THE FLENSE: China: (Part 2 of THE FLENSE serial) Read online

  "A job you may not have for much longer!"

  The two men stared at each other. Aston's face was bright red, writhing with emotion, whereas Norstrom's showed none whatsoever. Yet despite his stoicism, the former Army Ranger managed somehow to convey the promise of violence, like a long-dormant volcano overdue for an eruption. This was one of his many attributes, a sense of agitated placidity, even at times of extreme duress.

  His time as a prisoner in Syria several years back at the height of the ISIS insurgency had more than prepared him to deal with the worst anyone could imagine. He'd endured torture, both physical and mental. Yet he'd learned to hide it so as to deny his captors any satisfaction.

  He had killed the bastards escaping, an act which caused him to lose no sleep whatsoever. He'd killed both before and after that incident, killed to protect himself and his men, to protect secrets. He had even slaughtered innocents, women and children and the elderly. Collateral damage, all in the course of that work. Those deaths, however, did occasionally haunt him.

  But last night had been the worst he'd ever been asked to do. It bothered him deeply. He had never been required to do anything like that before, the outright murder of so many people. It tormented him. But he would never let anyone know that it had, especially this bastard.

  "You checked that there were no more . . . witnesses?"

  The muscle in Norstrom's cheek jumped. He stared hard at Aston and didn't reply.

  "Oh, don't tell me you're sad for those people! You knew exactly what we were paying you to do." Aston waved a hand in disgust. "Nothing more pathetic than a mercenary with a conscience!"

  When Norstrom had been given his orders days before, he'd been told that the villagers would be long gone, evacuated on some pretense to another valley far away, but of course he had always known that it was a lie. There had to be no loose ends. Then, sitting in the co-pilot seat of the World War II-era Junkers Ju 88 as it lifted into the air with a fuselage full of illegal incendiary meant for a hillside littered with hundreds of people, he'd wondered where exactly the line was that he wouldn't cross. But it was only with a sort of inevitability and disappointment that he watched during the plane's approach. There had been an opportunity to stop the release, but he hadn't taken it.

  "Well?"

  Rarely did his heart rate tick north of seventy, but it was certainly there now.

  "Gone," he said through clenched teeth. "All of it. Everything and everyone. Just rubble." He felt the tic in his cheek again. "My men returned for the final check soon after first light. But . . . ."

  Once more, it had been because of Aston's interference that he had been caught flatfooted, and that had opened the door to yet another piece of uncertainty. Aston had shown up at their briefing area before dawn demanding a full report, including a review of the video recording of the air bombing. That had put them more than an hour behind schedule. He'd also taken the opportunity to publicly chastise Norstrom and his crew of their screw up at the crash site, which none of them really needed after the stress of the work. He'd almost had a mutiny on his hands.

  "We found fresh tire tracks at the village," Norstrom said. "A small car. Someone went there after the bombing and before my men finally arrived this morning. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

  "Why the hell would I—?" Aston's eyes widened at the accusation. "It wasn't me!" And then, jumping to the next conclusion: "You were seen? God damn it!"

  Norstrom had hoped it was him, though in his heart of hearts he knew it wasn't. The size of the footprints was right, but he doubted the man would have gone there in such a small car with bald tires.

  He didn't bother mentioning that his men had tracked the car's point of origin to a small outcropping a kilometer and a half or so from the center of the village. The spot where it had been parked was free of ash, so it had been there already when the burning started or had arrived soon after. The ground around it was covered in size seven footprints, which he now had to assume had been made by a woman, possibly even the American they were still not sure about. There were no tracks leading to the car, only around it, so whoever had made them had been inside it when the ash fell. They would've had a perfect vantage point to witness the bombing.

  And now they were gone.

  "The car was driven down into the village," he said, "then around it, likely just after first light. It then vacated the area. We lost the trail when the ashfall thinned away to nothing. The car was heading northeast.

