What the hell am I doing? Queensly thought wildly. This is getting way out of hand! "Let's get out of here!" he shouted. One of the bouncers took a step forward, and Queensly fired a second shot into the ceiling, sending glass spraying from a crystal-dripping chandelier. That stopped the advance, but two of the Chinese had the Russian who'd gone over the bar in their grip. The Russian sailor appeared to be dazed or unconscious. Two of his buddies started toward him, shouting at the bouncers.
That started another fight, and a wild struggle over the dazed man's body. Larimer and Ritthouser joined the fray then, knocking the Chinese away while one of the Russians slung their buddy over his shoulder and started for the stairs.
"Time to get the hell out of Dodge!" Toynbee shouted. "Come on, you guys!"
And that, Queensly thought, was an excellent idea.
But one that came too late. The Americans and Russians were moving together toward the front door when the shrill squeal of whistles sounded from outside and in the stairwell. A moment later a mix of Hong Kong police and PLA militia were spilling into the lounge, all of them with drawn weapons, their response time a little too quick to be believed.
Bennett collided with a PLA militia man, and the two struggled at the front door. The bouncers charged again, one of them straight into a chair swung roundhouse-style by Dimitri.
Someone shrieked something in Chinese, and Toyn-bee added, "Queensly! Drop the gun! Move slow!"
Queensly was suddenly aware that a half-dozen men were standing around him in a ragged semicircle, guns drawn, every weapon pointed straight at him. Moving very slowly, he put the pistol on the floor, then straightened up, hands in the air. The police closed in.
And something hard connected with the back of Queensly's skull in an explosion of light and pain and swiftly expanding darkness.
Garrett lay in bed next to Kazuko, savoring the warm, moist fragrance of her body, the warmth of her skin, the perfume of her hair spilling across the pillow. Their lovemaking had been enthusiastic and repeated, and they both floated in the pleasant, warm afterglow of close, loving sex.
"Again?" she asked him, her hand restlessly caressing.
"Jeez, give a guy a break, will you? I need some recovery time here."
"And here I thought you American sailors were always ready!"
"That's the Boy Scouts."
"No, they're always prepared. We're going to have to fortify you, give you vitamins."
"I'll give you vitamins." He nipped her playfully on the neck.
"Ah! I know. There's a drink you have to try," she told him. "An Okinawan variety of sake."
"Oh?"
"Very good for impotency."
"Hey! Who said I was impotent? I just came three times!"
"Who's counting?"
"You are, evidently. What's this Okinawan sake? I'm not much of a drinker, you know."
"Oh, you would like this. You take sake… place within it the body of a small, dead, poisonous snake—"
"Whoa, babe! You just lost me, right there! No snakes, dead or otherwise!"
"— and let it ripen for one month. The snake is completely dissolved except for the skeleton."
"And I thought doing the worm with a bottle of tequila was disgusting!"
"Doing the worm?"
"Never mind. This stuff cures impotency? I'd think it would kill you!"
"I suppose you could call it kill or cure…."
Someone pounded on the hotel room door, a heavy thump-thump-thump demanding entrance. A sharp voice barked something in Chinese outside.
"What the hell?" Garrett said. He sat up in the bed, reaching for the light.
The door opened and a small mob poured into the room. All were in civilian clothing, but their close-cropped hair and hard eyes gave them the look of military personnel. One was waving a Makarov pistol that looked government-issue, and the others had Chinese-model AKs. A maid was with them, wide-eyed and crying and holding a set of room keys; one of the men shouted at her and she fled.
Garrett rose to confront them, furious, "What the hell are—"
"Quiet! You stand! Up hands! Back of head! Now!"
Two men dragged Kazuko from the bed kicking and struggling; Garrett lunged forward, grappling with the man with the pistol. "Let her go!"
A rifle butt slammed into Garrett's back with a dizzying explosion of pain, knocking him to his knees. The one with the pistol kicked him viciously in the side. "You stand! You stand!"
One of them hit Kazuko in the face, then slammed her up against the wall, pinning her there. Rough hands dragged Garrett to his feet and shoved him into line next to her. The one with the pistol — the leader, Garrett thought — jammed the muzzle of his weapon hard up under the angle of his jaw.
They were forced to stand there, stark naked, side by side, their hands clasped behind their heads as two of the intruders proceeded to empty Kazuko's suitcase on the floor, paw through her travel case in the bathroom, and pull every drawer out of the dresser. One then produced a knife and began slicing the lining of her suitcase, ripping open seams and tearing out the pockets.
They were looking for something, obviously. Drugs? Hong Kong was the center of a flourishing trade in heroin, opium, cocaine, and most other drugs. Sometimes the Beijing authorities cracked down on the trade, but since they received a hefty share of the profits in taxes and payoffs, they more often looked the other way. Besides, Hong Kong's economic activities were supposed to be off limits to Beijing for the next forty-four years. What was their interest in a Japanese flight attendant?
And that raised another question. Who were these guys? Hong Kong police? PRC militia? PLA? Or even Intelligence? The civilian clothing argued against their being local police, and that wasn't good.
They might also be unconnected with the government at all… triad gang members engaged in a quick hit-and-run raid on some vulnerable-looking foreigners. But foreigners, Garrett knew, rarely encountered the triads unless they deliberately ventured into Hong Kong's criminal territory, getting involved in prostitution or gambling or one of the local rackets.
"What is it you want?" he said, trying to keep his voice level against the cold pressure of the pistol barrel. "Money?"
"You quiet!" the leader snapped.
"If you'll just tell us what—"
One of the other men whirled and slammed his rifle butt into Garrett's stomach. Garrett doubled over, retching. Kazuko dropped her hands from her neck and grabbed his shoulders, shouting something at the invaders in Cantonese.
Someone grabbed Garrett and hauled him upright, shoving him back hard against the wall, then ramming the muzzle of an AK against the side of his head. Another man shoved Kazuko back, holding her arms. The leader was screaming into Kazuko's face now, a barrage of Cantonese unintelligible to Garrett except for the primal message of raw fury. These guys weren't there to rob them, he realized through a haze of hurt and nausea. And this wasn't some sort of haze-the-for-eigner hassle. These guys were damn well pissed….
Kazuko tried answering in Cantonese, but the leader shouted her down. Reaching out, he roughly grabbed her left breast, squeezing hard until she yelped and swore.
Despite the gun on him, Garrett stepped forward. "Leave her alone, damn you!"
The rifle butt caught him on the back of the head this time, driving him facedown into the carpet. He heard Kazuko scream, but far off, through a black haze of red-shot numbness that threatened to engulf him.