Die Today, Live Tomorrow: John Burke, #2

By Ryan Gallant

Five years after dismantling the leadership of the Ares Syndicate in "Crimson Zero", Canadian intelligence officer John Burke remains on the hunt for the organization's elusive remnants. His investigation initially leads him into the criminal underworld of Vietnam, but when the mission goes horribly wrong, he's forced into a reluctant partnership with the American CIA and a lethal Israeli assassin to unearth the truth behind the resurgent Syndicate and the forces behind it.

Haunted by the specters of past failures, a vengeful Burke must determine what he truly fights for and what he truly believes in as he embarks on a dangerous mission across the world, from the Czech Republic and Germany in Central and Western Europe to the Syrian-Turkish borderlands in the Middle East.

And through it all, agents of chaos plot to strike a mighty blow to a world already reeling from trauma...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ryan Gallant
• Release date: Jun 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201213817

Ryan Gallant

Ryan Gallant is an author and screenwriter who lives in Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island, Canada, an unrepentant movie buff, literary enthusiast, amateur standup comedian, and serialized TV junkie. In addition to his first novel ‘Crimson Zero’ and its sequel ‘Die Today, Live Tomorrow’, he has written numerous feature-length screenplays, one of which was awarded as a semi-finalist in the 2020 ScreenCraft Action & Adventure competition. He has also contributed to the short story anthology series ‘GIFt Horse’ alongside his local writers group, with two of his stories taking second and third prize in the 2019 and 2021 Island Literary Awards, respectively.

Book preview

Die Today,

Live Tomorrow

A John Burke Novel

Ryan Gallant

Dedication

For my trusty beta readers, Jennifer Platts-Fanning, Stacy Dunn and Beatrix Harper. Thanks for keeping me (relatively) honest.

Prologue

Goddamned Burke.

That was the first thought that surfaced in Director of Central Intelligence Gary Browning’s head as he stood by the window, looking out at the front walk as the object of his resentment got in his car and left. Browning supposed he could soon be former Director of Central Intelligence, if or when the traitor Damian Cruz’s so-called evidence of Browning’s wrongdoing had its day in the disinfecting light of the national media spotlight. The press loved skewering high-ranking government officials when they smelled blood. Well, blood or sex, both at the same time being the crème de la crème of breaking news. Their fervor was especially rabid if they could get hold of a great, steaming, damning chunk of red meat. Which, if Burke was to be believed – and Browning had no reason not to do just that – was precisely what this evidence gave those insatiable buzzards. To say nothing of the Attorney General and his lapdogs over at the Department of Justice...

Damn, damn, damn that Canadian son of a bitch, Browning thought, feeding his own righteous rage that continued to throb in the veins popping out at his silver-grey temples. He’d been a fool, he knew that now. He’d liked Burke, even respected the man’s ability to get things done with initiative and independent gumption, despite what his intractable chain of command had to say about it. A man a part of him wished had been one of their own, and not working for the second-rate, embryonic counter-intelligence apparatus that was the Canadian Security Intelligence Service’s Johnny-come-lately foreign operation. A man who’d saved Browning’s life only days before from an ambitious plot, hatched within his own ranks to stab him in the back. It had been orchestrated by the missing and presumed-dead Cruz, Browning’s former Deputy Director of Operations at the CIA. However, it turned out Burke had saved his ass only long enough to drive the blade in himself with information that should’ve gone down to a watery grave with Cruz and his insane plan of revenge. With a wrenching twist of humiliation for good measure.

When Burke had been gone a full five minutes, his car having disappeared down the poplar-lined street toward Interstate 270 on his way out of Gaithersburg, Browning’s second, less immediate thought (once his rage had thinned itself of intensity, of course) was simply: Is there a way out of this? And the answer, he realized, was ‘yes’. Yes, there was. There always was.

