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  “Thanks,” she said again. Drew looked a little hurt as she turned and let herself in the room.

  71

  Thursday, April 10

  Jamie slept until noon and spent the rest of the day cooped up in her hotel room. The feds were being remarkably tight-lipped about their plan but insisted that Jamie not be seen in public. She wanted to at least call Chris and a few of her friends from law school but the feds frowned on the idea. What if the triad had tapped into their phones? Besides, Chris wouldn’t be worried. Only a few others like Wellington and Isaiah even knew about Jamie’s kidnapping. The fewer variables, the better, the federal agents insisted.

  Feeling helpless, Jamie tried to pass the time watching hotel movies. The minutes dragged by and she wondered if her life would ever return to normal again.

  At 8:30 p.m., David Hoffman checked the rearview mirror as he exited Route 400 and pulled onto Old Milton Parkway. He took mental note of the cars behind him, a habit he had fine-tuned in the last few weeks. After a few lights, he pulled into the right-turn lane and slowed, checking to make sure the other cars continued straight and passed him by. Remaining vigilant, Hoffman took a right onto North Point Parkway, then pulled into the first large office complex on his left. It was dark, but the parking lot was well lit and mostly deserted. He made sure that no cars followed him into the lot.

  He waited five minutes before he pulled back onto North Point, turned right, crossed Old Milton Parkway, then took an immediate right into the parking lot of the Staybridge Suites.

  After he registered, he parked behind the hotel in one of the few empty spaces and pulled out his access key for the back door. He had his Glock tucked inside a cowboy boot and a switchblade in his pocket. He walked quickly to the door, slid his key through the magnetic slot, and stepped inside.

  His attacker seemed to come out of thin air, materializing inside the stairwell. Before Hoffman could react, the man dealt a crippling blow to Hoffman’s larynx, caught him as he collapsed, and dragged him outside. Two others quickly joined the first assailant, cuffing Hoffman’s arms behind his back as he struggled to draw a breath.

  A Town Car screeched around the corner, and the back door popped open. The men threw Hoffman in the car. One of his assailants climbed into the backseat after Hoffman; the others ran to another vehicle. Hoffman, still fighting for air, feeling like his windpipe had collapsed, found himself pinned between two muscular men, one holding a gun to his head.

  He recognized the man with the gun. The low forehead, the thick neck, the sideburn scar on the right side of his face, and a cobra tattoo on his neck. It was the man who had taken the place of Johnny Chin at Silvoso’s clinic. The man Hoffman had seen in court.

  As they pulled out of the parking lot and headed back toward the interstate, the passenger in the front seat turned around. A man, about David’s age, with the rugged good looks of an Asian bad boy—stylish sideburns and short goatee, dark eyebrows, wide eyes, a demon-possessed smile.

  The hair on Hoffman’s arms stood up. He had met Huang Xu only once, at the blasting pit four years earlier, and Xu’s face had been covered by a ski mask. But Hoffman had seen the FBI photos of the man who would haunt his nightmares, his visage burned forever into Hoffman’s subconscious.

  Xu seemed amused by his captive, like a mean-spirited kid ready to pull the wings off a captive fly. “You’re good at dishing out torture, my friend. Tonight, we’ll see how you fare on the receiving end.”

  After a few minutes of silence, the burly Asian next to Hoffman spoke. “Take off your clothes.”

  But Hoffman had regained his voice. “You’re not my type,” he replied.

  “Umph!” Hoffman caught an elbow in the ribs from the man on the other side—a middle-aged balding man with a dark complexion. It doubled Hoffman over, knocking the wind out of him.

  Hoffman grunted, trying to get some air back in his lungs. He gasped for a few moments as the car turned into the vacant parking lot of a boarded-up restaurant. The driver parked next to an old Dumpster behind the building.

  “Take off your clothes,” the man with the cobra tattoo repeated.