  "Could it be the American?" Aston sputtered through his anger. "The owner of the parka? Is it the same person?"

  "As far as we've been able to determine, Miss Peters didn't own a car. None of the villagers did."

  "But you're not sure. The parka—"

  "With your man assisting, the DNA testing on the samples has been . . . . It's still on-going. We've managed to rule out over ninety-two percent of the employees so far. But the reference samples we had for the last eight percent, including the American, were mishandled. The tests need to be repeated."

  Aston either ignored the implication that his own man had been responsible for the delay, or he didn't pick up on it. He simply frowned as he struggled to understand this. Finally, his eyes narrowed and his face grew red. "So, you're telling me that we still don't know who the hell we're looking for? We still can't say with absolute certainty that every single person on that train is dead? How many are we talking about? Twenty? Thirty people? Christ! Are you actually telling me that there might be dozens of them walking around out there with—"

  He stopped himself short.

  "With what, Aston?" Norstrom asked.

  "Nothing! Just do your job! Find out who's nosing about!" He was practically screaming by now, except that his voice kept cracking and he was wheezing so badly that every inhale was a snort. "And if it's that American girl, I want her ashes in a box!"

  "I think we have to assume," Norstrom calmly replied, "at least for the time being, that more than one person somehow survived the crash. We know the American was on the train. The security camera at the station at the factory confirmed that she boarded with the other passengers that day, all two hundred and eighty-seven. Unfortunately, what we don't have is video at the crash site."

  "Well of course we don't, you idiot! Why would we?"

  "We should also move forward assuming that it may not just be survivors, either, but someone else — a member of that village or another, a passerby." He shrugged. "At least until the remaining genetic tests have been rerun."

  He waited for Aston to tell him what to do, but the little round man just stood there, the skin on his face, save for a red patch on his cheek, gone waxy yellow again.

  "I sent one of my men back to the factory for new tissue samples. Along with one of yours."

  "Oh, why not just do whatever the hell you want?" Aston snapped.

  "I advise that we begin checking hospitals within a couple hundred clicks of here," Norstrom said, ignoring the taunt. "As well as villages, known shaman, anywhere a person might go for medical help."

  Aston blinked stupidly for a moment before nodding. Then he seemed to collect himself. "Don't bother me with the inane details! I've got enough on my plate dealing with your screw-ups. Just take care of this latest mess, Norstrom." He pointed an accusing finger at the taller man. "Take care of this or so help me . . . ." He began to sputter. "Dismissed! I said get the hell out of my tent!"

  Norstrom spun on his heels. The prick was lucky he didn't make him stay any longer, as he might do something that he'd later regret. Of course, he could always make it look like an unfortunate accident, choking on a twenty-dollar cigar stub, for example. Who knows, it might still happen.

  "Your fault!" Aston screeched at his back. "You hear me, Norstrom? I am not taking the blame for this! And you damn well better not forget it, so if you know what's good for . . . ."

  As Norstrom walked away, the man's tirade descended into an inchoate babble.

  Yeah, he though
t. He was sure that before all this was finished, something bad was going to befall that sad little man.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  The loose gravel slipped from beneath Angel's feet and she stumbled, hitting the packed ground hard with her hip and skinning the palm of her hand. She sat on the worn walking path for a moment to catch her breath, the grass on either side brushing against her shoulders. Sunlight dappled the valley and distant hills, blending golden and green and gray. Shadows raced across the face of the land like the spirit armies of the ancient khans. And in the middle of it all stood the factory, an imposing concrete fortress whose silent walls dared her to be breached.

  She was shaking from hunger, yet she was not hungry. The horror of the village bombing, witnessed in the stark black and white of night and confirmed by the undeniable light of day, had stolen away her appetite. She didn't think she would ever be hungry again. How many innocent lives had been lost? How many people had died to keep a secret? The factory below her seemed to taunt her with its stony arrogance.

