week.’
‘And he was holding a gun – a fucking machine gun.’
Felicia raised her hands in a helpless gesture. ‘I don’t have all the answers, Jacob, I’m just relaying the message.’
He let out a shocked laugh. ‘“Relaying the message”? Jesus Christ.’ He leaned on the sink and replayed the scene over and over again in his mind. Black Mask had held a gun, there was no doubt about it.
A friggin’ machine gun.
Right?
The exact details eluded him now; the entire morning was a blur. And after a long moment, he gave up trying to recall it. He snapped out of the memory. Made the water colder, then splashed some on his face. Dried himself off with a paper towel.
Felicia opened another paper bag for his trousers. He pulled them off, handed them to her and put on the new ones Holmes had lent him. When he attached the gun holster to his belt, Felicia gave him a hard look.
‘Jacob—’
‘Laroche ain’t getting my gun.’
‘It’s an order.’
‘Fuck him and fuck his orders. This isn’t over, Felicia. That prick’s still out there somewhere, and he’s gonna strike again. I know he is, you know he is. And I’m not going to be unarmed when it happens.’ He adjusted the holster, slid his Sig into the leather pouch and locked it down. ‘Laroche wants my gun, he can come get it – when we got someone in custody, and not a second before.’
Felicia looked up at him, her pretty face tense and her Spanish eyes dark as black coals. ‘You’re playing with fire.’
‘No, I’m trying to put one out.’
‘Jacob—’
Before their argument could continue, one of the suits from the Tech Division poked his head into the room. The man had an extremely thin frame, a hooked nose, and an enormous Adam’s apple. It was Ich – Ichabod , as everyone called him. As in Ichabod Crane, from Sleepy Hollow . Perspiration sheened on his face, and he was out of breath, like he’d just run a marathon.
‘God, finally I found you guys,’ he said.
Striker stopped washing his hands. ‘What you got, Ich?’
‘Just follow me,’ he said. ‘There’s something both of you need to see. Something really, really . . . strange.’
Eleven
Every one of Red Mask’s senses felt warped.
He marched eastward along Pender, moving deeper into Chinatown. He’d abandoned the Lexus long ago. It was no longer a concern. His entire focus was the pain in his shoulder. It pulsated, moving through his body like long jellyfish tendrils. Already it had forced him from consciousness once. Much time had been lost because of it.
He could not afford for this to happen again.
The Fortune Happy Restaurant sat in the heart of Chinatown. Its dirty gold awning was splattered with blood-red lettering. The location had been chosen by Kim Pham, not for its size or layout, but for its address.
Number 426. This was very important.
Red Mask pushed through the front doors, smearing blood across the pane. Inside, the smell of ginger crab and black bean sauce hit him. It made his stomach contents rise, and he fought them down.
Seated patrons gawked as he struggled by into the kitchen area. Behind him, the mutters of anxious customers arose. A high-pitched clatter, like frightened birds. Yet in the kitchen, no one – not the chef, not the waitresses – so much as flinched or made eye-contact.
It was as if he were a ghost.
At the rear of the kitchen was the black door. Red Mask pushed through it. Almost immediately the smell of whisky found him. Mah-jong tiles rattled loudly, sounding like marbles dropping on granite. And there was cigar smoke, too. Thick and heavy.
Red Mask scanned the room. In the far corner, Kim Pham, ever the gracious host, was offering fine whiskies to the clientele. He was thirty, and dressed as he always was – in a white suit, with a white shirt, black tie, and a pair of gold wraparound sunglasses on his head. His oily black hair had blond tips.
When Kim Pham looked up, his eyes darkened. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’
‘And he was holding a gun – a fucking machine gun.’
Felicia raised her hands in a helpless gesture. ‘I don’t have all the answers, Jacob, I’m just relaying the message.’
He let out a shocked laugh. ‘“Relaying the message”? Jesus Christ.’ He leaned on the sink and replayed the scene over and over again in his mind. Black Mask had held a gun, there was no doubt about it.
A friggin’ machine gun.
Right?
The exact details eluded him now; the entire morning was a blur. And after a long moment, he gave up trying to recall it. He snapped out of the memory. Made the water colder, then splashed some on his face. Dried himself off with a paper towel.
Felicia opened another paper bag for his trousers. He pulled them off, handed them to her and put on the new ones Holmes had lent him. When he attached the gun holster to his belt, Felicia gave him a hard look.
‘Jacob—’
‘Laroche ain’t getting my gun.’
‘It’s an order.’
‘Fuck him and fuck his orders. This isn’t over, Felicia. That prick’s still out there somewhere, and he’s gonna strike again. I know he is, you know he is. And I’m not going to be unarmed when it happens.’ He adjusted the holster, slid his Sig into the leather pouch and locked it down. ‘Laroche wants my gun, he can come get it – when we got someone in custody, and not a second before.’
Felicia looked up at him, her pretty face tense and her Spanish eyes dark as black coals. ‘You’re playing with fire.’
‘No, I’m trying to put one out.’
‘Jacob—’
Before their argument could continue, one of the suits from the Tech Division poked his head into the room. The man had an extremely thin frame, a hooked nose, and an enormous Adam’s apple. It was Ich – Ichabod , as everyone called him. As in Ichabod Crane, from Sleepy Hollow . Perspiration sheened on his face, and he was out of breath, like he’d just run a marathon.
‘God, finally I found you guys,’ he said.
Striker stopped washing his hands. ‘What you got, Ich?’
‘Just follow me,’ he said. ‘There’s something both of you need to see. Something really, really . . . strange.’
Eleven
Every one of Red Mask’s senses felt warped.
He marched eastward along Pender, moving deeper into Chinatown. He’d abandoned the Lexus long ago. It was no longer a concern. His entire focus was the pain in his shoulder. It pulsated, moving through his body like long jellyfish tendrils. Already it had forced him from consciousness once. Much time had been lost because of it.
He could not afford for this to happen again.
The Fortune Happy Restaurant sat in the heart of Chinatown. Its dirty gold awning was splattered with blood-red lettering. The location had been chosen by Kim Pham, not for its size or layout, but for its address.
Number 426. This was very important.
Red Mask pushed through the front doors, smearing blood across the pane. Inside, the smell of ginger crab and black bean sauce hit him. It made his stomach contents rise, and he fought them down.
Seated patrons gawked as he struggled by into the kitchen area. Behind him, the mutters of anxious customers arose. A high-pitched clatter, like frightened birds. Yet in the kitchen, no one – not the chef, not the waitresses – so much as flinched or made eye-contact.
It was as if he were a ghost.
At the rear of the kitchen was the black door. Red Mask pushed through it. Almost immediately the smell of whisky found him. Mah-jong tiles rattled loudly, sounding like marbles dropping on granite. And there was cigar smoke, too. Thick and heavy.
Red Mask scanned the room. In the far corner, Kim Pham, ever the gracious host, was offering fine whiskies to the clientele. He was thirty, and dressed as he always was – in a white suit, with a white shirt, black tie, and a pair of gold wraparound sunglasses on his head. His oily black hair had blond tips.
When Kim Pham looked up, his eyes darkened. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’
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