The survivor

Eighty-Five

The muscles of Shen Sun’s legs were cramping when he spotted the first sign of movement. It was subtle, almost indiscernible.

But he did see it.

A man, clad in black clothing, combat vest and long gun, changed his position from the parking lot near the boarded-up warehouse to the bushes down by the train tracks. The darkness was heavier now, and Shen Sun wondered if the man thought he was concealed.

Shen Sun watched him hightail it across the road, with surprising stealth for someone so large. Soon, a second man followed, much smaller. The two paired off on either side of the bushes.

Police, he knew. Emergency Response Team. Which meant there were at least eight more here somewhere in the darkness.

Shen Sun felt nothing at the sighting. No fear, no anger. It was expected. Just one more of the reasons why he could not go home.

Inside Father’s apartment, nothing had changed. The interior remained quiet and still and shrouded by dimness. Only one lamp was on. In the living room.

Everything appeared ordinary.

And then there was movement inside. It was fast — just a blur in front of the lamp — and then gone.

Shen Sun twitched. He leaned forward, extending beyond the bushes. The only door to Father’s town home was at the front on Raymur Street. If someone was inside, they had been in there for forty minutes.

The thought was unnerving. Shen Sun watched the window, waiting for another sighting. When the image came, he flinched. A man lumbered across the room, his walk rigid and uneven, as if all the joints of his long legs were fused.

The Man with the Bamboo Spine had beaten him here.

The assassin walked into the living room. Stopped at the kitchen sink. Turned on the water. Washed his arms and face.

Shen Sun felt the last traces of his world slip away. He could not see it — he did not have to see it — but he knew what the Man with the Bamboo Spine was doing. He was washing away the blood.

Father was dead.

Shen Sun closed off any emotions he might have felt, and watched the town home — not as a son, but as a soldier, for it was all he could do now.

The Man with the Bamboo Spine finished wiping himself off on Father’s quilt, then threw it in the corner. He walked to the front door, opened it, and stepped outside.

Shen Sun gripped the Glock with care. This was a hundred meter shot. Extremely difficult with a pistol. Even more so with only one good hand. He brought up his left hand and tried a two-handed grip on the Glock, but the pain of his shoulder was too much to bear. His left arm fell away.

‘POLICE! Don’t move!’ someone cried out.

Shen Sun looked down below and spotted the two Emergency Response Team members leaving concealment. Both had machine guns out — MP5s, by the look of it — and were fast crossing the train tracks.

The Man with the Bamboo Spine was quick, so quick he astonished Shen Sun. In one fluid motion, he turned away from the police as if he had not heard them, and drew his pistol. He left it hanging by his side, partly hidden by the long tails of his trench coat.

One of the cops gave the order: ‘Put your hands in the air where I can see them!’

The Man with the Bamboo Spine did nothing at first; he only stood still and assessed the two men who had him lined up in their sights. The calm he displayed was amazing. And Shen Sun realised the assassin was lulling the cops in.

Preparing to shoot it out.

But then more cops appeared; they exploded from the shadows, every bit as deftly as the spirits that plagued Shen Sun’s life. They came in pairs, long guns out, a semi-circle of warriors. And in the blink of an eye there were twelve.

Big Circle Boy or not, the Man with the Bamboo Spine was hopelessly outgunned.

Shen Sun saw the expression on the assassin’s face turn from hard preparation to logical surrender. He was going to give up. Turn himself in.

And Shen Sun would not allow it.

He raised his Glock. Lined up the assassin. Opened fire.

The silencer was long burned out, but still managed to stifle the first two shots, allowing only a soft thunder to emit from the barrel. But the third and fourth shots were full bore. They sounded every bit their 40 calibre, and the entire valley below the overpass resonated with gunfire.

‘Gun! Gun! GUN!’ one of the cops screamed.

Shen Sun fired again. That first shot went high and wide, the second and third ones went too low, slamming into the earth at the assassin’s feet. The Man with the Bamboo Spine reacted the only way he could. He raised his own gun.

And an eruption of gunfire filled the night.

It was over in seconds. The police carbines and MP5s shredded the Man with the Bamboo Spine, waking the neighbourhood and filling the night with brilliant flashes. The assassin jerked, spun left, and fell backward.

Shen Sun could not tell where the assassin had been hit, or how many times, but he was dead. Over ten cops had been shooting, and with high-powered assault rifles. No one could survive that.

Not even the Man with the Bamboo Spine.