Tyler Cai was picking at a bāo, rolling up little bits of the dough into mini pellets, and throwing them at the men who were slacking off.
“Come on, no snoozing!” he shouted, aiming another mini bun pellet. It struck one of the assistants right on his forehead, and the boy chortled, opening his mouth so it trailed down his face and dropped in.
“Why don’t you help out?” the boy shot back. Despite his tough talk, he quickly straightened out of his nap and ducked to lift a big bag beneath the table, throwing it across the room.
Satisfied, Tyler leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on the foreman’s desk. The foreman was nowhere to be seen. He had run off an hour ago, when Tyler came down into the lab to run inspections, and had yet to return, likely passed out in some brothel. Never mind that it was two in the afternoon.
No matter. That was what Tyler was here for after all—he’d do a much better job of overseeing the vaccine creation than a man with half their drug supply dusted in his beard.
“What does that say?” one of the scientists muttered over the worktable. “I can’t read any of this English; the letters are in horrendous shape.” He showed it to the man working opposite him, and they both peered at the copied sheet, squinting at the handwriting that some hired Scarlet help had copied over twenty times for every scientist in the facility, down to the flicks and dots.
Tyler wandered over, extending a silent hand. The scientists hurried to pass the sheet to him.
“Cadaverine,” Tyler read aloud.
“What does that mean in Chinese?”
He tossed the sheet back, furrowing his brow. “Do I look like a translator to you? Go find it in one of the dictionaries.”
“How are we to re-create a vaccine when we can’t even read the damn notes?” the second scientist muttered beneath his breath, scribbling something into his notebook.
Tyler continued walking, picking up a ruler and smacking it on the tables when it looked like the assistants were fooling around. It was a habit learned from his father: that ever-constant sound following him when he was young to keep him on task when the tutors were around. It was never supposed to be a threat: it was a reminder, a little shock to the senses whenever he started to doze, staring off into space to wonder what present was coming for his birthday next week. The tutors used to think he was so disciplined, but that was only because his father was always overseeing the lessons.
Until he wasn’t anymore.
Tyler halted in his inspection of the room, catching one of the younger assistants waving for him. He almost ignored it, but then the waving turned more frantic, and Tyler approached with a sigh.
“Is something wrong?” He flicked the ruler absently. How much pressure would it take to snap the wooden instrument? A hard thwack over a wrist? A sudden bend down the middle?
“Don’t look too fast, shàoyé,” the boy said quietly, “but I think we have spies.”
Tyler stopped. He dropped the ruler. Slowly, he followed the boy’s line of sight, up to the small panel windows at the topmost part of the far walls. Those windows provided the only light for a facility located deep enough underground to stay hidden beneath a restaurant but not so deep that the smells of Chenghuangmiao’s food stalls couldn’t float in. Where the view was usually only the feet of the shoppers perusing Chenghuangmiao, right then, there were two faces peering in instead, taking inventory of the space.
Tyler retrieved his pistol and shot at the window. The glass fractured immediately, splitting in every direction as the two faces jerked back. All the scientists in the room cried aloud in surprise, but Tyler merely spat, “White Flowers” and ran out, sprinting up the steps into the restaurant and out the main door.
The White Flowers were already some distance away, nearing the Jiuqu Bridge. But in their haste, they had cleared a path through the crowds of shoppers, leaving Tyler a direct shot . . .
He aimed.
“Tyler, no!”
The command came too late. By then Tyler had pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession, two White Flower heads cracking with an explosion of red, crashing to the ground. Chenghuangmiao erupted with a wave of screaming, but most shoppers reacted quickly and hurried out of the way, in no mood to be caught in a gangster dispute. They didn’t have to worry. This was no dispute; there were no other White Flowers nearby to retaliate.
A hard shove landed on Tyler’s back. He whirled around, his hand coming up to block the next hit, arms colliding with Rosalind Lang’s clenched fist.
“You have no heart,” she spat. “They were retreating. They wanted no fight.”
“They were about to take Scarlet information,” Tyler shot back, shaking Rosalind off. “Don’t get righteous.”
“Scarlet information?” Rosalind shrieked in echo. She pointed to the windows, hardly visible from the exterior, if not for the bullet hole now studded into the glass. “I was watching them, Cai Tailei. I already had my eye on them to make sure they weren’t going to be trouble, and they cannot hear anything from out here. What could they have taken with them?”
Tyler scoffed. “All they need is one leak. And then the White Flowers are on the market before we are.”
It was already bad enough that his cousin was messing with the White Flower heir again, by Lord Cai’s command. Tyler had guffawed when a messenger reported that Juliette had been sighted at the racecourse with Roma Montagov, sure that he had finally caught her this time. Only when Tyler had reported it to Lord Cai, Lord Cai had waved him off, apathetic. We must make compromises, Lord Cai had said. It was a fool’s task—each and every one of the White Flowers were underhanded and quick, taking and taking, and any lesser Scarlet than Tyler would scarcely notice.
“Do not lie to save your honor.” Rosalind pointed a sharp fingernail. “You kill because you enjoy it. I’m warning you. Your name cannot protect you for long.”
In a flash, Tyler reached out and grabbed Rosalind by the chin, forcing her to look at him. Rosalind did not flinch, her jaw locked hard, and Tyler did not let go. They were all like this. Rosalind. Juliette. Pretty, loud, terrible girls who threw accusations braced knee-deep in the guise of morality, as if they weren’t just as guilty of this city’s teachings.
“I don’t need my name to protect me,” Tyler hissed. He eyed the smattering of glitter dancing across Rosalind’s cheek. “I protect my name. Just as I protect this gang.”
Rosalind managed a choked laugh. Her hand came up around his wrist and squeezed, threatening to claw her nails into his skin. Tyler felt the pain, felt the five sharp points dig in like blades, and then the cool wetness of blood dripping once down his sleeve.
“Do you?” she whispered.
Tyler finally let go, shoving Rosalind away. She regained her balance easily, never off-kilter for more than a flash of a second.
“Don’t get righteous, Lang Shalin,” he said again.
“It is not righteousness.” Rosalind eyed the red spreading on his sleeve. “It is goodness. Of which you have none.”
She pivoted fast, sparing one glance at the bodies near the bridge before marching away, her lips thinned in horror. Tyler remained, crossing his arms with a swallowed wince, trying not to touch the throbbing wounds at his wrist.