Choke Point (6 page)

The man riding shotgun, a stocky fellow with high cheekbones and Mongolian features, glanced over his shoulder. “Yes, ma’am, what can I do for you?”

“What’s with all the security? Has something happened?”

“Couldn’t tell you, ma’am. You’d have to ask Mrs. Rynerson about that.”

“Thank you.” She closed the window and leaned back into the corner. “Should have guessed.”

Simon tried to read her expression, but could barely make out her face in the car’s dark interior. “After what happened to your father, you can’t blame her for worrying.”

She expelled a frustrated sigh. “She knows how I hate their fishbowl lifestyle.”

“Get used to it.”

“Why should I?” she demanded, her voice suddenly sharp. “It’s not my life. I didn’t choose it. It’s not what I want.”

“Kyra, with all due respect, it’s about time you pulled that pretty head of yours out of your hinder.”

She leaned forward, her green eyes flashing in the soft glow of the streetlights. “Just what the hell do you mean by that?”

“You’re heir to the kingdom. You may not have chosen it, you may not like it, but that’s the way it is. So live with it, learn to enjoy it, or retire to some nunnery in the French Alps. Either way, it’s time you decide who you want to be, and stop blaming others for who you are.

“You don’t understand what it’s like being the daughter of—”

“And don’t,” he interrupted, “give me that I-don’t-understand bullshit. Yes, you had a terrible experience. Yes, it happened because of your father’s wealth. And yes, you lost your husband. But that’s all in the past—get over it! There are way too many people who go to bed hungry every night. There are babies born every minute with physical and mental handicaps. There are—”

“Okay, okay.” She held up a hand, as if to ward off a blow. “I get the picture.”

But these were things he should have said long ago, and he wasn’t about to be put off. “It’s time for you to see things for what they are, Kyra. You’ve got a wonderful little boy, healthy and bright. You’ve got parents who love you, and who, ironically enough,
because
of what happened to you, are back together. You’re so pretty you make a man’s eyes hurt. You’re funny and smart and—”

“Stop it! Please! I understand. I get it. I’m an ungrateful bitch. I need to…” The sentence died in her mouth. “Pretty? What’s this about pretty, Leonidovich?”

Uh-oh,
that wasn’t the response he expected. He gave her a look of admonishment, trying to avoid the minefield. “Come on, Kyra, stop fishing for compliments. You know damn well—”

“I am
not
fishing for compliments. I’m…I’m curious, that’s all. I haven’t had a date since Tony died. I have no idea how men look at me. And if you remember, you’re the only man who’s seen me naked in the past two years.”

Now there was a memory, about as asexual as one could get, and he realized her interest had nothing to do with him. He was her safety net—the man who had pulled her out of El Pato prison—but he was certainly not her vision of a knight in shining armor. “Well of course I think you’re pretty.” He kept his tone impersonal. “You
should
be dating.” And then, to be absolutely sure he had eviscerated all possible misunderstanding, he added a final knife thrust. “There are plenty of guys out there who would leap at the opportunity.”

“Great, that’s nice to hear.” She expelled a deep breath and slumped back into the corner. “That’s what I like about you, Leonidovich, you always tell the truth.”

Right,
so why did he feel like such a dishonest jerk?

C
HAPTER
S
IX

Hospitalar Centro Conde São Januário de Macau

Friday, 29 June 01:42:12 GMT +0800

Robbie levered himself out from behind the wheel, squeezed between the seats, and duck-walked his way into the van’s makeshift kitchen, which was nothing more than an ice chest, a one-burner propane stove, a box of assorted snacks, and twelve liters of water. “Ya wanna drab of tea?”

Mawl shook his head. It was bad enough being cooped up in a muggy VW Transporter for eight hours without having to piss in a plastic bottle. Especially in front of Jocko, who still had the gusty stream of a young stallion. Mawl glanced back and forth between the side mirrors, checking the parking lot for any activity before flipping on the wipers. One swipe only, not wanting to do anything that might draw attention to their vehicle.
Bloody rain,
it never stopped.

Robbie refilled his travel mug—his fourth double cup in the last hour—and returned to his seat. “This is bollocks. We’ll never be gettin’ to him here. Not with all this security.”

