Point of Contact

59

Jack’s phone rang again. “Gav, I’m a minute out.”

“I know, I’m tracking you.”

“How?”

“Your phone.”

“Yeah, duh. What do you need?”

“Wanted to give you a heads-up. This isn’t a goose chase after all. These Bulgarians or whoever they are really are after Paul.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ll patch you in.” Gavin punched a few buttons on his end. Jack heard voices speaking in German over the Audi’s car audio system.

“What am I listening to?”

“I hacked into the van’s onboard Safety Connect, Toyota’s version of OnStar. We’re listening to them live.”

“What are they saying?”

“They’re supposed to go in and grab Paul in the next five minutes.”

“You speak German?”

“I have streaming translation software. Ninety-two percent accurate. I think I’m hearing just two distinct voices.”

Jack shut off his headlights as he made his final turn off Geylang Road and onto the narrow one-lane where the van’s GPS signal was located. He was passing old two- and three-story buildings with crumbling colonial façades in fading pastel colors. The Geylang district was the seediest part of Singapore, but it was still a whole lot better than the nicer parts of some of the Third World shitholes he’d been to over the years.

“So where’s Paul?”

“The transcript says the Pink Lily.”

“Sounds like a whorehouse.”

“According to an Ohio soccer mom on TripAdvisor, you’re in Singapore’s red-light district. Room three thirty-one. About five hundred yards ahead.”

One of the German voices barked a command, followed by thunking sounds.

“What was that?” Jack asked.

“They’re out of the vehicle, heading for Paul!”

Jack snapped the lights back on and gunned the Audi’s 220-horsepower turbo. The all-wheel-drive Quattro transmission kept it from spinning out as the speedometer passed 100 kilometers per hour four seconds later. But the narrow street was crowded on both sides by parked cars. The Audi hit standing water and hydroplaned. Sparks exploded when his right side-view mirror sheared off. He jerked the wheel and the Audi’s front bumper crashed into a green plastic dumpster left in the street, launching a shower of garbage onto the sidewalk.

Jack slammed on his brakes, screeching to a halt in a spray of water behind the Toyota van parked across from the “hotel”—a pale pink three-story building with PINK LILY on its sign. The street-front door was pushed open.

Jack charged out of the Audi and through the rain toward the door, his boots splashing in the puddles. He bounded onto the stairs, taking three at a time. He used the banisters to round the corners faster, and hit the third-floor landing winded but furious. A glance right down the hallway yielded nothing, but a glance left showed an open door and there was the sound of crashing furniture.

Jack bolted for the open door. He arrived just as the unibrowed Bulgarian backhanded Paul across the face. The blond German turned in shock at Jack’s appearance and reached inside his coat pocket, but Jack was faster with his fist and he cracked the smaller man’s jaw with a straight-armed punch, sending him to the floor, out cold.

The Bulgarian turned as Jack’s blow landed on the German’s jaw. He crashed hard into Jack, knocking him against the wall, smashing a cheap picture frame with a blue-armed Vishnu smiling behind the glass. The big Bulgarian grabbed Jack by the lapel of his coat with his left hand and cocked his right arm back, aiming the biggest fist Jack had ever seen at his face. The thick, hairy knuckles launched like a meat hammer at Jack’s head, but Jack diverted the blow with a swipe of his left hand, sending the man’s fist into the wall with a sickening crunch.

The man still had Jack’s lapel bunched in his left fist, and his heavy right arm was pressed against Jack’s face, pinning his head against the wall. Too tied up to throw a decent punch, Jack reached for his front pants pocket and pulled out his weapon of last resort, driving the tip of the stainless-steel Zebra pen deep into the soft tissue of the big man’s lower jaw. The Bulgarian howled, clawing at the pen as he stumbled backward, his eyes wide with panic as Jack landed a kick to the side of his head, knocking him out.

“He’s bleeding out,” Paul said, rubbing the side of his reddened face.

Jack was still trying to catch his breath. He knelt close to the Bulgarian, careful not to put his knee in the pooling blood. “He’s dead.”

Jack pulled the pen out of the Bulgarian’s jaw and wiped it off on the man’s shirt. He saw Paul’s disgusted look. “Can’t leave evidence behind.” He stood.

Paul took a step back into the small kitchen opening to the postage stamp — sized living room. “Who the hell are you, Jack?”

Jack frown-smiled. “You know who I am. I came here to find you.” He fished around in his pocket and pulled out Paul’s phone. Tossed it to him as a peace offering. “Thought you might need this.”

“Who sent you?”

“Nobody sent me. Look, we need to get out of here.”

Paul fiddled with his phone. He didn’t look up. “What about him?”

Jack stepped over to the German, felt for a pulse. Couldn’t find one. He wasn’t completely surprised. It was a perfectly thrown punch, the momentum of his two-hundred-pound frame propelling his fist like a mortar round into the smaller man’s jaw. A half-step shorter jab and the man would still be breathing.

“He’s gone.” Jack reached into the man’s coat and pulled out a 9x18mm Makarov pistol. He showed it to Paul. “Soviet version of the Walther.”

Paul glanced up from his phone, puzzled. He pocketed it. “Looks familiar. Can I see it?”

“You know how to handle one?”

“My dad was a cop.” Paul took the small pistol in his beefy hands and cleared the chamber while Jack searched the Bulgarian, his back to Paul.

Jack’s fingers gripped a pistol in the Bulgarian’s shoulder holster. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Why did Rhodes send you, Jack?”

“I told you, no one sent me—”

The pain exploding in the back of Jack’s skull cut his sentence short.