Silver Shadow #15
"Return"
by Aaron Baugh
Handcuffs were definitely an inconvenience.
Jian sat with his hands cuffed behind him, the chain running behind a metal slat in the chair. A bottle of water sat in front of him, and the agents had been thoughtful enough to locate a straw.
"So, Mr. Fong," said the only other person in the room as he pushed the red button on his tape recorder. "Let's go ahead and start with things from your point of view."
Jian sighed and closed his eyes. God Bless the USA, and God send to hell all airline hijackers.
It hadn't started that way, though. Flight 6219 from Hong Kong to Los Angeles was a peaceful flight, and after the first round of beverages, Jian resolved to sleep the rest of the way through the flight. Unfortunately, that wasn't to be the way of things.
"I was asleep," said Jian.
"Asleep," echoed Agent Earl Simms.
"Yes. Until the first one got up." Jian leaned forward to take a sip of water, and remembered.
***
There had been no initial indication that something terrible was going to happen. Or even something eventful. In fact, there was nothing at all odd about the Malaysian gentleman getting up to go to the restroom. The flight attendant, whose badge proclaimed him to be called Simon, stopped him.
"Sorry sir, we're beginning our descent."
The man pointed towards the 'fasten seat belts' sign, unlit. "I have to go," he said. "Badly."
Simon was about to let him as the jet tilted just a tad forward, indicating that the nose was pointing down, ever so slightly. "Go, then. Hurry."
The Malaysian nodded his thanks but as he moved to pass Simon in the aisle, his toe kicked the inside of Simon's foot, and both went down in a tangle of arms and legs.
***
"And that's when I woke up. To the shouting and everyone talking. Some laughing."
"Right. We've gotten that from the other passengers. However, things get fuzzy right after that."
Jian nodded.
***
As Simon was pulling himself to his feet and helping the Malaysian up, who was known as Bom, another, larger man stepped into the aisle and seized Bom's head, then slid a sharp object across his throat. Bom died in a spray of crimson, and the world began to scream.
Dragging a very bewildered and blood spattered Simon to the front of the passenger compartment, this man began to pound on the door to the cockpit, demanding entry, and receiving nothing from the occupants on the other side of the barred door.
***
"Captain Franklin," said Simms, flipping over a page in his notebook, "then got on the radio to the LAX tower, and we started things on our end. But by the time two loaded F-15s from Edwards had even taxied to the runway and before we could get our situation team to the airport, he said that the terrorist had been.....subdued."
Jian returned the agent's stare.
"By you."
A small smile punctuated his nod.
"What is it exactly that you do, Mr. Fong?"
"I am an action coordinator. Stunts, fight choreography, that sort of thing."
"Have you ever competed professionally?"
"Fighting? No. Ruin me for the Olympics." Jian smiled thinly.
"Do you know how to fight?"
"Oh yes."
"Then maybe you can shed some light on the descriptions I've gotten from your fellow passengers. 'He flew up the aisle and whooped his ass,' says one gentleman. A lady said you were just there and she heard a snap and then the man fell. A kid said it was like 'The Matrix.' What the hell happened?"
***
The terrorist pointed his weapon, which Jian could see was a sharpened ceramic dagger of some type, to Simon's throat. Jian didn't know if the blood there was from Simon's neck or poor Mr. Bom's throat. But he didn't plan on staring long enough to figure it out.
Slowly, Jian unfastened his seat belt and counted rows. There were twenty rows in first class, and he was three rows back in business class. Plus the breaks and the attendant stations. Too much space, and the terrorist was getting more and more agitated as he demanded entry into the cockpit. He turned towards the door to yell another threat, and that was all that Jian needed.
The elderly woman sitting next to him couldn't remember seeing him move. He was there, then he was gone.
A second row in the widebody jet allowed him an alternate route of advance, and he gave the classic shushing motion to a woman cowering in the small kitchen area, having come out of the bathroom in time to see Mr. Bom die.
Only first class to go, and Jian nearly crawled, bent as low as he could be without crawling. The terrorist was clearly about to do something very, very rash.
"Excuse me," whispered Jian as he reached up and took a half-empty Heineken bottle from the tray of a first class passenger. The man's eyes goggled at Jian as he held a raised finger over his lips.
A flip of the wrist, and the bottle sailed over the center section of first class and rebounded off the plastic bulkhead above the seats on the end. The terrorist looked that way, and Jian was already on him, left hand grabbing and snapping the knife away from Simon's neck and right pulling the attendant away from his assailant.
