Mad Dog - VII

I’m in the living room.

Actually. Isn’t someone supposed to be inside? His partner and the woman who loves to shampoo?

I message Zhang, telling him that there’s no one, and that I’ll unlock the front door for them. As I put my strawberry-coloured flip phone away, I feel a gust of warm wind come from above. I turn my eyes to it. There’s an air conditioner in the corner.

It’s blowing warm wind, and serves as a heater.

That seems like a misuse of money. If the man left the building, why would he leave the air conditioner on? Unless he was planning to return quickly. Or he has a lot of money to spend on electricity…

Holding a key between my fingers, I silently make my way into the apartment. With a sense of urgency too. I’m not pressed for time, I think, but no smart animal lingers longer than they should…

I move into the hallway. Two doors stretch across the left, one in the centre, and an exit to the right.

“Hello, intruder,” plays a sound from the room to my left. With the same static as the answering machine in the house. “I’m the daoshi of the Eight-Virtue Sect. Please don’t be alarmed. But there’s someone in this house who’s waiting to kill you.”

The machine cuts there.

Though my mind is calm, my heart is starting to beat in a frenzy.

Who was that? The daoshi? It sounded the same as him. It said it’s him. But it’s also filtered. Static like an old-radio. So it could be the work of a machine. The work of a very, very accurate imitation.

No. No!

More importantly, if there’s someone in this apartment… Then my life is in danger. And before that’s solved, I’ll think about nothing else!

But I don’t know what to do. I need to find the killer. I need to know what weapons they use. How they fight. How they think. How they are!

Where they are!

I keep waiting for someone, or something. There are no cameras here, so they can’t see me. The problem is, if I open a door, a closet, whatever, they’ll have the advantage. They’ll hear me before I see them, and that’s no good.

So I need a way to drive them from their hiding spot.

I take out my phone. I quietly tap in a few keywords and find a video of footsteps playing online. I go through a few and find one where the sound only starts a few seconds.

There.

I start the video, and slide the phone across the floor. One. Two. Three.

Tup. Tup. Tup.

Footsteps come from the phone. At the same time, another sound follows. It sounds like a pop. Like a flick of plastic. Quiet. So quiet. But the scent tells me everything I need to know. It’s the smell of fireworks, mixed with a hint of lead.

And, it’s coming from a small hole in the wall. The one connected to the second room in front of me. With this level of quiet, like squeak of little mouse, they must be using something low-calibre. Maybe even less-than-sonic bullets.

Sitting on how to proceed, standing in place, my thoughts blur into a whirlwind of ideas. I can’t run inside. They’ll just shoot me. That’s risky. But what if. What if I can make them go out?

I move back into the living room and search through its kitchen. I go through the cupboards, searching for the ingredients necessary.

Chhhk.

A jug of bleach sits next to a group of cleaning fluids. I take it. Then, I go through a cupboard with cooking liquids. Soy sauce. Oyster sauce. And just what I need, Chinese black vinegar.

I wet a kitchen towel and wrap it around my face. The jug of bleach is half empty, so I pour in all the vinegar and start shaking it. It starts to bubble, with the starting fragrance of a science-y reaction. A bit of swimming pool, alongside another chemical.

I roll the jug down the hall. Some liquid spills out, but it stops just short of the second door. Aiming its science nozzle under the door gap.

I doubt there's enough in there to kill someone. But to give the impression there is, with the science smell and loom of battle?

I'm sure.

The door kicks open.

I hide behind the wall, keeping low. Crap. They're out already? That's fast.

I can't hear them walk. They're good. And that's bad for me.

I look around, and find a light switch just above me. I flick it. It floods the hall with yellow light, and the long shadow of a person stretches across. All the way to the kitchen. All the way to me.

I see the sudden twitch of their gun. Their hand aiming on the sound of the light switch.

I run out before they can shoot, and throw my key at their face. They release one hand from their pistol. There's a sound of cutting flesh. The key burrows into their right hand as their left re-aims their pistol.

Lowering my stance, I transition into a sudden drop, sliding on the front of my legs. A bullet leaps from their gun. It takes the top of my right shoulder, leaving burnt leather and gunpowder.

My slides momentum takes me to them. I get close, arms-length close, and uppercut. It travels between their legs. It travels upwards. And as a crunch of peanuts echoes, so does the moan of a man defeated.

Zhang and Yuura end up coming pretty quickly. With the intercom, I just click a few buttons and let them inside.

“I don't know who this is, honest,” says Zhang.

Yuura looks at the tied up man. “Could it be a new member of the Eight-Virtue Sect?”

“I doubt it. They took a long time just to vet me, and if there was a new rookie on board, I'm pretty sure I'd know.”

