Chapter Thirty Five
Reaper
“What’s the next step, Reaper?” Tank says, shifting his weight as he leans against his motorcycle.
His breath fogs in the chilly night air, and he gives me a look that tells me that, despite the brotherhood we share, this task is testing those bonds.
“We’ve already trashed an apartment used by a women’s shelter to house at-risk victims. Are we going to maybe go blow up an orphanage? ”
“If we are, I can put together an incendiary bomb that’d take care of it real quick,” Mayhem says.
“The trick is to use the right accelerant, so it burns hot and long enough to really incinerate the structure. I like thermite, but there’s also a case for using magnesium.
I guess it really comes down to what the orphanage is built from — is it concrete, wood, or brick — and just how many kids we’re talking about barbecuing? ”
Diesel stares at him. “Are you serious right now?”
“No, I’m being hypothetical. I wouldn’t really barbecue children, god damn, dude. I’d give them warning to get out before I burned their home to ashes. Shit.”
“Why would you even think about that?”
Mayhem shrugs. “It’s just a thought experiment. Haven’t you ever ridden by a building and thought about what would be the best way to reduce it to a smoldering pile of ashes?”
“No.”
“You need to open your mind, Diesel.”
“Open my mind to the possibility of being an arsonist?”
Adriana clears her throat. “We’re not burning an orphanage. We’re going to a mahjong club.”
Tank throws a confused look from Adriana to me. “Explain. Because that makes about as much fucking sense as burning an orphanage.”
Adriana looks at me, and there’s something in her eyes that I don’t like — doubt, maybe, or frustration.
What is she thinking? What happened to her?
It seems the longer this plan goes on, even though it’s working like we planned — except for that minor hiccup of the cargo actually being people — the more she looks at me like she first did when she wanted to kill me.
“We’ve done enough to put it in the Triad’s heads that Ruslan and his gang are the ones who disrupted their shipment. They already have tension with the Russians, and this mahjong club was the site of a Russian attack not that long ago.”
“And we’re just going to walk in there and, what, ask to speak to the Triad manager?” Diesel says.
Adriana nods. “The woman who runs the club can connect us to the Triads. We’ve met her before. Then, we’ll offer to do the dirty work for the Triads in exchange for a little help to get close to Ruslan Volkov.”
“I love mahjong. I’m in. Let’s go,” Mayhem says.
Tank gives me a long, appraising look. “And you’re sure this is the best way?”
“Unless you’d rather us go it alone, take on Volkov’s men until we find one with the intel on where he’ll be at the time we need him to be, and then risk a frontal assault on his headquarters?” I say.
Tank grunts. Once, then twice. “What’s the pastry situation like at this mahjong club? Did you see any egg tarts or sesame balls?”
Adriana shrugs. “We saw none of that. But knowing Madam Lin, I’d be shocked if she allowed anything less than excellent pastries at her club. She has a way of making anything that doesn’t meet her standards, even people, feel like an utter crime against humanity.”
“Sounds like a fucking blast. Let’s go meet this bitchy old woman and play some fucking mahjong with Triads.”
We head out. I fire up my bike and lead the convoy through Sacramento's darkening streets. The Jade Palace sits tucked down an alley between a defunct electronics repair shop and a Vietnamese restaurant, the place you'd walk past a hundred times without noticing if you didn't know what to look for.
The door is exactly as nondescript as I remember — weathered wood painted an unremarkable brown, with only a few faded Chinese characters carved into a small wooden plaque beside the frame. No neon signs, no obvious markers. Just the way the Triads like it.
I rap my knuckles against the door three times, the sound echoing dully in the narrow alley. A small slot slides open, revealing a pair of suspicious eyes that scan our group before settling on Adriana.
"We're here to see Madam Lin," Adriana says in Mandarin, her pronunciation smooth and confident.
The slot snaps shut. Locks tumble. The door creaks open to reveal Madam Lin herself—a tiny woman in her seventies with steel-gray hair pulled into a severe bun and eyes that could cut glass. She's wearing a burgundy silk jacket that probably costs more than my bike.
She launches into rapid-fire Mandarin, gesturing at our group with obvious disdain. Adriana responds, but Madam Lin cuts her off with a sharp wave of her hand and continues her tirade, pointing directly at me, then Tank, then Diesel.
