Shadow of the Dragon

56

Domingo Chavez was a smart man — and he knew it. Sure, he started off a little slow, barely getting out of East L.A. to enlist in the Army. He’d gone on to become the first male in his immediate family to attend college, and then later, under the mentorship of John Clark and the man’s brainiac daughter, he’d finished graduate school. Fluent in three languages, he was conversant in two more. He could hold his own in forensic accounting, had enough flight time to land a small plane if he had to, or rig a communications radio with little more than a few household items and a foil wrapper from a stick of Juicy Fruit.

He was good at a lot of things, but he was best at brute force. That was probably why he got along so well with his father-in-law.

Unfortunately, force was off the table for the moment. He had to appeal to his kinder, gentler angels, to sweet-talk a woman who had aligned herself with a bunch of terrorists… freedom fighters… convince her to come with him of her own free will. Now there was another team out there, poaching the leads Adam Yao had come up with. They were surely the ones following Lisanne — and they also wanted to talk to Medina Tohti. Judging from the body count they’d left behind in Huludao and Albania, their kinder, gentler angels had gone on terminal leave.

Chavez had to get to her first. Doing that without getting shot was going to be tricky.

The area in front of the cabin had been cleared of brush and trees, making a stealthy approach impossible. Chavez ruled out working their way around to the rear of the cabin. It had likely been cleared as well, and the time it took to check would be wasted.

“We’ll ride in on the horses,” Yao said. “They’ll think we’re tourists who got lost on the trail.”

“That could work,” Chavez said, though he didn’t relish climbing aboard the fuzzy little gray again. “If we try to creep up, they’d just shoot us for sure—”

The harsh voice from brush behind them caused both men to roll onto their backs. Chavez let the binoculars fall against their strap and reached for his Beretta.

He froze when he saw Medina Tohti and her Han friend, both with pistols aimed directly at them. Medina looked at Chavez’s gun hand and gave a tut-tut shake of her head. Her pistol remained rock-steady, finger on the trigger.

“You are correct,” the Han man said in perfect English. “Had you tried to creep up to the cabin, we certainly would have shot you. But that raises a question. What is to keep us from shooting you now?”

The Han man, whom Medina called Ma, obviously had some military or police experience. It took him only a few seconds to zip-tie both Chavez’s and Yao’s hands behind their backs, then pat them down for weapons. He was particularly interested in the Beretta, but said nothing. Satisfied for the moment, he dragged the men to their feet and gave a shrill whistle as he walked them none too gently out of the clearing.

The two men who’d arrived earlier in the Great Wall pickup came out of the cabin, each assuming control of one of the prisoners, shoving them through the door.

A woman sat at the back window, her eye to what looked like a Russian-made infrared scope.

“No movement,” she said when the men came in.

Though they were Uyghur, everyone spoke Mandarin, apparently in deference to Ma, who was clearly their leader.

The young man beside Chavez held up the Beretta, which he had already cleared, along with the Bowers Group Bitty.

“An assassin’s weapon, to be sure,” he said.

The one next to Yao played with one of the Microtech knives, actuating the button so the dagger blade sprang out the opening in front. A few years older than Chavez’s guard, this one had several days of dark scruff on his face. “Assassins indeed,” he said.

Ma took the Beretta and inserted the magazine, then tipped up the barrel to replace the round in the chamber before reattaching the Bitty suppressor. He aimed the pistol at the floor, giving a satisfied nod at its heft — before turning to point it directly at Adam Yao’s face, three feet away.

The Uyghur guard stepped clear, obviously having seen Ma shoot someone in the head before.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Chavez said in English. “We’re friends.”

The Han man stayed aimed in, but took an almost conciliatory tone.

“Friends…” he said. “Well, my friends, if you have found me, then others surely will as well. Now, I need one of you to talk to me, but I do not need you both.” He took a deep breath, head canted in thought. “I will give one of you five seconds to tell me how you found me. I do not care which one.”

Yao spoke, also in English.

“Hala Tohti.”

Medina gasped, springing forward.

“What did you say?”

“Please understand,” Yao said, looking at Ma. “We have no issue with you. We need to speak with Medina about her daughter.”

Ma’s face darkened. The nail bed on his trigger finger whitened. “So you bring an assassin’s weapon.”

Medina’s face went pale. “What do you know of Hala?”

“There are men looking for you,” Chavez said. “Men who would use Hala to get to you—”

“Is she—”

“She is safe,” Chavez said. “My friend is protecting her.”

Ma moved the pistol to Chavez, disgusted. “Your friend is holding the child prisoner?”

“No,” Chavez said. “My friend got her away from danger. Away from the men who are after her.” He looked at Medina. “To get to you.”

Medina blinked, shaking her head as if she were in pain. “I… She… Where is my daughter now?”

“Safe,” Chavez said.

Tendons knotted in Medina’s neck. Her jaw clenched. “Safe where?”

“At this moment, she’s in Kyrgyzstan,” Chavez said. “On her way out—”

“I want to speak to her,” Medina said.

“We can try,” Chavez said. “But right now, they’re driving toward Bishkek. I’m not sure if they can get a signal.”

Medina choked back a sob. “I must speak to her…”

“Listen to me,” Yao said. “We have to hurry. There are very bad men here, in the park, the same men who would have used your daughter to get to you. We are on your side. I swear it. But the others have killed many people trying to locate you. Even now they are following one of my friends.”

Ma seethed, the Beretta lower now, at his belt, but still pointed at Yao. “This friend, he will come to you for help, and lead these men straight to us.”

“No,” Chavez said. “She is leading them away from you.”

“How?” Ma asked. “How did you find us?”

Yao told him about the ticket stubs from the tour boat, speaking quickly. “I will explain when we are on the road. But we must leave.”

The female at the window shot a scornful look at the youngest Uyghur man. “Perhat,” she said. “You did not think to check your pockets before giving away your coat?”

Perhat hung his head. “I—”

“My friend is right,” Chavez said. “You are all in grave danger. We need to go. Now.”

“Enough!” Medina sprang forward, shouldering Ma out of the way and pressing her pistol to Adam Yao’s chin. She turned to scowl at Chavez. “We are not going anywhere. You will let me speak to my daughter, or I kill your friend.”