The yellow spiritual sheen streaming from Scarface Wei’s chest cast a trembling, sickly glow over the limestone gallery.
In that jaundiced light, Wei saw what the darkness had hidden.
Ten paces to the right, Thin Ghost Cao lay face-down along the wooden tramway rail, his limbs limp, his head twisted at an unnatural angle, his brass repeating crossbow lying undisturbed beside his hip.
Three paces to the left, Hook-Hand Liu lay slumped against the porous limestone wall, his cut wooden prosthetic rolling in the clay, his neck spine out-of-joint, his jaw slack in death.
Both of his men. Two Qi Gathering Layer Two guards who had dominated the southern alleys for years.
Dead in under seven seconds.
And stepping into the circle of yellow light, barefoot, calm, and holding a dark butcher’s cleaver, was the newcomer who had supposedly been trembling on the stairs of Gallery Seven three days ago.
Wei’s blood went freezing cold.