  Without saying a word, Hoffman bent over and untied his shoes. He slipped them off, then the socks. The shirt came next. While Hoffman removed it, his backseat companions stepped out of the car. The cobra man went around to the trunk and grabbed another set of clothes—a pair of boxers, jeans, flip-flops, and a T-shirt. He threw them in the backseat.

  “Put these on,” he demanded.

  The driver had a gun leveled at Hoffman over the front seat. Hoffman stripped completely down and put on the new set of clothes. They were guarding against listening devices, he knew. They threw his old clothes in the trash bin and had him stand outside the vehicle. Huang Xu waved a metal wand, the kind they use at airports, a few inches from Hoffman’s body. It beeped just below Hoffman’s stomach. Xu muttered something and moved the wand by the same spot a second time.

  It beeped again, a nasty little noise that made Hoffman flinch. Xu’s lips curled into a malicious smile.

  He said something in Chinese that brought grins to the faces of the others. Hoffman felt like he might puke.

  “You have a thing for GPS devices,” Xu said. “This one must have been swallowed several hours ago because it appears to be lodged in the stomach or perhaps the upper intestines. But this time, Mr. Shealy, we came prepared. Knowing your penchant for such devices, we brought a police jammer in this vehicle.”

  The words were like a battering ram to the gut. Hoffman’s first level of defense was splintered like the door to a medieval castle.

  But it was the next sentence that put him in mortal terror.

  “Just to be safe, perhaps we should also perform some minor surgery.”

  When she lost the ability to trace David by the GPS device, Stacie Hoffman immediately called Isaiah Haywood. Sick with worry, she requested that Isaiah meet her at 11:00 p.m. at Centennial Olympic Park in downtown Atlanta, next to the springing-water fountains. Stacie knew she could talk Isaiah into helping, but she also threw in a twist that she had never once discussed with David.

  “Can you ask Wellington Farnsworth to meet us there too?” she asked.

  “Wellington?”

  Stacie decided to act as if Isaiah had said yes. “You’d better drive separate cars,” she said. “Things are getting a little dicey.”

  Huang Xu didn’t really expect to learn the location of the algorithm during phase one of the interrogation. More than anything else, it would be a test of Shealy’s resilience. They would gain a few valuable pieces of information, nothing more. If they actually obtained the algorithm without taking things to the next phase, that would be a bonus.

  They blindfolded Shealy and took him to the temporary Atlanta headquarters of the Manchurian Triad. After removing the blindfold, Xu demanded, in a calm and relaxed tone, that Shealy give them the Abacus Algorithm. Shealy responded with a demand of his own: “Prove to me you’ve released Jamie Brock. Then we’ll talk.”

  Xu looked around at his men as if maybe he was missing something. “Did I say anything about negotiations?” he asked.

  The men all shook their heads; they couldn’t understand it either.

  “I’ll give you one more chance, Mr. Shealy,” Xu said, stepping closer. “Where’s the algorithm?”

  Shealy spit, and Xu turned his men loose. They delivered kidney punches, a couple of blows to the face, and some body blows with enough force to crack a few of Shealy’s ribs.

  This time, when Xu addressed Shealy, his captive was curled in a fetal position on the floor.

  “Where’s the algorithm?”

  The fear and pain had turned Shealy’s eyes bloodshot, leery. The rabid eyes of a wounded animal.

  “A SunTrust Bank in downtown Atlanta,” Shealy gasped. “A safe-deposit box.”

  “I want it now. Tonight.”

  Shealy squirmed a little, gave Xu a furtive glance. “I can’t get in there tonight. I swear.”


  Xu folded his hands together as if he was actually pondering this. In fact, he had already made up his mind to implement the next phase. Like a lie detector test, it would determine whether Shealy was bluffing.

  Xu had learned that you could not generally beat the truth out of someone. The best truth serum came in that brief window of opportunity just before you subjected someone to truly unthinkable torment. Fear, not pain, was the best catalyst.

  “I have a suggestion,” Xu said. “Given that we have time, let’s eliminate that GPS device that Mr. Shealy so inconveniently swallowed. That way, we will not need to carry a communications scrambler with us everywhere we go.

