Limit (72 page)

* * *

Xin fired.

The bullets ploughed through the boy and the bags he was holding. Jia Wei’s face exploded, bottles burst, hot soup, cola and coffee, blood, brain matter, wontons and splinters of bone splatted wildly in all directions. While the ruptured body was still tipping backwards, Xin had leapt from the saddle and stepped inside the building.

His glance took in the interior in a fraction of a second, probed, categorised, separated into worth keeping, superfluous, interesting and negligible. Panels with their monitors turned off, covered with dust, suggested a former control centre, equipped with measuring and regulatory technology designed to monitor the blast furnace plant. The room’s current purpose was equally obvious. In the middle of the room, tables had been shoved together, with highly modern equipment, transparent displays, computers and keyboards. Plank beds pushed up against the back wall showed that the control centre was inhabited, or sometimes used as a place to sleep.

He brandished his gun. The fat girl, Xiao Meiqi, or was her name Maggie? held
her hands up. Whatever. Her mouth was wide open, her eyeballs looked as if they were about to leave their sockets, which made her look rather ugly. Xin shot her down as casually as the powerful shake hands with those less important than themselves, swept aside the bags she had set down on the table with the barrel of his gun and aimed it at Yoyo.

Not a sound came from her lips.

He tilted his head curiously to one side and looked at her.

He didn’t know what he’d expected. People showed fear and shock in different ways. For example, in the last second of his life Jin Jia Wei had looked as if you could actually wring the fear out of him. Meiqi’s fear, on the other hand, had reminded him of Edvard Munch’s
The Scream
, a distorted image of herself. There were people who preserved their dignity and attractiveness even when they were in pain. Meiqi hadn’t been one of them. Hardly anyone was.

Yoyo, on the other hand, just stared at him.

She must have leapt up just as Jia Wei called her name, which explained her crouching, cat-like posture. Her eyes were wide, but her face looked strangely unexpressive, regular –
almost
perfect, had a shadow around the corner of her mouth not made her look slightly ordinary. Even so, she was more beautiful than most of the women that Xin had seen in his life. He wondered how much attention such beauty could put up with. Almost a shame they had no time to find out.

Then he saw Yoyo’s hands beginning to tremble.

Her resistance was crumbling.

He drew up a chair, sat down on it and lowered his gun.

‘I have three questions for you,’ he said.

Yoyo said nothing. Kenny let a few seconds pass, waited to see her give in, but apart from the fact that she was trembling nothing in her posture changed. She went on staring at him as before.

‘I expect a quick and honest answer to all three questions,’ he went on. ‘So no excuses.’ He smiled the way you smile at women whose favours you are trying to win by being open. They might just as well have been sitting in a smart bar or a cosy restaurant. It struck him that he felt decidedly comfortable in Yoyo’s company. Perhaps they did still have a little time left together after all.

‘And afterwards,’ he said benignly, ‘let’s go on looking.’

* * *

Jericho saw nothing but dust, whirled up by his own car, as he screeched to a halt below the tower of scaffolding. He drew his Glock from its shoulder-holster, pushed the door open and dashed to the steps. They were made of steel, like the rest of the construction, and amplified the sound of his footsteps.

Bonggg, bonggg!

He cursed under his breath. Taking two steps at a time, he tried to walk on tiptoe, slipped and banged his knee painfully against the stair railings.

Idiot! His only advantage was that Zhao hadn’t seen him.

That moment shots rang out above him. Jericho hurried on. The closer he got to the platform, the more penetratingly the hiss of the airbike reached his ear. Zhao had not thought it necessary to turn off the engine. Fine. The bike would drown him out. He turned his head and saw movement on the square below him. Motorcyclists. Without paying them any heed, he took the last few steps, paused and peered across the stairhead.

The airbike was parked right in front of him. The door to the control centre was open. He jumped onto the platform, darted over to the building and paused beside the doorway, back to the wall, gun at eye-level. Zhao’s voice could be heard, friendly and encouraging:

‘First of all, how much do you know? Secondly, who have you told about it? And the third question’s very easy to answer.’ Pause for effect. ‘It’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, Yoyo. It is: Where – is – your – computer?’

She was alive. Good.

Less good was the fact that he couldn’t see the killer and therefore didn’t know what direction he was looking in at that moment. He ran his eye along the façade. Just before the corner of the building he spotted a small window. Ducking down, he crept over to it and peered inside.