"What's she saying?" Diesel mutters.
Adriana's jaw tightens. "She's... expressing her opinion of your life choices. She says you look like the type of man who has brought nothing but shame to your mother and dishonor to seven generations of your ancestors, all of whom die many times over in hell as punishment for your disgrace."
"Jesus Christ."
Madam Lin shifts her attention to Tank, rattling off another string of what are clearly insults. Tank's face darkens as Adriana translates: "She says your beard makes you look like a vagrant who sleeps under bridges and that your parents probably weep when they think of you."
But then Madam Lin's gaze lands on Mayhem, and her entire demeanor transforms. Her harsh features soften, her voice drops to something almost melodic, and she actually smiles.
A few melodious words come out of her mouth, and then she reaches up to pat Mayhem's cheek.
Mayhem grins and responds in what sounds like passable Mandarin. Adriana gasps.
Madam Lin actually giggles — fucking giggles — and swats at his arm playfully. Her cheeks flush pink as she continues chattering to him in a voice I've never heard her use before.
"What the hell is happening?" Tank whispers.
Adriana stares, her mouth ajar. "She's... she called him her darling prince. And he just told her she looks beautiful today."
Mayhem winks.
Adriana straightens her shoulders and addresses Madam Lin directly in Mandarin, her tone respectful but firm. I can't understand the words, but I recognize the cadence of a request.
Madam Lin's flirtatious demeanor vanishes instantly.
She snaps back at Adriana, her voice sharp as broken glass.
The two women go back and forth, their exchange growing more heated with each volley.
Adriana gestures toward our group, then toward the interior of the club.
Madam Lin shakes her head emphatically, pointing at Tank and Diesel with obvious disgust.
"She doesn't want to let us in," Adriana mutters to me without breaking eye contact with the older woman. "Says we'll disturb her clientele."
The argument continues, voices rising. Madam Lin crosses her arms and plants her feet like she's preparing for battle.
But Adriana doesn't back down, firing off what sounds like a series of compelling points.
She mentions something that makes Madam Lin's eyes narrow, then something else that makes her tilt her head thoughtfully.
Finally, Madam Lin throws her hands up in exasperation and steps aside, muttering what I'm pretty sure are curses under her breath.
"We can enter," Adriana says, relief clear in her voice.
Madam Lin beckons us inside with obvious reluctance, leading us past the main gaming room where the click of mahjong tiles creates a steady rhythm. The air is thick with cigarette smoke and the indistinct murmur of conversation in multiple dialects.
She guides us down a narrow hallway lined with red silk wallpaper and into a small sitting room that feels like stepping into another century.
Elegant carved wooden furniture in the traditional Chinese style fills the space—chairs with intricate dragon motifs, a low table inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and a cabinet displaying jade figurines.
Calligraphic art pieces hang on the walls, their flowing black characters creating patterns I can't read but somehow find beautiful.
Madam Lin gestures for us to sit, then positions herself behind the ornate desk like a general preparing for negotiations. She speaks in accented English now, her words precise and deliberate.
"I know why you are here," she says, her sharp eyes moving from Adriana to me. "I know who you want to talk to. I will make a phone call."
I turn to Adriana, unable to hide my confusion. "How the hell can she know that? We didn't tell her anything specific."
Those cutting eyes shift to me, and I see exactly why this tiny woman commands respect in a world full of killers.
"I didn't get to where I am by being a fool, Mr. DeMarco.
The Russians cost some people I know a great deal of money recently.
Word travels fast when someone disrupts carefully laid plans. "
Tank shifts in his chair, the ornate wooden frame creaking under his weight. "While we're waiting for you to make that call," he says, his gruff voice cutting through the tension, "you got any pastries we could grab? All this talking's got me hungry."
Madam Lin's severe expression softens slightly, and for the first time since we walked in, she looks almost pleased.
"Ah, you have good taste. We have many varieties — dan tat, of course, and our egg tarts are made fresh every morning.
Sesame balls with red bean paste, almond cookies, pineapple buns, lotus seed cakes, and my personal favorite, wife cakes with winter melon filling. "
Tank's entire demeanor transforms. His eyes light up like a kid on Christmas morning, and he actually rubs his hands together. "Holy shit — pardon me, ma’am, I mean, holy crap. You’ve got all that here? Fresh?"