  She pushed herself off the ground and began to walk again, but her hip hurt and her head swam. She staggered and almost fell again. Whiteness crowded her vision. A dull throbbing roar pressed against her ears, and she thought she might be sick. She lowered herself once more for another rest, placing her head between her knees and taking long deep breaths until the dizziness subsided.

  The break gave her another opportunity to question what she hoped to accomplish by going down there. Did she think she might find a way in? What good would it do to walk around the outside of the building? What could she possibly hope to learn?

  She lay back on the trail and sucked in long, deep breaths through her mouth. The cold hurt her teeth and the glare of the brilliant sky burned her eyelids. She felt an urgency to move again, but it was a distant sort of thing, seeming as far away as the clouds streaming swiftly by high above. The winds violently shredded the shapes the clouds took and reformed them. She realized that this was how she felt, numb on the surface, yet unsettled and full of static charge.

  The sound of a door slamming shut brought her immediately back to herself, and she jerked upright onto her elbows. Two men were circling the factory, walking close to the side in shadow and heading away from her. They wore faded jeans and dark windbreakers. One had a rifle strapped across his back, the other a holster on his hip. In their gloved hands, they carried shallow trays, from which a sort of white steam fell and quickly dissipated.

  Dry ice?

  There was no door on this side of the building, just a tall mound of construction debris about fifteen feet away.

  Where did they come from?

  Angel watched them until they disappeared around the corner. With the loss of so many workers, she had assumed that the factory would be empty, but the appearance of the men told her that was incorrect. But was it still in full operation? She had no way of knowing what was going on inside. There might be a hundred people working away. Maybe several hundred. Or it might just be a few individuals.

  In any case, she realized that even one was too many. She had wasted precious time coming here.

  This time when she drew herself up to her feet, the ground did not shift, and her head didn't spin. The sight of those armed men had been like a tonic, sweeping away the fog of her exhaustion. She turned and hurried back up the path, glancing often over her shoulder, ready to throw herself to the ground again.

  She'd only gone a short distance before she heard the grind of a car engine, and she dropped, pressing herself flat on the trail. The tips of the thin grass along the path fluttered in the breeze just over her head. The stalks brushed her cheek. Would they be enough to hide her?

  The engine sound grew steadily louder, and in a moment it was nearly on her. She could feel the mechanical thrum of the motor and the crunch of the tires through the ground. Afraid that they'd see the movement, she closed her eyes and remained frozen with her nose pressed against the dirt.

  The car raced up the hill, its engine whining in low gear and the tires churning up a cloud of dust behind it. Only after it passed did she cautiously raise up her head. It stopped briefly at the top while the passenger got out to unlock the chain, then it disappeared over the other side. Minutes passed, and when she was sure it wouldn't come back, she slowly stood up.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  In the hour or so that it took her to reach Bairin Zouqi, Angel tried to take stock of all the information she had about the factory. It was pathetically little. According to Jian, the facility employed workers from his village, but he'd never mentioned if there were workers from other places. If so, was it possible that they might also be in danger? And what about the American girl, Jamie? He hadn't been able to say much more than that she'd lived in the village and might have been an interpreter, which left Angel wondering about the extent of her involvement in the company.

  It seemed reasonable to think that Jamie was some sort of liaison between the workers and their American employers. Most of the villagers probably spoke not a lick of English and many, if not all, would likely be illiterate. As the facility's translator, she might have assisted their interactions with those in charge, communicating procedures, assisting in their training. Did she perform a similar role for any Chinese nationals who might be higher up in the corporate chain?

  In such a capacity, Angel imagined that Jamie would be exposed to a lot of privileged information, perhaps even some that was proprietary. She might have been present during discussions between executives and other decision makers, been privy to their negotiations. She would know, regardless of any question about her sanity, the minutiae of what went on there.

  And that would put her at particular risk with those who wished to keep anything untoward quiet.

