle as the Glazer bullet ripped into the car’s frame.
He took a deep breath and leveled the sight of the .45. The Chinese pilot was regaining his balance, taking aim with his pistol. Squeeze. Don’t flinch. It’s your last chance.