A Time for War Read Free Page A

his smoky sunglasses: secretive, out of place. He removed the glasses as he approached. He wore soft, tan gloves. It wasn’t cold enough for that, not even on a chilly winter morning. The man was sharp, from the even lines of his buzz cut to the strong set of his square jaw to the rigid creases in his tan suit. He was short, only about five foot six, but the way he stood when he reached the counter, with his shoulders drawn back and his feet close together, made him seem taller.
    â€œI would see the owner of this shop, please,” he said, glancing about the store.
    â€œMy father is not here. How may I help you, Mr.—?”
    â€œLee.” The man regarded her, his eyes very still. “You can help by telling your father I wish to speak with him.”
    Maggie did not believe his name was Lee; that was the equivalent of Smith or Jones in America. His schooled, noncolloquial English reinforced the woman’s impression that he was not from around here. She guessed he was a Chinese national; his severe bearing, his neutral identity with personal nuance drilled away, suggested a military background. And he obviously wasn’t here to sell her father anything: he wasn’t carrying a tablet, a briefcase, or even a cell phone. Protection? she wondered. That was the enterprise of local thugs who knew better than to come here. Besides, the shop was on a block of mom-and-pop stores and restaurants. Shakedown money from all of them wouldn’t pay for a week’s worth of gas in his Escalade.
    â€œDad will be here in about three hours,” Maggie told him. “If you want to come back—”
    â€œMy business cannot wait.”
    She smiled pleasantly. “I’m afraid it will have to.”
    The shop seemed unusually quiet, the street sounds more remote than usual. The man had barely moved since approaching the counter. Now he took a step forward. Several candy bars fell as he pressed against the child-high shelves in front of him. When he spoke, his voice was soft but firm.
    â€œCall him, please.”
    Maggie continued to smile. This man—these men—whatever they wanted, it had been thrust on them. Something urgent.
    â€œThere are two things I can do for you,” Maggie said, raising her voice. “I can give my father a message or I can sell you something. Which would you like, Mr. Lee?”
    Lee smiled faintly; it was barely noticeable, but Maggie saw it. She knew he was about to grab her; she knew it from her twenty-two years as a fighter.
    The fourth thing Maggie loved was kung fu. She had been training since she was four years old, first with their neighbor who held a black belt in the Nabi Su form, then at a martial arts school that practiced Jeet Kune Do, the hybrid style developed by Bruce Lee. She had earned her black belt before she turned fourteen. The essence of both styles is that energy comes from the ground, from the air, from the world around the martial artist, who gathers it in his center and drives it forward. The attack often comes in a variety of animal styles, whose offense and defense were studied and adapted by the ancient Chinese. In the split second that the man smiled, Maggie planned her attack. She knew she had the size advantage—in kung fu, smaller is faster. She knew she had the counter to work with, to use as a barrier or maybe she could double him over on it. And she knew that she had quiet skills while he had pride and arrogance—the worst hobbles a person could have in a fight.
    She also knew that she would only use her skills when it was her last resort—that was her training and she would never betray her sifu s’ wisdom.
    Just then her father appeared from the back of the store, accompanied by two women in white—mourning white. It was the death anniversary of Maggie’s mother; the jichen ceremony was going to begin in a few hours, and Johnny had been getting ready for it.
    â€œEverything OK, Maggie?” he