  So, what exactly did go on inside the building? Jian said that the factory made computers or computer parts, but that was pitifully vague. Was it simply an assembly plant, or something more? Such an operation wouldn't necessarily require educated people, just a lot of hands and eyes doing the same tasks hundreds of times each day, day in and day out.

  But if it were indeed such a site, then where were the supply roads? The narrow and rocky path connecting the factory to the main road was narrow, steep, and rocky, hardly sufficient for truck traffic. And Angel hadn't seen any other roads.

  Finally, how was the accident tied into all of it? Had the crash been intentional? If so, why? If not, then how would it have been possible for the Americans to respond as rapidly as they had, assembling a crew and equipment to remove all traces so quickly and efficiently? And, of course, that lead to the most important question of all: What were they so afraid of letting the world know?

  Just as she had suspected on Huangxia Island, it seemed that the Chinese government had to be involved in some way, or at least it was aware of the situation and intentionally looking the other way. How could it not be? They had to know.

  Did Cheong? She remembered that he had told her the accident investigators from some ministry of such-and-such were supposed to be on site. Today, in fact, Angel reminded herself. They're supposed to be there today. She was supposed to meet with some guy named Jingping. She now believed that that this so-called ministry and the visit were a complete sham. Why would they wait a week before sending people out to investigate? What were they planning to do once they reached the site and found it bereft of wreckage? Wouldn't that raise more questions?

  She concluded that Cheong had to be in on it, too. Which meant that the bastard had knowingly sent her into the situation blind and at great peril. She should have trusted her first instinct and walked away. She certainly should not have sent him the video.

  And yet, she realized, she'd really had no other choice, had she? He had been her only option for getting the video out. Now she was sure he'd done none of what she'd asked and instead had likely notified the Americans straightaway of what she'd witnessed and had proof.

  With a sense of crushing finality, she realized that
she really was on her own. Furious with herself, she slammed her palm against the steering wheel, causing the car to swerve onto the shoulder.

  DeBryan knew, she thought, as she guided the tires back onto the pavement. That's why he gave me the video in secret and didn't show it to Cheong.

  He knew that there was something fishy going on at Huangxia Island. Cheong must have found out, or at least suspected, and had the photog's murder arranged in Shanghai. Perhaps he'd intercepted DeBryan's communications. Or maybe he just didn't like DeBryan's internet snooping, digging up his past and his associations with 6X, getting too close to the truth.

  And yet, the more she thought about it, the less it seemed to make sense. Cheong wasn't being fully honest with her; that much she was certain. He was a dangerous man. But how it all fit together — Huangxia, the factory at Wenbai and the people of Baoyang Village, the apocalyptic prepper group 6X, and the crash — she just couldn't seem to find the wires connecting them.

  Get to Jamie. The girl must have answers.

  This cycling of her thoughts back to the young woman caused her throat to constrict. She wracked her brain to remember if she'd mentioned her to Cheong. She was pretty sure she hadn't, that all she'd said was that she was going to the hospital, but not why. Would Cheong have figured it out?

  What if he got to Jamie first?

  Angel arrived on the outskirts of Bairin Zouqi just as this last thought entered her mind.

  Ten minutes later, she parked behind the hospital. The spot was much smaller than the one she'd found the day before, and in her distraction it had taken her several attempts to maneuver the car in. She thought of Jian and knew he would have been amused by her feeble attempts. The image of him laughing at her only made her feel angry and betrayed.

  A different girl sat at the front desk this time, and when Angel tried to tell her the room, pointing and gesturing, the poor girl just got more and more flustered. Finally, Angel pulled out her IAFJ card. The girl took it and studied it for several seconds before handing it back with a half smile, a tentative nod, and a shrug of one shoulder. Angel doubted the journalist ID meant anything to her, but it probably looked official enough. The girl went back to her paperwork, apparently hoping Angel would just go away, anywhere, just as long as she didn't keep talking to her in words she couldn't understand.