Stealing the Dragon

Chapter Thirty-seven

Hong Kong, 10 years ago

Xan was still covered in soot, the long sleeves of his shirt singed and torn in places. Dawn was breaking by the time he left Sally at the infirmary, Jun’s body on a cot next to her. Xan strode purposefully to his office, pushing past the throng of students and instructors gathering in the courtyard.

A folder in his blistered hand, Xan made his way to the great room upstairs, knowing he had just been there but feeling it had been a lifetime ago. As he cleared the second floor landing, Xan saw the door had been left open, the rice paper across the threshold already torn.

Hui was standing in front of the desk facing the door, as if he were expecting Xan.

“I came to see your father,” said Xan impatiently.

Hui’s handsome face and black eyes were expressionless as he spoke.

“My father is dead.”

Xan stopped in midstride and opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Hui stepped to the side of the desk, and suddenly Xan forgot what he was about to say. Zhang Hong sat in his chair, face down on the desk, his arms and hands splayed at strange angles. Two hundred darts pinned him there.

Xan forced himself to look away and met Hui’s gaze, his own face a mask.

“Did you kill him?” asked Xan, his tone making it sound like a threat.

Hui frowned, looking disappointed. “And wait for you to arrive?” He shook his head. “My father was a great man, once.” Hui paused and looked over his shoulder. “But lately a sentimental old fool. He lost his youngest son tonight because he led his sons down the darkened path. When our mother died, he brought us into the Triad, into this way of life. To my father, that made him responsible for Wen’s death, and it was more than he could bear.”

Xan studied Hui from across the room. Hui barely blinked and never looked away, save for when he turned toward his father. His voice never faltered. Watching him, Xan was reminded of Zhang Hong as a young man and thought of the old man’s words from only a few hours ago.

The darts kill instantly. There is a cloud of death, ten feet in diameter, hovering directly over this desk.

“Did you kill him?” Hui’s voice drifted across the room, breaking into Xan’s reverie. The two men still stood a good twenty feet apart, each taking the measure of the other.

The scar on Xan’s face twitched as his jaw muscles clenched. “I served your father before you-”

Hui waved his right hand dismissively. “I wasn’t speaking of my father,” he said calmly.

Again Xan stood motionless, seeing Hui in a new light. “Your brother Wen was killed,” he said deliberately, “with a yakuza sword.” Without stepping any closer, Xan tossed his folder at Hui’s feet. As it spun in the air, the photographs inside spilled across the floor. “I lied to your father,” Xan continued, an edge coming back into his tone. “To protect him because I knew he could not bear the news. Your brother was pan twu-a traitor to this house and the memory of your father.”

Hui bent down to look at the photos and was slow to respond, turning each one over as if some further explanation might be found behind each picture.

“The girl took these?” he asked.

Xan nodded.

“And the other girl?” said Hui, standing now. “She was killed in the fire?”

Xan shook his head. “She was shot.”

Hui raised his eyebrows. “By whom?”

“No one in the society would have such chyeh nuo,” Xan said deliberately. “Cowardice does not become us, even a traitor.” He met Hui’s gaze, daring a challenge, counting on the stigma of carrying a gun in his father’s house and doubting Wen had told anyone. “The yakuza carry guns as well as swords.”

Hui pursed his lips. “Why kill my brother with a sword, then?”

“A ritual killing,” replied Xan, feeling himself stepping onto firmer ground as his lie took shape from truth. “Reserved for traitors. Your brother must have been passing information both ways.”

“But why kill the girl with a gun?”

Xan smiled bitterly. “Because it was the only way to kill her.”

Hui nodded as if satisfied, then asked, “But why was she there?”

It was Xan’s turn to look disappointed. “To protect your brother, of course,” he said calmly. “I had seen the photographs, and I know the yakuza cannot be trusted.”

“Master Xan, you seem to have thought of everything.” Hui’s eyes were so dark it was impossible to read his expression.

Xan’s gaze cut to the human pin cushion that had been the Dragon Head and he shook his head, his expression grim. “Not everything.”

The two men stood silent for several seconds. Finally, Hui bowed his head slightly, his eyes still on Xan.

Hui said, “I will need help burying my father.” He had chosen his words carefully. Xan knew he meant much more than putting the body in the ground. “Can I count on you to help?”

Xan looked from father to son and back to the father, lying dead, before he let his eyes wander around the room. Xan realized his world was as small as those four walls and had been that way for a very long time. When he spoke, he was talking to himself as much as Hui.

“I will continue to serve the society,” he said simply. “As I always have.”

Hui nodded. “Then let us bury our dead,” he said, “and not speak of this again. My brother died in the fire, along with the girl. And my father’s heart failed him.”

Xan looked down for a moment before looking back at Hui and nodding. He started toward the desk.

Hui took a step forward before he caught himself, a frown appearing on his handsome face.

“But we’re forgetting something,” he said. “The other girl…”

Xan stopped. “Who?”

“The girl who was here tonight,” said Hui. “The one who took the pictures-the one you and my father called little dragon.”

“What of her?” demanded Xan, conscious of the tone creeping into his voice.

“She knows,” said Hui, matter-of-factly.

Xan didn’t move. “She will tell no one.”

Hui nodded. “I know she won’t,” he said, his tone light. “But after we’re done here, you’ll bring her to me, won’t you? Just so we can talk.” Hui didn’t wait for a reply as he stepped around the other side of the desk, his eyes turning even darker as he looked over the ruined body of his father.

Xan said nothing. He was suddenly conscious of the burns on his arms and hands, the blood where his shirt was sticking to his body. He could still smell the fire in his clogged nostrils and taste the soot in the back of his throat, and he realized that he had done more than pull Sally and Jun out of the fire. He had brought a little bit of hell with him, too.

And that meant the devil must be very close.