With a sigh, he let the curtain drop and walked moodily back to the couch across the living room from the front picture window. He sat heavily, and his eyes drifted uneasily downward, to the spotless glass surface of his coffee table. He licked his lips as he took in the sleek titanium frame of the weapon Burke had left him, sitting in the table’s center, the inference having been quite clear by the single bullet Burke had set down beside it. It was a Colt snub-nose .38 with ergonomic grips, the bullet a 125-grain hollowpoint, all to be sure no mistakes were made for any attempt at a killshot. Burke had been nothing if not thorough and considerate in his attempt at assisted seppuku. Browning had to give the hypocritical bastard that much.

Browning sneered. Of course he wouldn’t take the coward’s way out. He was a fighter, a survivor, a political dynamo, and a family man of, in his opinion, unimpeachable moral standing. He could and would weather this storm, whatever came up in the possible allegations. He had an idea what the drive that Cruz gave Burke may have contained, but he’d have to work fast, either way. The issue now became how much he could stanch the blood flow from his career, which would undoubtedly take a broadside hit from this scandal. If it was even possible to salvage his once-promising prospects in Washington, he wanted to cover every base. Everything was on the line, not just his current appointment but also the tentative whisperings from inside the White House that he was being considered a strong favorite for nomination for the position he’d wanted for years now – Secretary of State. His sources inside the Oval Office told him that it was all but a done deal, in fact, as soon as Russo publicly announced he was stepping down. Browning heard it was to be sometime in the fall, possibly even as soon as August. Come the new year, he still had a very good chance of being confirmed by the Senate and putting this ugliness behind him. He had the votes the last time he’d sent his chief of staff to meet with individual senators, but politicians on the president’s opposition would look for any excuse to deny a victory for any confirmation hearing on the president’s behalf. The simple fact was that Browning couldn’t afford to give up, even if he wanted to. He’d worked too goddamned hard and there were too many people depending on him, not least of which was his family, and foremost of which was the country he loved so dearly.

So. He had to make the call.

Dreading the moment, Browning stood up, cricked his neck back and forth to relieve the tension there, then moved with purpose through the low arched entry to his left, into the side hall just off the kitchen and the alcove that contained his fully stocked wet bar, trimmed in walnut with a speckled marble bar top. Ice tinkled into the cut-glass tumbler he set down, followed by the comforting sound of the Evan Williams bourbon he sluiced on top of it. He swished the expensive golden liquor around, sampled its heady aroma, and drained it at a draught.

Just what I needed...

Refreshed, with his mind starting to work in earnest, Browning promptly refilled his glass, then strode back into the living room, whipping his cell phone out as he went. He dialled the encrypted number he’d been assigned in the event of just such a contingency by his cohorts. After three rings exactly, the automated voice came on the line, robotic and soulless. He recited his given six-digit encryption key uniquely calibrated to his voiceprint. There was a click, and a matter of seconds later the line began ringing again. Another three times, and then...

A voice, clear and strong: Yes.

Browning cleared his throat. It’s me.

Go ahead.

We’ve been compromised.

How? The barest hint of concern. Cool.

"Doesn’t matter. You need to destroy any files connecting us to ‘Nemesis’. Accounts of expenditures, field reports, memos, the works. Especially anything that had my name on it. Make it all disappear from our servers. I want to be clear of this shit before dinner, you understand me?"

There was a slight intake of breath. That might take some doing...

I don’t care! snapped Browning, walking over to the front window again, parting the curtains to take a surreptitious look outside. While you’re at it, cut the cashflow and get the word out to our people in the field. Radio silence until the storm passes.

Some of them are still in deep cover. We might not be able to make contact right now.

Browning ran a hand through his hair, greasy sweat beginning to pop from his scalp as his blood pressure mounted. Reach who you can, then.

His contact allowed a hint of scepticism to slip into his tone before he said, How big a storm are we talking here?

Big enough.

"And how long do you think it might be until we’re in the clear?"

Browning was growing irritated with Mr. Cool; he found the man insufferable on a good day. "Just do it. Okay? Before the story we want to bury hits the wires and the AP is giving our backchannels a colonoscopy."

