Code of Honor

71

The last cubes of ice that Kang had brought with him aboard Amtrak Number 5 westbound out of Chicago melted in the early hours of morning somewhere between McCook, Nebraska, and Denver, Colorado. He’d bumped the wound on the wall coming through the door of his compartment, nearly sending him to his knees in agony. Alone, he’d been able to replace the sodden bandage and study the wound more closely somewhere other than a public toilet.

The bullet had clipped off his pinkie at the base, blowing away the proximal joint where the finger connected to his hand. Fascinated by the tattered flesh, he cleaned it as best he could, nearly breaking a tooth from the pain as he dug out a centimeter of white bone. He used superglue to close the wound, but it continued to weep blood. Some of the skin flaps were beginning to turn a deep purple. He’d need to cut them off soon, or they’d begin to smell. There was a doctor he could trust in Los Angeles. He could make it that far. He’d get the antibiotics he needed, some stitches — and proper pain medication. Then he’d put together another team and go back for Li.

Kang leaned back and closed his eyes. Li might keep his family hidden for a time, but eventually he’d display typical American optimism. He would return to his job. His children would go back to school, and his wife would have her baby. Kang smiled at that, momentarily forgetting his throbbing hand.

This was far from over.

Completely spent, he fell asleep sitting up, watching the endless fields of Iowa corn and soybeans slide by outside his window. The steward’s knock stirred him, offering to fold out his bed. He refused, survival instinct telling him not to let anyone unknown in his compartment. The pain had blossomed while he slept, and now shot up his arm in electric jolts that kept time with the thumping wheels of the passenger train. A steady diet of Coca-Cola and ibuprofen only served to sour his stomach and make him angrier than he already was.

Kang was accustomed to discomfort, but after two hours of gutting it out, he seriously considered throwing himself off the moving train. He replaced the dressing — a bloody stub was sure to draw too much interest — stuffed the Beretta he’d snatched from Gao in his waistband holster, and made his way to the café car as soon as it opened for the morning. The dining car was between his sleeper and the observation/lounge car, under which the café was located. People were already seated for breakfast, and he passed through without making eye contact with any of the other passengers, staggering in the quickly learned gait necessary to keep one’s feet aboard the swaying, lurching train. He thanked the attendant politely when she asked if he wanted a table, telling her he just needed a light snack. She’d see him returning from the café car with his ice and food anyway, so there was no reason to lie.

He’d sweated through his clothing by the time he returned to his room. Fortunately, the other passengers — most of them twice his age — were too self-absorbed to notice him as he stumbled past.

He slid the door shut to remove the holster from his waistband and tossed it on the couch. Latch locked and blue privacy curtains drawn, he collapsed beside his gun, panting from the two-hundred-foot walk.

Wincing, he pressed the bandaged stump of his finger against the cup of ice. It had required every ounce of self-control to pretend his hand wasn’t killing him when he’d paid for the Snickers bars and two Coca-Colas.

Kang had dealt with pain before. He knew it would dull in time, but that time would not come soon. The cold only took the edge off. He needed antibiotics — pills, an injection. He slowed his breathing, washed down four more ibuprofen with another can of Coke he’d gotten with the ice, and stared out the window at the passing cliffs. They were climbing, somewhere northwest of Denver. He didn’t care. He needed to rest, to plan what he was going to do next.

None of this made any sense. He hadn’t gotten a good look at the man along the Riverwalk, but he felt sure that man was alone. Could it have been Li? That was absurd. Peter Li should be more worried about protecting his family than going on the offensive. Then Kang remembered how ferociously the man had fought when they’d invaded his home. The bastard had charged out with the shotgun where he should have cowered in the corner. Still… No. It couldn’t have been him. But if not, then who?

Kang lifted a bottle of cheap whiskey to his lips with his good hand, keeping the other pressed against the ice. The liquid cut a trench from his tongue to his gut, at once warming him and adding to his confusion. He used his knees and his good hand to replace the lid, then held the bottle up so light from the window backlit the amber liquid. He’d drunk more than half since the train had rolled out of Chicago some twenty hours before. Disgusted, he tossed what was left of the bottle on the blue seat across from him, far enough out of his reach he couldn’t drink absentmindedly. He needed it for pain, to blunt the anger, but he also needed a clear head, and whiskey didn’t help with that.

Neither did pain.