Excerpt from Chapter 23

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It was one minute before midnight when Brian Fong strolled confidently Into the Four Winds nightclub, on the edge of Chinatown, wearing a grin that would shame a Cheshire cat. From beneath his unbuttoned, open shirt, the drab green dragon tattooed across his chest glared out at the faces inside the room.

Brian Fong was well known at the Four Winds. As he made his way through the crowded nightclub, people waved and shouted greetings, heads nodded in respect. From a stage near the center of the room, a nude dancer, gyrating to the strains of loud band music, touched her fingers to her lips and threw him a kiss.

Fong’s smile broadened.

Beneath his loose-fitting suit, Brian Fong was lean and muscular. He wore his black hair oiled and slicked back. Fong was a Hung Kwan, Red-Pole, a commander of street soldiers – and nearly everyone in the room knew and feared his exalted position in the Chinese underworld. But when he caught the steady gaze of Benny Chi, who had been watching him from a dimly lit booth, his power smile abruptly fizzled.

Fong nodded in Chi’s direction, paused at the bar, held up two fingers, then worked his way through the crowd to where Chi was sitting. "Dia Lo," Fong said, the grin easing back on his face. "May I have the honor of buying you a drink?"

Chi nodded, but did not return the smile. Fong slid into the booth and the two men waited in silence as their liquor was served.

Cupping their drinks in a respectful ritual – right hand wrapped around the glass, left-hand supporting it from below, palm up – they downed their liquor in a silent toast.

Chi placed his empty glass on the table and looked at Fong. "Is the tiger dead?" he asked casually.

The corners of Brian Fong’s mouth turned downward. "No, Dia Lo," he said slowly. "The arrow found its mark, but the tiger lives."

Chi gazed at Fong, one eyebrow raised, as if he couldn’t believe what Fong had said. "Ayee yah!  By all the gods," he muttered. "A wounded tiger can be dangerous."

"Dia Lo, I…"

But Chi wasn’t finished. "You are Hung Kwan, Little Brother. You have experience in these things." He shook his head slowly. "I might have anticipated failure from a Sze Kau, common soldier, but not you."

Brian Fong reddened, remained silent.

"However," Chi concluded, "if the tiger is badly hurt, perhaps it will die."

Fong shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "The tiger will live, Dia Lo."

Chi frowned. "How can you be sure?"

"I’m sure," Fong said stiffly. "I followed the ambulance that took him to the hospital. An hour later I saw him walk out.  His right arm was in a sling."

Chi shot him a curious look. "You followed the ambulance? Wasn’t that risky?"

"I was careful, Dia Lo. I switched cars, then drove back to see what was happening… Got there just as the ambulance was leaving."

Chi fished a pack of cigarettes from inside his coat. He placed one between his lips, lit it and exhaled a cloud of smoke. "When he left the hospital, was anyone with him?"

"Yeah," Fong replied. "Another suit, and a woman." He looked down at his empty glass. "I think the suit was a cop."

"And the woman?"

Fong wrinkled his face, the expression of a man remembering. "Chinese," he said. "Early thirties. Long hair, terrific figure, dressed kinda classy."

"Cassie Wong?"

"I don’t know. I guess so. Probably."

Chi watched his cigarette smoke spiral upward. "Eeeee," he moaned wearily. "This business is not finished."

Fong stared at Chi from across the table. "Does that mean you want me to try again?"

Chi smiled thinly. "A wise hunter has many arrows in his quiver."

From somewhere drunken laughter erupted. Fong scanned the nearby tables, then shifted his gaze back to Chi. "True, Dia Lo," he said, his voice low. "But the hunt will be difficult. A wounded tiger is wary and may seek refuge in his den. Perhaps it would be wise to wait until…"

Chi abruptly leaned forward, his face directly in front of Fong’s. "Little Brother," he said, his voice hardening, "the perils of the hunt are the least of your worries. Just be thankful the gods have given you another opportunity to slay this tiger."

Fong lowered his head. "Yes, Dia Lo," he said softly. "I am supremely grateful."

Chi smiled. His message was clear.

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Excerpt from Chapter 1

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By quarter past ten they had moved less than thirty feet. At the rate they were going, Belmontes figured they’d reach the ticket counter about five minutes after he’d peed in his pants.

"To hell with this," he said to Cassie. "You stay in line. I gotta find a restroom."

Cassie laughed. "You do seem a little nervous," she said lightly. "I was beginning to wonder if you were having second thoughts about our wedding."

The irony of that statement made Belmontes chuckle. He looked at Cassie, saw the lovely head held high and the half-smile lighting her face. Any misgivings he’d had about marriage had long since passed. He knew what he wanted, and he wanted it with her.

"Well, don’t just stand there," she chided. "We should be boarding in about twenty minutes."

Belmontes set off briskly, vaguely impressed with the thought that Cassie had doubted him. Weaving his way through the congested terminal, he walked for what seemed a very long time before he found a restroom. Sidestepping a baggage cart, he went inside.

The room was crowded.

Belmontes waited impatiently for a turn at the urinal, then got in line to wash his hands. As he leaned toward the basin he felt a sudden, sharp pain in the vicinity of his left shoulder. What the hell? For an agonizing moment he thought he was having a heart attack, but the pain diminished, almost as quickly as it had begun.

He felt a sudden wooziness.

Everything around him became blurred, like a photograph out of focus. He shook his head and tried to fix on his image in the mirror above the sink. Behind that image, through the fog clouding his brain, he thought he saw a familiar, smirking, face.

It can’t be him!

Belmontes tore his gaze away from the murky vision and turned to look behind him. He saw faces staring at him in puzzlement and annoyance, but none belonged to the man he was looking for.

God help me. I’m hallucinating.

"The guy’s drunk," someone said. The voice seemed to come from far away, echoing strangely.

Belmontes opened his mouth to refute the accusation, but his tongue felt thick and unwieldy and he could barely move his lips. When he finally managed to say something, his words came out garbled and didn’t make any sense.

He started for the restroom door, but suddenly felt weak, very weak. Turning back to the sink, he fumbled for the faucet and splashed water on his face. When he lifted his eyes to the mirror again, he was shocked to see that the surreal image was once more behind him. He stared at it, unbelieving.

I’m looking at a dead man!

Breathing heavily, he tried to turn around again. He didn’t have the strength. His knees buckled. Hands reached out to hold him, but they were pushing too, pushing him down a well filled with murky, black water that blurred his vision, muffled sounds. He felt himself sinking under the weight of the water, deeper, ever deeper into the depths. As darkness closed in around him–just seconds before he succumbed to unconsciousness–his last thought was of the haunting, awful image of Benny Chi–gazing over his shoulder, laughing at him.

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