This have something to do with the Cruz threat?

How’d you guess?

Are we exposed?

"Look, they’re going to know where to look, if not what they’re looking for. Though if Ramirez was as good as I think he was, we’ll have to worry about both."

So that’s a ‘yes’.

No, Browning shot back. "It’s over when we get slapped with cuffs, and that’s not going to happen. You hear me? Once your people get rid of those materials, it’ll be our word against a traitor’s. The ‘evidence’ was fabricated to bring me down with him, fake news, end of story. So get off the phone and get it done. Now."

Affirmative.

Good. Call me back.

Browning clicked off and pocketed his phone. He breathed a sigh of relief; he thought that went well, his earlier fear at Burke’s coldly delivered words abating. Browning rubbed his eyes, his relaxing mind now absently wondering when Martha would be back with the grandchildren from Gaithersburg Water Park. He figured they’d be a couple hours yet, if the kids had any say in it, which they usually did. He took another long, languourous pull of the bourbon. It was already giving him a nice little buzz, the warmth spreading throughout his entire body, calming his nerves quite nicely in the bargain, as well as dulling his senses, amplifying his distraction.

Which is why he took an extra ten seconds to finally realize he wasn’t alone in the room anymore.

Browning spun. A man, a stranger, stood stock-still across the room from him like an apparition, having come from the hall occupied by the wet bar. Had to have come in through the back patio door. About six-two, slim but muscular, wearing a black balaclava that covered all but the man’s piercing blue eyes, with matching black chinos, cotton turtleneck sweater and jacket, and light black boots. In his right hand, completing the sinister B&E ensemble, was a 9mm handgun, a Zastava or SIG-Sauer, a suppressor attached to its gleaming barrel.

Browning gulped, at a loss. Do you know who I am? No response came from the man, or even seemed to be promised. An older fellow, Browning could see, when given a few seconds to simply scrutinize him. The graying eyebrows and telltale crow’s feet at the corners of his icy, unblinking eyes told the story.

The man stared at him. Through him.

Feeling a pronounced chill, Browning stared right back with as much courage as he could muster, as if he were dealing with a wild animal where the slightest movement could instigate an attack. "Did one of them send you?" There seemed to be a flicker in the man’s eyes, all too brief. But it was there, no doubt about it.

Browning licked his lips, allowing himself a sliver of hope. He nodded, encouraging, They did, didn’t they? Still no answer, and Browning slowly put his hands up. I can make it worth your while if you turn around and walk away right now. You know I can. You know who I am.

No response.

Desperation came into Browning’s voice. "What do you want? Name it. It’s yours." His bottom lip trembled involuntarily, but he still held the man’s gaze, hoping not to make a sudden move, wondering where in the blue hell his security detail was—

The stranger casually raised his weapon and fired, twice, two almost soundless, spitting coughs whose payload found their mark in Browning’s chest, a tight, professionally executed grouping of ragged holes. Textbook Spec-Ops douple-tap. A split second later the tumbler of bourbon fell from Browning’s loosening fingers to shatter on the floor at his feet. He actually felt more surprise than pain in those first few seconds, and he stumbled forward a step, two steps, three, before curiously pressing the index and middle fingers of his right hand to his wounds. They came away wet and red and sticky. This still didn’t seem real, and he looked up at the stranger again, the stranger with his cool blue eyes content to watch him die.

Browning wobbled, took two more wavering steps, then, finally weakened, collapsed to his knees beside the coffee table. He fell sideways through the glass with a loud crash, then uncomfortably managed to turn over in the jagged wreckage. His breathing became ragged, the dominant disbelief making way for confusion in his paling expression, the pain clearly a distant third. Bubbles of blood formed at the corners of his mouth as he tried to splutter out the obvious question: Why?