Confused, the terrorist could only blink as Jian's knife-edged right hand chopped him in the throat and his right leg swept the man behind his knees. There was a startled choke as the back of his head slammed against the door, and he crumpled.
***
"I disarmed him, and tripped him."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"While he had a knife to a man's throat? With little room to do anything? How?"
Jian shrugged, an abbreviated motion due to his restrained hands.
"What's your business in Los Angeles, Mr. Fong?"
"I'm looking for my sister."
"Is she missing?"
Jian tried to smile. "No. We're....estranged. I came here to try and mend some bridges."
"Fences."
"Pardon?"
"Fences. The term is 'mend fences,'" corrected Agent Simms.
"Oh. Sorry."
And that's when the lights went out.
***
There were six of them, all moving in quick crouches, submachineguns tucked in tight to their shoulders. They were in non-descript gray fatigues and they had a target: the recovery of the man the FBI was holding in their interrogation center.
Agent Simms stood and drew his sidearm, then went to the door just as it slammed inward and knocked him into Jian's chair and the table.
Jian was no longer occupying it.
The windowless room was dark, but weak emergency lights in the hallway filtered in through the open door. Two man-shapes entered, flashlights attached to the sides of their weapons.
Jian struck the first, seizing his weapon and wrenching it upwards, the barrel smacking into his helmet and dazing him slightly. The wet snap was the man's trigger finger breaking at the first knuckle from the end.
The man's training kicked in and he tried to drive the butt of the gun down onto Jian, but the latter had already gripped the man's arm and flipped him further in the room to allow him access to the second, whom he greeted with a snap kick to the solar plexus, sending the man back into the hall and crashing against the far wall.
Jian turned to his first victim, whose impact had sent Simms further aside and knocked the table out of its original position. The man had regained a knee, but held his hands out. "Wait!" he got out before Jian's heel crashed into his helmet and spun him to the ground.
A triple chorus of clicks in the hall behind him made him turn and gaze down the barrels of three Heckler and Koch MP5 sub-machinegun with attached silencers.
"You will come with us," said the leading commando.
"No." Jian dropped to the floor and rolled to his right as bullets peppered the wall behind him and thudded into the kevlar armor worn by the fallen commandos. The lead infiltrator felt his legs pulled from under him and flailed his arms before striking the floor. His weapon spun through the air and slammed into the face of the man behind him. The third of the commandos, entirely in the hall, was spared the worse of Jian's attack, and was pinned against the wall, a hand against his neck and the rest of his body suddenly and unexplainably numb.
"We're here to rescue you," he gasped.
"Who'll rescue you?" asked Jian as his fingers moved slightly and the man collapsed to the ground, unconscious.
***
Despite what the general public may think about law enforcement, they were on the ball very quickly. Six minutes after Jian slipped away from the detention area the power was restored. Three minutes after that, word of a man scaling a twelve-foot high fence topped with razor wire reached FBI leadership in the area. Thanks to Agent Simms' strident note-taking, they picked up the allusion to Jian's sister, and in Li Fong's personal effects found the scribbled copy of an LA address.
Total time from him giving the facility a good look at his backside to both an unmarked federal sedan and a marked LAPD cruiser outside that address was twenty-two minutes, more than enough time for them to see that there was nobody home.
At that moment, as Officers Harlow and Tobias cruised past Jian's sister's empty home, he was trudging the streets of Los Angeles, penniless and without any personal ID. In short, miles away from his goal and screwed, screwed, screwed.
Just as Jian was resigning himself to an immediate future of walking across an unfamiliar city, a black suburban cruised past, one of several he'd seen since escaping from the detention facility. This one, however, eased to a stop beside him.
Tensed and ready, he eyed the man who exited the vehicle, its driver remaining behind the wheel.
"Please, Mr. Fong, I mean no harm. You were rather rough on my associates."
Jian nodded. "It happens," he replied. "Men in black masks with machineguns bring out the worst in me."
"Understandable. My name is Caesar. My employer would like to speak with you, if you're willing."
"Impossible. I have other business here."
"Your sister?" Caesar smiled at Jian's raised eyebrows. "We know about her, just as we know about you. Right now, both the FBI and local police are staking out her house, waiting for you to show up.
***
A pleasant car ride and elevator trip later, Jian was sitting in an elegantly paneled library, books to the ceiling and one of the ladders that followed a track around the ceiling. It was the type of room that most people would love to have in their house, but never built because it would never be properly used.
