Contact at King's Weigh House Chapel

A tall figure walked down the coble stone sidewalk of Gilbert Street, his jacket pulled tight against his frame with his head bowed against the misty rain. The sound of an approaching moped bike echoed between the red brick building walls. The figure continued at his current speed but turned his head to watch the small bike splash pass him on the street.

“What idiot rides a bike in this weather?” he mumbled to himself. He was sure this was the second time he had seen that exact bike which meant he was being followed.

The bike continued straight down the narrow street. The tall man turned sharply at the corner onto Weighthouse Street but his gaze was continually towards the bike making so that he wasn’t paying attention to the road ahead of him. Just as the bike moved out of sight, he walked headlong into a set of plastic orange construction walls that where placed inconveniently in the middle of the walk. With a crash, the orange walls gave way and fell with the man. Quickly jumping up from his blunder, the man breathed out a low curse of his own stupidity. There was nothing graceful he could do to recover nevertheless he tried to find his composure as he attempted to dust himself off from the gravel and water. He replaced the knocked over wall and began walking on, acting as if nothing had happened.

“Pissing, banana eating-surrender monkeys”, he said as he looked behind him again. He was referring to Britain’s SIS. He was sure that was who was following him. He walked another block and then stopped, leaned up against the red brick wall building and waited.

His name was Rick, Rick Coontail and he was a west-coast, American old-Yank product, walking the wet streets on London on a Sunday morning. His longish blond hair was ruffled up but it still had a quality of style that only good looking people seem to naturally exude. He was wearing a dark gray tweed jacket, brown collar shirt with a mustard orange necktie. And jeans.

A few people passed him, most minding their own business. One older looking gentleman in a bowler hat and a blue neck-tie looked up at him as he passed by. But Rick merely ignored him and continued wait as he looked up and down the street. He was sure his lead was solid but he was taking a terrible risk coming here.

Another ten minutes passed until the Rick moved again. He looked one more time up the street, then set of to his right at a fast pace. Just ahead of him threw the rainy mist loomed the church of King’s Weigh House Chapel with its dark red brick and terracotta dressed tower.

Two individuals were approaching on the side of the church. The first was a sensible woman holding a weather-grayed umbrella. The second was a man walking double time holding a magazine over his balding head. Rick studied them as they passed him but neither lifted their eyes to meet.

Reaching the intersection of Duke St and Weighthouse, Rick stopped again and looked behind him. It looked clear. He reasoned momentarily with himself, knowing that he had doubled back a number of times and zigged zagged his way through the underground tunnels. If someone had been good enough to tail him, maybe they deserved finding him.

He looked at his watch to note the time. It was now or never. He made his choice and walked up the steps and through the front doors of the church.

Inside was bright compared to the overcast morning outside. It was a pity the church was so well-lit. A gloomy Gothic twilight cathedral meeting would have been preferable but Rick had no control over where and when. He just needed to make the contact and get the information.

Rick walked forward to the font with holy water at the entrance. He reached down and dipped his fingers into the water and the made the sign of the cross. The mass was about to start. He scanned the congregation, trying to identify his man among the backs of heads. He spotted his target at the end of a row near the back sitting next to a family with three little girls. There was a massive wooden pillar behind the man that nearly hid him from the entrance.

“At least he had picked a decent place to sit.” Rick thought as the congregation was just starting to sing a hymn. Rick quietly moved forward and slid into an open seat next to his contact.

“Good place.” He whispered with a sarcastic undertone.

The man he sat down next to turned and looked up. He was middle-aged, looked ironically to be a mole and had the air about him that bespoke years of being a bachelor. A small man, neat in dress to the point of fussiness, the neck-tie knotted tightly, and every button done up on his blue jacket suit that shinned from years of cleaning and brushing.

“You’re Monique’s friend?” he asked in a heavy accent.

“Yes,” Rick looked around the church and noted the balcony. “We can still be observed from the galley.”

“I don’t think so; everyone will be looking toward the front.” The man said as he turned his attention forward.

“Hope your right. I appreciate you meeting with me.”

“Just get on with it.” The mole said, “I could get into a boat load of trouble if my boss at the embassy finds out I talked to you.”

“You need something from us?”

The little man turned to say something but he stopped as the hymn, “Rock of Ages” by the sound of it, came to an end and a hush fell upon the congregation. A priest in heavily embroidered robes got up and began the service. There was no mistaking that this was a service for Slovaks as everything was being said in Russian. Rick didn’t understand a word of it. The two sat in silence listening to the priest while the child sitting next to them fidgeted with her mother.

