He went that way, seeing the falls spilling out to his front. Ordinarily there would be a huge crowd fighting for selfies with the falls as a background, but the rain had put a damper on that. There was only a smattering of people in the overhang, and a single man sitting on a bench, ignoring the waterfall.
Feng hesitantly went forward, circling a family taking pictures, an umbrella blocking all of the shots from the falls. He approached and saw a man of about sixty, with salt-and-pepper hair, a thin mustache, and cruel eyes. It wasn’t until he came close that he noticed a vicious scar circling his neck, like someone had tried to slit his throat and had missed.
The man looked up from his newspaper and said, “Feng?”
Feng nodded, and the man stood, saying, “Follow me.”
As soon as his back was turned, Feng turned on the recording device, and then began to follow. They left the viewing area, going back the way Feng had come, but when the staircase began rising against the cliffs, the man took the old route. The one carved right into the rock. Feng looked around him, trying to spot the protection he had in the sparse people around, but saw no one who resembled a policeman. He wondered if they were hidden in the cliffs.
Feng continued following, and within minutes they were lost to the tourists, crossing over the rock wall and walking along the land next to the river, the expanse of stone blocking the view from the official tourist path. They descended into a small bowl, the waterfall lost from sight, and he saw two other men waiting, both of them squatting on their haunches like they were cooking dinner at a camp, a spilling of cigarette butts at their feet. They had been waiting awhile.
One had tattoos covering his face. The other had a narrow smile with gaps in his teeth that reminded Feng of a snake’s jaw, but what drew Feng’s eyes were his hands. They looked like they’d been dipped in acid, the skin misshapen as if melted wax had been poured over them. Feng felt the adrenaline rise, once again wondering about his police protection.
The man leading him felt the reticence and said, “I’m Chao Zheng. The Snow Leopard. Do not worry. Come.”
Feng descended deeper into the bowl, shoved his hands in his pockets, and waited. The two men rose and circled him, until he was in a ring of them. The Leopard said, “You have the money?”
Feng shrugged a messenger bag off of his shoulder and lowered it to the ground, saying, “Yes, yes. But it must be used in a certain way.”
The Leopard said, “I know. A very special way. But not the one you intended.”
Feng said, “What?”
The Leopard pulled out a knife and said, “Not the way you intended. You claim to work for China, but you don’t. I’ll take the money, but it will be used for them, not what you wanted.”
Feng said, “Wait, what? I’m here because you asked for me. I’m just the messenger. I’m a nobody.”
“Take off your shirt.”
And Feng knew he was dead. He didn’t move. The tattooed man leapt forward and ripped his shirt upwards, exposing the recording device. Feng began to tremble, looking wildly around for a police presence that wasn’t coming.
He said, “It’s not me. I was captured. I was just doing what I was told.”
The Snow Leopard leaned forward and said, “You’re good at doing what you’re told, yes?”
“Yes, yes, yes. I’ll set them up for you, if you want. I’ll do what you ask.”
The tattooed man trapped his hands behind his back, torqueing his arms up until he yelped. Feng said, “I’m not against you. I can help! I’m on the inside now. They think I’m with them. But I’m not.”
The man with melted hands grabbed him by the hair, jerking him off balance to the water. He fell to his knees, looking up at the Snow Leopard, the river rushing by a foot in front of him. He said, “Please, I can help.”
“I’m sure you can. I believe you. You’ll do what I ask?”
“Yes, yes. I promise.”
The Leopard nodded at the tattooed man and said, “I’m asking you to not hold your breath. This has to look like an accident, and it takes a lot longer if you do.”
Feng sprang up, and was immediately shoved back onto his knees, the mud seeping through his clothes. He flailed his arms above his head, trying to break the hold on his neck, but failed. He shrieked, the sound lost in the rushing of river water. He felt his head being lowered, shouted, “No, no, no!” and then it went under the surface. He fought valiantly, then weakly, then his body went slack. The Leopard watched him struggle with the detachment of someone drowning a cat in a bag. When it was done, he pushed Feng’s body into the current of the river, the carcass bobbing away from him.
He said, “So it’s true. We’ve been penetrated somehow.”
Acid hands said, “Maybe we should back off for a little bit.”
The Snow Leopard picked up the satchel, opened it, then said, “Maybe we should ramp it up. Quit hiding. Take it to them for a change.”
He turned to the tattooed man and said, “It’s not like we don’t have the support.”
Chapter 5
I saw Amena react to what I’d said about being the bad man, and realized I’d made a mistake. I really didn’t want to give her any worries about being in the danger zone, like we were leaving her to the wolves, and my comment was not a way to start a new relationship—especially given her past.
It was a missed opportunity. Something I was famous for, at least in my own mind. But it didn’t matter what I said. It only mattered what she thought. She leaned back from my hug and said, “You mean that? You’ll take care of the bad man if he comes?”
Standing behind her, Jennifer said, “What? What was that? What did Pike say?”
I grinned and tried to cover up the comment. “Nobody is going to hurt you now. Ever. We’re here for you. It’s a new life.”
She teared up again and said, “I want to go with you. For the honeymoon.”
Jennifer knelt down next to me, giving Amena the full force of her love. She took her hands and said, “We’re not going on a honeymoon. I don’t know how you got that in your head.”
Jennifer left her eyes and glared at me, saying, “We won’t have a honeymoon until after a formal ceremony.” She turned to Amena and said, “With you as a bridesmaid.”
Amena’s eyes widened, now broken from the previous discussion, amazed at the invitation. She said, “Really? Like an American wedding?”
She looked at me, and I said, “Of course, doodlebug.”
She turned to Jennifer for confirmation and Jennifer said, “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
And that was enough.
Amena was one complicated young woman, not the least because she’d had her mother murdered in Syria, and then saw the rest of her family slaughtered in Europe by a group of assholes who deserved to be planted in the ground. At the time, I’d become a farmer of sorts, planting all of them with extreme prejudice, but what had stuck with me was Amena herself. And it wasn’t misguided sympathy I saw in her, but her moral core.
I wouldn’t go so far as to say she was a Mother Teresa, because she had a little pirate in her, but then again, that’s what I truly loved about her. She wanted a family more than anything on earth, and we were trying hard to make it happen. At the end of the day, she was still raw, unsure of who to trust, which was why I was paying a fortune for a private boarding school.