Forty-NineWithin seconds of John rapping on the front door of Zeng’s house on upper Commercial Street it flung open, held by the silent powerhouse of the bodyguard he’d seen at the Sing Song club an hour ago.
Without comment or greeting, the muscleman led him through a narrow hall to the back of the house which was configured in a very similar floor plan to Jong Ping’s family home up the valley: a narrow hall, lined with closed doors, leading to a back parlor. John assumed that this house too would have a quick exit into underground tunnels, and fleetingly wondered if any of the people he cared about — Ollie, Lily or Pania — were at that very moment held captive in the darkness beneath.
The thought had barely registered when Zeng slipped into the room, dismissed the Mongolian, and looked
