There was a time for speed and a time for caution. Monkh was feeling the latter as he approached the house under construction.
He knew time was limited—the collection of strobing lights in front of Li’s house was growing fast, and the first police cars had joined the fray. His immediate problem was fifty meters of open ground between the treeline and the house under construction. Monkh was sure he’d seen Corsair and Li in his optic right before launching the RPG, and the round had struck his aim point perfectly. Until he confirmed the kills, however, restraint was warranted.
As he neared the house, he was struck by unexpected sounds. He heard at least two small gas engines churning away inside. He guessed that at least one was a generator—there had been a light illuminated on the main floor, which conveniently backlit his targets.
He covered the final twenty meters quickly, and put a shoulder to the foundation wall. His Glock was ready in his dominant right hand. He worked his way to the shell of a doorway and peered inside. The generator was there, humming along, and a thick extension cord ran above. The second engine, whatever it was, seemed to be located on the second floor. Monkh saw one problem. The only apparent way to access the upper floor was by a lone unfinished staircase. He thought that too predictable, on the off chance that one of the men had survived. In an abundance of caution, he searched for another way up.
Monkh spotted it immediately.
He darted to a network of scaffolding and began to climb.
Twenty seconds later he was on the balcony of the main floor. He took in every angle, the poised Glock sweeping in unison with his eyes. The balcony was clear, and he hurried to an empty window frame and got his first look inside. He saw the second source of noise, a barrel mixer of some kind chattering away. On the floor next to it was a body. He breathed a small sigh of relief—it was the one he had hoped to see, dressed in a fireman’s coat, pants, and breathing apparatus. Corsair. He had fallen forward, and what Monkh could see of his face was a mess. The cheek and jawline were ruined by shrapnel, and a shattered faceplate covered the rest.
He saw no sign, however, of Li Qiang.
Monkh moved inside, wary, the Glock steady in front of him. He noted two partial walls on the far side of the room, a half dozen piles of wood and debris. He saw the top of the stairwell that he’d noted from below. There was no shortage of concealment. If Li had somehow survived, he would most likely have run—he wasn’t a tactically oriented individual. Then again, God had a soft spot for amateurs.
It took two minutes to clear the entire floor. He then ensured that Li was not in the basement below. Monkh ended up next to the body, his irritation rising. If Li had indeed escaped, then his mission was incomplete. He would have to spend weeks tracking him down.
As he stood contemplatively, weighing where Li might have gone, something new and uncomfortable lodged in his head. An inconsistency.
No, an improbability.
Corsair had been killed, yet Li survived?
Monkh looked down, and immediately bile began to rise in his throat. The limp body puddled on the floor seemed changed. The yellow coat and pants fit differently. When he had seen Corsair earlier …
He bent down and turned the body over. Monkh pried away the shattered face plate and saw the other side of the face, the undamaged side. His heart seemed to seize.
A shot of adrenaline spiked, and before he could even look up the entire house came alive. Noise and motion seemed to come from every quadrant. Left and right, above and below. He threw himself to one side and rolled, ending up on his back. Directly overhead he registered movement on the plywood ceiling. Without even focusing, he brought the red dot to bear and fired four shots vertically. Four holes perforated the ceiling, bracketing the target perfectly. One of them, surely, would have taken out anyone on the roof above.
Then more motion to his right, something clattering near a floorboard. He shifted aim and fired twice, then made a lightning shift to a third target, more rounds striking what turned out to be a falling piece of lumber.
He altered his aim repeatedly, engaging one threat after another.
Then, all at once, Monkh stopped.
His weapon was still, the red glow of his sight hovering over a vibrating reciprocating saw across the room.
He pushed all the distractions away, the noise and the movement. Very slowly Monkh looked up, and in the dim spray of the work light he saw what appeared to be the blade of a circular saw extending from a cut in the ceiling. He checked his second target, saw a heavy electric drill, now stilled by a slightly off-center hole. The generator and mixer churned away. The noise was deafening, disconcerting, robbing him of the sense of sound. He stood and spun two slow circles, the Glock poised, clearing the entire sphere around him for the true threat. He ended up facing the balcony.
“Don’t move,” said a voice from behind.
A voice Monkh knew.
He fell completely still.