Backfire

55

Skyline Motel

El Cerrito, California, east of the Richmond Bridge

Wednesday afternoon

Xu was trying to sleep, but it was hard, since he felt like crap. After leaving Dr. Chu’s clinic yesterday afternoon, he’d barely made it across the Richmond Bridge and was glad to find this hole-in-the-wall motel near the highway. He wished he’d made it farther, but it was impossible, not until he was stronger. He had not taken enough oxycodone to kill his pain entirely because he couldn’t allow himself to get completely helpless. It was what a stupid man would do, and he hadn’t survived by being stupid. He would make peace with the grinding pain.

Xu knew what this pain would be like, since he’d been shot once before. One of his trainers in the army compound outside Beijing had accidentally shot him in the leg, the blind moron. He remembered his trainer Mr. Yeung had actually cried over him, which was the only reason Xu hadn’t tried to kick his stomach through his backbone.

His arm would heal, Dr. Chu had assured him several times, and he’d be well enough to fly anywhere in three or four days. Xu knew from his other gunshot wound that he wouldn’t have full use of his arm for several months. At least the bullet hadn’t shattered any bones on its way out of his arm.

Dr. Chu had known not to ask what had happened when Xu showed him his wound and his gun. He’d calmly sent his office staff home before he ushered Xu into one of the clinic exam rooms, helped him out of his blood-soaked jacket and his shirt, and settled him on the examining table. He’d asked absolutely nothing while he’d worked on him, but Dr. Chu had known. The doctor had given him intravenous morphine and Versed. Xu had watched him as he began silently cleaning out and suturing his wound. Xu had floated away, only vaguely aware of what Dr. Chu was doing. He remembered lying stretched out on Dr. Chu’s examining table until he thought he could drive safely. He’d asked to take a Windbreaker with him he’d seen on a hanger in a hallway, and Dr. Chu had helped him put it on. It was large enough to fit over his arm without too much pain and zip over the bandage, since his shirt wasn’t salvageable. Dr. Chu had told him to wait while he brought him antibiotics and pain meds from his office. He hadn’t realized Xu had followed him down the hallway and could hear him speaking.

He heard Dr. Chu say, “I need to speak to the police about the fire at the Fairmont today. I know what happened.”

Xu had no time for thought. He’d stepped into the small office, aimed his Beretta at Dr. Chu, who heard him and looked up and threw the phone at him as Xu pulled the trigger. Xu watched him slide down behind his desk. He heard a voice on the phone saying, “Sir, who is this? What do you want again? You said you knew about the Fairmont fire?”

Xu hung up the phone, took some antibiotics and oxycodone, and walked out of the clinic.

It was too bad about Dr. Chu. Xu appreciated what the doctor had done for him. The doctor was collateral damage, and he’d still be alive if he’d had better judgment.

The FBI knew who he was and knew what he looked like; they had to, since they’d found him, probably through Cindy. He’d been too late after all. His passport and his visa were useless to him, but he knew where he could get others. At least they didn’t have a clue where he was now or where he was going to be soon enough. It was then he realized, paralyzed for a moment, that neither did he. He’d dumped the white Infiniti on one of Sausalito’s curving streets and hot-wired a dark blue Honda parked nearby. He should have gone farther away to find a car, but he’d simply been too weak.

Xu pulled the cheap motel blanket up to his neck, settled his wounded arm on one of the skinny pillows. First he had to heal. He could hardly fly to Beijing into the arms of the Chinese, not now, even if a false passport got him through customs. The Chinese would sever all connections with him now and deny he ever existed, no matter how valuable the information he’d gotten them from Lindy’s computer. They might even kill him if they could.

Xu forced himself to lie perfectly still on the rock-hard mattress, yet the pain in his arm continued to drum a steady tattoo. He wanted nothing more than to go to sleep, but the instant he closed his eyes, he was back at the Fairmont, watching each and every scene play through slowly. So be it. He examined each decision he’d made, an exercise his trainers had taught him early on. He thought of the flash-bang he’d long carried with him. He’d never really believed he’d need it, but his training had always pushed precaution, and that piece of insurance had paid off in spades. It had been a while since he’d used one, but he hadn’t forgotten. That and the bomb he’d set up in his room had saved his life.

Should he have gone out the hotel through the back service entrance? No, there would have been FBI agents out there waiting for him, away from the crowds. He’d done the right thing there, too, getting whole-hide out of the lobby by mixing with the tourists who were running around like berserkers after he blew up his little surprise.

He let himself relive the awful pain he’d felt crashing down to the sidewalk when the FBI agent had tackled him and smashed her fist against his wounded arm. He felt again the humiliation and panic when she’d snapped the cuff on his right wrist and began reciting his rights to him, close to his ear, the bitch.

Even after all his training, perhaps because of it, there’d been no way he could have foreseen that agent chasing him down. It wasn’t just any damned FBI agent, no, it was a woman, and it shouldn’t have happened, wouldn’t have happened if he’d been whole. He should have turned to face her, used his training to snap her skinny neck or his Beretta to shoot her dead, before she’d gotten him down.

A woman bested me. He looked down at the handcuff that still circled his right wrist. How to get the damned thing off? It would have to wait. He’d figure something out, he always did.

And someone had shot the bitch. It had looked to Xu like she was dead, a shot through the head, but of course he hadn’t checked, just shoved her off him and run.

Who was he? Was it the same idiot who had shot Judge Hunt at the wrong moment and blown the Cahills’ trial apart? Had he shot the agent purposefully to save Xu? Why?

Who was he?

When the knock came on the door of his motel room, Xu grabbed his gun, gasped at the rip of pain through his arm, and shouted, “Go away!”

Another knock.

Xu raised his Beretta, aimed it at the motel door. “Who is it?”

A hard rasping smoker’s voice called out, “I’m the one who saved your bacon.”