After Charlie passed the Airsoft stall, the Tracker approached, picking up a weapon and ignoring the kids shooting at the balloons. The woman working the stall said, “You want to try your luck? See if you can pop some balloons?”
He said, “Yes. I think I will.”
“What do you want to shoot? We have them all. MP5? HK416? That’s what the Special Forces use.”
“I want a Glock. A Snow Leopard Glock.”
The attendant went white and said, “What?”
“I want to shoot a suppressed Glock. A Snow Leopard Special.”
She nodded, saying, “Yes, yes. I have to get that from the back.”
“Do so. I’ll bring it back to you in under an hour.”
She disappeared, and he watched the children shooting at the balloons, some hitting, others not. One child glanced at him, saw the hands, and quickly turned away. Nothing new. He was used to such a reaction, and had been since his arms and lower body were burned in a meth lab fire eight years ago.
The attendant returned, holding a box. She said, “I am responsible for this. You must bring it back, or I will have to pay.”
“Of course. I know how this works. And you will put it back where you found it. Right next to the other fake Glocks.”
She nodded, a bead of sweat appearing on her face. He took the weapon and continued on, nobody at the stall noticing the exchange, more focused on their own shooting prowess.
He knew that Charlie would be conducting a surveillance detection route, but that was irrelevant, because he was the one who had set up the meeting through a man he knew as Mouse. He enjoyed the futility of it all, the great Charlie Chan working his fabled tradecraft skills for no reason at all, so much so that he wanted to get a glimpse of it.
He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. He followed Charlie Chan’s path down to the lower food court, entering a narrow stairwell. At the bottom, he exited into an enormous warehouse-like space overwhelmed by the smell of exotic spices, the pop of frying and steam dominating the area. The place was jammed with stalls in which all manner of food was being cooked, the vendors so close together that it was hard to tell one from another, the cooks harried as hundreds of people shouted orders, received their meals, or attempted to find a seat at one of the plastic tables crammed together like the mess hall of a ship at sea.
He walked down the stalls, passing menu after menu extolling the virtues of the cuisine, then saw his target to the front, sitting on a stool facing a wall with a board nailed into it, the makeshift shelf holding a bowl of noodles.
He didn’t go any deeper into the food court because he didn’t want to be remembered, and he had a healthy appreciation for Charlie Chan’s skills. He went back up, regretting his decision to gloat over the useless SDR.
He’d wanted to kill Charlie Chan for years for the pain he had caused to the Bamboo Triad, and now he had the chance. This was no time to glean petty enjoyment. Having proven his commitment by the drowning of the student at the falls, the Snow Leopard had told him he wanted to see his skill. It was a no-fail mission from the highest levels—which he knew meant the People’s Republic of China—and if he succeeded, he would be promoted.
He jogged up the stairwell, leaving the food court behind and reentering the crowded outside streets. He threaded through the throngs of people, snaking down one alley after another, passing stall owners making dumplings with handheld propane tanks, like they were cooking with a flamethrower, and others shouting out the sweetness of their desserts, the crowd individually fighting to walk this way or that, bumping together like electrons in a particle accelerator.
He reached a bar called Funky Fresh, although calling it a “bar” might have been an overstatement. In reality, it was another stall that was about thirty feet wide, with enough stools and tables to hold maybe ten people. It was empty except for a single table with a man and woman, either European expats or American tourists.
He passed by them, taking the last of four stools at the plywood bar counter, waiting and watching.
The interior was dark, the only lighting coming from neon beer signs scattered about, the back of the bar decorated with an eclectic mix of mannequin heads and fake skulls. He ordered a drink and waited, watching the street.
He accidentally caught the eye of the expat sitting with the girl, and the man seemed to think it was an invitation. He stood up, swaying a little bit from the alcohol, and approached. Within thirty seconds, the Tracker learned that the man was an English teacher from the United States, and was completely arrogant, believing his own superiority by virtue of his heritage. Dressed like something out of a yoga school in Tibet, with long hair, sandals, and a makeshift coarse-wool hoodie, he droned on and on until he saw the Tracker’s arms in the light of the neon.
He leaned closer, saying, “Whoa. What happened to your hands?”
The Tracker scowled, saying his first words. “Get the fuck away from me.”
The man staggered back, saying, “Just trying to be friendly.”
The woman at the table stood up and scurried over, saying, “Sorry about that.”
And then she saw his hands as well, giving him the blank look of someone pretending not to notice. Fueling his rage.
“Leave me be.”
She grabbed the arm of the drunk and took him back to the table, looking over her shoulder at him as she did so. It was a potential problem.
He waited, glanced at his watch, and saw that the meeting time had come and gone. He wondered if he’d been made because of his ill-advised penetration of the food market, growing afraid for what he would tell the Snow Leopard if Charlie Chan failed to show.
As he was going through the options in his mind, debating on whether to attempt to find his target once again in the food court, Charlie Chan appeared, scanning the tiny stall.
The Tracker swiveled around and stared into the mirror behind the bar, seeing Chan take a seat at a small high-top table six feet away from him.
He felt his breathing increase, waited on Chan to order a drink, then slipped off of his stool. He drew his weapon, keeping the barrel low on his leg, the suppressor making it harder to conceal. He stood directly behind the one man dedicated to wiping out the Bamboo Triad. He should have just pulled the trigger, but once again couldn’t help himself.
He sat down at the high-top table and said, “You are waiting on someone, yes?”
Charlie’s eyes squinted, then began darting left and right, looking for additional threats. He saw only the drunk expat. He said, “You have me confused with someone else.”
“I don’t think so.”
The Tracker pointed the pistol underneath the table, out of view of Charlie. “We finally meet.”
Charlie said, “What?” and the Tracker pulled the trigger, sending a bullet right into Charlie’s spine, the muted spit still loud enough to sound like a hard clap.
Charlie jerked upright, then leaned across the table, clawing at the Tracker’s face as if he wanted to peel off the skin. He pulled the trigger one more time.
Charlie slumped over the table, then slid off of his stool. It was an unsatisfying end, Charlie showing no recognition of how he’d been defeated.
Behind him, the drunk stood up at the noise from the pistol, then saw the body. He said, “Hey, is he okay?”
The Tracker said, “What do you do again?”