Yoyo was standing behind a table full of computers. All he could see of Zhao was legs, a hand and the massive barrel of his gun. He was clearly sitting facing Yoyo, which meant that his back was turned to the door. The window was open a crack, so Jericho could hear Zhao saying, ‘It can’t be that hard, can it?’

Yoyo mutely shook her head.

‘So?’

No reaction. Zhao sighed.

‘Right, perhaps I forgot to explain the rules. It’s like this: I ask, you answer. Or even better, you just hand the thing over to me.’ The gun-barrel came down. ‘That’s all you have to do. Okay? If you fail to reply, I’ll blow your left foot off.’

Jericho had seen enough. A few leaps and he was at the door. He jumped inside and aimed his gun at the back of Zhao’s head.

‘Sit right where you are! Hands up. No heroics.’

A glance took in the scene. At his feet lay the boy’s body, shredded as if bombs had gone off in his head and chest. Maggie crouched a few metres away. She kept her head lowered, mutely contemplating her belly, from which amazing quantities
of innards spilled. Floor, chairs and table were sprayed with red. Disheartened, Jericho wondered what Zhao had fired with.

‘Flechettes.’

‘What?’

‘Dart-shaped projectiles,’ Zhao repeated calmly, as if Jericho had asked his question out loud. ‘Metal Storm, fifty tiny tungsten carbide arrows per round, one and a half thousand kilometres per hour. Pierce steel plates. Opinions are divided. On the one hand you create one hell of a mess, on the other—’

‘Shut up! Hands in the air.’

Painfully slowly, Zhao obliged. Jericho caught his breath. He felt helpless and ridiculous. Yoyo’s lower lip trembled, her mask slipped, shock took hold of her. At the same time he became aware of a flicker of hope in her eyes. And something else, as if a plan were brewing in her head—

Her body tensed.

‘Don’t,’ Jericho warned, speaking in her direction. ‘No chaos. First of all we have to bring this bastard under control.’

Zhao yelled with laughter.

‘And how are you going to accomplish that? The way you did in the Andromeda?’

‘Shut up.’

‘I could have killed you.’

‘Set the weapon down on the floor.’

‘You owe me a bit of respect, little Jericho.’

‘I said, put the gun on the floor!’

‘Why don’t you just go home and forget the whole thing? I would—’

There was a sharp bang. A few centimetres away from Zhao, Jericho’s bullet pierced the tabletop. The hitman sighed. He turned his head slowly so that his profile could be seen. He had a tiny transmitter in his ear.

‘Really, Owen, that’s too much.’

‘For the last time!’

‘It’s fine.’ Zhao shrugged. ‘I’ll set it down on the ground, okay?’

‘No.’

‘Meaning not yet?’

‘
Drop
it.’

‘But—’

‘Just let it slip off your knees. Keep your hands in the air. Then kick it over to me.’

‘You’re making a mistake, Owen.’

‘I
have
made a mistake. Do it, right now, or I’ll shoot
your
left foot off.’

Zhao gave a thin smile. The gun clattered to the floor. He pushed it with the
tip of his boot, so that it slipped a little way towards Jericho and stopped halfway between them.

‘Shoot him,’ Yoyo said hoarsely.

Jericho looked at her.

‘That wouldn’t be a—’

‘Shoot him!’ Tears poured from Yoyo’s eyes. Her features distorted with revulsion and fury. ‘Shoot him, shoo—’

‘No!’ Jericho violently shook his head. ‘If we want to find out who he’s working for, we’ll have to—’

He went on talking, but his voice was lost amongst the hisses and wails of the airbike.

They had got louder. Why?

Yoyo cried out and recoiled. A dull blow made the floor shake as something landed outside the control centre. It wasn’t Zhao’s bike. It was more bikes.

Zhao grinned.

For a paralysing moment Jericho didn’t know what to do. If he turned round, the killer would get hold of his gun again. But he had to know what was happening outside.

And then he understood.

The transmitter in Zhao’s ear! It had been broadcasting his voice all that time. He’d called for reinforcements. Zhao got up from his chair, his fingers clutching its back. Jericho raised the Glock. His adversary paused, crouching like a beast of prey, ready to spring.

‘Drop it,’ said a deep voice behind him.

‘I’d do what he says, little Owen.’

