BLOOD DRAGON by Freddie Peters (books to get back into reading .TXT) 📕

dropped his gun, staggering. Jack made for the gun before his aggressor could retrieve it. Instead, he turned around, jumped on the back of a waiting motorbike and the two men roared off.

Jack hesitated for a short moment he had a clean shot. He pulled back, remembering the taxi had been shot at and suddenly remembering the cabbie inside it.

The old man had dived sideways, hands over his ears. Jack worried he had been hit. He opened the door in one swoop and leaned over the driver.

“Are you alright?” Jack touched his shoulder lightly.

The cabbie shuddered and removed his hands from his face. He sat up slowly. “Fifty years I’ve been driving a cab … 50 years … never been shot at.”

“I’m very sorry about this …” Jack was genuinely upset for the old boy. “I’ll make sure the damage is taken care of.”

“Fifty years …” The cabbie kept shaking his head in disbelief.

Jack could almost hear it. Bloody Yanks … come to London and think it’s Chicago.

“I know … I’ll make sure you’re not out of pocket.”

The old man’s face broke into a smile. “Wait until I tell Di …” He chuckled. “Never … in 50 years.” He pushed his cap back on his head still smiling.

“That’s the second time in less than 24 hours, Jack.” Jethro had poured himself a coffee and Jack had opted for water. “Don’t you think it’s time you got back to work? Clearly holidays do not suit you.”

“Or perhaps I need a change of destination.”

Jethro Greeney raised a quizzical eyebrow. “If you’re not safe in London, where else in the world are you going to be safe?”

Jack pursed his lips. He did not need to be safe, he needed answers.

“Anyway, we’ll take care of the cab once the police have received your statement. The British are going to want some answers. It’s one thing being set upon by some thugs late at night. It’s another when you have a gunman targeting you in broad daylight in the middle of London.”

“I’m a CIA agent. I’m sure you can convince them I’ve made a few enemies in my long and distinguished career.”

“That’s the problem. The Brits don’t want to have a high noon gunfight on their doorstep, and frankly, I can’t blame them.”

“I’d love to give you the name and address of those guys, but I didn’t get a chance to ask for a business card.”

Greeney did not dignify Jack with a response.

“Seriously, I really have no idea who they were.”

“I hope not …” Greeney drank some of his coffee and scanned Jack with a doubtful eye. “And unfortunately, we have to let your boss know.”

“I’ll take care of that.” Jack cleared his throat and drank some water.

“You have until the end of today to do that, after that I’ll make the call myself.”

Jack said back in his chair, nodding an okay.

“Now, about this Nancy Wu you’ve been talking about. I’ve made some progress.”

You mean your team has made some progress. But Jack shut up. He simply wanted the information.

“She has just booked a ticket on today’s last BA flight to Hong Kong.”

* * *

Nancy parked the Aston Martin in one short sweep and opened the door. She bent forward over the gutter. She was about to be sick. The taste of bile in her mouth felt acrid. She gave a few gasps and slumped back into the car seat.

What had she been thinking off?

The complexity of the search for her father, the Ollie Wilson case and Pole’s dangerous position had created the perfect storm. But she was damned if she would let herself drown. She was a survivor, and a seasoned one too.

She opened the water bottle kept in the dividing compartment between the two front seats and took a few gulps. The clock on the dashboard of the Vantage indicated it was 2.30pm. The flight departed at 9pm from London Heathrow.

She had booked business class. First class seemed too ostentatious and might attract attention. In business, she would merge with the crowd of businessmen and women who regularly commuted between the two countries.

She needed to be at the airport an hour beforehand, she would allow herself another hour’s journey time. It might be cutting it fine, but she was used to travelling on a tight schedule.

Back in her apartment, Nancy moved straight to her computer. She resumed her search and within seconds found Deng Xiao Ping’s profile again. Nancy read a few times the small paragraph which told her that Deng’s ancestors and family had come from Sichuan province. His father, a mid-level landowner, had studied in Chengdu, at its Law University. He was by all accounts a prominent local man.

Born in 1904, Deng received a traditional education and joined the Communist Party of China in 1923.

Nancy’s heart was racing as she read the text once more.

The garden is immaculate, and she has been running around the white pebbled alleys. The famous Sichuan pepper trees form part of a row of trees that define the borders of the narrow paths. There are orchids and other flowers she can’t quite make out. Bamboos taller than the house lean against the garden wall. She plays hide and seek with her mother. Her father is calling them yet they are having too much fun.

He is trying to sound annoyed, but his heart is not in it. He would much rather join them in the giddy race.

But someone else is in the house.

Her mother finally catches her and tickles her. He can hear the laughter.

“We’d better go … grandfather is visiting, and he doesn’t like to be made to wait.”

The house smells of spices … she is now sitting on a chair with her mother. Her father is speaking to a man that looks so very old … she has been told not to stare but she can’t help it.

Her mother squeezes her arm to make her stop and she drops her gaze. She doesn’t quite understand what they are saying. Her Chinese is good,