Stealing the Dragon Read Online Free
cried Chan. “I will bring it back— it is my responsibility .”
The man behind the desk pursed his lips as he placed his index finger on the button. When he spoke again, his voice was almost friendly.
“Not any more.”
As he pushed the button, the rope slipped through the pulley and released. He watched impassively as Chan disappeared from view, and the slithering became a dull roar, the movement of the snakes like a crashing wave.
The trap door snapped shut, cutting short Chan’s scream and chasing the liquid sound of vipers from the room.
The Dragon Head leaned forward, his hands steepled in front of him. Without turning, he spoke to the man in the shadows, his voice sounding loud in the sudden quiet of the room.
“A bit melodramatic.”
“But there is something to be said for tradition.” The man with the scar stepped from the shadows. His black hair was cropped close to his skull, the scar starting just below the hairline on the right side and zigzagging past his eye until it ended at the corner of his mouth. As he smiled, it twitched like a lurid bolt of lightning trapped in his skin, the scar tissue catching the light at odd angles. “He talked quickly, wouldn’t you agree?”
The man behind the desk nodded. “Too bad he had nothing to say.” He sighed deeply. “You will find it and bring it back.”
The lightning bolt danced in the shadows. “Of course, lung tau .”
“And you will find the one who took it from us.”
“And bring them back, also?”
“Only the heart,” came the reply. “I only want the heart.”
Chapter Six
San Francisco, present day
“Are you trying to take advantage of me?”
Cape Weathers sat behind his desk and tried to think of a suitable answer. The man asking the question was supposed to be his client, after all, so he should take the question seriously. On the other hand, the man in question was a pretentious prick, a subspecies found crawling around the upper echelons of San Francisco society. They were known to consort with unctuous assholes and pseudo-intellectuals, two other life forms common to the Bay Area.
“Actually, I was trying to decide whether or not to shoot you,” replied Cape pleasantly. He leaned forward in his chair and began rummaging through his desk drawer.
“I beg your pardon?” Richard Choffer was clearly used to being in control. He pursed his lips menacingly as he tried to force Cape to make eye contact with him. The scion of a famous publishing magnate from New York, Richard had moved to San Francisco fifteen years ago to start his own publishing empire with Dad’s money. Now he had a successful line of titles that the critics liked to call picture books for adults—a series of heavily art-directed books on photography, music, and pop culture. Batman, Pez Dispensers, Diners Across America . Every photo was given its own page and two lines of copy, then bound into a handsome volume suitable for gift-giving when you ran out of ideas for gifts.
Cape had no problem with the way Richard made his living. It was arguably more respectable than the way Cape made his. And the books were undeniably successful—he’d even bought one or two himself over the years. He could even look past Richard’s insistence on being called Richard Choffer, Esquire , or the fact that his business card said “Literary Director,” even though most of his books had barely fifty words from cover to cover. It must have been hard growing up in Dad’s shadow, which obviously stretched all the way from New York to San Francisco.
But Cape couldn’t abide being lied to, especially by a client.
“Ah, here it is,” announced Cape cheerfully. In his right hand was a matte black revolver, a Ruger .357 Magnum that held six cartridges. It had a size and heft that made it intimidating, especially if you weren’t used to guns.
“Wh-what are you doing?” demanded Richard, his thin lips drained of color. Cape casually dropped the gun onto the desk,
The man behind the desk pursed his lips as he placed his index finger on the button. When he spoke again, his voice was almost friendly.
“Not any more.”
As he pushed the button, the rope slipped through the pulley and released. He watched impassively as Chan disappeared from view, and the slithering became a dull roar, the movement of the snakes like a crashing wave.
The trap door snapped shut, cutting short Chan’s scream and chasing the liquid sound of vipers from the room.
The Dragon Head leaned forward, his hands steepled in front of him. Without turning, he spoke to the man in the shadows, his voice sounding loud in the sudden quiet of the room.
“A bit melodramatic.”
“But there is something to be said for tradition.” The man with the scar stepped from the shadows. His black hair was cropped close to his skull, the scar starting just below the hairline on the right side and zigzagging past his eye until it ended at the corner of his mouth. As he smiled, it twitched like a lurid bolt of lightning trapped in his skin, the scar tissue catching the light at odd angles. “He talked quickly, wouldn’t you agree?”
The man behind the desk nodded. “Too bad he had nothing to say.” He sighed deeply. “You will find it and bring it back.”
The lightning bolt danced in the shadows. “Of course, lung tau .”
“And you will find the one who took it from us.”
“And bring them back, also?”
“Only the heart,” came the reply. “I only want the heart.”
Chapter Six
San Francisco, present day
“Are you trying to take advantage of me?”
Cape Weathers sat behind his desk and tried to think of a suitable answer. The man asking the question was supposed to be his client, after all, so he should take the question seriously. On the other hand, the man in question was a pretentious prick, a subspecies found crawling around the upper echelons of San Francisco society. They were known to consort with unctuous assholes and pseudo-intellectuals, two other life forms common to the Bay Area.
“Actually, I was trying to decide whether or not to shoot you,” replied Cape pleasantly. He leaned forward in his chair and began rummaging through his desk drawer.
“I beg your pardon?” Richard Choffer was clearly used to being in control. He pursed his lips menacingly as he tried to force Cape to make eye contact with him. The scion of a famous publishing magnate from New York, Richard had moved to San Francisco fifteen years ago to start his own publishing empire with Dad’s money. Now he had a successful line of titles that the critics liked to call picture books for adults—a series of heavily art-directed books on photography, music, and pop culture. Batman, Pez Dispensers, Diners Across America . Every photo was given its own page and two lines of copy, then bound into a handsome volume suitable for gift-giving when you ran out of ideas for gifts.
Cape had no problem with the way Richard made his living. It was arguably more respectable than the way Cape made his. And the books were undeniably successful—he’d even bought one or two himself over the years. He could even look past Richard’s insistence on being called Richard Choffer, Esquire , or the fact that his business card said “Literary Director,” even though most of his books had barely fifty words from cover to cover. It must have been hard growing up in Dad’s shadow, which obviously stretched all the way from New York to San Francisco.
But Cape couldn’t abide being lied to, especially by a client.
“Ah, here it is,” announced Cape cheerfully. In his right hand was a matte black revolver, a Ruger .357 Magnum that held six cartridges. It had a size and heft that made it intimidating, especially if you weren’t used to guns.
“Wh-what are you doing?” demanded Richard, his thin lips drained of color. Cape casually dropped the gun onto the desk,
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