‘I’ll shoot you first,’ said Jericho.

‘Then shoot.’ Zhao’s dark eyes rested on him, seemed to suck him in. He slowly started to sit up. ‘There are two of them, by the way, and it’s only thanks to me that you’re still alive at all.’

Footsteps rang out behind Jericho. A hand reached over his shoulder and grabbed his gun. Jericho unresistingly allowed it to be pulled from his fingers. His eyes sought Yoyo’s. She was pressing herself against the old control-desk, eyes darting back and forth.

A fist pushed him forwards.

Zhao took hold of him, drew back his arm and struck him full in the face with the palm of his hand. His head flew sideways. The next blow hit his solar plexus and forced the air from his ribs. Choking, he fell to his knees. Now he could see the two men, one a thick-set, bearded Asian who had been aiming his gun at Yoyo, the
other gaunt, fair and with a Slavic look. They both carried pistols of the same type as their leader’s. Zhao laughed quietly. He brushed the silky, black hair off his forehead and drew himself up to his full height. He started walking around Jericho at a measured pace.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘what you are experiencing here is the triumph of the cerebellum over the belly. The primacy of planning. That’s the only possible way of explaining how a man who effectively had me in his power is now cowering at our feet. A detective, note. A professional.’ He spat the last word at Jericho. ‘And yet I welcome his visit. We now have the opportunity to learn more than before. We can, for example, ask Mr Jericho what he actually wanted to ask
me
.’

Zhao’s right hand darted forward, grabbed Jericho’s ponytail, pulled him up and to him, so that he could feel the hitman’s hot breath on his face.

‘The question of the client. Always interesting. Our guest could hardly have hit on the idea of looking for little Yoyo all on his own. So who is
your
client? I’m right, Owen, am I not? Someone threw the stick. Fetch the stick, Owen! Find Yoyo! Woof! – Isn’t there anyone else I should be taking care of?’

Even though the situation was anything but funny, Jericho laughed. ‘I’d be careful about wasting your time.’

‘You’re so right.’ Zhao snorted, shoved him aside and approached Yoyo, who was no longer trying to hide her fear. Her lower lip trembled, streams of moisture glistened on her cheeks. ‘So let’s devote ourselves to our lovely do-gooder here, and ask her to help us in answering questions that have been asked once already. Where – is – your – computer?’

Yoyo stepped back. Again her features underwent a change, as if she had just made a surprising discovery. Zhao paused, plainly irritated. At that very moment Jericho heard a faint metallic click.

‘You’re not going to do anything at all,’ a voice said.

Zhao spun round. Two young men and a woman in bikers’ leathers had stepped into the room, machine-guns at the ready, aiming at him and his two assistants, who in turn were aiming at the new arrivals. One of them was a giant with a barrel chest, gorilla arms, the top of his head a shaven hemisphere. The point of his chin was extended by a blue prosthesis into an artificial pharaoh’s beard. Jericho’s breath froze. Daxiong had misled him really badly, but there was no one else that he would rather have seen at that very moment.

Six Koreans, who had all taken a beating
—

Daxiong’s narrow eyes turned towards Yoyo.

‘Come over here,’ he roared. ‘The rest of you stay where—’

His voice faded away. It was only now that the giant seemed to take in what had
happened in the control centre. His gaze wandered from the shredded corpse of Jia Wei to Maggie’s grotesquely bent body. His eyes widened very slightly.

‘They’ve killed them,’ whimpered the girl by his side. All the colour had fled from her face.

‘Shit,’ the other guy said. ‘Oh, shit!’

Jericho’s thoughts went running helter-skelter like a pack of dogs. A thousand possible scenarios flooded his imagination. The hitmen, the City Demons, everyone was aiming at everyone else, while Zhao crouched there, waiting, and Yoyo’s eyes wandered from one group to the other. No one dared move for fear of disturbing the fragile equilibrium, which would inevitably have ended in disaster.

It was Yoyo who broke the spell. She walked slowly past Zhao and over to Daxiong. Zhao didn’t move. Only his eyes followed her.

‘Stop.’

He said it quietly, no more than a sibilant murmur, but it still drowned out the hiss of the airbikes, the dog-like wheezing of the others, the hammering in Jericho’s head, and Yoyo stopped.

‘No, come here,’ Daxiong yelled. ‘Don’t listen to—’