‘The Demon Gate is located here,’ said Zhen, her grandmother prodding a stubby finger hard as a nail into Connor’s chest. Just above his right nipple and between his pectoral muscles, he could already feel a sharp pain from her pressure. After two days of relentless Iron Shirt exercises – where he’d been beaten in the stomach, had heavy bricks piled on top of his chest and lain on sharp rocks to condition his body – Connor had been relieved when Lăolao suggested they move on to Iron Hand techniques. Now he was thinking that he might regret that decision.

‘This point should be hit in and towards the spine,’ continued Zhen, translating Lăolao’s words. ‘A strike here disrupts a person’s qi flow and can cause injury … or even death.’

Without warning, Lăolao jabbed hard with her fingers and Connor’s chest seemed to implode. A tidal wave of agony crippled him to his very core. As if his life force was swirling down a drain, his body became completely sapped of energy and he dropped to his knees. Unable to stand or defend himself, he could only manage to utter a feeble plea of ‘Why?’

An amused Amir looked on from his usual perch, his tablet and keyboard on his lap, as Zhen knelt down beside Connor in the courtyard. ‘Lăolao says, you must experience Demon Gate in order to do Demon Gate.’

‘OK,’ he wheezed with a weak nod, ‘that’s enough experience for one day!’

Zhen beckoned Amir over to help. Lifting him to his feet, the two of them supported Connor as her grandmother thumped him on the back in three specific qi points. The reaction was instantaneous. Like a floodgate opening, Connor’s energy rushed into him and the debilitating effects of the Demon Gate strike vanished. Aside from a dull throb in his chest at the point where he’d been hit, Connor felt completely fine.

He blinked in astonishment. From his bodyguard training he was acquainted with kyusho pressure points – physical vulnerabilities in the human body and nervous system that could be exploited to control or subdue an attacker. But this qi style of attack, targeting the energy centres, was a revelation to him. If he could master this particular technique, then he’d surely possess an unbeatable defence against Mr Grey when they next met.

Connor pointed to his chest. ‘Is this where you hit that thug who took your shopping?’

Lăolao responded with a toothless grin and nodded. ‘Combined with Iron Hand, no man can withstand such a strike,’ she said via Zhen.

Connor turned eagerly to Amir. ‘I need to practise this – on you.’

Less than keen at the prospect, Amir began to back away. ‘Erm … I’m a bit busy with the encryption.’

‘Come on – it’ll be like Buddyguard training,’ coaxed Connor. ‘It’ll only take ten minutes, promise.’

In fact, it took half that time. Connor’s prior skill in martial arts meant his strikes had pinpoint accuracy. After three or so semi-effective attempts, he hit the Demon Gate on the button and Amir dropped like a sack of rice.

‘I think … you’ve mastered that technique,’ gasped Amir as they helped him to his feet and Lăolao restarted his flow of qi.

‘A few more goes,’ pleaded Connor. ‘Just to be sure.’

Gritting his teeth, Amir braced himself as Connor tried again. A second later he was slumped on the floor in an enfeebled heap. After the third successful Demon Gate strike in a row, he rasped, ‘I really need to get on with hacking that flash drive!’

‘Of course,’ said Connor, pulling his friend to standing. ‘Thanks for your help. I’ve nailed that technique.’

Amir offered a pained smile. ‘No problem,’ he replied, rubbing his chest and tottering over to the corner to resume his work. ‘But next time you want a punchbag … ask someone else!’

But Lăolao had already set up another punchbag. She’d hung a hessian sack of rice from the top spar of the wooden muk yan jong training post, now denuded of coats. She gestured for Connor to hit it.

Connor launched a rear cross, his knuckles striking the sack with a heavy thud. Lăolao tutted disapprovingly.

‘Lăolao says you’re wasting sixty per cent of your potential power,’ explained Zhen. ‘Iron Hand is not only about making your punch hard; it’s about making your fist strong with qi.’

Lăolao shooed Connor aside and lined herself up with the makeshift punchbag.

‘By concentrating your qi into your fist and energizing your muscles, you can increase the power and efficiency of your punch,’ Zhen translated.

Breathing in deeply, her grandmother circled her hands around an imaginary ball as in her tai chi, then clenched her fist and let loose a short, sharp punch. The sack of rice burst apart with the brutal force of her strike, white grains cascading on to the courtyard floor in a shimmering waterfall. Connor stared open-mouthed at the old woman’s remarkable feat.

‘You’re not practising that on me!’ said Amir from his safe corner in the courtyard.

After Lăolao had made him sweep up the rice, it was Connor’s turn on a fresh sack. He stood before the muk yan jong, rubbing his hands together briskly and pulling them apart several times. The twice-daily t’ai chi sessions had helped him control and nourish his qi, so he soon generated a flow of inner energy. Then, visualizing a ball of fire between his palms, he closed his right fist around it and imagined locking in the qi, before throwing a punch with all his might. His fist pounded the rice and the bag swung like a pendulum.

Connor was chuffed. But Lăolao wasn’t happy. ‘Too tense,’ she said through Zhen.

He tried again. And again. And again. But still Lăolao was dissatisfied, and the bag remained stubbornly whole. He kept up the barrage for another twenty minutes before exhaustion and pain overcame him.

‘I don’t know how you made it look so easy!’ gasped Connor, examining his raw and bloody knuckles.

‘All things are difficult before they are easy,’ said Lăolao through her granddaughter, before shuffling off to the kitchen and lighting the stove. She scooped out four cups of ‘punchbag’ rice into a pot and began boiling the water for dinner.

Worn out and aching, Connor slumped down next to Amir. ‘Look at my hands!’

‘Don’t expect sympathy from me,’ said his friend. ‘My chest is still throbbing!’

Connor sighed. ‘Well, I hope you’ve beaten more out of that flash drive than I did out of the rice sack.’

Amir wearily shook his head. ‘It’s high-level military-grade encryption. With only this tablet, it’s like trying to break into a tank with a can opener!’

‘Are you saying you can’t hack into the drive?’

‘It’s just the hacker bots available online aren’t up to the job …’ Amir’s brow creased in concentration. ‘But I suppose I could try to write my own decryption program …’ He trailed off, losing himself once again in the code.

Zhen strolled over, carrying a glass bottle of dark-coloured liquid. ‘Lăolao says to rub this into your knuckles.’

‘What is it?’ asked Connor as he uncorked the bottle, poured some out and applied it gingerly to his grazed skin.

‘Diē dǎ jiǔ, a traditional Chinese herbal remedy.’

Almost immediately the pain began to subside. ‘Wow, that’s neat stuff,’ remarked Connor.

‘Lăolao’s special formula,’ replied Zhen with a warm smile. ‘It unblocks the meridians and allows the qi to flow freely again. You must put it on after every session.’

As he massaged the miracle lotion into his other hand, Connor asked, ‘Have you had any luck yet finding us a way to get to Hong Kong?’

‘Possibly,’ said Zhen. ‘My cousin is a truck driver. He sometimes delivers freight there.’

Connor frowned. ‘I thought you said your cousin was a girl.’

Zhen glanced away, hiding her embarrassment. ‘Er, those were my clothes at the flat. No one else stays there.’

‘Oh, of course!’ Connor laughed, realizing how obvious it all was now. ‘So, when will your cousin know if he’s going to Hong Kong?’

‘In a day or so, I expect.’

‘Well, let’s hope it’s an easier journey than the one we had getting here!’