Read Online Hunt Among the Killers of Men by Gabriel Hunt - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gabriel Hunt
Tags: Fiction, Men's Adventure
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Gabriel had been shot six times and stabbed or cut with edged weapons over a hundred.
“Lady, trust me, I’ve been wounded plenty,” he said.
“Lady,” Qingzhao repeated as though testing a new word and finding it inadequate.
Qingzhao inverted the holed metal so the sharplipped edges of the punctures were facing her. Then she punched the metal with her bare fist.
Gabriel winced.
Qingzhao pounded the metal like a boxer, then turned to a basket of lemons at the base of the shrine. She squeezed one freehanded until it burst, and worked the juice into both bleeding hands. Gabriel knew the pain must be incredible, but Qingzhao’s expression did not change.
“Toughens the skin,” she said, as though that was answer enough. It ended their conversation.
Some lady , Gabriel thought.
At the archway to the pagoda, there had once been a gate guarded by immense stone lions of marble. Now there remained only weathered pedestals and severed stone paws, one holding a child, the other, a globe of the world.
Gabriel stood between them watching the setting sun, trying to frame an argument. Mitch Quantrill was lost; swallowed by the Huangpu with a bullet in her. The odds that she had survived were low. Lucy would be distraught when she found out. And furious with him. Still—was it his responsibility to pick up her doomed mission? Would that make things right?
No.
Then there was this woman, with the motorcycle and the tough skin and the story about having been murdered. All right, chalk some of it up to the language barrier, but still, she seemed mildly crazy. And whatever mission she was on seemed fraught with who knew what sort of damage in her past. If she wanted to go after Cheung, was that his problem?
No.
It would be the easiest thing in the world to make his way back to the city. By Gabriel’s reckoning they were perhaps fifty miles into the mountains along the Yangtze River. He could jet back to the States. Michael could reschedule the lecture tour, make apologies for Gabriel’s mysterious absence. And all this would become a bad bit of history. It made sense.
So why did he feel no desire to do it?
Gabriel tried to kid himself that he was still recovering from the bullet skid to the temple, but he knew better. Maybe he was attracted to Qingzhao; was that it?
He was still trying to work out the answer to that one when she appeared silently beside him.
“Don’t let them see you.”
Gabriel’s senses instantly hit high alert. “Who?”
“The soldiers.”
His body tensed, automatically crouching down and scanning the grounds for cover. “ What soldiers?” he said.
“My army,” said Qingzhao. “The Killers of Men.”
The pair of Tosa dogs were schooled aggressors, each nearly 200 pounds. Also known as Japanese Fighting Mastiffs or “Sumo Dogs,” their jaws could render nearly 600 pounds of crush pressure, and this brindle pair stood 25 inches at the shoulder. Highly prized as fighters, this type of dog had been banned in the UK, Ireland, New Zealand and Australia. As a breed they were alert, agile, and quick to respond with unbelievable reserves of stamina, which meant that gladiatorial training amplified all their most dangerous traits.
Dinanath had overseen the training of this pair. Neither dog had a name. Right now, Ivory was holding the remote fob keyed to their electronic discipline collars.
In his other hand he held the gleaming meat cleaver he had just confiscated from Lao, the fisherman.
Aboard his sampan, Lao was busy pleading for his life in Mandarin.
“It appears,” Ivory said, “that Qingzhao Wai Chiu had not one ally, but two.”
“This is getting out of hand,” said Dinanath.
Ivory sighed and nodded. He was tired of trying to maintain a standard of honor that was increasingly irrelevant.
He keyed the fob and the Tosa dogs tore into the terrified Lao. His screams disappeared down chomping gullets, and Ivory rendered the man the small mercy of shooting him in the head before
“Lady, trust me, I’ve been wounded plenty,” he said.
“Lady,” Qingzhao repeated as though testing a new word and finding it inadequate.
Qingzhao inverted the holed metal so the sharplipped edges of the punctures were facing her. Then she punched the metal with her bare fist.
Gabriel winced.
Qingzhao pounded the metal like a boxer, then turned to a basket of lemons at the base of the shrine. She squeezed one freehanded until it burst, and worked the juice into both bleeding hands. Gabriel knew the pain must be incredible, but Qingzhao’s expression did not change.
“Toughens the skin,” she said, as though that was answer enough. It ended their conversation.
Some lady , Gabriel thought.
At the archway to the pagoda, there had once been a gate guarded by immense stone lions of marble. Now there remained only weathered pedestals and severed stone paws, one holding a child, the other, a globe of the world.
Gabriel stood between them watching the setting sun, trying to frame an argument. Mitch Quantrill was lost; swallowed by the Huangpu with a bullet in her. The odds that she had survived were low. Lucy would be distraught when she found out. And furious with him. Still—was it his responsibility to pick up her doomed mission? Would that make things right?
No.
Then there was this woman, with the motorcycle and the tough skin and the story about having been murdered. All right, chalk some of it up to the language barrier, but still, she seemed mildly crazy. And whatever mission she was on seemed fraught with who knew what sort of damage in her past. If she wanted to go after Cheung, was that his problem?
No.
It would be the easiest thing in the world to make his way back to the city. By Gabriel’s reckoning they were perhaps fifty miles into the mountains along the Yangtze River. He could jet back to the States. Michael could reschedule the lecture tour, make apologies for Gabriel’s mysterious absence. And all this would become a bad bit of history. It made sense.
So why did he feel no desire to do it?
Gabriel tried to kid himself that he was still recovering from the bullet skid to the temple, but he knew better. Maybe he was attracted to Qingzhao; was that it?
He was still trying to work out the answer to that one when she appeared silently beside him.
“Don’t let them see you.”
Gabriel’s senses instantly hit high alert. “Who?”
“The soldiers.”
His body tensed, automatically crouching down and scanning the grounds for cover. “ What soldiers?” he said.
“My army,” said Qingzhao. “The Killers of Men.”
The pair of Tosa dogs were schooled aggressors, each nearly 200 pounds. Also known as Japanese Fighting Mastiffs or “Sumo Dogs,” their jaws could render nearly 600 pounds of crush pressure, and this brindle pair stood 25 inches at the shoulder. Highly prized as fighters, this type of dog had been banned in the UK, Ireland, New Zealand and Australia. As a breed they were alert, agile, and quick to respond with unbelievable reserves of stamina, which meant that gladiatorial training amplified all their most dangerous traits.
Dinanath had overseen the training of this pair. Neither dog had a name. Right now, Ivory was holding the remote fob keyed to their electronic discipline collars.
In his other hand he held the gleaming meat cleaver he had just confiscated from Lao, the fisherman.
Aboard his sampan, Lao was busy pleading for his life in Mandarin.
“It appears,” Ivory said, “that Qingzhao Wai Chiu had not one ally, but two.”
“This is getting out of hand,” said Dinanath.
Ivory sighed and nodded. He was tired of trying to maintain a standard of honor that was increasingly irrelevant.
He keyed the fob and the Tosa dogs tore into the terrified Lao. His screams disappeared down chomping gullets, and Ivory rendered the man the small mercy of shooting him in the head before
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