Make that exceptional.
He was methodical, focused, a thresher bearing down on her. She couldn’t see a way through, and so, not for the first time, she knew she would have to kill him using psychology, as her grandfather, Salamander, had taught her.
She turned and ran.
He chased her into a blind alley. She let her gait falter, just a fraction, giving the impression of fear. She glanced left and right, as if in panic, felt him close on her, heard the fast helicopter rhythm of his axes. She needed to make him break his stride, accelerate for the kill, create an opening. It wasn’t happening. Somewhere deep inside her, panic tried to rise, but years of brutal training pulped it.
The most difficult martial art she’d mastered was Mind Boxing, a linear mode of attack, whereas his movements were circular. But it was only partly about movements. She was out of space, and out of time. Never put your back against the wall, Salamander had told her, because you might as well be stood up in a coffin, and this assassin almost had her there. Almost. She raised her right leg behind her, planting her foot against the wall, her standing leg vertical and straight. She faced her attacker, her hands in fists close to her chest, blades pointing upwards. His eyes narrowed. He’d not seen this move. How could he? Only Salamander knew it. A lost North Korean technique. She added the final, necessary touch.
She closed her eyes.
A shift in his rhythm created that split-second opening she needed. He accelerated forward. She sank backwards, both legs arcing like bows, opened her eyes and locked onto the axes, computing the timing. He lunged forwards, his left axe aiming the killer blow to her head, the right whirling behind for the follow-up. She kicked off from the wall. Her turn to yell now, a dragon’s roar. Her right blade spiked through his descending wrist, while her body twisted, giving her that extra reach. Her left blade punctured his throat and severed his spine, cutting his brain off from his limbs. Blood spattered her face. The assassin’s second axe, momentum still guiding its course, slammed into her shoulder. But it was devoid of power and precision, and struck her with a glancing blow, the axe toppling from his fist. A flesh-wound. A gash she’d stitch later. A scar for the rest of her life.
But at least she still had a life.
She extracted the blades from his neck and wrist as he sagged onto the ground. Collecting herself into a formal standing posture, a soldier standing to attention, she bowed to her dead assailant.
She heard a slow clap. The Judge. He was dressed in a hooded orange robe, like the Buddhist monk he professed to be. Those denim-blue eyes still sparkled, though he was at least eighty. He approached, and stood at the other side of the corpse, gazing downwards.
‘He was one of the best,’ he said.
Not the best, then.
‘Your role will be unchallenged for another year,’ he said. ‘At least amongst the five.’
The five triads who still held to the old ways.
He passed her a rag from one of his robe pockets. For the blood. She took it. Her grandfather would have beaten her for being cut, locked her in a dark cell with no food, water or shit-hole for three days. After all, the axe’s edge could have been poisoned.
A group of police skidded to a halt at the open end of the alley, each wearing head-to-toe transparent waterproofs over their uniforms. She tensed, but the Judge remained serene. The four officers came over, picked up the body and the axes, and took everything away. As if she and the Judge were invisible. Thunder cracked again. She shivered. She wasn’t cold; it was still thirty degrees, but she was bleeding.
‘I must go,’ she said, asking permission, because with the Judge, that’s how it was.
‘Your grandfather failed.’
Of course he’d failed. Otherwise she’d know. Everyone would know. London would be ash. The question was …
‘He escaped.’
Now she really wanted to go.
‘They are looking for him. And you.’
Finally he nodded, and she left.
‘Till next time,’ he said, in a mocking tone, his words washed onto the street by the rain.
She’d been wary before, knowing an assassin was after her. But now her grandfather – Salamander – would return. Shamed. Disgraced. Which made him more lethal than ever. And he would have plans for her, as always. Plans she would hate to the core. Like London. She’d pretended until now, gone along with his ideas, worn a mask. But now he would see through her. Then he would kill her.
She trudged up waterlogged steps to the overpass, devoid of cars due to the cyclone. Rain pelted the steaming asphalt, the skyscrapers of Tsim Sha Tsui barely visible across the bay. She took in a long, deep breath. This was her city, her home. She would never leave. Her father had long ago secured a plot for her grave on the hill overlooking Victoria Park and the bay. She lifted her bare face to the rain. Stark white bolts forked down, catching the lightning rods of the most beautiful skyline in the world, the intense thunder sending a tremor through her body. A thought occurred. She could not kill Salamander because, despite everything, he was still head of her triad so even if she succeeded, her life would be forfeit.
The answer was simple, as it often was. Find someone else, someone outside the triad system, to do it for her.
Skyscrapers punctured the cloud layer, their glass facades gleaming gold in the morning sun. They floated above a sea of white, the cloud base locking the local and expat population into the sweatbox that was Hong Kong. The plane approached the airport on Chek Lap Kok island, and Nadia felt respect for what humanity could achieve. Yet as the A380 dipped, the white turned to smudgy grey, and she recalled that while most were prepared to do an honest day’s work, there were those few who would tear it all down.
Salamander.
Her quarry, the world’s most wanted terrorist. He was on the run after she’d thwarted his attempt to nuke London, but not before he’d taken out eight world leaders. She stared down as Kowloon unfolded itself, Hong Kong Island opposite, several green-and-white Star Ferries traversing the short expanse of water in between, carrying people to and fro. He was here. And although his organisation was in ruins, he would know she and Jake were coming for him.
Jake touched her arm. ‘Did you get some sleep?’
Two hours, out of an eleven-hour flight in first class. Before she’d thrown up in the loo. Before she’d seen the spot of blood that told her she was doomed, radiation from her stunt back in Chernobyl exacting its deadly toll. Four weeks left before she’d slip this skin.
‘Yes,’ she lied. When did she start lying to Jake? Now, apparently. If he knew the truth, he’d abort the mission, or worry too much about her and get them both killed.
He gave her a searching look. They knew each other too well. Distraction then. Besides, she needed to tell him about her phone call.
‘I called for reinforcements.’
He sat back. ‘Greaves? Mallory?’
Not a bad idea. Maybe later. ‘No. The Chef.’
The plane bumped onto the tarmac. A few people clapped. Engines shifted into reverse, thrusting her against her seat belt, then eased off.
‘Seriously? You can