Point of Contact

51

Jack spotted a nearly full dumpster on a construction site and hobbled over to it. He climbed up onto it and found what he was looking for — a rag and an empty cardboard box. He used the rag to wipe the blood off his hand and tossed the rag into the box, folded up the lid, and stuffed the box under a piece of gypsum board. Jack went to the other side of the dumpster and shoved the wrench into a length of PVC pipe, then stuck a piece of insulation in after it and buried it under some trash, along with the Dalfan catalog. In a perfect world he would have destroyed the evidence that could put him in jail for life — or worse — but he was out of time and his options were few.

He abandoned the dumpster and crossed the street, checking his Uber app. The blue dot rumbling toward him was scheduled to arrive in three minutes. He double-checked himself to make sure there wasn’t any more blood on him or any other hint that he’d left four dead bodies in a warehouse just down the street. Bad enough that he looked like a half-drowned homeless man. No point in adding a serial-killer accent to the ensemble.

The bodily inventory reminded him that he’d been damn lucky tonight. Except for the sore arm where the bat had grazed him, he was relatively unscathed. Those hundreds of hours of backbreaking, muscle-cramping combat training drilled into him by Clark and Ding had kicked in as soon as he shut out the fear and the noise and let the fight happen. In fact, it was the combat training that allowed him to shut it all out.

Like Clark always said, the game is won on the practice field, before the game even starts.

The fight itself was savage and quick, like most fights are — not like in the movies, where the hero takes a dozen haymaker punches to the face and just keeps going. In real life, Rocky would’ve been in a coma after his big fight and never made it to the sequel, let alone another bout.

But there was still luck involved. All of his training and preparation couldn’t overcome the million things that can go wrong in something as unstructured as close-quarters combat. A wild punch, a slippery patch of oil, a bat swung a second earlier. Anything and everything could have gone wrong. In real fights it usually did. But tonight it all went his way. Next time he might not be as lucky.

And sure as hell, there would be a next time. This was the life he chose. Duty, honor, country.

Come what may.

The Kia’s windshield wipers couldn’t keep up with the downpour. Daniel Lim, the Uber driver — a long-haired college junior studying logistics, he told Jack, with glasses as thick as the windshield — cursed the water-blurred red lights in the windshield. A traffic jam from hell.

“Stupid drivers! Just a little rain!” He pounded the horn.

The blaring horn shot through Jack like an electric shock. The Tylenol he’d chewed had taken some of the edge off his headache, but not all of it. He needed the kid to calm down.

“I heard on the radio last night a cyclone had formed in the Java Sea. Is that what’s causing this?”

“Cyclone one, very low level. No worries for us! Lah,” Daniel said. “Just a big storm. Lots of rain.”

“And the rain is causing all the traffic?”

“Maybe. More like nervous. If the storm gets too big, big problems. Lots of flooding.” He pushed his glasses back up on his nose and hit the horn again, cursing.

Jack knew the Uber driver was paid only based on the destination, not time spent in the car like a regular taxi. It’s one of the reasons the gig-service was so popular.

“Look, Daniel. I know it’s taking us a long time to get to my place. I’ll pay you double for your trouble. So don’t worry about anything, okay?”

The driver whipped around, a big smile on his thick lips. “Okay! Thanks! It helps a lot.” He looked at Jack again. “You sure you okay?”

Jack could only imagine what he looked like, soaked to the bone, unshaven, and roughed up. He pointed at the windshield. “Better keep your eyes on the road.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

They crawled along for a few more minutes. Jack used the time to send Gavin an encrypted text message, along with photos and fingerprints of the men he’d just killed.

Up ahead, Jack saw police emergency lights flashing on the side of the road. The right lane was closed. Bright red flares burned. Between wiper blade swipes, Jack made out two cars crunched together. Traffic tried to merge left, including Daniel.

“Stupid drivers make a big wreck! Lah.”

“Any chance that cyclone will reach Singapore?” Jack asked.

“Here? No way. A cyclone can’t reach here. We’re on the equator. There isn’t a Coriolis effect. That’s what makes the winds spin like a funnel. Typhoons and cyclones can’t form below five degrees north or south latitude. Singapore is one-point-three-five latitude north. No problem.”

“That’s good to know.”

Daniel rolled down his window, and flapped an arm and cursed at a Lexus that wouldn’t let him in. His face and his arm got soaking wet. The Lexus finally let him in. He merged over. He wiped his face with one hand.

“You know a lot about weather,” Jack said, still trying to be friendly — and calm the kid down. But he did seem to know a lot for an Uber driver.

“I have a minor in meteorology. Fascinating subject.”

“That’s cool.”

“Cool, sure. But no jobs in weather. That’s why I study logistics.”

The traffic stopped again. A Singapore policewoman blocked their lane while she waved a tow truck up. Daniel turned around, frowning.

“Vamei. I forgot about Vamei.”

“What’s ‘Vamei’?”

“In 2001, Typhoon Vamei formed at one-point-four degrees latitude north. Came crashing into Singapore. Very bad.”

“I thought you said cyclones couldn’t form below five degrees north.”

“They can’t. But Vamei did! Lah.”

Jack frowned.

“No worries! Java Sea is south, not north. No typhoons. You’ll see. Just a little rain!”

“You’re the meteorologist.” It suddenly struck Jack that he hadn’t stayed in touch with Paul. He was probably worried. He hit Paul’s contact number.

“Hullo?”

“Paul, it’s me, Jack. Sorry if I woke you.”

“No problem. What time is it?”

“Late.”

“Where are you?”

“On the way home. Don’t wait up.”

“Everything okay?”

Jack thought about telling him everything, but what would be the purpose? He’d just killed four men and for all that blood didn’t find anything. And nearly getting killed in a stolen vehicle? All telling Paul everything would do is blow his cover with him — a clear and useless violation of his status with The Campus. So he lied.

“Yeah, everything’s okay. We’ll talk later.” Jack hung up.

By the time they slowed to a stop on the street behind Jack’s guesthouse, the traffic had disappeared and the rain had let up quite a bit.

“See? No cyclone!” Daniel said, as Jack tapped on his Uber app, adding a tip that doubled Daniel’s fare.

“Maybe you should be a meteorologist after all.”

“No way. No jobs.” Daniel checked the tip. “Hey, thanks for that. It helps a lot. School ain’t cheap.”

“My pleasure. Thanks for the ride.”

“You need another ride, you send for me, okay?”

“A ride or a weather report, I’ll be calling you.”

Daniel beamed. “Okay!”

Jack hobbled toward the neighbor’s backyard fence as Daniel sped away, his tires hissing on the wet asphalt.

Jack heard Paul before he saw him. His bedroom door was cracked open. Paul was snoring again. Jack shuffled down the hall just to make sure. Paul was on top of his bed, arms splayed wide, mouth agape, a rivulet of drool sliding down his cheek.

Jack shook his head, smiling, and headed for his bedroom. He was wet, sore, and filthy. Time for a hot shower.

Except he was too damned tired.

He barely managed to strip off his wet clothes before crawling into bed. He passed out as soon as his throbbing head hit the pillow.