As soon as another hymn began, Rick whispered surreptitiously to the mole: “What’s the mood in St. Petersburg?”

“They favor the EOH,” said the man.

“So what is up with all the pirate and slave trading activity?”

“They don’t consider it piracy. It is just a matter of business to them. Hybrids aren’t always considered people to them. You have to remember that. The men are privateers; they all have letters of marque from the tsar.”

“I am looking for a missing agent. Pretty Devon silver-fox girl: Name is Huntington, Reagan Huntington.” Rick said as he slipped a photo to the man.

The man looked at the image for a brief second and then stuffed it under his leg as the hymn ended. He said no more as the service continued. Rick had to wait for another twenty minutes. After the congregational donation was finished and Rick had dropped in a £5 pound note, another hymn began.

"The man you are looking for is Roman Nikonov . . . Nasty man . . . Big Russian bear.” The mole said as he handed the photo back from under his leg. “I wouldn’t count my chickens on finding Ms. Huntington.”

“You have a place?” Rick asked as he pocketed the photo in his jacket.

“Croatian coast, maybe Split or Dubrovnik.”

“Thank you my friend.”

“I ain’t your friend.” He said. “But you helped out Monique and she is why I am doing this.” He said with finality. He got up and moved to the front of the church to partake of the holy sacrament with the rest of the congregation. When he returned to his seat, Rick was gone.

Rick's Car

While Rick is not looking for a racing super car, he is interested in getting something very fast with curves that would make anyone's sense of adventure melt at the sight of the car.

So he is looking at the Maserati Gran Turismo S. It is a great car, maybe a little under powered, but that is something he can fix.









One might say that the Coontail brothers were good mechanics. Well, one would be dead wrong. It would be like saying Versailles was a quaint valley cottage. The brothers were more than mechanics; they were nothing less than spot-on fantastic wrench-wielding-ninjas when it came to mucking around with a petrol eating beast of metal. Watching them work on a car wasn’t like watching a lion-tamer work with some gentle overgrown African cat, but that of a knight is silver bright armor taking out a dragons.

So good with a wrench? Yes. Impervious to mechanical troubles? Not so much so.

Rick was building a dream car but he was already into the project three times longer than his original estimate and more money than he cared to think about.

A few months ago, he had come across the antique rusting remains of an old world Maserati GranTurismo S. The car was astonishingly practical for a something that looked like pure porn. It was like discovering a nymphomaniac Page 3 girl that cooked, sewed her own fashion line of clothing, and enjoyed doing freelance accounts. The car had room for four men and a boot large enough for luggage, which was unheard of as all supercars were notorious for having stone hard seats with a ride that pulverize your spine into pudding and a boot smaller than a preschooler’s lunch boxes.

Rick saw potential in this car. He wanted to remake it into something that when other guy saw it, they would think of abandon wife and kids so they could get one. Well maybe not abandoning so much as selling wife and kids for it.

He wanted to put in a new 6.2-liter V8 monster engine to power the car but it wouldn’t fit and he came to his senses and settled for the smaller 4.6-liter V8. However, Rick ever the showman, beef it up with a dual system of screw supercharger/turbo charger combination package. The belt-driven supercharger compressor provided a mammoth kick of torque for the low rpms while the turbocharger jumped into the game to provide added performance at higher rpms. He accomplished this by setting the supercharger to declutch when it reach ideal speeds for the turbocharger which triggered an electronically controlled bypass valve to direct air to the turbocharger, delivering the high-end power without the generally associated "turbo-lag". It was so sexy it would make any self-respecting car enthusiast’s manly parts simply melt with awe.

The original chassis was a problem. It had rusted beyond repair. So Rick remade the whole thing out of aluminum, hoping to reduce the weight. He also spent a fortune getting the body fabricated out of carbon fiber. He overhauled the suspension, decided it wasn’t good enough, threw more money into the car and added a German made high-end electronic suspension system. He also thought it would be best to update the braking power of the now fire breathing monster. He equipped it with racecar quality carbon ceramic brakes to stop his now slightly less heavy, but still knee-weakening-sexy, big fat Italian opera star on 21 inch premium, ultra-performance SP Sport Maxx GT tires.

The results were not unlike any unruly child with a mind of its own. The car was the sexiest, most fabulous, most desirable car Rick had ever made and it was almost drivable; that is if you didn’t mind the psychotic handling and never applied pressure to the gas pedal.

