‘And why should I care?’ Feng asked, amused. In a district the size of Hong Kong, there were literally thousands of crimes per day, most of which had nothing to do with the Fists.
‘The smuggler is Australian. We caught him at the Tsim Sha Tsui marketplace.’
‘What was he smuggling?’
‘Jade figurines from the Ming Dynasty.’
Feng’s smile vanished, and a scowl furrowed his brow. He took notice whenever foreigners committed any crime in China — from small slights to massive drug deals — but he took particular interest when a foreigner tried to rob his country’s heritage. He moved across the room, grabbed a thin black T-shirt, and slipped it over his powerful torso. ‘Where is he?’
‘We have him downstairs. Should I have him brought up for you?’
‘No,’ Feng growled. ‘We will go down.’
They rode silently to the hotel lobby and switched elevators to descend the entire distance to the sub-basement’s parking level.
The elevator opened to a clean, brightly lit lot with thick yellow lines on the ground and walls. The building had several lots, but this level was closed off for the Fists. Diagonally across from the elevator was a private office where the smuggler was being kept.
Inside the office there were three large guards in tailored suits, all standing silently around a wooden desk and chair. Chained to the desk was a scruffy Australian of nearly thirty. His eyes were sky blue and his hair an unruly mop of dirty blond curls. He was big — more than two hundred pounds of meat — although his body lacked definition.
‘Good afternoon,’ Feng said in English.
Relief filled the tourist’s face as he looked up at Feng and Lim.
‘Oh, thank God! Someone who speaks English. Listen, mate, I’m not sure what these boys have told you, but I didn’t do anything wrong. My business partner assured me that the items were paid for and our shipping permits were up to date. Obviously I can’t read the damn forms — they’re written in symbols or whatever you call those squiggly things — but I swear to you, I thought everything was legal.’
‘Is that so?’ Feng said, pondering his next move.
‘I’m telling you, mate, it’s nothing but a misunderstanding.’
Feng nodded and stuck out his hand. ‘Yes. A big misunderstanding.’
The Aussie smiled and leaned forward to shake hands with Feng, hoping upon hope that Feng was dumb enough to believe his lie, but it wasn’t meant to be. Feng struck with lightning speed, grasping the man’s wrist and twisting it with so much force that bones cracked.
The man dropped face first onto the desk, wailing in agony.
Feng continued, ‘You believed you could come to my country and steal our history. You misunderstood who the Chinese people are. We are not your playthings, your servants, your inferiors. Then again, your people descended from criminals, so I should expect no better.’
Between shouts of pain and gasps for breath, the Aussie tried to explain himself. ‘I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to disrespect you … Ahhhh! Look, just call the embassy, I’ll give everything back …’
‘You’d like us to contact your country’s consul general? To send him a message?’ Feng twisted the hand harder, and the young man screamed. Tears were literally shooting from the man’s eyes, and a thick band of yellowish snot stretched from his nostril to his mouth. Meanwhile, the rest of his face had turned a brilliant crimson from the rush of blood.
‘Yes! Please! Send him a message!’
Feng slammed the Aussie’s arm flat on the desktop and held out his free hand. One of the guards placed a gleaming meat cleaver in it without missing a beat. Then he stepped back to enjoy what he knew would happen next.
With one perfectly executed swipe, Feng brought the blade down, embedding it almost an inch into the scarred wooden desktop, separating the foreigner’s hand from his wrist. The Aussie’s choked tears sounded like a drowning victim trying to spit out seawater, as the table and floor were coated with a viscous puddle of gushing blood.
Feng picked up the severed hand and dangled it in front of the Aussie’s face. ‘I will gladly send him a message. Your hand, along with a note reminding him that foreigners are no longer welcome in the new China. You will all leave immediately — whether whole or in pieces.’
Then Feng tossed the hand to Lim as he turned for the door.
4
Jack Cobb stepped into the small café and inhaled deeply, enjoying the rich aroma of freshly baked bread that had caught his attention outside on the sidewalk. The place was tiny, but there was an open table near the bay window that overlooked the street.
His seat, much like the area itself, was perfect for his needs.
Hay was a small market town straddling the border of England and Wales. It was known far and wide as a Mecca for book lovers. With over two dozen bookshops, there was one in nearly every building in town. Additionally, every spring the community hosted the Hay Festival, a major writing event that attracted authors from around the world.
Although Cobb enjoyed reading in his downtime, it wasn’t the reason he had picked this place. He had chosen Hay because it was so far off the beaten track that it barely had any CCTV cameras on the streets, which was a rarity in the UK. Cobb always did his best to avoid cameras whenever he could, but privacy was particularly important for today’s meeting.
It needed to be confidential.
During the past year, Cobb had grown more and more suspicious of Papineau. Whether it was seeing through his lies and half-truths or doubting his real motivation for finding these treasures, Cobb knew that Papineau wasn’t the free-spending billionaire that he pretended to be. He sensed that Papineau was working for someone else — someone who preferred to stay in the shadows — and that didn’t sit well with Cobb. If he was going to continue to risk his life and the lives of his squad, he needed to know who was calling the shots.
And he needed to know now.
Cobb ordered tea and toast, then looked outside through his own reflection in the glass. He was a shade over six feet tall with short brown hair and a handsome face. For some reason, women always told him that he looked like a racecar driver. He didn’t know what that meant, but he was assured it was a compliment. Chiseled, but not bulky; people often underestimated his strength until he rolled up his sleeves and they saw the muscular definition of his forearms, with veins so thick it looked like snakes had crawled under his skin.
And yet that wasn’t his most distinguishing feature.
What stood out the most were his eyes.
They were gun-gray and piercing, so distinct that he was often forced to wear colored contacts on covert missions for fear of recognition. When he landed at Heathrow, they had been brown. Now they were hazel. After this meeting, he would wear aviator sunglasses to hide his eyes completely. Sometimes it was a pain in the ass, but he wouldn’t trade his eyes for anything.
They were his favorite feature.
As the waitress arrived with his order, Cobb saw the man he was waiting for.
Seymour Duggan ambled along the cobbled street, jauntily whistling a tune as if he were on his way to work in one of the local bookstores. Thin and nearly bald, he wore a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows. The lone splash of color in his outfit was his bright-yellow bow tie, which matched the canary-colored suspenders that were hidden under his coat.
Cobb stood as the man entered the café. ‘Good morning, Seymour.’
Duggan smiled warmly. ‘Same to you, Jack. It’s been a while.’
They shook hands like old friends before settling in at the table.
‘Would you like something to eat or drink?’