Chapter 1: Jao Ming
The scent of garlic and basil clung to the warm air in the back room of Rochelle’s, a thick, comforting blanket over everything. Sunlight streamed through the high window, catching the dust motes dancing above a simmering pot of marinara. Joseph leaned against a prep table, his large frame looking oddly at home among the copper pans and strings of dried chili peppers.
Mark wiped his hands on a flour-dusted apron, his brown eyes serious. He slid a manila folder across the worn wood. No words were needed, but he said them anyway. “London.”
Joseph flipped the folder open. A photograph stared back at him: a man in his late fifties with a carefully neutral expression, exiting a black town car. Jao Ming. The dossier beneath was succinct—addresses, routines, vulnerabilities. A Chinese mob boss with expansionist ambitions, stepping on the wrong toes. Joseph’s eyes scanned the details, absorbing routes, security details, dietary habits. He pulled out his phone, his movements efficient, fluid.
“Time,” Joseph said, his voice a low rumble.
“Tomorrow. Five-thirty at The Mandarin. Private dining room, east wall. He’s celebrating his wife’s fortieth.” Mark uncorked a bottle of Chianti, pouring two glasses. “Family will be present. It makes him feel safe. Invincible.”
Joseph didn’t react to that. He knew what it implied. He set an alarm on his phone for 4:00. He closed the folder, the sound a soft snap in the quiet room. He took the offered glass, nodded once. The red wine was rich and slightly tart.
“The client is nervous. Wants it clean,” Mark said, sipping his wine. “No mess. A statement, but a quiet one.”
“It’s always a statement.” Joseph placed his empty glass on the table.
“You’re the best, Joe. You know that.”
Joseph’s piercing blue eyes met his friend’s. There was no pride in them, just a flat acknowledgement of a fact. “I’ll need the usual package at the flat.”
“Already done.” Mark smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You make this look easy.”
It wasn’t easy. It was a function. A series of steps to complete a task. Joseph separated it, compartmentalized it, locked it away in a part of himself his daughter never saw. He straightened up. “I should go.”
He hugged Mark, a quick, brief one. Tucked the folder into his jacket and walked outside, getting into his black Bentley. The engine purred to life, a low sound that felt more familiar than his own heartbeat. He drove across town to a nondescript apartment block, the one he kept his work at.
The elevator smelled of lemon cleaner and stale air. He headed up, the gentle hum the only sound. He opened his door, the alarm beeping its insistent, rhythmic warning. He pushed in the code. BEEP. It was wrong.
Joseph stared at it.
“Mr. Winchester, forget the code?” The guy across the hall, a middle-aged man with a terrier on a leash, called out from his open doorway.
Joseph stared at the keypad for a moment, the numbers. His fingers hovered. Multiple numbers flashed in his mind—birthdays, anniversaries, death dates. He entered 698406. The beeping stopped. The little light glowed a solid, silent green.
“Are you okay, Mr. Winchester?” the neighbor asked, his tone shifting from casual to concerned.
“Fine. Thank you,” Joseph said, his voice even. He went inside, closing and locking the door behind him. He leaned against it for a single second, closing his eyes.
The apartment was cold, clean, and impersonal. A showroom for a ghost. He pulled the folder from his coat, setting it on the glass coffee table. He put his coat on the rack by the door and walked to a framed black-and-white photograph of the Brooklyn Bridge. He lifted it from the wall, entered a different code on the keypad revealed behind it, and heard the soft hydraulic hiss as a small section of the wall swung inward.
The safe was lined with foam, cradling tools of his trade. He bypassed the handguns, the knives, the garrottes. He grabbed a small, disassembled rifle, its components sleek and matte black. He closed the safe, and the photograph clicked back into place, seamless.
Back at the coffee table, his hands moved with unconscious precision. The components fitted together with satisfying, muted clicks. The barrel, the stock, the custom scope. In less than a minute, it was no longer a collection of parts but a singular, purposeful instrument. He placed it into a grey duffel bag, along with the folder. He zipped the bag closed.
The silence of the apartment was absolute. It was the silence of a vacuum, of a space where no life was meant to be lived. It pressed in on him, sharpening the memory of Mark’s warm kitchen, the smell of tomatoes and herbs.
He picked up his phone and went to his room, dialing Leah. The wallpaper on his screen was a picture of her, sixteen and grinning with ice cream on her nose. It rang twice.
“Hey sweetheart.” He said.
“Hey Dad. You’re still coming to dinner tomorrow? Seven-thirty?” she asked. Her voice was light, easy. The sound of a normal life.
“Yes. Of course,” he said, breathing out. The tightness in his shoulders loosened a fraction.
“Good. Adam and I have news.” She sounded like she was smiling.
“I’m looking forward to hearing it.” He could feel the ghost of a smile on his own lips.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night. Love you.”
“Goodnight, Leah. I love you.” He said, hanging up. The silence that followed was different now. It had texture. It had her voice in it.
He sat back against the headboard, putting his phone on charge. The room was sparse—a bed, a lamp, a closet full of anonymous clothes. He opened the folder again, studying Jao Ming. The man’s face was a map of calculated power. Joseph traced the lines of his jaw, the set of his eyes, memorizing the topography of a life he was about to erase. He thought about the wife. The fortieth birthday. He didn’t let the thought settle; he acknowledged it and let it pass, a leaf on a fast-moving stream.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He picked it up.
“Hey Joe. The building across the street from The Mandarin. Fifth floor, sixth room down on the south corridor. Go to the window, you’ll have a clear view of where Ming will be sitting. He’ll be at the window,” Mark said, no greeting.
“Okay. Send the address,” Joseph said, hanging up.
A moment later, his phone chimed with the details. He didn’t look at it immediately. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the pillow.
The image surfaced, unbidden and sharp: Leah at age seven, her small hand in his, pointing at a butterfly in the park the weekend after her mother died. She hadn’t spoken for days. Then, seeing the butterfly, she had whispered, “It’s pretty.” He had squeezed her hand, his throat too tight for words, and made a promise to himself in that moment, a violent and absolute promise to build a world where she could see pretty things and feel safe.