Still, the smell of old paper and binding glue was somewhat comforting, especially when combined with the pipe smoke that clung to the upholstery of the large chairs and the carpeting.
Jian was on his feet, perusing titles when Caesar escorted the General into the room. His quick glance caught much, and he knew that the steely eyes of the other man had already done the same. Still, Jian was at the disadvantage. This General obviously knew much more about him.
A pipe clenched in his teeth, the General walked with the assistance of an ebon cane capped at both ends with finely etched silver. There was no sound as it dug into the plush carpet. His left leg didn't bend from the knee down, the result of what seemed to be a prosthesis extending from mid-thigh. The finely trimmed white beard and full head of matching hair made him look elderly, but his frame was straight, no indication of age-induced weakness at all. A gold watch, no rings, and a small steel stud in his right ear completed his appearance, and he offered his hand.
"Call me General, Mister Fong."
"Jian." He took the hand and shook it once.
"Take a seat, if you please," said the General, seating himself and resting both hands on the cane. Jian remained standing. "Suit yourself, then."
There was a moment of silence before Jian spoke. "I'm not sure what I should feel towards you. Relief for assisting in getting me out from under the FBI, or if I should kill you now for holding my sister's safety hostage. I don't like blackmail."
"Most people don't. You may go, Caesar."
The assistant nodded and left at once. There was a click as the door latched.
"I want you to do something for me, Jian."
The martial artist waited the span of two breaths. "My sister."
"Safe."
"Says you."
"Says anyone," countered the General. "Just for listening to me now, I'll provide you with transit back to Australia, and you can have proof of her welfare, though I understand you two have your...differences."
"You could fly with me. We could talk on the way."
The General smiled. "A good idea, but no. Flying across the Date Line always messes with my sleep schedule."
There was little to nothing he could do. Having aborted a potentially horrific incident on his flight here, and having been spirited away by the forces of this man with unknown motives, Jian was not in much of a position to dictate anything. Little money and what would doubtless be a city-wide manhunt weren't what worried him. The issue was how he would get back to Pacific City. There was no chance of him getting back on an airplane through any airport in the state, and probably the country. There was always Canada, though.
At a temporary loss, Jian nodded. "Go ahead, then."
"Some of what I say, you'll already know. Much of it, though, you won't. First, who I am." The General leaned back and settled himself, then began. "I am part of an organization that has lived both publicly and in secret for many, many years. We've had several names, several fronts, and many tools. I want you to be one of those tools, Jian."
"What organization? There are so many...."
"The Masons. Illuminati. Knights of the Round, or Hospitaller, or Templar. The Red Faction, the Communist Party of the United States, Shining Path....all have been used or are used. We are vast, and many of our members never know how deeply our influence runs."
Jian was intrigued, and he listened.
"We represent humanity, Jian. And for years we steered the course of human events to our ways, trying to ensure a balance, to be certain that no group of people become too powerful too quickly. We are trying to ensure that man doesn't destroy itself. Among our number are thousands and thousands beside, many of which are names you'll no doubt remember from history."
"Such as?" prompted Jian.
The General smiled. "Cardinal Richelieu, Rasputin, Einstein. Walter Raleigh, Benjamin Disraeli, every Prime Minister of Israel since its inception, plus Werner Von Braun, Charles Darwin, Adam Smith, and Alfred Nobel. Shall I continue?"
Jian waved a hand. "Where do I come in?"
"I admire your directness. But it's a fair question, and I'll tell you. We don't include science heroes." The spite in his voice was palpable, and Jian saw the embers burn in the man's eyes as he mentioned the word 'heroes'. "The reason is simply that they aren't human."
"You're wrong. They represent the pinnacle of humanity."
"Spoken like one of their number." Jian must have made some external indication of taking umbrage to the remark, and the General smiled. "We've known for quite some time, sir, of your alter ego. And I must say you had us quite stymied for the longest time. Convincing Charles Ling to move the city, plus Zen Kitsuki and the Korean fellow....what was his name?"
"Park Tan," Jian said flatly.
"Yes, Tan. Hmm. A good set of red herrings, all brilliant men, all good men. But you, you far outstrip the best of them, don't you?"
"I don't --"
"Cut the modesty, my boy," interrupted the General. "We both know it's false. You could stomp their assholes bloody with one foot and fifteen seconds and we both know it."
"Fine then. You've got me. Now, if your club excludes science heroes, why am I here?"