The killer came forward at last, having watched Browning’s dying display with implacable, silent malevolence, no answer forthcoming. He stood over Browning’s downed body, towering, inevitable. He levelled his weapon at Browning’s forehead and Browning flinched, his perforated chest heaving with the effort it was taking to inhale his last breaths. And just before the killer pulled the trigger, before the darkness swallowed the world, Browning’s final bitter thought while looking up into the stranger’s merciless gaze, oddly enough, had nothing to do with why this was happening or who was doing it.

Goddamned Burke, he thought, then thought no more.

The Purple Peacock

1

Goddamned Hanoi...

Getting further and further from his safe harbor of the Hanoi Old Quarter Hotel, John Burke stopped mid-stride on the corner of Hang Can and Hang Bo, forced into the unwitting role of Accidental (or would that be Occidental?) Tourist. During his briefing at headquarters, he’d been warned about Hanoi’s devious network of streets, flanked by a unique combination of well-kept 15th Century and French Colonial architecture, but it was another thing to finally traverse it firsthand. On top of that, he felt watched, vulnerable somehow, but couldn’t say exactly why or how. It was simply instinct, one that he’d learned to trust. He cast several mildly wary glances around, amid the raucous honks and shouts of hustling humanity that was rush hour in the Old Quarter. An abundance of locals, salted with the odd black and white of a few fellow out-of-towners like himself. Many still wore face masks and cast furtive looks at everyone around them, the traumatic legacy of that uncertain year when the whole world just stopped. Most sported the gawky, naive eyes of the virgin traveler just asking to be fleeced, the story of every big city anywhere in the world. But none of them, as of yet, were raising Burke’s inner alarm. Either he was being paranoid, or his surveillants were just that damn good.

After a moment, he chalked it up to a lack of sleep. Must be it. After all, here he was, trying to get his bearings, catch his breath and ignore the tropical heat of the city, all at the same time. His sporty but unassuming clothes were soaked, plastered to his skin, another unpleasant distraction, and one he didn’t need right now. He had a job to do, and time was most assuredly not on his side, mostly thanks to those idiots in charge of the task force back home. Excluding, of course, the esteemed Director General of the Canadian Security Intelligence Service’s Counterintelligence Branch, Stephen Forsythe.

This last thought came tinged with a bit of sarcasm, but truth be told, Burke had come to respect and admire his steadfast boss over the last five years, especially following Burke’s various misadventures in bringing down the brain trust of the Ares Syndicate. How many regulations Burke had broken in doing so yet remained to be fully catalogued, but Burke was sure the newly-minted Director of CSIS would make a concerted effort to uncover every last sin. Francois Brisebois, formerly the Executive Director of the Security Intelligence Review Committee, which oversaw all CSIS operations, was now in the catbird seat. A lofty and powerful perch which Burke wondered might collapse, given the man’s porcine girth. Nicknamed Napoleon by his many detractors, Brisebois had had it in for Burke from the very beginning. That Burke not only still had a job but was currently on point in this joint operation between CSIS and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police was a minor miracle. Burke had often felt stymied by Forsythe’s oversight in the past, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t grateful for the opportunities the man had given him, along with a tentative shield from the worst of Napoleon’s wrath in Ottawa. Probably more than Burke deserved, even Burke himself could admit.

The Horsemen, on the other hand, could go screw themselves. It was their fault Burke had only gotten three hours of sleep since landing at Noi Bai International. A clerical error – a goddamn clerical error! – with the manufacture of Burke’s cover ID and its relevant details had delayed his flight to meet the covert, three-person RCMP team already set up in Hanoi to monitor the target. It was the first red flag to Burke not to trust the Horsemen, but in the interest of cooperation (and Napoleon’s strictest of blustery orders), Forsythe had capitulated.

Burke didn’t like it, but he could understand it. It was the necessary price to pay to keep the RCMP in the dark about the true reason Burke had come to Hanoi, known only to Burke, Forsythe and, much to Burke’s chagrin, Napoleon. Openly antagonizing and second-guessing the Horsemen would only serve to make everyone on both sides dig in their heels. Not to mention letting it be known that CSIS was actively withholding intel from the RCMP. Nobody in CSIS needed that political fallout, now or ever. Both agencies were still salving self-inflicted wounds from back in the early days of CSIS’s formation, when a lack of communication due to petty insular pride had resulted in the devastating Air India bombing of ‘85. The backlash had been severe, both agencies tarnished for decades to come. From then on, both sides had been ordered to work out their issues through a series of joint task forces over the years, the national security equivalent of couples’ counselling.

