"Security! Open up! I am Lieutenant Tong and I have been assigned to protect you!"
He saw the door camera swivel around and held his pass card up, his thumb obscuring the name. A moment later the door hissed open and he was ushered inside, the three servants smiling at him gratefully.
The smiles froze as he drew his gun.
"Where is he? Where is the weasel-faced little shit?"
"I don't know who you mean," the oldest of them, an ancient with the number two on his chest began, but Chen cuffed him into silence.
"You know very well who I mean. Fan. I want to know where he is, and I want to know now, not in two minutes' time. I'll shoot you first, loo tzu, then you, you little fucker."
The elder—Number Two—looked down, holding his tongue, but beside him the youngest of the three began to babble, fear freeing his tongue wonderfully. Chen listened carefully, noting what he said.
"And he's there now?"
The young man nodded.
"Right." He looked past them at the house comset; a large, ornate machine embellished with dragons. "Has anyone spoken to him yet?"
The young man shook his head, ignoring the ancient's glare.
"Good." Chen stepped past them and fired two shots into the machine. "That's to stop you being tempted. But let me warn you. If I find that he has been tipped off, I will come back for you. So be good, neh? Be extra-specially good."
the HOUSE STEWARD smiled, lowering his head. "If you would wait here, Captain Kao, I shall tell my master . . ."
A straight-arm to the stomach made the man double up, gasping. Chen stepped over him, heading toward the sound of voices, the clink of tumblers.
A servant came toward him, trying to prevent him from entering the dining room. Chen stiff-fingered him in the throat.
He threw the doors open, looking about him, ignoring the startled faces, then he roared ferociously as he spotted Surgeon Fan, there on the far side of the food-heaped table.
Fan Tseng-li stood, staggering back from his chair, his face white, his eyes wide with fear. Others were shouting now, outraged, looking from Chen to Fan, trying to make sense of things. For a moment there was hubbub, then a cold, fearful silence fell.
Chen had drawn his knife.
"Ai ya\" Fan cried hoarsely, looking about him anxiously. "Who is this madman?"
"You know fucking well who I am," Chen snarled, coming around the table. "And I know who you are, Fan Tseng-li. You are the evil bastard who let my unborn daughter die."
Fan's face froze in a rictus of fear, then he began to babble. "You have it wrong. I was detained. A client of mine was ill."
Fan fell silent. Chen was standing only an arm's length from him now, glaring at him, the look of hatred, of sheer disgust, enough to wither the man.
"I know what kind of insect you are, Fan. What I need to know is who paid you to let my daughter die, my wife suffer." He reached out savagely, gripping Fan's hair, then pulled him down onto his knees, the big knife held to his throat. "Who was it, Fan Tseng-li? Tell me."
There was a murmur of protest from around the table, but Chen ignored them. He was looking down into Fan's face, a murderous hatred shaping his lips into a snarl.
"You had better tell me," he said quietly, tightening his grip on Fan's hair, "and you had best do it now, Fan Tseng-li. Unless you want a second mouth below your chin."
Fan grimaced, then met Chen's eyes. "It was Ts'ui Wei. Ts'ui Wei made me do it."
"Ts'ui Wei?" Chen frowned, trying to place the name. "Did he—?"
He stopped, making the connection. Ts'ui Wei. Of course! That was the name of the youth's father. The tall, thin man who had threatened him that time, after he'd had the youth demoted. Chen shuddered. So that was it. That was why his child had died.
He sheathed the knife, then turned, looking about him at the faces gathered around the table. "You heard," he said defiantly. "And now you know what kind of creature your friend Fan Tseng-li is."
Chen looked back down at Fan, then with a savage grunt, brought his face down onto his knee.
He let Fan roll to the side, then walked back around the table, seeing how they cowered from him. At the doorway the servants parted before him, making no attempt to hinder him. They had seen what had happened and understood. Some even bowed their heads as Chen passed, showing him respect. Back in the dining room, however, voices were being raised; angry, indignant voices, calling for something to be done.
HE STOOD there, in the darkness on the far side of the restaurant, looking across. There were seven of them in all, five of them seated at one of the tables near the pay desk, their figures back-lit, their faces dark. The other two sat at nearby tables; big men, their watchfulness as much as their size telling Chen what they were. The five were huddled close, talking.
"You should go," one of them was saying. "There must be relatives you could stay with for a time, Ts'ui Wei. Until this blows over."
Ts'ui Wei leaned toward him aggressively. "I'm not running from that bastard. He had my son sent down. I'll be fucked if he'll threaten me."
"You do as you feel, Ts'ui Wei, but I've heard that Security has been digging through deck records, putting together a file."
Ts'ui leaned back arrogantly. "So? He can't prove anything. All Surgeon Fan has to do is keep his mouth shut."
The fat man bristled. "Fan Tseng-li is the model of discretion. He, at least, is taking my advice and going away until this is all sorted out."
Ts'ui Wei snorted. "That's typical of that self-serving shit! I should never have listened to your sniveling nonsense. We could have hit him. Hit him hard. And not just a fucking unborn child. We could have hurt him bad. The little girl. . ."
Chen looked down, his anger refined to a burning point. They were not expecting him. That gave him the element of surprise. But there were still the bodyguards. He would have to deal with them first.
Standing there, listening to them scheme and plot, he had felt his anger turn to a deep revulsion. For them, but also for himself—for what had he been doing while all this was happening.7
He let out a long, slow breath. No. It could never be the same. For wherever he looked he could see the woman stumbling toward him like a broken doll, could hear the sound of the detonation . . .
And the child? He closed his eyes, the pain returning, like an iron band tightening about his chest. It was as if he had killed the child. As if he had pressed a tiny button and . . .
Chen stepped from the darkness. One of the hired men looked up at him as he came closer, then looked away, taking him for what he seemed—a night worker stopped for a bowl of ch'a before retiring. It was what Chen had hoped for.
Three paces from the man, he acted, swinging his fist around in a broad arc that brought it crashing into the man's face, breaking his nose. As he fell back, Chen turned and spun, high-kicking, catching the second man in the chest, even as he was getting up from his chair. At once he followed through, two quick punches felling the man.
Chen turned, facing the men at the table. They had moved back, scattering their chairs. Now they stared at him, wide-eyed with fear.
"Tell me," Chen said quietly, taking a step closer. "My little girl. . . What would you have done, Ts'ui Wei? Tell me what you had planned."
Ashen-faced, Ts'ui Wei tried to back away, but the end wall was directly behind him. He turned his head anxiously, looking for somewhere to run, but his way was blocked on both sides.
Chen lifted the weighted table and threw it aside, then reached down, taking the big hunting knife from his boot. "I have no stomach for a fight, eh, Ts'ui Wei?" Chen laughed coldly, all of the hatred and self-disgust he had been feeling suddenly focused in his forearm, making the big knife quiver in the light.