Mawl ignored the comment; he suspected as much, and finished wiping the fog off the inside of the windshield. “Something’s going on.”

Robbie snatched up his night-vision scope and trained it on the hospital’s main entrance. “I’m not seeing anything.”

“Check out the guards.”

Robbie moved the scope back and forth, scrutinizing the two men flanking the doors. “Aye, they’re not lookin’ any different to me.”

“See how they’re standing?” It was a foolish question; Jocko was too gung-ho-warrior to notice the subtle things. “They’re expecting something. Someone.”

“I don’t see…” The kid’s voice trailed away as a three-car caravan turned off the Estrada do Visconde and circled toward the entrance. “Must be someone important.”

Mawl laid the crosshairs of his telephoto lens directly on the limousine, one of the six champagne-colored DTS Presidential models that made up the new Pacific Pearl courtesy fleet. “Probably Li Quan.” The Pearl’s general manager was the only major player in the world of Macau gaming who had not yet joined the deathwatch. As the security men moved into protective positions, Mawl zeroed in on the limousine’s rear door, the camera automatically adjusting to the distance and light.

“Those buggers are good,” Robbie whispered, as if his voice might carry the hundred meters. “Very good, aye?”

Mawl nodded. “The best.”

“Maybe the old boy’s gone toes up.”

“Maybe,” Mawl agreed, but he didn’t think so. His inside man, a male nurse with a taste for drugs and gambling, had orders to call the minute Rynerson’s condition took a turn. Up or down.

One of the security men popped an umbrella and pulled open the door. Mawl clicked off a couple quick profile shots before a head of honey-blond hair disappeared beneath the cone of black silk. “Not Li Quan, that’s for sure.”

Staring into the optic tubes of his binoculars, Robbie whistled softly. “Pretty damn sweet for an old bird.”

Old!
The woman didn’t look more than thirty-five, but to Jocko, who had never shagged anything older than a teenager, she must have looked like a golden oldie. “Rynerson’s daughter, that’s my guess.”

“Who’s the fella?”

Mawl clicked off a half-dozen more shots before they disappeared into the lobby. “Not a clue.”

“Husband?”

“Not if it’s Rynerson’s daughter. She’s a widow.”

“That right? She looks pretty young to be a widow.”

Mawl smiled to himself—from
old bird
to
pretty young
in a heartbeat—and began paging through his background file on Rynerson. “Yeah, that’s her. Kyra Rynerson. I want you on her security team.”

Robbie stared across the narrow space, his eyes devoid of understanding. “And just how am I supposed to be doing that?”

“You have the perfect profile,” Mawl answered. “Ex-military. Young. English speaking. That’s exactly what they’ll be looking for. Most important, when they call the Kowloon Security Service to check your references—” He tapped the cell phone on his belt. “It’ll be me they’re talking to.”

“Well sure, that sounds great,” Robbie said, sounding anything but confident. “But what if they’re not hiring.”

Mawl smiled to himself. The kid was so bloody naïve. “Trust me, they’ll have an opening.”

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

Hospitalar Centro Conde São Januário de Macau

Friday, 29 June 01:51:38 GMT +0800

Hospitals,
Simon thought, they were all the same, the air thick with the smell of antiseptics and disinfectants, everything gray and white and sterile—including the people. Without so much as a pause, the security team escorted them through the reception area, up the elevator, and down a long hall to a door marked in both Chinese and English:
ICU OBSERVATION
. The room was nondescript and sparsely furnished—a small gray table with a phone, sandwiched between two gray chairs—about the size of a jail cell.

Simon closed the door behind him, feeling a little awkward and out of place as Kyra embraced her mother. Though the Rynersons had always treated him with great kindness, he wasn’t exactly sure how he fit in, where that dividing line came between friendship and hired help. Finally, after a long, silent minute, Billie turned and took both his hands. “Thanks for coming.” She squeezed hard, the way a person does when they’re hanging on to a life preserver. “I knew we could count on you.”

“Of course.” For exactly what, he had no idea, but suspected the answer to that question would come soon enough. “Any change?”

“Absolutely.” She reached over and pulled open a short miniblind that covered most of one wall. “All good.”