Frustrated, Rick got together with some blokes with lots of pens in their top pockets to fiddle with the car. And the weeks of tweaking commenced.

In the end they modified vehicle's ESP system, transmission behavior, throttle response, and totally change out the differential to put in Ferrari’s most sophisticated differential controls, the E-Diff. Then they added a Manettino (Italian for little lever) control system that tied all the electronic components of the car and allowed for the quick and adjustments of the suspension settings, traction control, differential, and change speed of electronic gearbox. More tweaking happened and then they cracked it!

The Maserati GranTurismo S was pure art. Rick had it custom painted a pearl white. Black leather interior finished it off. It wasn’t dripping of wealthy vulgar like Dave’s Bugatti Veyron, nor was it as fast. But is exuded all the sexy thrill a supercar should.

The Hidden Kingdom - IV

She knew he was standing there behind the door and she knew he was looking at her. Many men had. Most were nothing more that lusty stares from little men. They weren’t worth the air they were breathing. At first she was annoyed with him. But that was only for an instant. She found she was pleased that he had stopped and was stealing a peek.

Her thoughts were running at a hundred miles per second. It was a river of words, emotions, and a bit of sorrow. What was she doing with a “Gwia luo”? All women ever want was to feel a sense of belonging and security. Barett was a lot like her. Yet he was so different at the same time. She was so strong in her ability that many thought she had reached a secure and safe place. But she wasn’t inside. No one saw this. She wouldn’t let them. But could she let the foreigner inside? He was so much like her; strong, independent, driven. What would happen if they became lovers? Would she satisfy him? Would he satisfy her? Was that all he was after, sex? If they joined would he be her man or would he turn and run after he got his fill of rutting?

Tsai Lee realized her hair was a total mess and she wished she could have fixed it. But her cargo pants, tennis shoes and simple black shirt were an outfit that was different to flirt with. She wondered what he had picked up for her to dress in. How were his tastes in fashion?

All of these thoughts passed through her mind in an instant. It was a complex look at her inner being. Tsai Lee, like all women, passes through different moods and phases each day. At times she was in love, and then she was in pain. Confusion and feeling of powerless would haunt her mind only to be replaced by strength and control. Hormones played a frustrating role in her that she was constantly trying to master. It would be easy to be a man. Just like Barett, standing there at the door, simple and direct and knowing exactly what he wanted. He wanted her, she was sure of it.

Did she want him? As times she could scream yes! Other times no. She wanted to tease him, to play with him and with his mind. She was doing that now. A smile ticked her thoughts as she thought of the surprise she had for him.

Barett opened the door and slid onto the deck like the trained hunter he was. It was humorous to watch him. The danger of the wolves was gone but she wasn’t going to tell him just yet. She knew what room they were staying in.

Tsai Lee bounced her head playfully in his direction and gave him a smile. Damn, he must think I’m a stupid flirtatious little girl, she thought but then remembered her messy hair and her smile melted away.

“Wong bat dan.”

Barett knew she was swearing at him but he didn’t know what it meant; something about being a king of eggs. “I got the stuff. You have any problems getting a room?”

Barett was trying to force his eyes to stay on her face. It wasn't his fault that she had such alluring features. The problem with getting just a mental arousal was your brain switched into overdrive and everything it did was to get more.

“No,” Tsai Lee looked at the bags he had bought. They were cheap.

As she looked Barett let his eager eyes run down to her feet, then up her legs to her chest and then over to her face again.

“Stop it! Focus man. You have a job to do.” He chanted over and over to convince his mind to let go of her figure.

She smiled again. “Let’s go.”

“What about the wolves?” Barett whispered back.

“Don’t worry,” she said as she began walking to the elevator. “I have someone watching them.”

This floored him. All thoughts of her beauty evaporated. How did she have someone already on them? He followed her into the elevator and the door shut.

Tsai Lee pushed the second to the top button, number 40. Barett wasn’t paying attention. The man was frustratingly single minded!

“What do you mean you have someone watching them? How did you do that?” His eyes were alive with focus.

The elevator began to move.

“I have people who work here.”

“What? Don’t you know these guys are professionals? And they’re jumpy! They could just as easily rip your lacey’s head off as well as they could piss on a wall.”

Tsai Lee glared at him. “You don’t think my people can handle this?” She asked in a tone that was clear she was wondering if he were judging her.

“No, I mean yes. But I have a plan and it won’t work if my timing is off.” His said too loudly.

