34
Kowloon, Hong Kong
Lim took cover as the triads on the top floor tore the nearby wall to shreds. Mo stayed low in a ball, his hands over his ears, not used to the sound of an automatic.
Lim found a single bullet left in the chamber of the weapon, its barrel smoking and magazine dry. She tapped Mo on the shoulder. ‘The bag - there should be a knife.’
Mo’s hand shook as he opened the zip on the front pocket. As he handed her a six-inch blade, she heard the triads shouting among each other.
They were out of bullets too, the hotel walls like a colander and gun-smoke tempering the air.
Lim had counted a gang of four massing in front of the door to the penthouse floor. In the back-and-forth of the gun battle, she’d only taken down one. A teenager who’d fired in a panic, wasting his roun
