Stealing the Dragon

Chapter Thirteen

Hong Kong, present day

“The scorpions are quite deadly.”

The Dragon Head stood looking down into the sunken room, a perfect cube twelve feet on a side. It was, in actuality, a room within a room, set in the floor of a much larger loft space like a racquetball court dropped into someone’s living room, the ceiling removed so guests gathered around the square hole in the floor could look down and watch the game. The Dragon Head stood on the lip of the sunken chamber, his black eyes expressionless as he watched the fat man start to sweat.

The fat man’s name was Lim, and if he heard the man standing fifteen feet above him, he was too preoccupied to answer. At the base of the wall on each side of the room was a gap maybe four inches wide, a thin line that looked like a drain. Scorpions were flowing into the room, small and incredibly fast, their legs clicking across the tile floor like castanets.

“A single bite is not typically fatal,” continued the Dragon Head, his voice acquiring the cadence of a school teacher. “But this many, in combination, is sure to do the trick.”

A wave of scorpions washed across the floor, their brown bodies clumping together and forming eddies in the deadly current that threatened to wash over Lim. As he scuttled toward the center of the room like a nervous crab, a heavy rope swung lazily back and forth above him, a promise of rescue just out of reach.

The lecture resumed.

“There are 1,300 species of scorpions worldwide, all easily identified by their elongated bodies, segmented tails, and, of course, stingers.”

Lim shuffled his feet together and jumped, his fingertips brushing the end of the rope and knocking it away. He fell to his knees. A lone scorpion ran up his arm and he screamed, slapping it across the room before it could bite.

“They are technically arthropods of the class Arachnida, related to spiders. You’ll notice they all have eight legs.”

Lim shouted, a frenzied combination of anger and fear, as he hopped and kicked his way around the center of the room. The flow of scorpions through the drain had stopped, the vast army of legs, pincers, and tails seething back and forth less than three feet from where Lim stood. In reality they were as cautious of Lim as he was terrified of them, but in the close confines of the cell they seemed to lean forward, as if sizing up their prey.

Or awaiting instructions.

“Most people think of scorpions as desert creatures,” said the Dragon Head, his voice almost soothing now. “But they have been found in grasslands, savannahs, caves, and even rainforests. Like any strong creature, they adapt to survive.”

This last phrase got Lim’s attention. Reluctantly, he tore his eyes away from the floor and looked up at his captor, his lower lip trembling, his face covered in sweat.

“I told you,” said Lim, gasping. “I haven’t heard anything, I haven’t seen anything. No one has tried to sell it-no one has even heard of it. And if it was being moved in Hong Kong, I would know.”

The Dragon Head frowned, as if he resented having his lecture interrupted.

“That’s why I asked you,” he said simply.

“I can’t help you, lung tau,” cried Lim, tears welling up in his eyes.

“No,” came the reply, the man’s eyes cold and black. “You can’t.” Almost casually, he slid his right foot over a button set in the floor. A barely audible click was followed by a dull roar as the flood of scorpions resumed, the clicking and scraping sounds of the pincers and barbed tails filling the room.

The second wave flowed over the first batch of scorpions, pushing them forward, Lim hopping frantically around the room. He crushed several dozen in the first few minutes, but he was barefoot, and after another halting skip cried out as a four-inch-long tail whipped forward and found its mark.

“The venom is a complex neurotoxin.” The voice from above droned on. “It causes rapid breathing-”

Lim fell to one knee as four scorpions scuttled up his right leg, stabbing as they climbed.

“-followed by shortness of breath-”

Lim’s scream was cut short as a lone scorpion clambered up his back, the pincers opening and closing in anticipation, until it reached the exposed part of Lim’s neck just above the collar.

“-then foaming at the mouth-”

Lim tried to stand but slipped, falling forward onto his hands and knees.

“-until, in the end, there is-”

The tail snapped forward, its stinger lodging in the thick flesh just below the skull.

“-total respiratory failure.”

Lim’s scream turned into a cough and he fell forward onto his chest, his arms waving spasmodically as the scorpions scuttled and jumped toward him. The Dragon Head watched dispassionately as the scorpions moved across Lim’s body like water until he disappeared altogether.

Shaking his head, the Dragon Head turned his back on the spectacle and sat down heavily on a couch. Switching to English, he said:

“I feel like the nefarious Doctor Fu Manchu.”

A voice across the room answered him.

“Traditions are important.”

Sitting on another couch, set back from the edge of the sunken room, the man with the jagged scar smiled. His right eye seemed to disappear and then flash back into existence as the raised flesh of his cheek rose and fell with his expression. “And besides, I think it was the fiendish Fu Manchu.”

“Whatever you say, Xan,” said the Dragon Head, now in Cantonese. “But where did you get the scorpions?”

“Central market,” replied Xan. “They have everything.”

“So many?”

“They’re prolific,” said Xan. “The female scorpion can give birth to more than thirty-five young at a time.”

“Really?” said the Dragon Head, raising his eyebrows. “I’ll have to build that into the narrative.”

Xan nodded. “Better than the snakes, I think.”

The Dragon Head shrugged, then changed his tone. “Lim said it was no longer in Hong Kong.”

“He said no one tried to sell it,” replied Xan in a guarded tone. “We can’t know for sure-”

“It’s not in Hong Kong,” said the Dragon Head definitively, their casual banter suddenly forgotten.

Xan nodded briefly, an understated bow. “Yes, shan chu. As you say.”

“Don’t patronize me.” His father had preferred the more formal title, shan chu. Man of the mountain. He preferred Dragon Head. The older name might suggest wisdom, but the latter clearly said power. The power over life and death. And in the end, that was all that mattered.

“I mean no disrespect,” said Xan evenly.

The Dragon Head said nothing, his black eyes staring at the pit. The scraping and clicking of thousands of feet and claws ricocheted off the walls as the scorpions finished their meal. Slowly he turned back toward Xan, his eyes blacker than the shadows behind him.

“Only those trained in the arts could have stolen from me,” he said deliberately.

Xan narrowed his eyes but remained silent.

“And they would not be foolish enough to stay in Hong Kong.”

Xan stood mute, his face expressionless.

“There is one who left,” said the Dragon Head. “A long time ago.”

“Yes, she did,” said Xan, shifting in his chair.

“Go ask her what she knows,” came the command. “The thief is someone who left the path.”

“She is in America,” Xan protested.

“Then bring a passport.”

Xan breathed deeply before responding. “But your father-”

“Don’t speak of my father,” came the curt reply. “I am not my father.”

And that is the problem, thought Xan, who merely said, “Yes, lung tao. I will leave tomorrow.”