Burke knew they were jeopardizing their political sway with the Prime Minister by going against a direct mandate, but Burke didn’t care. It was a judgment call that Forsythe had made, and he’d somehow gotten Napoleon to agree, at least temporarily. In the meantime, the swaggering Horsemen had assured CSIS that they had all their ducks in a row, after having built a respectable criminal case in Vancouver for close to a decade. The Vietnamese gangs in the city were getting a steady supply of illegal guns, girls and narcotics direct from the Orient, and all of it was being orchestrated from the safe haven of Hanoi by one Mr. Khan Dao.

Dao had been born and raised in Hanoi, but had been educated in Britain for the latter half of his teens and early twenties, most notably at London Business School. His foray into Western education came to an ignominious and shockingly violent end when he was summarily booted for an altercation with a fellow student. His classmate, a legacy named Charles Smythe, had apparently thought the diminutive Dao would be an easy target for a jolly good spot of xenophobic hazing. Instead, he ended up with three broken teeth and two-thirds of his left ear sliced off with a butterfly knife. Dao had been arrested, charged, tried, convicted, and finally deported, all within an expedited two-month window. Seemed they couldn’t get rid of him fast enough, and he’d been busy building his empire atop the hallowed foundation of the Old Quarter ever since.

As a result of the RCMP’s meticulous legwork in both Vancouver and Hanoi, Napoleon was convinced of their competence in the field and had merely assigned Forsythe a formal advisory role, with Burke the only active CSIS asset on the ground. And as it so happened, the most vital asset, which Burke was certain was Forsythe’s doing. If Napoleon could get everything his gluttonous (and presumably clogged) heart desired, Burke’s security clearance would’ve been revoked a long time ago. He’d currently be languishing in military prison where he’d started before Forsythe resurrected his future, instead of sweating his balls off in ‘Nam.

On second thought, take me back to my cell, Warden...

Burke armed sweat from his glistening brow with a cursory irritation. He checked his watch. 6:23 PM. Still plenty of time before he had to make his rendezvous with Phan outside The Purple Peacock, aptly named after its flamboyant and, from what Burke had read in his pre-mission brief, quite psychotic owner. Khan Dao was as unstable as he was charismatic, brutally and often casually killing those he merely suspected of operating behind his back. Burke had no illusions about how this would unfold. They were running uphill as it was. With no extradition treaty, no backup, and no federal acknowledgement, Burke and the RCMP foot soldiers were on their own in this urban jungle. They had to wait for the right time to strike, to snatch their man and have him on a boat out of Ha Long Bay before dawn. It was a toss-up with men like Dao, but the risk was what Burke lived for. He just had to hope that Dao was in a less edgy mood than usual. And if he wasn’t?

Then we go to Plan B, Ottawa be damned...

Burke smirked to himself, feeling much better. He continued along the sidewalk, taking care to avoid the chatty Vietnamese locals. Some of them were trying desperately to sell their wares, from gaudy trinkets to hanging, freshly-plucked poultry. Some were slyly trying to pick his pocket. He didn’t hold it against any of them, though; he was just another preoccupied tourist, seemingly ripe for the conning, and he figured everyone had to make a living somehow. In a place like this, survival was everything, and Burke respected the nature of things. If nothing else.

Burke consulted his phone’s map briefly, confirmed he was on the right track following the congested route along Luong Van Can. He shouldered through the increasingly jubilant throng. After a series of detours through several more narrow side streets that packed him in with the Vietnamese like sardines, the infamous Peacock materialized on Hang Gai as the evening waned and the night took its cue. The three-story joint was already well-lit with its signature purple neon, casting an otherworldly violet glow over the boulevard and the assembled VIP crowd. The bright light further illuminated a network of tacky paper lanterns, hanging from the sturdy beams of an outdoor mezzanine that projected above the entrance. Burke noted with sour amusement that the lanterns were also purple to match the rest of the garish decor.