  “Bring him back, gentlemen.”

  The triad members half carried, half dragged Shealy, coughing and spitting blood, into another room, where they strapped him to a padded examining table. Xu scrubbed his hands and pulled a bright fluorescent light into position, directly above Shealy.

  “Cut off his shirt,” Xu said.

  “What are you doing?” Shealy gasped. The man was finally trembling, his face contorted with fear.

  They ripped off his shirt, drawing gasps of pain from Shealy. Xu snapped on a pair of surgical gloves and picked up a scalpel. He leaned over Shealy while the man’s bare chest rose and fell rapidly, hyperventilating.

  “One last time,” Xu said. “We want that algorithm tonight. Otherwise, I will remove the stomach and a portion of the upper intestines.” He paused and watched the fear take root. “Did you know that I did some clinical work in self-hypnosis? It can be nearly as effective as anesthesia when it comes to blocking out pain. Which is a good thing, since we seem to be missing an anesthesiologist.”

  Shealy strained against the straps, his muscles flexing with fear-laced adrenaline. “I’m telling you the truth!” he cried.

  72

  Wellington parked his Volkswagen Jetta, the car that boasted the government’s highest side-impact rating, in an outdoor paved lot across the street from Atlanta’s Olympic Park. It occurred to Wellington that he had no business being in downtown Atlanta at this time of night, much less involved in a clandestine meeting with somebody the mob was after.

  Under his breath, he said a prayer for protection.

  As he crossed the street, he noticed two African American men about a block away, loitering on the sidewalk in the direction he needed to go. He glanced at them and noticed, to his great consternation, that they were staring at him. Wellington focused on the ground as he walked, then snuck another darting glance at the men.

  They were still staring.

  Wellington picked up the pace a little, nothing noticeable he hoped, and rehearsed in his mind what he would do once they assaulted him. They could have his wallet and his watch. If they wanted, he would offer to accompany them to an ATM and take out the maximum amount of cash the machine would allow. He would not offer resistance. He had read somewhere that the odds of violence were substantially reduced by a compliant victim.

  Surprisingly he passed by the men without incident, and his heartbeat returned to some semblance of normal. A few blocks later, he entered the park and felt a little safer. There were a few skateboarders and teenage hoodlums, but Wellington hoped the wide-open layout of the park, along with the soft overhead lights, would discourage random acts of violence. There was probably a study about the calming effects of such lighting, but he couldn’t remember if he had read it or not.

  Wellington found a park bench near the springing-water fountains—streams of water that shot up in arcs from spots in the sidewalk, creating endless hours of wet fun for kids during the day. Wellington, who had arrived ten minutes early, began studying the order of the streams to see if he could detect a pattern.

  “Are you Wellington Farnsworth?” a lady asked from behind the bench.

  Wellington jumped to his feet and waited for his heart to fall back out of his throat. “Yes, ma’am,” he said weakly.

  “I’m Stacie Hoffman,” she said, extending a hand. “Thanks for coming.”

  She was prettier than Wellington had imagined, though she tried to hide behind the unkempt auburn hair, a University of Georgia ball cap, and thick black glasses. She seemed frazzled and more than a little scared. Or maybe that was just him projecting. He shook hands, took a quick look around, and asked if she wanted to join him on the bench.

  A few minutes later, Isaiah joined them. “Nice hat,” he said. “Go Dawgs.”

  “Lost and found,” Stacie replied. She suggested they take a walk while she explained her plan. “For some reason, I feel safer if we keep moving.”

  Wellington felt safer just having Isaiah with them. It wasn’t only that the man was an athlete. Isaiah was street smart and confident. Relaxed. It allowed Wellington to hold his own head a little higher—I’m with him, so I must be okay.

  But his new sense of security soon dissipated in the face of Stacie’s tale. In fact, fear returned in double portion, causing Wellington’s stomach to clench and flop and otherwise warn him that he had no business here. The triad had apparently captured David Hoffman, Stacie said. She couldn’t reach him on his cell phone. To make matters worse, a GPS device that David had ingested as an extra layer of security was no longer registering.

