“Let me do this!” she shouted finally. “Let me do this, and I’ll let you live!”
“Not hardly,” Manning said. He swung the Asp again in a vicious backhand, and his target was her throat. The force of the strike would have shattered her larynx and promised a long, lingering death.
Despite her injuries, she spun on her damaged leg and took the strike on the back, right between the shoulder blades. At the same time, her right leg lashed out in a ferocious spin-kick that Manning couldn’t block-his right arm still hung limp at his side, the nerves tingling as if on fire. He tried to duck down, but there just wasn’t enough time-she was much faster than he could ever be.
Light exploded behind his eyes as he took the kick right to the side of the head.
Ryker heard the sounds of struggle somewhere on the floor. His Glock at the ready, he advanced toward the office suites in the far corner, glancing into cubicles as he passed by them. Through the ceiling to floor windows, he saw the sun was already below the horizon. The city of San Francisco was lighting up, ready to repel the darkness of night. In counterpoint, half the lights on the office floor switched off suddenly. Ryker cursed the lack of illumination, as now every shadow could offer cover to a potential attacker.
Only two lights were on in the dark hallway that led to the office suites. Ryker considered his chances for a moment. There were many, many places for an attacker to hide, but at the end of the hallway, a thin strip of light beckoned. Light that escaped from beneath a shut door.
And then he heard a woman shout something, and then a loud crash.
Ryker firmed his grip on the Glock. Time to join the party.
Meihua watched as Manning collapsed face-first to the floor in an awkward sprawl. The Asp slipped from his grasp, and the bend in his left arm told her she had indeed broken it as she had intended. His jacket and shirt were darkened by the blood pouring from the injury in his side. She hadn’t meant it to be a fatal wound, but he had rushed her; the speed at which he had pulled his weapon, turned, and fired hadn’t left her with much choice in the matter. She had hurled her knife as she had been trained to do those many, many years ago in China and Taiwan. The liver was one of the human body’s most important organs, and as such, it was incredibly vulnerable to injury. Even the smallest wound could impair its function, and of course, it bled a great deal. If she hadn’t struck him there, she knew his next shot would be to her head, and that would be that.
Convinced Manning wasn’t going anywhere, she limped toward the office suite’s inner door. She was bleeding badly, from the wound in her left leg and from her nose, which Manning had broken with his punch. And her right arm was damaged as well; in just a matter of seconds, Manning had rendered her almost combat-ineffective. It was by more luck than skill that she had persevered and overcome him, but she had known that fighting him would be a great challenge. She felt no euphoria at the victory, just a deep, hollow fatigue.
She threw open the office door and leaped inside with as much vigor as she could summon, landing in an awkward crouch, her right arm curled before her chest, her bleeding left leg extended behind her for balance. The pain was starting to mount now, interfering with her ability to concentrate, to remain focused; she used every ounce of her conditioning to hold it at bay, to short-circuit the nerve impulses carrying useless messages of pain before they reached her brain. She looked from right to left, but the office appeared to be empty. All the lights were on, but where was Lin-?
The sound of trickling water captured her attention, and she looked to her left. The sound came from behind a closed door, and she saw a strip of wan light radiating from the small gap between the door and floor. Through her damaged nose, she could still smell the lingering Chinese food, and the glance to the credenza to her right revealed the remains of a large dinner, in foil trays and white cardboard boxes. Back to her left, the trickling water beckoned to her.
He’s in there, she thought.
She rose and advanced toward the door at a slow, hobbling pace. As she walked, she reached to her waist, where the belt of blades was cinched tight around the thin, high-tech ballistic armor that protected her chest. She pulled a long, thin blade from its sheath. Its hilt was made from white pearl. White-the color of death in China.
As her fingertips touched the door knob, she sensed movement to her right. She crouched instinctively as the first pistol shot tore through the wooden door, sending splinters flying. The second shot hit her in the back, but the armor protected her from most of the damage, though she screamed as the force of the impact knocked her asprawl. She continued with the motion, rolling across the carpeted floor as Lin Yubo stepped around the desk, his pistol held before him in both hands. He squeezed off another shot. It missed, but not by a wide margin.
“Face me!” Lin shouted in Shanghainese. “Face me! Don’t hide behind your mask, show yourself, assassin!” As he spoke, he continued firing, again and again. Meihua backpedaled as quickly as she could, leaving a broken trail of blood on the carpeting from her leg, whimpering behind her mask as the shattered bones of her right arm ground against each other. A bullet struck her right hand, decimating the fine bones there. Another slammed into her chest, followed by another, but both rounds were turned by her armor. She backed into the hard, unyielding credenza behind her, and another bullet smashed through the fine wood only an inch from her left ear.
And then the Walther PPS Lin held was out of ammunition, its slide locked back. Smoke rose from its exposed breech. Lin kept the weapon trained on her, as if unaware its magazine was depleted.
Slowly, painfully, Meihua pushed herself to a half-standing, half-leaning position against the credenza. With her bleeding hand, she pulled the black hood from her head and tossed it to the floor. She wiped at the blood pouring from her nose and glared at him. For his part, Lin returned the stare, and even now his gaze was cold, reptilian.
“A woman,” he said, almost disgusted. “A woman was able to penetrate my defenses, kill my sons, and almost kill me. A woman. The gods must be laughing.”
“Do you know who I am, Lin Yubo?” she asked. Her voice was still strong and vital, even though her body was damaged and failing. But she had strength enough to overpower an old man in his 80s. She knew that. It was fate, both his and hers.
“I know you are Ren Yun’s translator.”
“My family name is Shi. My father was Shi Yue, my mother Zuo Gong, my brother Shi Tian. You and your people killed them in your purges. In Shanghai.”
“Do you think I care?” Lin asked, his voice pitched low. “Do you think I even knew their names? Do you think you would have done any differently? You want revenge, Shi Meihua? Find the ghost of Mao Zedong. Take it up with him.” As he spoke, Lin ejected the Walther’s spent magazine and pulled another from his pocket.
Meihua screamed and lurched toward him, her blade glittering in her left hand. Lin’s eyes registered something other than cold calculation for the first time as an expression of surprise befell his face. It was clear he hadn’t expected such vitality from her, that he had been convinced her time was over. He stepped back at the very last moment to avoid her blade, but it slashed open the back of his right hand. Lin cried out and dropped the Walther to the floor as he backpedaled, steadying himself against the expanse of his desk as she continued her advance. Meihua grinned. At last, she had her quarry cornered-
She was rammed against the desk as Manning charged into her like a bull, using his superior weight to pin her against it. The wind rushed from her lungs, but still she twisted and elbowed him in the face. Manning grunted but did not relent, so she buried her blade to its hilt into his chest twice. Manning gave her a head-butt in return that made her see stars, and she felt at least two teeth break when her jaws slammed together. But Manning did fall back slightly, and she kneed him in the groin and elbowed him in the face again. His jaw dislocated with a brief pop! and he staggered backward. Blood poured from his nose, and his eyes looked wild, unfocused.