“And it won’t work unless you are doing the spying?” Right!” She asked accusatorially and turned her back on him.

The fire in the eyes of the phoenix tattoo stared angrily back at him from under her black tank-top. Her head was bowed slightly. Barett looked up from the angry ink image and saw the side of her face. Her eyes were closed and her cheek was smooth. He had expected anger but for the first time he had ever looked at her, he saw sorrow and vulnerability; almost like a little girl.

The elevator came to a stop.

The door opened as Barett turned and his jaw hit the floor. He realized what a jerk he had just been. The door opened into an opulent room that just went on and on into other rooms that must have covered the entire floor. Windows circled the rooms and gave a magnificently overview of the harbor. She had gotten the Presidential Suite! How had she done that? It must have cost a small fortune. Hell, for all he knew, she owned the place! And he may have just blown his chances to have a romantic day she was planning for him.

Tsai Lee turned and walked into the room, leaving Barett to stand in wonder.

The Story Continues

Quick Review –




Hong Kong city-state is thickly crowded with inhabitants. The city is old and dilapidated, a city that looks to be weighed down heavy from centuries of over population. The skyline is still jam-packed with giant buildings but most of these are aged rusting steel and dull-glassed skyscrapers; old but still teaming with life, like a cockroach heaven. Life is eeking out of every nook and cranny and leaving the city in an eternal balancing act between holding its inhabitants in check to busting its seams to collapse utterly into the gray harbor seas.
It is an ancient city; ancient in customs; ancient in smell; ancient in people.
Ironically Hong Kong has never been truly independent. The island state is again under the colonial rule of the Europeans, in particular the British Island, book-ending the place to when it was in an incubated state raising for the first time under the old British Empire from a forgotten time. Hong Kong’s northern border of old China resembles nothing of the kingdom that once was. The southern part of the Chinese continent is torn and crumbling under civil turbulence and war. The main land is a very dangerous place to venture where only the strongest or foolhardy dare to tread.

In Hong Kong, the Triads are in the middle of a turf war for dominance with the passing of the late king-pin who had them all under his control. Our story started out with Tsai Lee and Barett Coontail taking out a rival Triad boss and coming into possession of a mysterious computer disk of an unknown source. The two were tracked and almost apprehended until the two rained down an extra measure of violent chaos upon the authorities.

That was three days ago.

Barett and Tsai Lee slipped cleanly out of the net cast to catch them and found a hideout in a secure apartment room on the second floor of a two story very red, traditional Chinese medicine establishment. The computer disk is a mystery to them other than the clue that it was housed in a box that held the symbol of the Albino, a powerful leader from the mainland by the name of Dong-Mei. They have contacted someone Tsai Lee thinks may be able to read the disk. The man is a nearly blind mole-rat that said he needed to get some equipment to be able to read the disk. He called in a friend to see if he could barrow a certain computer component. That is where things have stalled. Come to find out the needed equipment is hard to get. The mole-rat promised news if he can do it or not in two days.

Meanwhile the Barett and Tsai Lee had sent a cryptic message to the Albino of what they have come in possession of.

The Chinese medicine store is a front for the Black Dragon Triad, a group that Tsai Lee is close to being the leader of. The old man that runs the store is, according to Tsai Lee, a partial-looks orangutan. Truth of the matter though he just looks like an original orangutan wearing a straw hat who grunts and “ohs” a lot. Barett likes the old fellow well enough but hasn’t understood a single word that has escaped the monkey’s lips. He just calls him “gramps” and wonders if there is really some logic to the mad method of his mixing unidentifiable objects into powders.

A message has returned from a runner from the Albino informing them that she is willing to meet with them.

What would they like to do?

Trap, Counter-trap....Barett's strategy tested.

Barett worked his way slowly to a spot that looked down the upper trail, a fallen log giving him some cover to break up his profile. The sky was a flat gray, the kind that scrubbed the life from the desert landscape and stripped the joy from the vastness of the desert. But for Him, this was the best light to shoot in, no glare, no sun spots, a perfectly dull background. He checked his escape route, to the left and up wound a light game trail, to the right and down a thicket of brush and aspens. Behind him the trail made its way up to the crest of the ridge, then opened up to low sage brush and rocks and then crested down again beyond his view. Somewhere along that trail Hoss was making his way, at least that is what Barett was hoping for.

