Donovans 02 - Jade Island

somehow managed to cut him during the brief, vicious fight. His forearm burned like hell and blood had made his hand slippery at an inconvenient moment, but everything still worked. “I’ll be okay.”
    “Just a scratch?” the agent said dryly.
    “It’s a long way from my heart.”
    Laughing, the agent turned around and went to call in the assault.
    Kyle waited until the agent was out of sight before he knelt down, grabbed a handful of the Asian’s T-shirt, and methodically began slapping his face.
    “What are you doing?” Lianne asked.
    “Delivering a wake-up call. Did he say anything before he attacked you?”
    “No. One second I was alone in the hall, the next instant a door opened and he came at me.”
    “Was that his knife or yours?”
    “His.”
    Kyle’s big hand smacked against the man’s cheek with a sound like a gunshot. “What happened next?”
    Distantly, Lianne knew she was running on an adrenaline high that would eventually drop her off a very tall cliff. But for the moment, she could leap skyscrapers and catch bullets in her teeth.
    If only she could stop shivering.
    “Lianne? Don’t fold up on me now.”
    Smack went Kyle’s hand on the attacker’s reddened cheeks.
    “I screamed and kicked him,” Lianne said. “He turned so that I missed his crotch, but I got a piece of his midriff. It slowed him down a little. I got an elbow into his kidneys before he got set again. After that, things went to hell real quick. He’s a lot better trained than I am. He was just getting ready to use the knife on me when you grabbed him and started hammering him into the wall.”
    Smack.
    The attacker groaned.
    Kyle slapped again. Hard. The thought of what would have happened if Lianne had been truly alone was eating at him. So was the gut certainty that there was more to this assault than a spot of daytime mugging.
    When the Asian didn’t come around after a few more slaps, Kyle stripped off the man’s leather jacket and searched for ID. There wasn’t any, unless you counted the tattoos marching up and down his muscular arms.
    Feeling more uneasy than before, Kyle returned to his first method of getting information: slapping the man into consciousness. The attacker groaned, tried to raise his hand to protect himself, and cried out in pain at his broken wrist.
    Fist bunched in the Asian’s black T-shirt, Kyle dragged the man into a sitting position. His head lolled forward. Thick black hair slithered over his forehead and ears. There was a lot of blood on his face, compliments of Kyle and the rough brick wall.
    “Did he say anything while you fought?” Kyle asked Lianne.
    “Do Chinese curses count?”
    “What flavor is he—mainland, Hong Kong, Taiwanese?”
    “Mainland. He’s been over here long enough to dress Western, but the haircut is mainland.”
    “How can you tell?”
    Lianne ignored the shivers of adrenaline spurtingthrough her blood and tried to concentrate. “You ever stay overseas longer than a vacation?”
    “Yes.”
    “Where?”
    “Kaliningrad, among other places.”
    “If you saw someone from there on the street here, would you notice differences?”
    “Okay,” Kyle said. “He’s mainland Chinese. Nice tattoos.”
    “Triad or tong, I would guess.”
    “Yeah, that’s what I figured. Did he try to rob you? Rape you?”
    “I don’t know what he wanted. He never said a word. He just jumped out and grabbed for me.”
    Kyle’s hand landed heavily on the man’s cheek. The attacker’s eyes quivered open. They were black and glazed.
    “Ask him who sent him,” Kyle snapped.
    “But—”
    “Hurry. We don’t have much time.”
    Lianne asked something in rapid Chinese. The man simply stared through her.
    “Ask him again,” Kyle said, smacking him sharply.
    Lianne repeated her question. The man continued his silence.
    “Close your eyes,” Kyle said to her.
    “What?”
    “ Close your eyes. ”
    She did.
    Kyle reached for the assailant’s broken wrist.
    Lianne heard a groan and some broken phrases in Chinese.
    “What did he say?” Kyle demanded.
    “No one sent him.”
    “Yeah. Right. He got all that body paint at Pike Place Market, too, along with fresh veggies.” Jaw clenched against the queasy flip of his stomach, Kyle reached for the man’s wrist again. He had learned in Kaliningrad thatthe price of civilized ignorance was death. “Ask him the name of his triad or tong or whatever he calls his tattoo buddies.”
    The man answered just as Kyle’s