Two of the roomettes in 531 were vacant, allowing Clark to leave his roomette in 532 and step next door five minutes before they entered Moffat Tunnel from the east.
The train slowed some inside the narrow tunnel but still moved fast enough to double the noise level from what it had been outside now that they were in the belly of the mountain.
Clark waited a full minute, then made his move.
Peeking out the door of the roomette, he looked up and down the corridor one last time before he committed, then made his way quickly past the stairwell to the end of the car with the bedrooms, where he paused in front of Bedroom A. He knew the layout. The couch would be facing forward. A single chair near the window would face aft. He didn’t know where Kang would be sitting, but consoled himself that the room was so small it would hardly matter. He’d wrapped his handkerchief around the knuckles of his right hand, then held the Glock in his left, shooting two quick shots at the glass on the door, just above the lock. There was a chance he’d hit Kang, but he didn’t have a problem with that.
Moving purposefully once he began, Clark punched the glass away with the wrapped hand. The locking mechanism was relatively simple, a hooking metal latch with a second metal piece that swung down over the top, jamming the latch in place. Clark put two more rounds through the door to keep Kang on his toes as he pushed the metal tab out of the way. In less than three seconds from the time he first pressed the trigger, he stood to the side, pulling open the door and curtain in one movement.
Kang was seated on the couch, facing forward, which put his left hand nearer the window, forcing him to scramble for the pistol with his nondominant hand and bring it across his body to engage Clark. Still, he was incredibly fast for someone dazed and startled at the sudden attack. Fights in a room not much larger than a phone booth unfolded quickly. Clark rolled in, on top of Kang by the time he put a round in the top of the man’s knee. Kang tried to bring the Beretta around, but Clark’s left hand deflected it as he knelt on top of the injured hand. Kang let loose a ragged scream, almost too high-pitched to hear.
The Beretta slipped out of Kang’s hand, bouncing on the couch before falling to the floor.
Clark pushed off the couch cushion with his free hand and stood back, bracing himself against the curved swell of the bathroom door, his own pistol tucked in tight against his side.
“You speak English, Mr. Kang?” Clark asked, throwing in the name to keep the man guessing.
Kang nodded, chest heaving. His gun hand was busy clutching the bloody stump of the other.
“What’s your problem with Peter Li?”
“Who are you?”
Clark ignored the question. “Why attack the man’s family?”
Kang shook his head. Thinking. Stalling. Catching his breath.
The roaring noise of the train passing through the tunnel had covered the suppressed gunfire, but they were more than halfway through by now. The window was shot out, there was glass in the hall, and passengers would start to move around again as soon as they came out.
Clark tried again. “Who sent you?”
Kang shook his head.
Clark nodded to the bandaged hand. “I can get you some help.”
“A scratch,” Kang said.
“Are there more of you?”
Silence.
“Listen, pal,” Clark said. “Your friends are dead. You’re done. I can get you something for the pain, but I need to know who else is coming after Li.”
Kang glared, seething rage flashing in the otherwise dark pools of his eyes. “I have nothing to say.”
“You know,” Clark said, “I believe you.”
Kang was a germ, a bacterium that if not absolutely destroyed would only come back stronger. Still, to some — most, really — killing an injured man who was sitting, blinking up at you, was the act of a brutal barbarian. It was a point of fact that Clark could not argue. At the same time, he admitted another truth that civilized people almost always chose to ignore: Sometimes, the world needed a few barbarians.
Clark kicked the broken glass that had ended up in the hallway back inside the compartment. He slid the door shut behind him as he padded quickly to the vacant roomette, reaching it just as they exited the Moffat Tunnel back into the light of day. He knew one thing: If there were people coming after Peter and his family — there would now be one less.
John Clark could live with that.
73
General Song went in first, without knocking. He never ventured into the north wing so Bai’s people were astonished to see him standing there alone so brazenly.
“What can I do for you, General Song?” an officious captain who served as Bai’s secretary said from behind his highly polished wooden desk.
“I am here to see General Bai.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I do not,” Song said, starting toward the office door. The captain shot to his feet. “The general is in a meeting!”
“He’ll see me,” Song said, brushing past. Lackey or not, no captain wanted to physically bar the movement of a general.
Song pushed open the door to find Bai and Major Chang huddled around a computer screen, perusing what looked like ledger sheets.
“Ready to make some withdrawals?” Song asked.
Bai spun in his chair. The major stood, releasing a nervous fart.
“What do you mean barging into my office unannounced?” He leaned sideways, looking past Song and out the door. “Captain Feng! Call security forces at once—”
Bai’s face fell when four sullen-looking men wearing dark business suits filed in behind General Song.
“General Bai Min,” Song said. “I have come with the authority of Chairman Zhao, paramount leader. You and Major Chang are under arrest for acts of sedition, murder, and treason against the people of China.”
Chang shifted on his feet.
“This is nonsense,” Bai said. “I am under arrest because the plan failed.”
Song shrugged. “Nonetheless,” he said. “You are under arrest.” He leaned in closer. “And I have been assured your punishment will not be pretend.”
At approximately the same moment, but six thousand miles away from Beijing, where General Bai and his bagman were being led away in shame and shackles, a Blue-Bird bus came to a stop in front of Marine Corps Recruit Depot San Diego, packed full of stunned-looking young men.
It was dark, but the glaring lights above the entrance to MCRD illuminated the yellow footprints the young men had all heard so much about. No one spoke. Most held their breath in anticipation — and a unique sense of self-imposed dread. They’d all done their research. They’d watched YouTube videos. They thought they knew what was about to happen. Every one of them had volunteered, so there was no one to blame but themselves.
The bus doors hissed open. A barrel-chested drill instructor sauntered up the steps, campaign hat settled low on his forehead, and began to bark almost unintelligible instructions. His voice was hoarse and raspy, as if he’d been screaming for hours at a concert or football game. Each instruction was met with a resounding “Aye-aye, sir!” or “Yes, sir!” jumbled at first, until the group got their act together and began to answer in unison. Each order came tight on the heels of the previous one, on and on and on. It was understandable — and intended — that all the young men would become disoriented.
Asking the recruits if they understood, over and over again, the drill instructor continued to bark orders. When he told them to, and only when he told them to, he wanted them to get off his bus.