Kyra took a step back, stricken by the scene beyond the glass: her father, the indomitable Big Jake Rynerson, reduced to a comatose mass, his great body being fed through tubes of plastic, his head covered with silver electrodes, his vital signs monitored by an array of electronic meters and monitors. “Daddy…” The word squeezed past her lips in a gasp, like she’d been holding it in for hours.

“No, honey, it’s not as bad as it looks,” Billie said, putting an arm around her daughter’s waist. “Really.”

“How?” Kyra demanded, pulling away from her mother’s grasp. “How could it look any worse?”

Exactly what Simon was asking himself. To his untrained eyes it looked worse than
bad
—it looked fatal.

“He’s breathing on his own,” Billie answered, “and his vital signs are strong. That’s a big improvement.”

Kyra shook her head, not buying any of it. “You told me he had a mild concussion. The only worry was the gunshot wound.” She stabbed a finger at the glass. “Look at him. Wired up like a damn switchboard. That doesn’t look
mild
to me.”

Billie, not the kind to take backtalk from anyone, including her daughter, took a deep breath and held it, a rumbling volcano struggling to hold back its lava. “I…didn’t—” She hammered each word. “—want…you…to…worry.”

“For Christ’s sake, Mother, I’m thirty-seven years old, not some child!”

Before Billie could respond, Simon edged his way between them. “Okay, okay.” The last thing they needed was a mother-daughter war. “Let’s all take a deep breath and—”

“I’m not interested in some feel-good version of the truth,” Kyra interrupted, her voice tight with anger. “I want to see the doctor.”

“And why shouldn’t you?” Billie fired back. She snatched the phone off the table and punched in three numbers. “This is Billie Rynerson. Would y’all ask Dr. Yuan to step in here when he has a moment?”

The door opened almost before she cradled the receiver. “You wished to see me, Mrs. Rynerson?” He spoke in the clear, measured way of someone speaking a second language.

“Please.” Billie motioned him forward.

Yuan squeezed into the tiny room and closed the door. He was a short man, middle-aged, with a round somber face and small alert eyes, his stout body covered neck to knee in a white lab coat. Billie inclined her head toward Kyra. “This here is my daughter, Kyra Rynerson.” Another nod. “And our friend, Simon Leonidovich.”

The doctor bowed his head, a small and dignified acknowledgment. “How may I be of assistance?”

“My daughter,” Billie answered, “would like an
unbiased
evaluation of her father’s condition.”

“Of course.” The doctor’s thick eyebrows drew together, as if trying to decide where to begin. “You know, of course, that your father sustained two gunshot wounds. One to the—”

“No,” Kyra interrupted, cutting an accusatory glance toward her mother. “I
didn’t
know.”

The doctor hesitated, realized he had stepped into a combat zone and looked at Billie, clearly hoping for some guidance. After an awkward moment of silence, with no help offered, he cleared his throat and continued. “Yes, that is correct. Two shots. One to the thorax area, missing his heart but puncturing his left lung. And one here.” He raised his right arm, indicating a spot about twelve inches below his armpit. “This wound was the most troublesome, severing the superior mesenteric vein and penetrating both the ascending colon and small intestine. The blood loss was significant.”

Kyra nodded thoughtfully. “And these wounds are life-threatening?”

“Not at the moment,” Yuan answered. “Fortunately, your father is a very strong man.” The doctor spread his hands, a gesture of helplessness. “But there was considerable fecal contamination within the abdominal cavity. Infection is always a concern.”

“What about brain damage?” Kyra nodded toward her father and his crown of electrodes. “I assume he went without oxygen for a time.”

“Unfortunately,” Yuan confirmed, “resulting in a coma. But—” He raised a finger in warning. “It is still very early. Very important we not jump to conclusions.”

“But you know something?”

A reluctant frown creased Yuan’s forehead. “The tests are complicated and difficult for a layperson to understand. I would not wish to give the wrong impression.”

“And I appreciate that,” Kyra responded, her tone conciliatory, yet persistent, “but I have a bachelor’s degree in virology and a doctorate in zoology. Though I’m hardly an expert, I do have some understanding of human physiology: enough to know that you’re using a geodesic net to map brainwave activity.” She leaned forward, laying a hand on the man’s forearm, as if they were old colleagues discussing a case. “So, what’s the status, Doc? Have you determined a GCS?”