No, what he felt was just an extension of schadenfreude, that secret, private pleasure everyone feels — but that most people are disinclined to acknowledge — when they see other people fail or suffer.
Philosophers and ethicists have identified the universality of this feeling; he simply allowed himself to feel what was natural to our species. And why should he take pride in that? Or conversely, feel any shame?
In a sense, since he embraced his natural tendencies and instincts so unreservedly, he was more fully, more completely human than those who live in denial of who they would be if only they were to give free rein to their deepest, most primal human desires and fantasies. Or, in other words, if they allowed themselves to truly be what evolution had shaped and intended them to be from the beginning — the planet’s most cunning, calculating, ruthless predators.
Now, as Agent Jiang approached the car, he slipped down in the backseat, out of sight. To his advantage, the windows were tinted, which was part of the reason he’d chosen this approach when he decided to go after her.
He had skills, and picking the lock to get inside hadn’t been difficult. Neither had it taken him long to disable the horn and the GPS.
Though it was by no means his preference, he was prepared to take care of things here if he needed to. He was very particular about his knives and had his limited-edition Benchmade 42-101 Gold Class Bali-Song butterfly knife with him. Really, however, he was hoping to just get her unconscious, and then transport her back to the apartment, where he could take his time with her.
He was partial to intestines, and he liked them fresh and warm, so he would keep her alive throughout the night — perhaps longer, depending on how everything played out. He figured he would probably enjoy her for at least twelve hours before he let her expire.
He was looking forward to her lungs too.
Those were always a close second.
Tomorrow he would leave her remains on Bowers’s doorstep. It would serve as a small recompense for the thirteen years he’d stolen from him. It wasn’t by any means a fair trade, but these types of things could never be balanced so metaphysically as that. In any case, he decided that after Agent Jiang was dead, he would call things even and go his own way.
No hard feelings.
But the hunt wouldn’t be over. He knew that much. For Bowers, the hunt would never be over.
So there was fun in that too. In the chase.
The driver’s door lock beeped as Agent Jiang remotely unlocked it. He tightened his grip on the ends of the leather belt in his hands.
He’d never chosen this method before, never tried to strangle someone into unconsciousness in exactly this manner. It would be a delicate balance between making her pass out and damaging her windpipe so much that she died on the spot. After all his years of lifting weights he knew he needed to be careful so that he didn’t kill her too quickly. Then after she blacked out he would administer the drugs that would keep her unconscious while he took her back to his place.
The door opened and she settled into the front seat.
The instant she closed the door he sat up, flipped the belt in a loop around her neck, and slid the free end through the buckle, encircling both her neck and the base of the headrest.
He cinched it tight.
There.
He yanked hard, and with her airway closed off, she couldn’t gasp for breath, let alone call for help, and it was almost remarkable how quietly she was choking.
Yes.
Looking into the rearview mirror, he could see her clutch at the belt with her left hand as she tried desperately to jam her fingers beneath the leather to pull it away far enough to get a breath. She turned her head to the side to try and beat the choke, but he snugged the belt tighter to make sure that wasn’t going to happen.
Ten, fifteen seconds and she would be out. Twenty at the most.
In order to free up his hands, he secured the belt by buckling the clasp through one of the holes he’d punched into the leather, then reached past her and tilted the rearview mirror so he could watch her as she passed out.
She really was beautiful. Yes, he was going to enjoy working on her.
Farther up the road, Special Agent Bowers was pulling away in his Jeep, and it lent a touch of sad irony to the moment — as Lien-hua faded into unconsciousness she was actually watching her lover, the only one who could save her, drive away, undoubtedly thinking that she was safe and sound in her car.
Apart from a few parked cars down the way, there were no other vehicles on the road, no one else was going to help her.
As she fought for breath, he leaned forward and gently stroked her perfect cheek with the back of his fingers. “Just relax, Lien-hua.” He touched a strand of hair away from her eye. “It’ll be over in a few seconds.”
He could see that she was growing weaker, still trying futilely to breathe, still grasping at the belt with her left hand, but struggling less against the inevitable.
Yes, she was using her left hand to try to free herself.
Her left hand.
But not both hands.
All at once, he realized that something didn’t fit. She was right-handed, he knew that already—
Then her right elbow jutted out to the side, almost like a delicate wing, and a split second too late, he knew what she had done.
He was flipping out his butterfly knife to finish her when he heard the gunshot, saw the back of the seat puff open, felt fire slice through both his side and his back where the bullet had entered and then exited his torso.
Positioning the edge of the blade against the front of her neck, he was about to slice her throat, but he didn’t need to after all, because her arms dropped to her sides and her head dipped forward as she slipped into unconsciousness.
He retrieved her gun, left the belt in place around her neck, and folded up his knife, then stepped out of the car and gazed up and down the road.
No one. Bowers was gone. The road was empty.
He waited a few more seconds just to make sure Agent Jiang wasn’t faking it, then he opened the driver’s door and loosened the belt. As he removed it, her body slumped limp and helpless against the steering wheel.
He felt her pulse to make sure he wouldn’t need to resuscitate her and found that she was indeed still alive.
Good.
Warm blood was quickly spreading in a widening red stain across his shirt. The bullet had entered just below his ribs. Because of his interests, he knew anatomy quite well and calculated that the wound wouldn’t be life-threatening, but it would need to be treated.
Gently, he wrapped the belt around his own abdomen to cover the bullet’s entrance and exit wounds and tightened it enough to stem the bleeding until he could get to the apartment and stitch it up.
He produced the hypodermic needle and injected the Propotol into Agent Jiang’s neck.
With the gunshot wound in his side, moving her into the passenger seat took longer than he would have liked and it hurt terrifically, but he kept from wincing. Thirteen years in prison had taught him how to handle pain, and he had been hurt worse than this before.
He duct-taped her ankles and her thighs together, then bound her wrists behind her back, just in case she did by some chance awaken before he reached the apartment. He didn’t think she was the kind of woman to scream for help or beg for mercy, so he didn’t bother to gag her.
Positioning himself behind the wheel, he pulled onto the road and left for the apartment in southeast DC where he would be spending the night with his old friend Patrick Bowers’s lovely fiancée.