Jack ran over and kicked the gun out of his hand as the last gasp shuddered out of his body.
Alex ran toward the pier, and Jack ran after her, clipping his detective’s shield to his jacket.
The new round of gunshots had distracted the old man.
Mona brought her hand out of the shoulder bag with the Chinatown souvenir letter opener in her grasp.
The last thing the old man saw clearly as he turned was the flash of something metallic in her hand, a spike, he thought, as she plunged it into his eye. His snarl froze on his mouth. The sudden pain shocked him. Blood streamed down his face. He staggered forward, his brain shortcircuiting, chi seen, howling as he yanked the dagger from his eye.
There were police cruisers wheeling in, and a fierce commotion near the end of the pier. The two goons from the minivan waited by the access road, ready to block the way.
“Alex!” Jack yelled, knowing this time he had two shots left in the Colt. She froze as a tall white man in plainclothes suddenly ran up yelling, “Police! SPD!” then lowering the gun in his hand when he saw Jack’s badge.
“NYPD!” Jack yelled back as they sprinted together toward the pier, a barking, panting exchange running between them.
“Detective Yu, I presume!”
“Right! You’re Detective Nicoll?” Jack noted the man’s chiseled features, the trim mustache.
“From a red ball to a tong war, brother!” Nicoll said, grinning.
Alex trailed behind them as they ran.
His grip never loosened even through the extreme agony and her fierce screams that filled his ears. She felt a searing pain from her wrist, as if the red bangle were on fire, burning her. She mustered what strength she had left and violently ripped herself free from him. She hardly noticed that something had loosened through the air, that part of his sleeve had gone limp. She bolted in a near-panic toward the water, stopping dead, gasping, when she came to the tenfoot plunge at the edge of the pier.
The old man willed himself onward, stumbling into the grasp of the thug in the boat. The thug then leapt onto the pier, going for Mona. She was already backed up to the edge, breathless, trying to shake off her dizziness from the blows that had pounded her head.
Flashing lights rolled across the boardwalk entrance. People, and running uniforms, yelling things in English.
The thug took several steps in her direction.
Save me, kwoon yum, Goddess of Mercy! She took three deep breaths before stepping off the pier, letting herself fall.
At the access road, a squad of SPD uniforms had bagged the two Chinese from the minivan. There was no one in sight down the long length of the pier. When Jack and Alex got to the end, there was only the sound of waves and the distant churning of motor boats across the bay.
“Gone,” Alex said in disbelief. “All gone.”
“A woman went into the water,” Jack informed Nicoll. “And maybe a man, as well.” They stared into the dark water beneath the pier as Alex gave Jack a napkin to sop up the blood clogging his ear.
“Harbor Patrol will pick up anyone in the water,” Nicoll offered.
“Was a boat here?” Jack asked aloud.
“Coast Guard can check that out, too,” advised Nicoll.
The three of them scanned the surface of the bay, looking for a body, clothing, something. All they saw were a couple of dead birds and the usual debris, shards of driftwood, a plastic soda jug.
The Seattle cops were out in force now, cordoning off the place where Jack had left two men dead.
“Did she witness any of that?” Nicoll nodded toward Alex.
“Unfortunately,” Jack answered hesitantly.
“We’ll need a statement from her,” indicated Nicoll. He escorted Alex back along the pier toward the uniforms securing the scene.
Looking south down the waterways, Jack saw Harbor Island, and Duwamish beyond that. Northward lay an endless waterfront of piers, green parks, and commercial landings. Directly before him was the wide expanse of Elliott Bay, with freighters and ferries and assorted pleasure craft plying the frigid waters in every direction.
But no woman, and no man. No Paper Fan.
Jack checked the edges of the pier and saw a small dark stain on the wet planking. Upon closer inspection he saw it was dark red: a smear of blood. He stepped carefully, seeing several more tiny droplets that led to a pair of bollards.
Beside the bollards he saw what appeared to be a human hand attached to some kind of elastic strap. A man’s hand, he thought, smeared with blood. The fingers were clenched around something red. Jack could see a curved fragment of a red bangle caught in its grasp. Examining the broken piece, he wondered if the unusual color was the result of its being covered in blood. In the rain, it felt slick. The bangle had broken clean through but the blood-red color held fast when he rubbed it.
He took out his plastic camera and snapped a few shots of the hand and the broken bangle. The hand felt heavier than he thought a prosthetic hand should, and he wondered if there were metal joints within.
He put it back near the bollard before advising the crime scene techs to bag it.
When he got to the turnoff, he saw that one of the SPD uniforms had found the knife more than twenty yards from where Alex had flung it. It had bounced and skidded along the concrete until it stopped beside the driver’s door of a parked car. It was a tantō-style Japanese blade but with a serrated edge.
Watching them bag it as evidence, Jack felt chills thinking that the eight-inch razor-sharp blade was meant for his neck.
Alex leaned on the Dumpster with her fist against her chin, looking toward the bay. It had taken her a half hour to tell, and retell, her story. Jack could see the fatigue in her eyes, could hear the drag in her voice when she said, “I’m sorry, Jack. I’ve got to get back to the hotel, to catch an evening flight back.”
“Can I get one of the uniforms to drive you?” Jack asked.
“No, it’s all right,” she declined. “I’ve got to return the car anyway.”
“Sorry for the craziness,” he said, giving her a big hug. She responded with a gentle kiss to his cheek, and he felt awkward, knowing she had to have the missing woman on her mind.
“Call me when you get back,” she said.
“Sure,” he answered.
“Promise,” she insisted, knowing his police work always came first.
“Okay, promise,” he repeated, watching her go as Nicoll took possession of the bags of evidence.
“These two are done,” Nicoll said as CSU finished photographing the bodies.
Jack recounted events to Detective Nicoll, explaining how he’d tailed the men in the two vehicles, and how they tried to stop him from getting to the woman.
Dead on the wet concrete pavement was the big nunchakuwielding man, with wounds to the upper chest and shoulder, and two closely spaced gut shots, courtesy of Jack, for trying to stab him in the back. He had a driver’s license in his pocket that identified him as Shi Man Chun, from San Francisco. Jack could still feel the welts on his shoulder.
The other dead man was the big guy’s partner, who’d fancied himself a ninja assassin. Jack had drilled two hollow points into his chest that ripped out his back and shredded his rain jacket. One shot had missed, but the last one tore through his eye and blew out the back of his head. A puddle of blood was spreading in the rain.
He definitely wasn’t assassinating anyone anymore.
Fuck him, Jack thought. He tried to kill me but I beat him to the punch. Deal. Next.
In his pockets they found keys, a small sum of cash, and an international telephone calling card. There was a New York driver’s license that identified him as Tsai Ming Hui, rubber-banded together with several business cards. One of the cards was from a Hong Kong law firm, Wo Sun Partners, with a Tsim Sha Tsui address. Another card represented a New York firm, Chi and Chong, Esq., located on East Broadway. The last card was from a Mong Kok Jewelers Association. What surprised Jack was the name scrawled across the back of the New York lawyer’s card: SHELDON LITTMAN. Next to it was the Chinese word TONG. It made clear who was paying Shelly high legal fees.