"Because I trust you more than the others from your city. The boy in the mask, too unstable. The girl who replaced you, much too young. Burke is buried under several layers of unresolved psychoses, and Manly is simply....not suited to this particular endeavor. You, on the other hand, are an example of humanity at its utmost, no odd powers, no ridiculous capes. You inspire others, you have the air of leadership around you, when you unleash yourself there's no glow, no shouting or silly beams flying from your hands, you simply act and then -" the General snapped his fingers, the sound loud in the small room. "Your enemies fall."
He continued. "That's what I want you to do for me. I want you kill someone."
"I'm no one's assassin," said Jian, and stood to leave.
"Hear me out. You just may want to kill the thing that's made a mess of your adopted home. Thousands have been harmed, Jian. More will be harmed, and I'm sure you'll help as you can, but cutting the head off this snake will end most of it. Believe me."
Jian remained on his feet. "Why do you want Romanov dead?"
"Romanov. Humph," grunted the General. "I know...knew him as Abdul Alhazred. And he was once an ally."
"But?"
"He hid his true nature from us successfully. Used our policy of not including science heroes and turned it against us, operating under our radar and beginning his own little plan for how the world should end up." The General's eyes lifted from the empty spot on the wall and they met Jian's own. "This thing must be destroyed."
"I'll make my own judgments, as soon as I arrive in Pacific City and see things for myself."
"Excellent idea. I'll let my agents there know you're coming."
"Would I happen to know any of them?" asked Jian flippantly.
"Yes, you would. Already met Roger Greene, I think. Poor hapless man, doesn't quite know what he's a part of."
***
Pacific City
A box containing two uneaten slices of a pizza sat atop two others, each empty. Around that box sat six young people, each looking glum.
"It just isn't fair," said the lone female in the group. "I mean, she's not the same."
"She?" said the one who sat upright rather gingerly, as if his side bothered him. "How can you be sure?"
"She has tits. Figured that'd be the first thing you'd notice. That, or her ass," said Sara.
Ben scowled while the others chuckled or smiled. "But with the costume, how can you know for sure?"
Sara leveled a gaze at him that told of vast amounts of knowledge privy only to those born with two X chromosomes. Ben fidgeted and fell silent.
Wayne broke the silence as he reached for another slice of pizza. "There's bigger stuff than that. The Mayor and his Mages. The fact that he even sometimes hits the streets and gets pretty nasty."
"Like us," said Scott, finishing his sentence. "They're doing the same things we did."
"So why are we pissed off about it? The guys they're nailing are all breakouts and freaks from Alhazred. The ones that got loose when he blew the damn place up."
Greg was next. "But," he said, raising an arm and index finger from their place on the table, "not all of them. And they aren't being careful like the Shadow was."
"Is." That from Ray. "There still IS a Silver Shadow."
Scott shook his head negatively. "No. She's not the real one. She's not the one I tracked down."
"But you didn't track the real one, Scott," said Wayne. "You found Charlie Ling. We know he isn't the Shadow."
"So who is?" asked Sara. "Or was, rather."
"Who are the best martial artists in the city?" posed Scott. The group proceeded to name them, taking turns.
"Ling."
"Zhao."
"Jian."
"Tan."
"Kitsuki."
"McCall."
"Oh come on, Cooper McCall?" said Scott, breaking the cadence of the list. "The actor?"
"Just because you think he's a shit doesn't mean he wasn't the Shadow," said Greg, defending his addition to the list.
"Not McCall," said Scott, finality in his tone.
"Or Zhao."
"Or Ling," came voices from the table.
"Or Park Tan, nor Zen Kitsuki," said a new voice from the direction of the stairs leading up into Roger Greene's store. The silhouetted figure moved down the stairs, another following close behind. "Which leaves how many others on your short list?" The leading shape passed behind a pillar, then the second.
Seconds later, only one shape emerged from behind that pillar, and the voice came to the young people from a dark corner behind them. "Who does it leave, young Mr. Bradshure?" the voice asked.
"Jian Li Fong," he replied, just above a whisper.
There was a metallic 'clunk' and then there were seven people sitting around the table, the seventh with his feet on the table and a folding metal chair under his ass. His face was smiling. "A true detective." He dropped his feet from the table and leaned forward, seizing upon the last piece of pizza.
"How did you know where to find us?" asked Wayne, the first to directly address the Asian man who had joined their company.
"I asked your dad," said Jian around a bite of pizza.
From the foot of the stairs, Roger Greene tried not to look too smug.
"Now, my little vigilantes, we have some things to discuss."