When Totems Fall (24 page)

"No! You may not proceed," came the order.

Waving a document ferociously, he demanded everyone re-board immediately.

Something was wrong. Had the government found him, all the way out here?

No. As Junjie retraced his exit from Qingdao mentally, there were no signs of a tailing. Still, something about this wasn't right. With skin tingling, his heart raced inside his chest. The temptation to run emerged—yes, but where? This lonely depot was the only thing on this remote highway for hours in any direction. He would have to take his chances, back in his seat.

Junjie passed by the confrontation and melded in with the crowd, stealing a quick, sideways glance at the paper in the officers hand. Blurry head shot. Basic text. The man's motions were far too animated for him to catch a good look. Okay, assume the worst. No other choice. Get back on board. Pray. Hope for the best.

The driver was unhappy about the delay and protested—an important rendezvous awaiting him at the end of the long, hot trip. The government-issued semi-auto in the official's holster convinced him he could be more patient.

Junjie, back in place now, waited for the inevitable.

The agent boarded, eyeing each passenger methodically, alternating his gaze between the image in hand and their submissive faces. This was standard intimidation procedure. He was in no hurry.

Junjie's pulse, however, quickened. His skin flushed and small beads of sweat made their way down the left side of his face as a flash of memory—images of Dai-tai and Chi, appeared with no effort of his own. He let it happen. If this was his end, he wanted to go out thinking of them. So Junjie recalled his wife on their wedding day. He remembered how his knees buckled a little as this vision of beauty processed elegantly toward him at the altar. Again, a slight, momentary confusion.

Why would someone so wonderful choose to join with him for a lifetime?

This marvelous imagery shifted from the ceremony to their son's birth and then to the boy's first birthday celebration, punctuated by a crying and confused Chi with a mess of cake and frosting on his chin and hands. Junjie saw—no, more than this—he sensed and felt their cheery brightness.

Would he ever embrace them again in this life? It was a painful, honest question.

C'mon, keep it together.

Three rows away.

Two.

His quarry was cornered. The officer knew it.

Reaching vigorously toward Junjie's seat, the armed man seized the moment. Powerful forearms breached the minimal space between seat-back and passenger.

With no way out, Junjie leaned back and to the left. It might be foolish. He couldn't help himself. There would be no winning a battle of brawn in this situation. The maneuver bought him maybe a half second of freedom, but no more. Then, the strong arms went through him, past him, and to the man one seat over. They scuffled right on top of Junjie. In the action, the single printed page dropped. Crumpled, it alighted face up in his lap. The picture.

Not him.

The officer gained control and escorted the newly-handcuffed man off the transport and into the dilapidated building. Within a few moments the travelers continued on toward Gansu like nothing had even happened.

These events, mildly aggravating for everyone else around him, produced a far different effect for Junjie, as it took the better part of the next hour for his heart rate to settle and his mind to clear. This was a good thing. The incident reminded him of all that was at stake. The true gravity of the moment surfaced again, helping him to focus as he recommitted himself to the unknowns still to come.

__________________________________

On the comfortably
heated seat of the luxury automobile, Dhe's smartphone rang.

"Minister, I believe we have found what you are looking for."

"Go on."

"Just an hour ago we got word that surveillance footage from Shandong Rail Station might have something for us. We have been running facial recognition since and now hold a 92% match for one
Junjie Zang.
"

"Will the probability increase with additional processing?"

"No, Minister. This is the best we can do. The capture was not optimal."

"It will have to do," he dismissed, his mind already three steps out front of the new data.

Dhe smiled.

"Well, then. That will be all."

Qingdao. Only two hours away by air. Still, he wanted every endeavor begun now.

Junjie would not slip through his grasp again.

Dhe, referring to saved numbers on his phone, dialed the second one on the list. The call alerted his private jet team to prepare and log a flight plan to the port city. His next contact would necessarily be the Party Chairman of Shandong Province. The two men shared a history—a long, complicated one. The local politician was never happy to hear from Dhe. Still, he tried to make it sound as if they were old friends.

"Certainly, Minister. Zang came here for a reason. We will uncover it. If he is hiding in our beautiful city, we will apprehend him. If traitors are assisting, we will flush them out."

"Chairman," the minister pressed. "I need not underscore for you the critical nature of this operation, I presume?"

A pause on the other end. Silence carried the offense better, deeper, than any well-worded retort. Having to perform legwork for someone like Dhe was an assignment both tedious and distasteful. He despised the man, all he stood for, but only out of petty jealousy. He aspired to exactly the ascendancy that Dhe held. Acting as vassal only reminded him he was a smaller fish. It was envy, pure and simple. And a spitting war over turf.

"Of course, Minister. We understand. We are cross-checking his business and personal relationships. If there is something to find, we will ascertain it. And soon."

As was his style, Dhe cut in.

"Believe me, there
is
something to find. Make sure you don't miss it. I will arrive in a little over two hours... do not disappoint me."

Zhou hung up, assuring no reply would be made.

The Mercedes
rolled off the gravel road, stroking the paved tarmac of a commuter airport a few minutes outside of Beijing proper. Passing lonely hangars and fueling posts, the sedan came to a full stop at the Gulfstream G150 awaiting Dhe's arrival. The shining aluminum exterior made quite the statement among the company of prop-driven planes. This twin turbine jet was a "little brother" compared to the larger G-series machines yet still owned plenty of speed—maxed at .85 Mach—to get the job done. Inside the two-man cockpit preflight was nearly complete. Outside, the stairway extended downward.

