substance. The Mantis flexed his abdominal muscles in anticipation, but he doubted these two would present much of a problem. Vanity was not a desirable quality in an enforcer or bodyguard. Sunglasses at night.
It doesn’t matter, the Mantis thought. The sun will never shine upon them again.
He stepped closer, leaning on the long stick, still dragging his left foot, his face streaked like a tiger with black camo paint.
“Can you spare some change for a poor, old, crippled man?” he said in a distorted voice, imbuing the Mandarin with a rural twang. He let his lips creep into a smile as he moved within striking distance, holding out his cupped palm.
The closest one twisted his mouth into a snarl as he stepped out from the doorway and cocked back his hand, ready to deliver a harsh blow to the old beggar.
“Get out of here, you peasant son-of-a—”
The Mantis thrust the fingers of his cupped hand upward into the soft area at the base of the guard’s neck. As the man made a gurgling sound and stumbled to the side, the Mantis pivoted to the left, bringing the stick upward with three consecutive blows, striking the second guard’s groin, abdomen and throat. The Mantis pivoted again, this time to the right, using a spinning back kick. The heel of his right foot smashed into the first guard’s face and the man crumpled. The second guard was on his knees, struggling to reach under the lapel of his finely tailored suit when the Mantis delivered a lightning-quick blow—a palm strike to the side of the man’s head—sending his temple crashing into the sharp edges of the brick doorway. He collapsed to the ground, as well.
After assuring himself that both men were dead, the Mantis dragged the bodies behind a pair of garbage cans and quickly went through their pockets. He removed a pistol from each and a radio from the second man. The Mantis dropped the weapons into the pockets of his overcoat and held the radio in his hand as he went back to the door. It was unlocked.
He slipped into the dark interior and divested himself of the heavy overcoat and stick. It would be close quarters from this point onward. Underneath the overcoat he wore his customary working clothes: a black jumpsuit made of soft, double-knit fabric that allowed for his high kicks and quick movements. Over the jumpsuit was a leather vest equipped with several slit-like pockets, each pocket containing a special weapon. The Mantis had heard that in olden times, a Triad enforcer’s vest would be lined with finely wrought iron mesh. Despite his affinity for tradition, this vest was lined with Kevlar. As he stood in the darkness, letting his eyes adjust, he thought about taking the guns but decided to leave them. This was, after all, a matter of honor. The traditional ways should dominate.
The Mantis stepped forward, the soles of his shoes making virtually no sound as he moved over the solid concrete floor. The warehouse was fully stocked with barrels of rice, but devoid of workers. He imagined Chong had paid off any security guards so the meeting could continue unobstructed. Chong was thorough, but like most traitors, not thorough enough. Following the five of them from the docks had been almost too easy.
He heard their voices now.... Low, guttural sounds interspersed with laughter. Several men were talking, more concerned with money than vigilance. The Mantis moved soundlessly down an aisle with metal barrels stacked on either side.
The voices grew louder. More laughing. One of them was Chong. The Mantis was sure of it. At the corner he paused and flattened against the barrels, tilting his head slightly so he could glance down the aisle. A man stood at the other end, perhaps ten meters away, his silhouette in a position of alertness, holding a submachine gun.
The Mantis smiled. This guard, too, was wearing sunglasses.
Moving behind the wall of barrels, the Mantis flicked the outside pocket of the vest and felt the sharpened edge of a throwing dart. This guard was a large man, probably chosen for intimidation rather than his skill, but size did not always matter. The Mantis cocked his arm and closed his eyes for a moment of concentration.
He opened his eyes, stepped to his left using a smooth, fluid movement and threw the dart. A split second later the guard’s head jerked back, the jagged edge of the throwing dart protruding from the opaque lens over his left eye. His hand started up toward his head but stopped. His mouth sagged open, dribbling a trail of blood. As the big guard began to fall forward, the Mantis covered the distance between them and caught the man before he hit the floor. With a quick finger jab to the man’s throat, the Mantis made sure the guard would not recover. The guard made a short choking sound, a death rattle, and was silent. The Mantis laid him onto the cold concrete floor and removed the machine gun from the dead man’s hands. It was an HK MP5. A fine weapon, but he set it aside.
“Make them suffer for their treachery,” Master Chen had said. “Make an example of them.”
The Mantis peered around the edge of the stacked barrels. One more guard stood perhaps fifteen meters away, holding another MP5. A portable light had been set up in the middle of a clear section of the floor. Chong and another man sat in the bright circle of light at a small folding table piled with stacks of money. This second man wore tiny oval glasses as his fingers worked nimbly over an abacus. Leo Kim, Mr. Chen’s personal accountant in Hong Kong. This was an unexpected development. Two traitors would die tonight.
The Mantis removed another dart then scanned the surroundings. Nothing moved in the shadows of the warehouse. The two men’s voices, their laughter, their squeals of delight as they counted the money, floated from the table like joyful butterflies.
This guard should be the last one, the Mantis thought. Kim would be too scared to bring any associates. He was a mouse, feeding on the crumbs left by others.
The Mantis traced his thumb over the sharpened point of the dart, the finely honed edge grating softly against each minute ridgeline. He breathed in and out, listening, melting into the darkness and shadows, watching, waiting...
Something flickered on the other side of the room. A man, another guard, stood in the shadows. He stepped forward and the Mantis appraised him: well muscled, dark clothing and no sunglasses decorating his pockmarked face. This one was obviously in charge. The boss guard. He raised a portable radio to his mouth and asked, “Deng, do you see anything?”
The Mantis stepped back. Perhaps it would be prudent to use one of the guns after all. This new guard was obviously more competent than the others. Kim must have brought him along, just in case. The mouse bringing a cat to keep him safe. The irony was obvious. This bastard would probably just as soon cut Kim’s throat and steal his money as protect him.
The room grew silent. No one had responded. The boss guard spoke into the radio again. “Deng, you idiot, where the hell are you?”
The seconds ticked by with no answer.
The Mantis thought again about picking up the submachine gun. But his master’s honor was at stake. Mr. Chen was not his sifu, but Chen had taken him in from the streets, raised him, taught him the way of the Triad and the code of the warrior and had made sure he had the best schooling in all manners of martial combat.
The Mantis took out another dart.
The boss guard reached inside his jacket and pulled out a stainless steel, semiauto Norinco Type 54 pistol as he stepped into the circle of light and toward the other guard, who was now gripping his submachine gun with both hands.
The Norinco’s shiny finish gleamed in the harsh light. The Mantis liked shiny things.
“See if everything’s all right,” the boss guard said. “Find out why they aren’t answering. And take off those damn sunglasses.”
The other guard nodded and turned, his dominant hand pulling the glasses off. As he did so, the Mantis stepped forward and threw the first dart. The guard’s hand froze in front of his face, still holding the glasses, the end of the dart protruding from his right eye socket. He sunk to his knees and fell forward, his face smacking against the concrete.
The boss guard raised his pistol, but it was too late. The second dart was already on its way, striking him in the neck, just below his jawbone. He twisted and reached for the dart, firing off a few quick but random shots.