“Very well,” Drake said. “But we’re back on the plane first thing tomorrow morning, right after the event.”
“Of course, my friend,” McKeon said. “Things will work out as they must.”
Beside him, Ran stiffened and turned away.
Chapter 54
Song stopped Quinn the moment they got out of the rain, tugging him by the sleeve toward one of the granite columns on the concrete steps outside Big Uncle’s office building. She gave him a scolding grimace as she straightened his tie. Her hair shone in the halogen lights of the covered entry, still damp after the short dash from the taxi.
Quinn rolled his eyes, surrendering to her style-police tactics. In truth, he felt as if he was being strangled.
Song stepped back to admire the dark blue suit she’d picked out for him at the Nordstrom just down from the hotel. The jacket and slacks were off-the-rack separates, but with a crisp white shirt, ebony cuff links, and the cursed gray noose of a necktie, he looked as if the entire ensemble had been tailor made. Lightweight Rockport dress shoes felt like sneakers, dressy enough for a Seattle art party with the added benefit of a grippy sole in case he needed to run.
“You clean up to be a handsome man,” she said, giving a nod of approval.
“It’s the haircut.” Quinn grinned, raising an eyebrow at Song’s minidress. It was deep purple, the color of a dark moon. “Doesn’t matter though. No one is going to notice me with you wearing that little thing.”
She ran a hand down the hip of the tight fabric for the benefit of any cameras that might be watching their approach. Big Uncle had apparently met her before, but he would have had many interactions with public officials — most of whom he would have bribed. A simple note from some former MSS contact would be unimpressive to him. It was imperative that they arouse his curiosity without getting themselves thrown out. And that’s where the dress came in. Shimmering silk, the cap sleeves, and a choker collar gave a nod to Song’s Chinese heritage. Stopping a few inches above her knee, the dress revealed a great deal of leg while leaving plenty to the imagination — not to mention the hidden knife. A half-moon cutout from the nape of her neck to well below her shoulder blades exposed the honey-colored richness of her back.
“I thought you said every girl should have a little black dress,” Quinn said, offering his arm to escort her through the door.
“And they should,” Song said. “But tonight, I don’t want to be every girl. We must stand out and be noticed.”
“You’ve got that covered,” Quinn said as they made their way across the expansive marble lobby to a bank of elevators. “You worry about Big Uncle. I’ll take care of Lok if he has any heartburn with us.”
“Lok is a bad man.” Song turned as the elevator chimed and the doors slid open. “Both of them are. But it is good to deal with truly bad men. I find it much easier to make a decision. Don’t you think?”
“You sound like my friend Jacques,” Quinn said.
“Is that a good thing?”
Quinn smiled. “That, my dear, is outstanding.”
The elevator doors slid open to the clatter of cocktail plates and buzzing chatter. Hit in the face with an overwhelming odor of alcohol, perfume, and hair products, Quinn couldn’t help but think of the gashouse in OSI Basic. Big Uncle might be a triad crime boss, but he threw quite a party. Just as Song had predicted, a sea of little black dresses dominated the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd. Paintings, pottery, and ornate handblown glass sculptures of every description lined the walls and took up valuable floor space, begging to be knocked to the floor.
“That’s him,” Song said, thirty seconds after they’d stepped into the crush of people.
“Lok or his boss?” Quinn scanned the crowd. There were art lovers from various races, but more than half the group was drawn from Seattle’s Asian population. Quinn estimated nearly two hundred people were crammed into the open gallery area that resembled the lobby of a bank with smaller, windowed offices around the outer walls.
“Big Uncle,” she said. “He is standing behind that long table of glass flowers.” She took her glasses out of the tiny beaded clutch she’d bought along with the dress and put them on long enough to scan the crowd.
“You should just wear them all the time,” Quinn said. “They flatter you.”
“Ha!” She snatched the glasses off her face and used them to point at a small group of men directly in front of Big Uncle. “And there is Lok. I did not see him at first behind that wide woman. He is one of two bodyguards within reach of Big Uncle.”
Quinn located Lok and his partner quickly. Both men wore expensive-looking suits, larger than usual, the same way Quinn’s OSI suits were cut to conceal a weapon — or two. Lok was maybe ten years younger than Quinn — which seemed the case for everyone he fought nowadays — with a puffed chest and thick arms that filled the suit. The second man was even younger with a buzz cut and neatly trimmed goatee. This one’s left arm floated away from his side a fraction farther than his right. Quinn guessed he was wearing a shoulder holster under the suit jacket.
“Big Uncle knows me,” Song said, tentatively, as if trying to convince herself. “Once he sees I am not here to arrest him, he should tell his guards to stand down.”
“That would be nice,” Quinn said, though he knew things rarely ever turned out that way for him. “I’ll keep an eye on Lok. You focus on the kid with the goatee.”
It was not wise to underestimate strong men like this, especially when they were armed. But there was the strength of youth and the strength of knowing what to do in the moment. Quinn still had a relatively good amount of the first and a whole lot of the latter.
He wasn’t worried until Song barged forward, shoving her way through the crowd toward the triad boss and his bodyguards as if they owed her money.
Big Uncle glanced up from his chat with a lithe blonde and locked eyes with Song. Almost imperceptibly, he maneuvered to the left, using the woman as a human shield. Lok caught his boss’s sudden flutter and threw Quinn a pick-on-someone-your-own-size sneer.
Quinn came up on the balls of his feet, lightening his center so he could move quickly. Song peeled off, homing in on Goatee. Good girl, Quinn thought. At least she’d heard him — or was smart enough to see what needed to be done.
Lok was confident enough in his size and physical prowess that he waited a fraction of a second too long to make his move. Quinn caught a glimpse of a pistol on the left side of the bodyguard’s belt, grip facing forward — a cross draw.
Lok’s ponytail flipped as he canted his head, sizing up his opponent. Quinn kept coming, picking up speed while calling Lok by name as if they were lifelong friends. He waved, lifting his hand to where it was even with the point of Lok’s shoulder. The bodyguard’s hand dropped, reaching across his body at belt level, indexing the pistol — but he was too late.
Shielded by the crowd of party guests, Quinn stepped in close. He kept both hands open and his body centered, low in his belly. A wicked right snapped hard against the forearm of Lok’s gun hand, disrupting the man’s movement but not disabling him. Rolling one hand over the other as if playing a child’s game, Quinn followed up with an immediate left, catching Lok hard above the elbow, knocking the arm straight and directing it well away from the sidearm. Another lightning-fast right, left, right combination hammered the bicep as Quinn worked up the arm and stepped across with a powerful right elbow across the bodyguard’s jaw. It was over before it had even begun and Quinn caught him as he sagged.