Exiting the plush rear compartment of the car, Zhou walked the stairs, hunched slightly to get through the doorway and then took his seat. His air, as always, was impersonal, curt. The crew made final preparations and within minutes were at 45,000 feet, following a headwind toward Qingdao.

And onto Junjie's trail.

THIRTY FOUR

Lakewood, a Tacoma suburb

Officer Mark Bannister, a seven-year veteran of the Tacoma Police force, scanned the width of his backyard again, wanting to be absolutely assured of what he thought he'd seen.

Standing beside his kitchen sink,
the last thing the man wanted to do was alert Chinese security patrolling the neighborhood that there might be something worthy of their attention going on here. These patrols showed up, regularly scheduled and heavily armed. Intrusive? Absolutely. Only one of the many adjustments required in the new province and yet another visceral, daily reminder of having been conquered.

Another quick glance confirmed Bannister's first take. Unsurprised, he held still for another beat, assuring all was clear.

Yeah, figures you would still be hangin' around.

The moment Mark completed the thought, her eyes locked onto his. The subtlest of sideways head motions from the man said
no
—not safe.

Wait.

The patrol stopped at Mark's fence line, flashlights aimed deep into the bushes and around the back of the house as the subordinate of the two men sensed something was amiss. About to enter through the gate, trying for a better look, his non-weapon hand reached toward the latch.

"No," the senior of the two waved him off. "Nothing here."

The younger man was unsure.

The older voice insisted again.

"No. We are due back in three minutes. Come. Now."

The outranked man obeyed, stepping away dissatisfied but compliant as the rusted bolt fell back into place with a dull, metallic clunk.

Bannister stayed out of visual range, still leaning to the left, watching the close-call unfold. He was a pro. Five years undercover, embedded in some of the most violent gangs in America, had taught him when to move and when to stay still, when to speak and when to shut up.

The sweep moved on, more concerned with finishing their shift than finding anything. That would only mean more work for them on this misty, chilly night. These men could be brutal. They were also not always the most competent. Bannister, fortunately, had avoided arousing their suspicion. The unit was inept, sure. Problem is, even incompetent people get lucky now and then.

Booted footsteps, shuffling across concrete and gravel, faded away as the unit proceeded down the street.

Mark gave the all-clear sign.

One swift motion and she was inside.

"That turned out to be a little dicier than I imagined."

Bannister looked the visitor over once more as he closed the sliding glass door.

"Sergeant Sanchez...

... why in the world does this just make sense? Tens of thousands of U.S. soldiers are forced to leave our fair city and who sticks around for the excitement? Oh, of course,
you
do."

"Wonderful to see you again as well, Mark."

"Yeah, well step away from the windows, little miss super-sniper... or we'll all be in a world of hurt."

Their banter arose
from the fact that these two were cut from the same cloth. Cocky. Self-sure. Adventurous. Borderline adrenaline junkies. If Sanchez said she would exit a plane without a chute, Bannister would counter that he'd do it without the plane. In the end, though, their greatest similarities were of a more virtuous sort: they were both protectors. For some God-given reason, neither could stand by when someone was being taken advantage of. A deep, abiding commitment to correcting injustice fueled everything they did. Mark applied this passion as an officer of the peace. Sanchez was, arguably, an offensive tool of war. Differences of tactics aside, their true core triggered, became animated, in caring for the weak and punishing the oppressor. Bluff and bluster were to be expected.

Seriously, though? Mark couldn't have been happier to see anyone else. Their relationship, one part inter-agency antagonism and two parts professional extended family, was incredibly important to him.

In most cities the firefighter-police force rivalry is the big deal; red versus blue. In Tacoma, the additional element is the military. The presence of JBLM created a three-way competition between civilian and armed forces. Only three ways, that is, if you didn't account for the sub-rivalries of Army-Air Force-Marines, as well. Needless to say, the atmosphere came off as uber-competitive.

World Champions. Bragging rights. Over everything. All the time.

Pulling up at one of their slow pitch softball league match ups, you might mistake it for a generations-old hatred between warring ethnic or religious factions. Intensity? Yeah, you might say so.

Box scores not enough to settle things with finality, these pitched battles moved beyond last outs, to gatherings afterward at local watering holes. There, the verbal jousting—yet another field of conflict, rose to its finest levels. Underneath the posturing, though, a foundational respect existed amongst them all. One would be hard-pressed to name it as such unless you searched deeper than the forceful tags and colorful terms of endearment thrown about with linguistic abandon. But when it mattered, when it really mattered, they relied on each other, joining together for the good and safety of their communities and country.

Sanchez recalled her first time squaring off against Mark.

He was a very good shot, outperforming most regular infantry guys and gals even. In the end, though, this stood as her thing, what she did for a living for crying out loud. Add to this the fact they were meeting on a densely wooded paintball course, an environment where she could disappear and be on your hind-side without so much as a snapped twig as a warning, and the poor guy was doomed before the starting bell had even rung. Bannister had lasted way longer than the other cop pukes, as she called them. Then, imagining victory to be within his grasp, she appeared out of nowhere. Double-tapping him, Sanchez added insult to injury with a non-traditional grouping.

Two to the abdominals, one to the crotch.