I’d experienced many such losses in my life, from fellow Marines who had died during my time serving as a pilot in Afghanistan, to colleagues, clients and others lost while I was heading up Private, but no matter how many times I experienced bereavement, nothing blunted its merciless edge. The pain of grief was not something I’d ever grow accustomed to, and the thought of three — possibly four — of my staff meeting violent, premature deaths hit me hard.
“I’m so sorry to hear that, Zhang Daiyu,” I replied, trying to stay professional and supportive.
I sensed movement nearby and turned to see Justine emerge from the club. She wore a puzzled expression, which turned to one of concern as she read my expression.
“Who is it?” she whispered.
“Zhang Daiyu,” I replied. “Three of our operatives in Beijing were murdered, and Shang Li is missing, presumed dead. I’m going to have to fly out there.” I returned to my call. “Zhang Daiyu, I’m coming to Beijing. I’ll leave tonight and will send you my flight details as soon as I have them.”
“I’ll be waiting for you when you arrive,” she assured me before hanging up.
I slipped my phone into my pocket and caught Justine’s eye. She looked bewildered and uncertain. Her green dress billowed in the warm July breeze, the fabric dancing like leaves on a tree. She looked gorgeous. Fragile and wounded, too, but I knew why. My last two overseas trips had been highly dangerous. I almost hadn’t made it back. She would be feeling the same sorrow as I did over the tragedy in Beijing but would also be worried about me. It pained me to leave her. If there had been any other way, I would have chosen it, but right now my leadership was needed to get Private Beijing through this.
“Jack—” Justine began.
“I’ve got to go,” I cut her off. “Three of our people are dead and the head of the office there, my friend and business partner, is missing. They need me.”
An anxious look on her face, she fixed her eyes on me and nodded slowly. “I know. I don’t like it, but I know you must go.”
She turned toward the valets and produced a ticket stub from her purse.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said to the guy who’d parked her Mercedes, “I’m going to need this.” She glanced at me. “You’d better settle up inside.” She nodded toward the restaurant. “I’ll drive you to the airport.”
Chapter 4
The tiny apartment that acted as their operational base was starting to develop a stale smell. Jessie had tried to describe this phenomenon to friends who worked outside of law enforcement, but never quite managed to describe the complexity of the aroma. It was like a T-shirt worn by a sweaty man for a week had been left to get to know an old French cheese on a warm afternoon and then spent the evening being dunked in beer: an acrid, yeasty, fungal smell that permeated everything.
She and Lewis Williams had been working the night shift during the surveillance operation, and she couldn’t tell whether their take-outs or Roscoe and Patton — the two Private operatives on day shift — had contributed most to the gross smell.
The studio apartment was barely large enough for a single adult, so the four of them working in paired shifts was overload for the confined space. It had air conditioning, but the window didn’t open. The apartment was the best they could get at short notice and the solitary sealed window overlooked West 75th Street and gave them a decent view of the penthouse on the top floor of the redbrick building opposite. One of New York’s finer pieces of real estate, the penthouse belonged to Ivor Yeadon, the man their client had hired them to investigate.
Yeadon was an Ivy League-educated hedge-fund manager whose life involved gliding effortlessly from one high-end venue to the next. They’d followed him to dinner in some of Manhattan’s finest restaurants, dates at the theater, drinks with colleagues, cocktails with his old college buddies. Jessie had been leading the investigation for a couple of weeks and was intensely jealous of this man who seemed to have everything. He worked out in the gym regularly, which kept his body trim, he had a dazzling million-dollar smile, and sported a glorious golden tan. He also had a far more interesting love life than Jessie did and seemed to be seeing three women regularly, as well as a couple of others he took out on a date or to lunch now and then.
Tonight Ivor had invited one of his steady girlfriends to his apartment for a take-out and drinks. They’d eaten and were now kissing on the couch.
Lewis was watching through a pair of field glasses, but lowered them when Ivor and the girl started to remove their clothes.
“Want to play cards again?” he asked.
He and Jessie played poker for matchsticks whenever Yeadon was entertaining one of his girlfriends. His love life was of no interest to the investigative team. Private had been engaged to discover whether Yeadon was supplementing his massive income by selling confidential client information for profit.
Jessie turned down the volume on the speaker that picked up signals from the listening devices Lewis and Roscoe had installed around the penthouse apartment. She had no desire to hear their sex noises as things grew hotter and heavier over there.
“Yeah,” she said with a sigh. “Let’s play cards.”
Lewis pulled a boxed deck from the pocket of his crumpled jeans. Like Jessie he wore black denims, but unlike hers, his T-shirt was in grey-and-black camouflage whereas hers was navy blue. They’d chosen dark colors to reduce the risk of being spotted through the tinted windows.
They moved away from their vantage point by the dining table and sat on the edge of the bed, within easy reach of the living area, kitchen and bathroom.
“Deal?” Lewis asked.
Jessie didn’t answer. Her attention had been drawn to the apartment’s front door. She watched as someone outside depressed the handle.
Had Roscoe or Patton forgotten something?
Puzzlement turned to panic when the door swung open and she saw a masked man enter, gun in hand. Lewis registered her horror and turned in time to see the gunman fire two shots. One bullet hit Lewis in the throat and the other caught him in the mouth, shattering his teeth. He made a terrible shrill, screaming sound, which shocked Jessie and spurred her to action.
She leapt across the bed and barged into the shooter as he fired a third bullet that hit Lewis in the forehead.
Jessie drove her shoulder into the masked killer’s chest and he dropped the gun. He tried to grab her, but she punched him in the face and he staggered back. She saw him reach for the pistol and didn’t waste any time. She raced through the front door and sprinted away.
Chapter 5
Jessie burst into the corridor and headed for the elevator lobby, almost sixty feet away. As she picked up speed, she fumbled awkwardly in the pocket of her jeans for her phone. She used her other hand to bang on every apartment door she ran past.
“Call the cops!” she yelled. “And stay inside. There’s a shooter in the building. Call the cops!”
She repeated the message over and over until a bullet whipped through the air inches from her head. She quickly glanced back to see the masked gunman sighting her, trying to get a good shot. He fired again, and the suppressor fitted to the end of the barrel gave a muted crack as the bullet zipped toward her. This one caught Jessie in the right arm. Blood sprayed everywhere as the bullet tore an exit wound. She stumbled and dropped her phone while she fought the excruciating pain burning up and down her arm.
She found her footing and barreled on as another shot cracked and a bullet whistled past her. She saw the stairs and pushed through the fire door, hardly breaking stride as she started down the carpeted steps on the other side.