The China Dogs Read Free

ground.” The cop shuffles toward her, his gun extended, handcuffs trailing from one hand. “Do it quickly, ma’am. Come on. Facedown. Hands behind your back.”
    Zoe manages to turn her head. She sees the cop bent over the woman clicking cuffs around her wrists. He’s freaky. Tall, white-haired, with very pale skin, wearing big dark shades and a smart light suit.
    He looks at her. Picks up the shotgun. Reaches into his pocket for a pair of plastic standby ties. “Can you hold him a couple of seconds more?”
    â€œNo problem,” she says. “This asshole’s going nowhere.”
    â€œGlad to hear it.” He walks over, puts a knee into the man’s back and carries on talking as he yanks up the robber’s wrists and ties them with the restraints. “That was quite a job you did.” He gives her a second glance. “You hurt at all?”
    â€œNo, I’m fine.” She catches herself staring at him. Everything about the guy is wonderfully wrong. He’s too tall. Way too pale for Miami. Thin but athletic. And that white hair makes him look a whole generation older than the rest of his body suggests. She’d kill for her camera right now. For a chance to capture this cool white warrior in the middle of the sizzling hot action.
    The cop sees her gawping but doesn’t seem embarrassed as he casually hauls the prisoner to his feet and carries on chatting. “I’m Lieutenant Walton, Miami PD.” He flips his ID for her. “I was close by when the call went out.”
    â€œZoe Speed.” She envisages him in a thousand shots—near a burst of neon signs, his whiteness against a zillion electric colors, or down on the beach, walking past racks of browned bodies, blue sky and blue sea as backdrops. The guy’s a photographer’s dream.
    He nods suggestively toward her legs. “You might like to know that you’ve split your jeans.”
    She puts a hand down and feels that several of the fashionable frayed and stitched splits have torn into a gaping flap up the inside of her thigh.
    He smiles and adds, “My guess is that unless you cover up, you’ll soon be getting stared at even more than I am.”
    7
    Beijing
    S ixty-year-old Xian Sheng, President of the People’s Republic of China, General Secretary of the Communist Party, Commander-in-Chief and Chairman of the Military Commission, clears the room of his minions. He wants to meet with Vice President Zhang in private.
    Twenty years Xian’s junior, General Zhang is the former leader of the Special Operations Forces and one of China’s most decorated soldiers. His modernization of the army, crackdown on organized crime, and tolerance of “black jails”—secret detention centers for troublesome dissidents—have already marked him out as Xian’s likely successor.
    Zhang is more than happy to publicly display his cruel streak. Some weeks ago he invited news crews to film him personally flogging a group of young soldiers who’d been involved in petty gambling. When the elderly grandfather of one of the beaten men complained about the severity of the punishment, he had him publicly flogged as well.
    The president’s grand office doors are opened by flunkies. The general marches in. He is small and muscular, his black hair short, his dark eyes big and bright. There are no scars or wounds on his body, save a crescent-shaped burn across his chest, the result of a pan of boiling water his psychotic mother threw at him when he was a small child.
    â€œPlease sit,” Xian motions to a chair.
    Zhang obeys, legs and heels smartly together, shoulders back and spine straight. He wants Xian’s job. Wants it now. But knows the only route to power is through obedience, patience, and a bold, name-making campaign such as Project Nian.
    The president looks up from a fan of papers on his desk. “What progress do you have to report?”
    â€œWe