His companions were the grist of the slave sale, snoring in drugged sleep or sitting in the corners of their cages with eyes full of fog, blinking little, breathing shallowly, zoned out.
This is no way to treat an honored guest, Gabriel thought.
A case-hardened padlock secured his cell; sadly, Gabriel had neglected to pack his secret agent kit. In any event he had been body-searched down to seams and naked skin before being remanded to Red Eagle’s custody. He presumed narcotics came next.
He wondered if Qi had gotten out.
Thinking about her, he realized this was how Qi had begun, perhaps in this very room. He might even be tenanting her old cage. This was the place that had set the path for her whole life.
One cage over, Gabriel saw the doll-eyed twelve-year-old, barely cognizant of her surroundings. She hummed softly and twirled her hair as though she had been left too long to simmer in a madhouse.
From his restricted vantage he could see another prisoner who reminded him very much of Qi—a ruined shadow version of her, same age and same general comportment. The woman was sleeping, or feigning sleep to avoid seeing where she was or attracting the attention of her captors.
It is a general rule of the flesh trade that high profit resides in the tarting up of what is, at heart, rather rude raw material. When up for bids in the open air, the girl would look heartbreaking, done up to entice you to save or pervert her. She would be a dazzling, powerful temptress. Between shows, however, they were all cast back into this dungeon to live like animals.
“Gabriel. You are…Gabriel,” said a voice.
He looked up, expecting a jailor or tormentor.
That is the fresh fighter. Called Jin Huáng, for our purposes, Ivory had said. Chinese for ‘yellow’ or ‘golden.’
“Yellow” for her hair, Gabriel realized, seeing it now for the first time. It had been shorn, military style, to within a quarter-inch of her scalp, as he could observe now that her fighting mask was off. New wounds on her face, from the pit. One eye crusted with blood from a hard hit. The green gaze of her other eye opaque with some cocktail of drugs in her system.
But it was Mitch Quantrill, live in the flesh, back from the dead, incontrovertibly standing there in front of him.
Chapter 13
Imagine you are in another country.
One where you cannot speak the indigenous languages, know no one local, are unfamiliar with the grid, and through no fault of your own, stick out like a hangnail on a sore thumb.
You obviously do not belong here.
And it is only a matter of time before some grown-up, some authority figure, strolls in and asks what the hell you think you’re doing.
So—what do you do?
Further imagine that after fewer than 24 hours on this alien planet, you have met the person who objectifies your hatred…and failed to kill him.
That during a mad popper-party of shooting, screams and panic, you may have caught a transient glimpse of an old ally from home—a glimpse so fleeting that it might have been a hallucination of wish-fulfillment.
But you cannot pause to debate that information because you have gained a new benefactor, a sharp Asian woman who knows how to deal with gunfire.
Your brain, playing mind tricks on you, gives you another flashpop look at the man you think you know, but already your mind is confusing the new helper with the old helper, and the endorphins are flooding because you are in wild retreat and have just stopped a bullet.
Stupid, careless, getting tagged like that.
None of this matters because in one stuttered, brokenfilm eyeblink of time, you’re facedown in a freezing, fast-flowing river with a bullet in your shoulder.
Now imagine what your last thoughts might be.
Sorry, Val. Sorry, Lucy. Sorry, everybody. I could not save anyone, or change a single bad thing. I have disappointed every person with whom I have ever come in contact.
But strong hands fish you from the black maw of the water, telling you no one should die so ignominiously just for the sake of being dead. And your dying mind agrees that this, in fact, is a reasonable point of view.
So—what do you do?
You try to answer the question your rescuer has posed to you.
Where is Qingzhao Wai Chiu?
You say: Dead, I think. I’m not certain.
The rescuer says: Are you certain of anything?
Then he says: It is true that if I had needed to kill you, you would be dead. My offer still stands. I can show you a way out. No police. No adversaries.
But first there is the tiny matter of digging his own bullet out of your shoulder.
This is accomplished in an apartment…somewhere…an identity-less box, a clean and welllighted place, as Hemingway might have said. A window offers a choice view of Shanghai nightlife, far below.
You find yourself naked in an old-fashioned bucket shower, an anomaly in this modern place. You remember a water dipper. Stitches. Candlelight. A bowl of noodles. You’re disconnected, but ravenous. Ninety percent of your identity seems to have astral-projected out of your body and gone somewhere else, and you have a quick thought about the pharmaceutical painkillers that are probably coursing through your system along with the soup.
Then you forget the thought.
There is a saying in China, Noodle Man tells you. “The heat of anger burns only the angry.”
Great, you think. Did you read that on a fortune cookie?
The fortune cookie was invented in America, Noodle Man tells you with a total lack of irony.
Ivory, you remember. This person is called Ivory. He even introduced himself to you, back at the casino.
I need to express my sympathy, Ivory tells you. For your sister. Is it your intention to avenge her death?
Dumb question.
I did not participate, Ivory tells you. Romero, Chino, some of the others used her very badly. Cheung ordered it. I am far from innocent. It saddens me still.
Spare me, you think. This man Ivory consorts with Valerie’s murderers.
Unless he is lying about his own negligence or blameworthiness.
You feel you have begun something, Ivory tells you. A process in which you are trapped, and you feel a misguided urge to see it through to some end. The end can only be catastrophic for you. Do you see that?
Your brain tries to frame a counterargument but your thoughts are leaking out, wino-bagged in a sieve. Some drug in your blood is definitely messing with you.
Would you leave China now, if you had the chance? Ivory asks you.
So—what do you do?
It becomes very important for you to say the word NO. Aloud. Repeatedly.
Shanghai can be a very dangerous place. You are not sure if Ivory says this, or if you just think it. Fifty-fifty.
The drugs keep your brain drunk but your reflexes vital and threat-responsive, you discover later. Most likely, the prescription changed.