White Ginger by Thatcher Robinson Page B

stumbled across the crawl space. She glanced back once as she careened toward the stairs. Under the electric torch, Mrs. Yan’s arm stood aloft as if beckoning. The two dead gangsters slumped in the shallow grave in a lovers’ embrace.
    When she reached the stairwell, Bai angrily brushed off Jason’s hand to bolt up the stairs. She scrambled to the top and lurched through the door. Lee looked up, startled. She ignored him as she ran to the sink and shoved aside a pile of dirty dishes. She held onto the edge of the counter with one hand while she pulled up her mask with the other to retch. Her body trembled.
    When she finally looked up, Jason stood over her. He turned the faucet on. She put her shaky hand under the flow to scoop up cold water and rinse out her mouth, soaking her clothes in the process.
    He spoke, his voice soft but compelling. “Be careful what you ask for.”
    She stopped rinsing long enough to look up at him.
    His voice sounded sad. “You asked for my help. I helped you. That’s what I do.”
    He stepped away to let her to reflect on his words.
    Dish detergent sat on the edge of the counter. Bai slipped her knife into the sheath on her sleeve and poured soap into her hands. She scrubbed at them, determined to rub out the stench of death. As she rubbed her hands raw, flashes of the gangsters’ deaths and Mrs. Yan’s final gesture kept intruding. The lingering images haunted her.
    Bai could hear Jason and Lee talking quietly behind her. She gritted her teeth and turned off the water before pulling down her mask. With no dishtowel in sight, she rubbed her hands on her jeans as she turned around.
    She apologized for being such a girl. “Sorry.”
    Lee smiled behind his mask and shrugged off her apology.
    Jason stared. His challenging gaze made her angry. Before she could say anything, he suddenly smiled and turned his attention to their hostage. The girl drew in on herself. Bai watched closely for fear he might shoot the young prostitute.
    â€œThere’s been a change of plans,” Jason said ominously. The girl’s eyes widened. “You’re going to go upstairs, wake everyone up and evacuate them through the back of the house. There is a back door, right?” He asked the question in a soothing voice, while waving the silenced gun in the girl’s face. She nodded up and down like a bobble-head. “Good. You never saw us.” He shook his head back and forth for emphasis. “We were never here.”
    The girl imitated him eagerly, her head swaying in unison with his.
    â€œYou smelled smoke,” he added. “The front of the house was on fire.” Jason mimicked flames by wiggling his fingers. “You ran upstairs to get everyone out of the house. You’re a hero.” His smile was triumphant.
    The girl continued to stare stupidly at him as if mesmerized. He turned the girl around and shoved her in the direction of the door. “Now run, and do what I told you. But remember . . . we were never here!”
    The girl glanced back once, fearfully. When she realized Jason didn’t plan to shoot her, she bolted. Jason took the green canister out of his pocket, pulled the pin, and tossed it down the stairwell. A sharp bang erupted accompanied by the crackling of wood.
    â€œTime to leave,” Jason said as he shepherded Lee and Bai toward the door. “That was an incendiary grenade. In about ten minutes this whole house will be an inferno.”
    Lee and Bai didn’t need further encouragement. They sprinted for the front door. By the time they reached the car, flames licked at the front porch. Layers of crusted paint acted as an accelerant, like gas on dry tinder. Fire spilled across the veranda to engulf the front of the house.
    Jason drove away from the conflagration calmly, while pulling the balaclava over his head and running his hand through tousled hair. Lee and Bai followed his example, pulling the masks off