Zhang lifts the gun the man used. It's some custom-made pistol. Black with engravings on the handle and a blocky suppressor attached.

“Whoever they are is a professional,” muses Zhang. He pulls the slide all the way back, and ejects a cartridge into his hand. “Sub-sonic ammo and a gun like this must cost a fortune.”

Zhang plays with the gun, feeling it. There's a small residue on the side that looks like mangled numbers. Filled away by something hard, I think.

“That was the serial number,” Zhang says, answering my question. “All I'm saying is that the sect is too proud for this sort of thing. They'd sooner train their bodies to withstand bullets, huff exotic rocks, then use a gun.”

“My heart is full of question,” I say. “Could be someone from another gang or branch, no?”

“Could be.” He gets busy with thought, face like a tortoise before a river. A little slow and stupid-looking.”

“Well,” says Yuura with an expression of some kind. “Let’s… look around shall we? The place has aired out enough, arguably. And I’m sure we’ll get some more context about why he’s here once we understand the well, context.”

Just for safety, Zhang and Yuura wrap wet towels around their mouths. We start with the first room. And almost immediately, Yuura’s eyes widen in surprise. It’s a bedroom that’s part-workshop. There’s a big wooden desk with lots of scattered images, and a board with even more images.

Yuura stays still, letting her eyes freeze on the photos. She’s always surprised by the littlest things. This time, I can’t even call her a coward for it. Each of the images are photos of bodies. Mangled chewed-on corpses, bite marks, and tears all over.

This is a most penetrating scene.

Yes.

I look at Yuura, then at the silent Zhang. “This is a trophy room?”

He takes a while to respond, to realise I’m next to him. “Yeah. I think. I’m sure. I mean I’m sure, sure, sorry, just trying to catch my words. They seem rather intent on running who knows where today.”

We go through the rest of the room, using a towel to open things just in case. There isn’t anything else that’s interesting. Just a laptop with a password we don’t know.

Zhang fishes through a drawer, and retrieves a old-looking notebook. He’s quick to shut the drawer, letting out a grinding chhk, before moving to us. Zhang opens the book. The pages are this washed-out orange, and the writing is with pretty fancy Chinese characters. It looks different to the modern writing. More fancy, more lines, more things to remember.

Zhang gives me a long look. “This is written in traditional Chinese.”

“Traditional.” I think about it. “That sounds old.” I think some more. “Before the Great War old?”

He shakes his head. “After, I think. But at least, 80 years or so.”

“I don’t know.” Yuura doesn’t sound convinced. “Maybe it’s just someone interested in traditional writing. Or they just learned a different Chinese to the one acceptable today. People have varied hobbies.”

“I’m telling you Yuura-san. The only ones writing like this are old-heads, or rich folk with too much time on their hands. Either way doesn’t sound grand, you know?”

He reads the old book, looking through it for a long minute.

“What is the content?” I ask.

“Some sort of manifesto. A lot of taoist philosophy, and a lot of bullshit about the decline of China. Esoteric wannabe-immortal nonsense wrapped in a shit-skin of pretention.” He unleashes a sudden anger. “Sorry, you can go read it if you want. But I’ve had enough of the bastard already.”

Zhang sets the book on the table-side desk with a heavy drop. It sits next to the answering machine, swallowed by its overcast shadow. Nom.

Yuura keeps staring at Zhang, with an unfamiliar touch of compassion. He notices it, leans back, and smiles his way out of the room. Going to the other room, we end up passing the tied-up assassin on the floor.

He’s a normal looking man. A stray dog with no recognisable features. With clothes just as plain as his face, black shirt, black pants, and a boring black belt. I don’t mean that as an insult, of course. When you want to kill people and get away, looking boring makes you far harder to identity. That’s why Nobu would make a bad assassin, far too pretty and unique-looking.

I resist the urge to kick him for fun.

“Which organisation are you a part of?”

All of a sudden, the tied-up man says, in a fluent Japanese.

“The Mad Dog Fist and Feet School,” I reply.

He turns his head, considering what that might be. “I see.”

I decide to continue, using my excuse from before. “I’m with the National Magic Agency.”

Empty of feeling, the man gives a solemn nod. “So you were a mole all this time, Zhang,” mumbling that gives him more pause. “In that case, I’d like to apologise for shooting at you, woman. My intention was to incapacitate, and interrogate you for answers about the Eight-Virtue Sect. But I see now that we are partners in confusion and unknowing.”

Zhang looks around the room, then back to the man. “So, why did the Ejīngbāng put you to this?”

