Chapter Twelve: Two Seconds Too Late

Qiu Fengyu’s words stunned everyone in the room for a moment, then laughter erupted. The man sitting in the plush boss’s chair at the desk laughed the hardest, pointing at Qiu Fengyu.

“Damn, I always thought Americans were the ones into weird stuff. Never expected this Asian to be so amusing. Hey, pal, are you a clown? Here to entertain us?”

“Haha… This idiot, did a mule kick his head?” The bald man with tattoos on his arms, dressed in a vest and sitting close to Qiu Fengyu, sneered at him.

The group laughed without restraint. The tattooed man close to Qiu Fengyu stood up, a knife spinning effortlessly in his hand.

“Either open the door and go find some fun, or get the hell out now!” He spun the knife skillfully.

“I want to buy the girl back,” Qiu Fengyu said, pulling an envelope from his coat and glancing at the knife-wielding man. The man eyed the envelope, stepped aside, and let Qiu Fengyu approach the desk.

“There’s $7,800 here, everything I own. I want to buy the girl,” Qiu Fengyu said, placing the envelope on the desk. “She worked in Abilene, her name is Saoirse. I don’t know if that’s her real name, but that’s what she’s called in Abilene. Her leg is broken, her face swollen, she hardly makes any money there. Wouldn’t it be better…”

“Are you teaching me how to run my business?” The man in the boss’s chair, thick gold chain around his neck and a massive ring on his finger, tapped the desk lightly and struck a mocking pose for the others. “Hear that, boys? He’s lecturing me on how to do things.”

“Ha—” Another round of laughter.

Someone shouted at Qiu Fengyu, “Get lost, Asian. This isn’t a market, you can’t buy anything here for $7,800. The woman will earn us far more. The key to her room is right here, but I’m not giving it to you…”

The desk man picked up the envelope, slid a stack of bills through his fingers, put them back in, and pushed it toward Qiu Fengyu. “Take your money and shove it up your ass. Next time, keep your filthy mouth shut; it stinks worse than shit.”

More wild laughter filled the room. Qiu Fengyu touched his nose, took back the envelope, slipped it into his pocket, and turned away.

“All right, so be it.” Qiu Fengyu walked slowly toward the door, hand on the handle. Suddenly, he turned around and looked at them. “Did you know? I lent Saoirse ten thousand dollars. She said she could use it to buy back David Birkin.”

“But we didn’t let her get her way, ha—” The desk man laughed.

“Not only did you refuse, you kept her here. Planning to make her keep working for you? Or maybe I could use my $7,800 to keep her for a while. So… Name your price. Where is she?” Qiu Fengyu looked calmly at the man.

“A week. Bring the money over. Ivan!” He called to the tattooed, knife-wielding man near Qiu Fengyu, “Take him next door.”

Qiu Fengyu suddenly said, “Wait, I’ve changed my mind.”

“Oh, fuck, do you think we’re idiots?” Ivan rushed up, roaring in Qiu Fengyu’s face.

“That’s not how business works, pal. There are rules,” the desk man stood up, clearly displeased. “The deal’s done. Whether you want her or not, you must pay.”

Qiu Fengyu nodded, stepped back two paces, glanced at his watch, and looked around, murmuring, “Fifteen seconds.”

“What did you say?” Ivan, close to Qiu Fengyu, frowned.

Qiu Fengyu said nothing. He stepped forward. Ivan suddenly lunged with his knife. Qiu Fengyu twisted Ivan’s wrist, the blade spun, and in a flash, sliced across Ivan’s throat. Ivan clutched his neck, collapsing to the side, retching.

He’d slit his own throat.

The desk man yanked open a drawer, reaching for a gun. Suddenly, a cold flash cut the air, a dull “thump”—he clutched his neck, toppled from the chair, convulsing, making guttural sounds.

The knife that had been in Ivan’s hand was buried in his throat, piercing clean through. He’d never survive.

Qiu Fengyu moved forward. The gangsters sitting or standing reacted. Someone reached for a gun; Qiu Fengyu grabbed a nearby corkscrew, rammed it through the man’s hand, then through his temple, withdrew it, spraying blood, and stabbed it into his throat.

Another pulled a gun from his coat, but before he could aim, Qiu Fengyu grabbed his arm, the gun fired, and the bullet struck the man across from him, dropping him instantly.

Before the gunman could react, a steak knife plunged through his mouth, the tip protruding from the back of his skull. He staggered drunkenly, eyes bloodshot, blood pouring from his mouth like a waterfall, then collapsed limply.

The last man tried to flee through the door. A shattered bottle plunged into his back. He spun instinctively, the bottle withdrawn with a spray of blood, then stabbed into his chest, blood spurting from the jagged neck like a small fountain.

The blood dripped onto the floor with a steady patter. The man knelt, staring at his wound in disbelief, finally collapsing sideways like a felled log.

The desk man lay convulsing on the floor, dying. Qiu Fengyu glanced at his watch, shook his head. From the first move to the last, it had taken seventeen seconds—two seconds longer than he’d anticipated.

The petty boss was still convulsing, lying askew on the floor, blurry-eyed as a pair of boots appeared before him.

“Seven thousand eight hundred dollars… could’ve bought you safety. Now you’re nothing, not even worth anyone’s attention. Saoirse will live, and live better.” Qiu Fengyu squatted by the dying man, murmuring, and watched the light fade from his eyes before standing up, taking the keys from the desk, and heading for the door.

Qiu Fengyu carefully avoided places that would leave footprints, closed one door, and opened another. Saoirse and David Birkin were inside, curled up beside the bed, holding each other.

“Qiu—” Saoirse heard the commotion, reacted first, staring at him in surprise.

“If I were you, I’d leave through the back door,” Qiu Fengyu said, turning away, then paused at the door to address the astonished pair. “And… you never saw me here. Go as far as you can.”

When Qiu Fengyu returned to the small town, it was already past three in the afternoon. He hailed a cab, loaded the goods he’d bought, and realized he ought to have a car—and a license.

That evening, as usual, he went to the bar. Just as he sat down, Brekin greeted him with a sly grin. “Got some good news for you.”

“Go ahead. Maybe it’s bad news for me,” Qiu Fengyu gestured to his glass for a refill.

“All the Russian mob bosses in Paso are dead. My God, the whole city’s in an uproar. Police are calling it a gang vendetta for now—said it was bloody…” Brekin said mysteriously.

“You’re well informed, Brekin,” Qiu Fengyu replied. “I care only about my investment. Did Saoirse return?”

“Well, about Saoirse, I think it’s bad news for you. She’s missing. Even David, who was caught by the Russian mob, vanished. They both disappeared, pal, your investment totally failed!” Brekin spoke with a hint of gloating. “I told you… hookers just aren’t reliable.”

“Did you ever say that to me?” Qiu Fengyu looked at him in surprise.

“Uh, well, maybe not, but it’s obvious—bad business!” Brekin shrugged. “But… aside from Saoirse, I can introduce you to some girls, guaranteed hotter than her…”

“Get lost. Another drink, then I’m leaving!” Qiu Fengyu cut him off, quickly drained two glasses, and strode out of the bar.

Just outside, he saw, not far from the door, a streetlamp beneath which a fully armed police officer leaned—Officer Coffin, to be precise, a female cop.