Phan, the RCMP’s informant inside Khan Dao’s operation, stood a few paces from a burly doorman, smoking nervously and checking his watch. Burke recognized him immediately from his file photo. Short, stocky, a puckered white scar running down his right cheek. Burke knew the type as soon as he laid eyes on him, a weak-willed opportunist who was governed by either greed or fear. The Horsemen were banking on Phan’s desire to be the man in charge following Dao’s rendition, and that it was greater than his fear of his boss. It was fifty/fifty at best.

As Burke took a moment to watch him with a critical eye, Phan looked up as if sensing the intrusion. He looked right at him, then frowned inquisitively, waiting for any acknowledgement that Burke was his contact. Burke gave him a simple nod. But before he walked over to put this whole thing into motion, he hesitated long enough to quickly review his cover, making sure he’d adequately studied every last nuance so as not to be tripped up by Dao.

Burke was Mr. John Walker, a licensed broker representing Bayley Capital LLC, an investment firm based out of Vancouver. A firm that Khan Dao’s more presentable reps had in fact contacted in the past, among several other prominent venture capitalists. They’d been hoping to lure millions in Western investment for various infrastructure projects in and around the Old Quarter, which Dao basically controlled. Dao was a psychopath and a loose cannon, but he was also vain and insecure. Despite all the money he was raking in through smuggling and human trafficking, he still sought legitimization, probably even deluded himself about making it into Forbes someday. It was a glaring weakness to exploit, and the Horsemen, to their credit, had honed in on it. What made it a sure thing to them was the RCMP commissioner’s personal friendship with the head of Bayley, a relationship that made them the perfect private partner. Or so they all thought, proud of themselves. Burke wasn’t nearly as certain as they were that Dao would take the bait. He was literally betting his life on the RCMP’s gamble, that to Dao the acrid smell of treachery might be dulled just enough by the sweeter scent of easy money.

Well. Only one way to find out...

Burke took a deep breath, ready as he was going to be, and strode across the street. Phan? he asked, cautiously approaching. A perfunctory greeting, and unnecessary, really, but he hoped it’d put the man more at ease. Phan already had a mean case of the flop sweats, and Burke didn’t want it to worsen before they went inside. It could get them both killed.

Phan nodded, stubbing out his cigarette and taking his own deep breath to calm himself. Then he tried on the imitation of a relaxed grin, and revealed crooked, yellowing teeth and a twitch at the corner of his mouth that didn’t give Burke any good omen of things to come. You the Mounties’ man?

So much for kid gloves. Burke spoke under his breath in a laconic gust of breath, mostly to himself than Phan, Can you say that a little louder? I don’t think they heard down the block.

Phan flinched slightly, his nerves evidently on fire again.

Burke sighed with a grimace, swallowing his distaste, and waved it off. Nevermind. Come here... He pulled Phan aside, firmly but not roughly. The doorman gave them a side glance that didn’t seem to betray anything but a mild curiosity. But Burke wasn’t sure. When they were far enough out of earshot, or so he hoped, Burke leaned in close, almost threateningly. You ready for this? Don’t lie to me.

Of course! said Phan, with growing alarm. Why—?

You look like you’d melt under a hot light, that’s why, Burke snapped, interrupting, keeping his voice low and vaguely threatening. Phan seemed to take offense to that, self-consciously wiping his forehead. Burke continued, Phan. Look at me. Phan did. Reluctantly. Stepping close enough to breathe in the man’s sour potpourri of cigarette smoke and B.O., Burke added, If you’re not up to this, I walk right now. You can explain to your boss how you let a twenty million dollar deal get away. Phan glared at him morosely. Burke spread his hands, noncommittal. Your choice.

