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from the casinos and tourist hotels, and well away from their private security and the notice of local police. The street was dark and quiet, not a whisper of movement. Confident that no one had followed—that the police would never look for a qai loh in such an out-of-the-way flea trap—Mawl dropped the curtain back in place, then stepped into the bathroom: nothing more than a dimly lit corner, separated from the main room by a thin parchment partition.
    The meager facilities were old and limited—a squat toilet, a cold-water sink, a cracked mirror—and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and a moment longer to mentally block out the pungent odor of stale urine that embedded the floorboards. Breathing through his mouth, Mawl slowly raised his arm, gently probing the area around the dressing for any swelling or other signs of internal bleeding. The kid had done a good job, the bandage dry and tight, the skin tender but not swollen. Very lucky.
    Satisfied, he studied himself in the mirror, measuring himself against the memory of his youth. On the outside he looked as tough and toned as any of his men, but below the surface he could feel a bit of softness, the subtle changes of age that couldn’t be held back no matter how much he exercised. It would start to show soon enough, and he hated the thought of it, the loss of his warrior edge. Though only five-ten, he was tall for that part of the world and the teahouse girls still found him attractive. They liked his shaved head, his pale-blue eyes, his washboard gut, the protection and warmth of his strong arms. That too would change. It was time to find a new profession. But what? There weren’t many choices in the New Territories for old soldiers, especially ex-Brits, who had ruled the area for nearly a century. Unfortunately, after thirty years, Mawl couldn’t imagine living anywhere other than Hong Kong, a city of magic and mystery.
    He took a deep breath, the pungent odor stinging his eyes, and forced himself to focus on a more immediate problem: the client. Returning to the main room, he quickly calculated the time difference to the States, attached a digital micro-recorder to his scrambler phone, and punched in the number. As the call worked its way around the planet, Mawl carefully lowered himself into one of the molded plastic chairs and prepared his mind for what he knew would be a very uncomfortable conversation. It wouldn’t take long for word to slip out that Rynerson had been shot, and was clinging to life—not the kind of news Mawl wanted the client to receive secondhand.
    Calm. Center. Focus.
    The phone rang four times, followed by a faint click as the call was automatically routed to another location, followed by another click, followed by the client’s familiar voice and code name. “This is Trader.”
    “And this is English,” Mawl responded.
    “Is it over?”
    “Yes,” Mawl answered, “but not done.”
    There was a long pause, far beyond the normal hesitation of global long-distance. “What…do…you…mean…by…that?” Each word came slow and hard, verbal bullets searching for a target.
    Determined not to lose control, Mawl waited a good five seconds before responding. “It means things went bad.” He could have said more, but wanted to wait for the right moment, to save the only positive news until it would do some good.
    “What happened?”
    “He didn’t follow instructions,” Mawl answered, trying to deflect some of the blame without making it sound like an excuse. “His security team showed up before I could close the deal.” From what he had seen—though it was difficult to be sure in the fog—there had been no team, but with one bullet in his side and others flying, he wasn’t about to hang around and count heads.
    Trader’s voice dropped to a lockjaw growl, his tone accusatory. “You said he would be alone.”
    “That was our mistake,” Mawl admitted, “thinking we could trust him.”
    “I was assured —” He