The Prisoner's Gold

3

Normally Lim Bao would take his time as he strolled through the plush lobby of the high-rise hotel where his boss lived. He would admire the shiny marble floors, the expensive artwork on the walls, and the attractive hostesses behind the front desk.

But today wasn’t an ordinary day.

Today someone was chained to a chair in the parking garage.

Waiting for the elevator, Lim impatiently tapped his leather shoe on the carpet until he heard the chime indicating the car had arrived. He stepped inside, slid his keycard into the slot, then entered his security code for the 117th floor. An elderly couple with their grandson stepped toward the car as the doors began to close, but he glared at them and shook his head.

They quickly got the hint and backed away.

A moment later, the doors sealed shut and the elevator rocketed skyward as Lim’s stomach leaped into his throat. Though he hated the nausea that always accompanied him to the penthouse, he knew it could have been much worse.

At least it wasn’t a glass elevator.

On the outside of the building.

Whoever invented those was an asshole.

The hotel occupied the top sixteen floors of the International Commerce Centre, which was the tallest building in Hong Kong and the seventh tallest in the world. Roughly two hundred feet shorter than the One World Trade Center in New York, the ICC would have been higher on the list if the number of stories was the determining factor instead of raw height — since many of the world’s tallest buildings added massive antennas for no other reason than to be taller.

A soft ding signaled the car’s arrival, and the elevator slid open with a quiet whoosh. Waiting on the other side were Chang and Lang, the identical twins hired to guard the door during the day shift. They looked like trolls comically stuffed into black Armani suits. Rippling with muscles and bulk, the men were also highly flexible, lending far more function to their heft than was typical of bodybuilders. As Lim passed, each raised a fist diagonally across his chest in salute. He barely noticed as he raced down the corridor to his mentor’s room.

Another two guards stood at the double doors to the Presidential Suite, but they allowed him to pass without being frisked. He was the only one permitted to do so. Once inside, Lim ignored the breathtaking/nauseating view and went straight to the exercise room where he found his middle-aged mentor face down on a rubberized mat, working through his daily calisthenics. Wearing only dark sweat pants, the man was effortlessly raising himself in a one-thumbed push-up. His rippled torso glistened with so much sweat under the harsh lights that he almost seemed to glow.

Feng He was the present-day leader of the Righteous and Harmonious Fists. The brotherhood had existed in secrecy for centuries but had risen to fame at the start of the twentieth century when they had fought off the British imperialists who they believed were plundering the wealth and resources of China. The members of the brotherhood were still vehemently opposed to any and all foreign interference in China, but it had taken Feng’s leadership over the past decade to bring the organization out of the shadows and into the world of high finance.

Lim was constantly amazed at the financial support that the brotherhood received. He couldn’t actually remember the last time he had seen Feng pay for anything — not only in Hong Kong, but anywhere they went. And with a rising tide of Chinese nationalism, that sort of respect would only continue to grow in the future.

Feng leaned back on the downthrust of his push-up, then sprang forward with his legs. The lunge launched his body upward at a forty-five-degree angle. He deftly landed on his feet and continued forward to the ballet bar mounted across the wall of windows. Feng grabbed a plush towel off the wooden bar and gently patted the perspiration from his face. Then he breathed in and out a few times, exaggerating the action with his arms, as if the heavy breaths completed his exercise.

Lim said nothing as he waited for his boss to acknowledge his presence.

Eventually Feng turned and smiled broadly, showing perfect white teeth. Then he spoke in Mandarin to his second-in-command. ‘What has you in such a rush today?’

‘The brothers have captured a smuggler,’ answered Lim, who was standing at attention as if he were reporting to an emperor.

‘And why should I care?’ Feng asked, amused. In a district the size of Hong Kong, there were literally thousands of crimes per day, most of which had nothing to do with the Fists.

‘The smuggler is Australian. We caught him at the Tsim Sha Tsui marketplace.’

‘What was he smuggling?’

‘Jade figurines from the Ming Dynasty.’

Feng’s smile vanished, and a scowl furrowed his brow. He took notice whenever foreigners committed any crime in China — from small slights to massive drug deals — but he took particular interest when a foreigner tried to rob his country’s heritage. He moved across the room, grabbed a thin black T-shirt, and slipped it over his powerful torso. ‘Where is he?’

‘We have him downstairs. Should I have him brought up for you?’

‘No,’ Feng growled. ‘We will go down.’

They rode silently to the hotel lobby and switched elevators to descend the entire distance to the sub-basement’s parking level.

The elevator opened to a clean, brightly lit lot with thick yellow lines on the ground and walls. The building had several lots, but this level was closed off for the Fists. Diagonally across from the elevator was a private office where the smuggler was being kept.

Inside the office there were three large guards in tailored suits, all standing silently around a wooden desk and chair. Chained to the desk was a scruffy Australian of nearly thirty. His eyes were sky blue and his hair an unruly mop of dirty blond curls. He was big — more than two hundred pounds of meat — although his body lacked definition.

‘Good afternoon,’ Feng said in English.

Relief filled the tourist’s face as he looked up at Feng and Lim.

‘Oh, thank God! Someone who speaks English. Listen, mate, I’m not sure what these boys have told you, but I didn’t do anything wrong. My business partner assured me that the items were paid for and our shipping permits were up to date. Obviously I can’t read the damn forms — they’re written in symbols or whatever you call those squiggly things — but I swear to you, I thought everything was legal.’

‘Is that so?’ Feng said, pondering his next move.

‘I’m telling you, mate, it’s nothing but a misunderstanding.’

Feng nodded and stuck out his hand. ‘Yes. A big misunderstanding.’

The Aussie smiled and leaned forward to shake hands with Feng, hoping upon hope that Feng was dumb enough to believe his lie, but it wasn’t meant to be. Feng struck with lightning speed, grasping the man’s wrist and twisting it with so much force that bones cracked.

The man dropped face first onto the desk, wailing in agony.

Feng continued, ‘You believed you could come to my country and steal our history. You misunderstood who the Chinese people are. We are not your playthings, your servants, your inferiors. Then again, your people descended from criminals, so I should expect no better.’

Between shouts of pain and gasps for breath, the Aussie tried to explain himself. ‘I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to disrespect you … Ahhhh! Look, just call the embassy, I’ll give everything back …’

‘You’d like us to contact your country’s consul general? To send him a message?’ Feng twisted the hand harder, and the young man screamed. Tears were literally shooting from the man’s eyes, and a thick band of yellowish snot stretched from his nostril to his mouth. Meanwhile, the rest of his face had turned a brilliant crimson from the rush of blood.

‘Yes! Please! Send him a message!’

Feng slammed the Aussie’s arm flat on the desktop and held out his free hand. One of the guards placed a gleaming meat cleaver in it without missing a beat. Then he stepped back to enjoy what he knew would happen next.

With one perfectly executed swipe, Feng brought the blade down, embedding it almost an inch into the scarred wooden desktop, separating the foreigner’s hand from his wrist. The Aussie’s choked tears sounded like a drowning victim trying to spit out seawater, as the table and floor were coated with a viscous puddle of gushing blood.

Feng picked up the severed hand and dangled it in front of the Aussie’s face. ‘I will gladly send him a message. Your hand, along with a note reminding him that foreigners are no longer welcome in the new China. You will all leave immediately — whether whole or in pieces.’

Then Feng tossed the hand to Lim as he turned for the door.