Phan hesitated. After a long beat, he finally nodded.

Burke nodded back, feeling slightly more optimistic about their chances. All right, then. He gestured toward the canopied front entrance and the looming doorman, whose suspicious eyes were scrutinizing Burke closely. Let’s go.

2

Jancis Hyde woke to the sound of the phone ringing.

Eyes open and already alert, she glanced to her bedside tabletop as the phone rang a second time, saw the bright red digital display of her alarm clock; 6:30 on the dot. Despite her sixty-six years having diminished the better part of her natural athletic reflexes, she reached with an almost feline speed to snatch the phone from its dock before it could trill a third time. She licked sleep-soured lips and said, Hyde.

It was Cassavetes, her right hand. He’s moving on Dao, Ma’am.

Hyde sat up straight, suddenly awake, total awareness setting in. Where is he now? Her eyes adjusted to the gloom, focused on the soft golden glow burnishing the closed Venetian blinds across the room.

About to go in with Phan.

She was swiftly but quietly moving the covers aside, swinging her naked legs out over the edge of the bed. Okay. I’ll be there in ten. Call me if anything happens in the meantime.

Yes Ma’am, said Cassavetes evenly, and clicked off.

Hyde replaced the phone in its dock. She craned her neck to look back at her husband. Jim still slept soundly, thank God. He needed his rest. His chest rose and fell rhythmically and smoothly, his cottony tufts of white hair contrasting with the chestnut brown of the now deeply-wrinkled but still handsome face she’d fallen for all those years ago, when they were still young, still idealistic. She took a beat to simply watch him, enjoying the peacefulness of the moment, the only real peace she could experience these days. She tensed up when a slight, troubled murmur issued from Jim’s throat. His thick brow furrowed. He licked his lips, mumbled something unintelligible. Hyde waited for what felt like minutes, until finally he turned over on his side with a heavy sigh, his back to her. He continued sleeping, blissfully unaware of the world for the next hour and a half. Her muscles relaxed with her relief and she smiled warmly, a feeling of tenderness rare to her disposition coursing through her at the beloved sight of him. Thirty-five years of marriage and he remained her emotional rock, the one person who, day in and day out, kept her centered, reminded her of what truly mattered in a world that kept on trying to convince her with its myriad horrors that nothing mattered, nothing at all.

She twisted her hips all the way around and leaned toward him, careful not to jostle him. She kissed him gently on his upturned right cheek and he murmured again, but this time softly, appreciably, a small smile playing across his lips. Hyde’s own smile widened briefly, then she reluctantly pulled away and slipped out of bed without even a whisper of sound.

Time to go to work.

3

Burke followed Phan through the writhing, gyrating crowd. One of Khan Dao’s black-suited bodyguards led their way in front of Phan, another behind Burke as they marched single file in the narrow aisle that separated the packed bar on the right and the packed dance floor on the left. Social distancing was clearly not in vogue here anymore. The air was close, humid, the acrid odor of hundreds of sweating bodies and perfumes of all prices making Burke want to throw up the spicy chicken curry he’d had for dinner. A relentless soundtrack of bone-shaking dubstep pounded at them from every angle. Multi-colored laser strobes pierced the darkness around them, an epilectic’s worst nightmare.

As they neared the end of the bar, Burke’s attention was drawn to a brunette woman standing where the black marble bartop curved gracefully into the wall. She was gracefully curved herself, vaguely exotic in a way he couldn’t rightly describe, perhaps of Mediterranean descent. Her lovely complexion was offset by the brilliant satin shimmer of her body-length dress, which clung professionally to every inch of her. He met her intelligent, arresting eyes as he passed, and her cool brown gaze studied him with a detached but practiced observation that Burke recognized as that singular characteristic of the best operators. He felt a shiver, not altogether unpleasant, as she looked him up and down, and he had the distinct feeling he was being evaluated, and probably not for the better. When he gave her a nod to see how she’d react, she only narrowed her eyes slightly. He was about to say something to her as he got closer, but she’d already turned around to chat with the bartender, and Burke and his appointed entourage were moving on.

