A Time for War Read Free Page B

asked.
    â€œNot really, Father,” she said. “This man wanted to speak to you—”
    â€œDo I want to speak with him?”
    â€œI don’t think so,” Maggie said.
    Johnny fixed steady, unrelenting eyes on the man. “I don’t believe you are welcome here.”
    The would-be attacker, denuded of all pride, took one look at Johnny and the two mourners. Maggie could see him calculating the odds in his head. He turned and hurried out of the store, the doorbell jingling on his way out. The street sounds were momentarily louder and the door slammed. There was a moment of silence followed by an angry squeal of tires. Then all was once again as it should be.
    Maggie’s father reached her. He could see in her face that she was shaken. He put his arms around her. Outside in the white sunlight, a crowd was massing, talking, pointing down the street in the direction the SUV had been facing.
    â€œI’m all right, Dad,” she assured him. He still smelled comfortingly of fish and cold dawn sea air.
    He relaxed but didn’t let her go. “What happened?”
    She told him. He listened without comment, but was concerned and clearly baffled. Then he picked up the phone and called the police. As soon as he put the phone down he turned back to the counter. He pressed his hands together, bowed, and said, “Thanks to you.” His remarks were directed toward one of the shelves, to a small spirit tablet nestled among the aspirin boxes. The red ribbon was inscribed with his wife’s name in gold and was suspended over a small round candleholder.
    Then he hugged Maggie again. “It could have been so much worse,” he said.
    A small group of onlookers collected in the street, though no one entered out of respect for the two. The arrival of a patrol car caused them to part as a pair of officers made their way toward the shop.
    â€œBefore I talk to them, there’s one thing you should do,” Maggie said.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œThat reporter, the one who helped when I found out about the Long Zai gang, when I was a kid?”
    â€œHatfield?”
    â€œYes,” she said. “Call him.”
    â€œWhy?” he asked.
    â€œSomething the man did told me why he was here, I think,” she said. “If I’m right, we may need more than the police.”
    *   *   *
    The black SUV ripped through the late morning traffic. Three Chinese men sat within it, all neatly groomed and well-dressed in light-colored suits and fawn-colored gloves. The cell leader sat in the back, fuming about the girl in Yu Market. The man who was not driving sat next to him.
    â€œYou have embarrassed us,” said the man next to the cell leader.
    â€œYou are not in a position to judge me—” he started.
    â€œMore importantly,” the other man cut him off, “you have embarrassed yourself.”
    The cell leader, all of the fury he had swallowed in the grocery story raging forth, grabbed at the man next to him. “I didn’t want to cause a scene!” he shouted.
    The other man punched him on his right cheekbone with the full force of his body behind it. There was a dull, ugly snap below the cell leader’s temple. The other man punched him again in the same spot. The cell leader shrieked. His jaw burst into pain. There was a moment of silence.
    â€œYou have no right to strike your leader,” he whimpered.
    â€œYou are no longer the leader,” said the other man.
    The man with the broken jaw sat back with full realization of what that meant, and what would be coming next. Quickly he reached for the door handle of the moving car, but felt a knife tip in his ribs. His hand dropped. He was still.
    *   *   *
    The SUV was headed toward the Bay where an Angler V175 was waiting off Marina Green Drive. Every plan devised by Jing Jintao had an abort strategy. The SUV was disposable and untraceable, rented for cash