The assassin stares at us for so long that I start to think he’s stupid. “I will tell it to you straight, and I will tell it to you frank. I was put here by the Ejīngbāng to investigate rumours of the Tearer’s betrayal.”

“Wow. That was fast. Did you get a divine revelation while you were tied up?”

His voice is stern, but I think I hear a little humour. “No. I'm simply a man of reason following what reason dictates. Seeing as you were investigating the scene, and seeing as your profiles don't match any of the Eight-Virtue Sect I know, I'm going to assume you're telling the truth. And that you are, in fact, members of the National Magic Agency of China.”

“Assuming we're members of the NMA, aren't you afraid we'll arrest and extradite you to China?”

“Not at all. If there were sufficient evidence, there would be no need for you to go undercover, Zhang-san. A mole’s use is to dig holes where holes refuse to be. And so long as a mole is kept fed and happy, a mole has no need to dig anywhere.”

I scratch my chin. “You speak a lot about moles, but seem to understand very little.”

Zhang laughs. “Not a real mole. A human mole.”

“I had no idea such variations existed.”

But I understand the idea. An agent of the NMA would only go undercover if there's not enough evidence to make an arrest. So, the assassin has no reason to provoke us. Such as by shooting me—bang bang! and giving us a real reason to arrest him.

“Assassin-san,” says Yuura with swiftness. “The reason you think the Tearer betrayed the gang is that he put it at risk, isn't it?”

The assassin says nothing. So Yuura does something else. She takes out her phone, types away, and pulls out photos the Tearer uploaded. The ones on the forum. The ones on the website Nobu showed me.

At last, he looks annoyed. Mouth closed in a moment of self-reflection.

“If not betrayal, at the very least an act of lunacy.” His eyes narrow on Yuura. “Divulging information. Compromising his identity with vague clues here and there. We've yet to understand the method to his madness, but of his madness that we understand.”

I picture the Tearer as a mad beast. A great wolf spurned by disease and wounds, howling as he devours the remains of those handheld types he killed. It is a tempting thought to defeat such an animal. To be the one responsible.

“Just an hour ago, the Tearer uploaded an image of his workshop here, and tempted us to find him. On one of the forums you lot are no doubt so familiar with.”

An hour ago. Who could’ve been here in that frame of time?

“Well, he is the boss,” says Zhang. “And the boss has the key to each and every place.”

“Indeed, it does. That explains the method to his actions. But not quite the reason, wouldn’t you say? After all, what type of boss would undermine his own gang’s integrity, so? Spreading secrets and confidential information on the worldwide web?”

“A crazy one?” I answer. “Dropped on the head as baby.”

“That’s a pretty likely answer,” agrees Zhang. “Maybe the mad bastard just went off the deep-end, and said fuck all with the Ejīngbāng.”

“Perhaps. Or… if you might consider this, the Tearer, isn’t the boss you lot follow after all.”

“Like, he got replaced?” asks Yuura.

“Indeed,” answers the assassin in his soft, monotone voice. “The boss never shows himself, never reveals their whereabouts, and never communicates through anyone but Stillwater and Hong. Who’s to say the boss hasn’t already been murdered, and their position usurped under the veil of anonymity? And who’s to say their two correspondents aren’t in on it?”

“Why?” asks Yuura, in the not-so-real dark, but the not-understanding dark.

“Who knows? Money. Power. A bid at something beyond even that. But consider this,” adds the man, adding an imploring voice. “A few weeks ago, a compatriot of mine tracked the Tearer to their hideout, and a battle ensued. What they were met with, however, was not the command of fulu paper and Taoist ritual, but an emanation of a magic different to that. Is it not strange that the head of a Taoist branch, so devoted to such principles, would have a boss that deviates from it so?”

I’m not too sure about his reasoning. If the head of a boxing gym does boxing, that doesn’t mean he can’t use other martial arts. Why limit yourself? That’s weak people stuff. Unless he’s trying to say something else, but if so, he’s not doing it very goodly.

Stupid assassin man.

“In any case,” says Zhang off-handedly. “You want to find this Tearer because he’s revealing secrets, and we want to find him for our reasons. So why not work together?

The assassin smiles. “Sure that isn't against your rulebook?”

I nod. “The eyes of our superiors do not reach Japan.”

The man’s face turns into one of instant acceptance. “Of course.” He probably wanted to go for this from the very beginning. “Cooperation seems like a worthwhile affair, both for the NMA’s peace of mind, and our gang’s.”

We all share a long, long, long look and nod to each other.

The assassin looks at us with a knowing gaze. Zhang gives him a not-so-knowing one.

“Well, how do you want to go about it, Jing Ke?”

“A plan,” responds the assassin. “One that benefits us both.”