Private Oz (Private 7)

She felt a familiar ripple of power as she looked around. They knew she was either a cop or a PI, none of this lot was dumb. Well maybe some of them were, but they all had street smarts. And at the same time, she was who she was and there was no disguising it. None of them would dare lay a finger on her, at least not yet.

A man got up from a table. It was Lin Sung. He was all smiles, wire thin, snappily dressed, if you happen to go for shiny fabrics and narrow ties, circa 1979.

“Do I know you?” he asked. “What’re you drinking?” He flicked a glance at the bartender.

“I don’t think you do, Mr. Lin,” she said. “And I’m enjoying this Coke … don’t need another, thanks all the same.”

Lin gave a very faint bow. When he looked at her again, some of the pretense had slipped. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Nope!” Mary said, smacking her lips, an edge of mockery in her voice. “Just here to have a Coke. Seemed like a nice place … from the outside.”

Lin straightened, the fake smile gone. He turned and walked.

But Mary was sure it wasn’t the end of it.

Chapter 52

SHE DRAINED HER glass, pulled herself off the stool and paced over to the restroom, fancied a peek around the back of the dive, see what she could find.

It was not the nicest bathroom she’d seen, but she hadn’t expected much. There was a square window over the cracked brown-stained washbasin. Stuck fast. She moved a palm over the frame, found just the right spot, hit it with the flat of her hand. It gave and she climbed through.

Outside, behind the bar, it was pretty much as anticipated – stinking, overloaded bins, empty steel beer barrels, a fish skeleton ground into the dirt.

There was a door across the alley. She tried the handle. Locked. A solid kick knocked it in, the bolt snapped, clunked to the ground.

It was a storeroom piled high with large cartons. Chinese writing on the sides. She heaved one down, plucked a Swiss Army Knife from her pants and slit it open. Inside, filled with bags. She moved one aside, sliced along the seam. Rice spilled out over her heavy boots. She closed the knife, pocketed it.

A sound from outside. She ducked down beside a tower of boxes.

The storeroom door began to pivot inwards. Mary charged at it, heard a muffled cry from the other side. Then she was in the open, two men to her left, one on the floor.

She kicked the guy on the floor square in the temple. Severe concussion guaranteed. Spun toward the other two.

One had a knife in his hand, the other, a baseball bat. The one with the knife charged. Mary sidestepped and he stumbled away behind her. She felt a sting of pain in her left hand, ignored it, didn’t waste a second on the one with the baseball bat. She was trained in the martial art of Krav Maga, took two graceful paces forward. He ran at her. She lifted her leg and kicked the man in the throat just hard enough to put him in hospital for a couple of days.

Mary heard the guy with the knife pull up and run at her from behind. She was so much faster than him. Did a one-eighty, chopped his legs from under him, leaned forward and with a

single blow sent him to La La Land.

Straightening, Mary looked down and saw her flesh ripped open across the back of her hand, a line of blood, white bone. There was a sound from the end of the alley. She looked up, saw Lin Sung standing close to the back door, a faint smile playing across his lips. He’d started to clap.

Mary had her knife out and open in a split second. Lin barely had time to move a muscle before he was pushed up hard against the wall. His smile was still there as he looked down at the point of Mary’s blade an inch from his Adam’s apple.

“Look at me.”

Lin lifted his head a little.

“Who killed the Ho boy?” Mary asked quietly, eyes fixed on Lin.

“Who is Ho?”

Mary stamped on the man’s foot, hard.

He did well to cover his pain, kept the smile.

“I would slash your face open,” Mary hissed, “but it would do your looks a favor.”

Lin chuckled. “What do you people say? Sticks and stones …”