Burke’s eyes stayed on the woman until the bar crowd blocked her from view, and then he faced forward again. He shook his head to refocus on the job at hand. He and Phan were led to a heavy steel door in the back of the building, past a thick purple curtain that partitioned off the VIP section of the club.

The VIP section had a more intimate atmosphere immediately after stepping into it, the obnoxious music muted from beyond the curtain. Rounded purple booths upholstered in velvet lined either side of the aisle they were ushered down, flecked granite tables spotless where otherwise unoccupied by patrons that wore more expensive designer clothes and jewelry than the younger rabble out front. Burke couldn’t help but notice how they avoided looking at him as he passed, to the point of hollow discomfort. He realized that this was a sight they often saw and had learned to ignore, in order to continue enjoying the perks of Dao’s VIP treatment; just another day, just another piece of meat being led to Khan Dao’s abattoir, never to be seen again.

The steel door was opened by the bodyguard in front of Phan. He stepped through, then Phan, then Burke and his accompanying goon. They stood on a low cement platform, eyes adjusting to the diffuse yellow glow of the overhead lighting fixtures. High overhead, in fact, the building’s full three stories. It was a cavernous storage depot. Stacks of crates and boxes, covered in thick sheets of industrial plastic or army green tarps, were piled helter-skelter on the entire left side the room, all the way to the loading door, directly opposite the platform where they stood.

On the other side, a square, inset office was situated in the far right corner. Through the smudged, dirt-clouded panes of its windows, Burke espied the blurred figure of a short, wiry man in a bright, purple leather suit, his back to them, head lowered over an impressive oak desk, studying a bulky object, a bag of some kind. The desk flanked another steel door set in the far wall, within the office itself. An exit to the back alleyway, Burke surmised, a thoughtful frown etching into the corners of his mouth. The goon leading them suddenly turned then and grunted, and glared daggers at the distracted Burke. Burke inwardly scolded himself for letting his guard down. Casing exits was probably not good for a first impression with a man who ran one of the most paranoid criminal enterprises in all of Southeast Asia. Almost as if reading his thoughts, the goon narrowed his close-set predator’s eyes, half-questioning, half-accusing. Burke cleared his throat apologetically, bowed slightly and hoped it was enough to placate his way in from here. He was peripherally aware of Phan inhaling sharply beside him as he shrank back against the railing, sensing the threat of imminent violence.

Another awkward beat reigned. Burke waited tensely, his jaw clenching with the stress, which he hoped was less visible than it felt. But finally the goon grunted again, irritably. He shook his head and turned back around to descend the right side ramp, the one closest to the office. He waved them all to follow. Phan and Burke gave each other a look, then they followed, moved across the uncluttered center of the room to a stainless steel table with two chairs situated on either side. When Burke and Phan stood before the table together, the two goons stepped away, hands impassively behind their backs. Their roles, evidently, had been played.

Mr. Walker! My new good friend! Welcome!

Burke glanced from the goons to the open doorway of the office, where the man of the hour now stood. Khan Dao, The Purple Peacock in the flesh, the dusky surface of his face pockmarked like the southern highlands of Mars. When he spoke, Burke had detected very little of the typical Vietnamese accent when applied to spoken English, a holdover of Dao’s formative years in London. Dao was sleazily resplendent in his purple leather suit, Eddie Murphy Raw by way of The Joker, with a purple shirt, purple tie and purple snakeskin shoes, topped off with a hideous combination of spiky, unruly purple-dyed hair, eyebrows and goatee to match. Burke had to will every fiber of his being not to laugh long and loudly at the grinning abomination that now walked over to him with arms outstretched in cheerful welcome.

Instead, Burke phoned in a polite smile and gave another slight, respectful bow. Know your role, John. Mr. Dao. Nice to finally meet you. He glanced at the two goons, who still watched him warily, like hawks. He