The forest breathed in slow and exhaled, breathed in slow and exhaled again, the rhythm of the leaves and the sway of the trees made him feel like he was laying on the chest of a sleeping giant. Struggling to stay sharp and awake, he moved his eyes from side to side and up and down, trying not to make noise, but use every trick he knew to keep his senses sharp. Barett sat on the cool earth, waiting and hoping, hoping that he choose the right spot, waiting until one way or another the conflict was brought to a head.

Through the motion of the trees and rustle of the leaves his sensitive hearing picked up on the steady pattern of footsteps moving stealthily down the trail. Placing the handgun on the edge of the log to steady the scope Barett waited for his kill shot. Hoping to end this quickly, and gain control of the situation, instead of just responding to it.

Dave Goes to Europe Chapter 5: A Watched Plot Never Foils

Belgium may not have been the best idea. As Dave pulled into the customs office, it was clear Belgium was a far cry from neighboring France. A brown duck in a guard's uniform waved them aside, a Walther submachine-gun slung over the duck's shoulder. Dave pulled over. Dr. Weisehund stirred and awoke as Dave lowered the driver side window.

The duck spoke French. This was not the elegant, romantic French of Paris or Calais, but a more reserved and officious French. Ah, to be caught between France and Germany. Dave had an ear for language, but French eluded him. Luckily, Weisehund was fluent.

"He wants to see your papieren. Your passport."

Dave fished out the required documents, careful as to not make any untoward motions that would prompt the Belgian duck to action. The duck looked over the passport, looked closely at Dave, then the passport again. He spoke more French.

"He wants to know why you are coming to Belgium," interpreted the doc.

Heightened security made sense. In hindsight, Dave should have known all along to avoid this border. France was for tourists. Belgium was industrial. The ports of Brussels and Antwerp shipped German and Belgian tech to the British isles. Shipments of that nature could very well lure a certain kind of criminal. Dave was not exactly subtle in his Bugatti. "Inform him as best you can," said Dave.

Weisehund shot him a questioning glare.

"Tell him whatever. He'll likely search the car. Might as well tell him who you are. You have ID, right?" asked Dave.

The light of recognition flashed in her eyes. She nodded curtly, then spoke with the duck. Dave assisted in handing over her documentation. Suddenly the duck's attitude grew more polite. He waved them in with a fond farewell.

"The Institute has several offices in Belgium. They hire a good deal of personal security as you have seen."

"Best not bite the hand that may sometime in the future feed, eh?" said Dave with a wink.

"You observed my tone. I made no suggestions that we were looking to hire."

Dave nodded. "Nor did I suggest you did. He must really hate his job if he is looking at every suit as a potential employer."

With that, Dave took back to the road. There was some drive ahead of them yet. Weisehund admired the Belgian countryside, mostly farms this far inland. Eventually the lull of the engine put her under a spell. She drifted off into slumber. Dave pressed on, his injured ankle throbbed. His ribs hurt. The pain just reminded him he was alive, so very alive. Dave switched his CAF player to New Wave. Duran Duran's "Chaffeur" came on as if some omen. If only a different woman had claimed the passenger seat. Dave pressed on the gas and shifted to a higher gear.

( Part 2 ) Baretts first Kill: The Hunt

Barett hunkered down in the dirt, this new event changed everything, at the same time it changed nothing. His father had often said about combat, "There is no predictability when it comes to men with guns that want to kill you, that is the only predictability." He was often taught by his father that your ability to change what you were going to do, and how you did it was the sign of a good leader. It was taught to him and his Brothers that to be rigid in your plan could lead to failure or death, you had to be flexible and remember what your real objectives are, the first being not to get yourself or your men killed, Barett was trying to remember that, even though his emotions were trying to convince him to do other more rash things.
The warmth of the afternoon sun was begining to burn off the morning mist, and make his extra layers of clothes uncomfortable. Sweating was bad, sweating made your scent stronger, and if it got your cloths wet enough, you lost heat and wasted energy. A plan began to form in his mind, not the most original thought he'd ever had, but againest these common thugs it might just work. Easing himself back into the forest cover, the warm blanket of green and brown, pressing his body againest the moist dirt as he moved ever so slowly around the barn and towards the upper trail he had spotted earlier, he started to work out the details in his mind. It always amazed him how dense the dessert forests were, even though they only held small plots of land in the vastness of the rolling hills, they gripped savagely to their barren holds, hosting a wide variety of life. Moving ever so slowly and opening your senses to the surrounding view it was amazing how many things were in motion, how much of nature was in constant change, and much less static than it appeared from a distant car or motorcycle.