Power and Empire

Chang rolled the lolling man onto his belly. He stepped back long enough to grab the cuffs of Feng’s inmate-uniform trousers and pull them off in one quick motion. Feng’s head was turned sideways, and Chang could see a flash of panic in his eyes as he pulled away the man’s pants. Immobile and exposed, there was absolutely nothing Feng could do.

Chang chuckled as he ripped the scrub pants with his teeth, tearing them lengthwise from cuff to cuff before twisting the orange cloth into a makeshift rope.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s gonna be a hell of a lot worse than you think.”

Working quickly, he tied a fixed loop in one end and a slip knot in the other. Crouching over the bunk, Chang slipped the larger loop around Feng’s neck so the knot was in the back of his head. Then, grabbing Feng’s foot, Chang bent it up and over Feng’s back, pulling the knee upward until he was able to loop the slip knot over Feng’s foot, arching his back as though he were hog-tied. Dead weight from Feng’s own paralyzed leg pulled the noose tight, putting pressure against the already bulging carotid arteries in the side of his neck.

The noose did the trick of stopping blood to Feng’s brain, but it wasn’t quite tight enough to compress his airway. Gagging noises escaped his open mouth and his face rapidly took on the hue of an eggplant. His eyes fluttered. Chang relaxed a notch. Finally. It wouldn’t be long now.

Chang spun on his heel and scooped up the rubber chock he’d left in the cell door to keep him from getting locked inside. He took one last look at the choking man. When he turned around, Officer Pankita Lincoln blocked his path.

Her eyes looked right through him. “What the hell?”

Chang feigned a smile. He was big enough that he could run right over this puny bitch if he wanted to.

“Inmate troubles,” he said — and threw what he thought was a pretty damned good left hook.

Unfortunately for him, Pankita Lincoln’s father had taught her how to box.

Chang’s eyes and then his shoulder telegraphed his intention to throw the hook a mile away. She faded backward, just enough to let the hook slip by. Pepper spray in hand, she gave him a full blast directly in the face before driving her knee into his groin in a repeated, rapid-fire attack.

Chang roared in pain. His eyes slammed shut and he staggered back, instinctively trying to put more distance between himself and the searing burn. Defensive-tactics instructors taught their students to use the fingers of the nondominant hand to hold open one eye — but DT class was nothing like real life. There was no getting ready, no time to prepare. This whole thing had gone to shit.

Flailing blindly, Chang forced his eyes into a grimacing squint. His lungs rebelled, convulsing each time he tried to draw the smallest breath. Mucous membranes kicked into overtime, sending strings of snot draining from his nose. If he could just get hold of her, he could shut her up for good, maybe even make it look like she’d killed Feng — at least long enough for him to get away.

Pankita Lincoln had other ideas.

21

Dominic Caruso thought Flaco’s interview seemed to be going well when they first sat down in an interview room at the Dallas FBI field office. Flaco’s nostrils flared and his upper lip twitched, rabbitlike, as if he were trying to keep on a pair of nonexistent glasses. He was obviously terrified — not a bad emotion for someone from whom Caruso wanted information. He spent more time staring at the one-way glass than he did making eye contact with the two investigators.

Then Callahan made the mistake of asking who had kidnapped him. The skinny gangbanger just sat there staring at her, blinking stupidly, head shaking like it might explode at any moment. In the end, he muttered something about a lawyer and refused to say another word. Dom suspected his reticence to talk might have had something to do with the application of particular boot to the side of his neck. John Clark was in his late sixties, maybe a little old for this kind of hands-on work, but there was a brooding air of vengeance about the man that gave even Caruso the willies.

Joe Rice and a blond Dallas PD detective named Shirley Winston took Flaco to jail, leaving Callahan to deal with Caruso. It was not lost on Caruso that both of the task force officers looked at him like a member of an invading army.

Kelsey Callahan rubbed her eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “Want to see where I work?”

“Sure,” Caruso said, wondering how much of the conversation the mic on his neck loop was picking up. Adara was open-minded, but she would not like this at all.

“Good.” Callahan gave a contemplative nod. “’Cause I need to drop by the hangar before you buy me that drink.” She leaned back against the table, looking him up and down, obviously flirting.

Caruso gave her his best smile. “I thought you were buying me the drink.”