  They walked a few steps in silence while Wellington considered the implications of a sophisticated and vicious enemy like the Manchurian Triad. Even if Wellington could help rescue David, would the triad members ever rest until they had their revenge? Why is this my fight? Wellington kept wondering.

  After a pause, Stacie began laying out the plan that she and David had devised for a moment such as this. Unfortunately for Wellington, Stacie needed an accomplice or two. She didn’t know where else to turn, she said. She was sorry that she had to ask them to get involved, but what choice did she have?

  “Why not go to the feds?” Wellington suggested. Isaiah shot him a disapproving look, the same one he had used when Wellington ruined the boycott in crim pro class. But it would take more than a look to change Wellington’s mind. “It’s their job to handle stuff like this. They actually know what they’re doing.”

  “What they’re doing,” Stacie began, the desperation evident in her tone, “is exploiting David and me, using us as bait. Who do you think helped the mob find us in the first place, Wellington?”

  Wellington chose not to answer, conceding the point.

  “And why would they do something like that—jeopardizing the life of a protected witness? Because this algorithm is so stinkin’ important that the government will do anything and use anyone to get their hands on it.”

  “And if they get it,” Isaiah added, “you might as well forget about the right to privacy. That will be just one more casualty in the government’s self-justifying fight to keep us safe.”

  Wellington could tell that his defense of the government would fall on deaf ears with this crowd, so he bit his tongue. Soon, Stacie and Isaiah had worked out the details of a plan, including a role for Wellington, who would ride shotgun in Isaiah’s car.

  “I don’t know,” Wellington protested.

  “About what?” a frustrated Isaiah said.

  “About this whole plan.”

  If it had been a fair debate, Wellington might have won. But Isaiah made no pretenses of being fair. This was his turf, his time of night, and the third vote was cast by a fellow government-conspiracy theorist. Within ten minutes, Wellington had quit trying to convince Isaiah and started resorting to the phrase “Well, I’ve already told you what I think.”

  “I know what you think,” Stacie finally said, exasperated. “But are you in or not?” She softened her tone, and Wellington’s heart went out to her. “It’s okay if you’re not, Wellington. I really don’t have any right to ask you to get involved. I just need to know.”

  For some reason, in that moment of weakness, Wellington’s lips uttered words that his brain had not yet approved. “I guess I’m in,” he said.

  By now, they had wandered to the other side
of the park. They used the time walking back to fine-tune the plan while Wellington fretted about what he had gotten himself into.

  They stopped next to the same bench where they had first gathered.

  “By tomorrow, it should all be over,” Isaiah said.

  The thought of the intervening twenty-four hours made Wellington’s chest tighten. It was like he had gone to the movies, bought his popcorn, and then been swept onto the screen for an action movie . . . rated R for violence and gore. But in this real-life version, the bullets would kill and the good guys had no guarantees.

  He looked from Isaiah to Stacie and then back again. “Do you mind if I lead us in a quick prayer?” he asked.

  Isaiah shrugged, but Stacie appeared shocked.

  “You don’t have to join me,” Wellington said quickly.

  “No . . . no,” Stacie said, recovering nicely. “I’d like to, Wellington. I think it’s a great idea.”

  Huang Xu held the scalpel suspended over Hoffman’s stomach for a moment, then touched the skin below Hoffman’s navel. Hoffman sucked in his stomach and closed his eyes, every muscle taut with apprehension, his cracked ribs burning with pain.

  “I think I believe you,” Huang Xu said. He laid the scalpel down, and Hoffman relaxed a bit, his chest still rising and falling with short, rapid breaths. As Xu peeled off the gloves, Hoffman opened his eyes.

  “We have a jamming device the size of a quarter,” Xu explained. “We will implant it in your neck. You may experience a little pain, but after what you were prepared to handle, it will seem like a pinprick.”

  He leaned over a little, closer to Hoffman’s face. “You will have one chance to deliver the algorithm, Mr. Shealy. Just one.”