Lumpini Park

The heat index that day was ninety-four degrees Fahrenheit. A fluke? Hardly. Every now and then, San Francisco becomes a hot, sticky mess—something Special Agent Scott Reilly would discover in less than forty minutes.

The assault team consisted of twelve men from the FBI Special Weapons and Tactical Team packed into two modified civilian vans. Reilly and four other agents followed in a black SUV. 

Waverly Place was their destination, a small, alley-like street about fifty yards long, lined mostly with temples and a few shops. Mixed amongst the buildings were a couple of Chinese Benevolent Organizations, or tongs. The Hop Sing Tong was the target. 

The street was bookended by the vans, and two tactical teams approached the building on foot. The area was unusually quiet for that time of day. A blessing? More like a sign. A hushed murmur of Chinese was the only sound heard as the two teams approached the small crowd of residents that had gathered outside the tong.

Team One was ordered to clear the crowd of looky-loos while Team Two, Reilly’s team, moved into position to breach the front door, only the lead man reported that it had already been forcibly opened.

By the time Reilly and his men entered the tong, sweat had bubbled on his forehead, and salty streams seeped into the collar of his shirt. The Kevlar vest he had on didn’t help matters, but what really hit him hard, enough to stop him in his tracks, was the thick, metallic scent in the air.

Reilly had found the red sticky to go with the red hot. 

Two feet into the tong lay a headless man. Reilly sidestepped the crimson pool that had poured from the severed neck. The edges had already coagulated into a gel dam, preventing further spreading. He thought of searching the man for identification but changed his mind. He’d have to step into the sticky to get close enough. He stood and shook his head at the splatter that had sprayed the whitewashed walls. What the hell happened here?

The tactical team on the upper floors shouted Clear! faster than expected. That told him one thing—no resistance. More bodies, I imagine.

He was right.

What he had originally thought was the buzzing of an electrical current turned out to be an assault by another group of misfits associated with death: flies. Reilly let out a breath and turned to the bottom of the bloodstained stairs. Lead the way, my buzzing friends.

After passing the second decapitated man, he gave up trying to avoid the blood. It’s like walking in mud; eventually, you say, “Screw it,” and give in, because what’s the point? The entire shoe would need cleaning. 

Reilly had seen a lot during his twenty years with the Bureau. Death didn’t bother him, but headless humans did. He had counted nine so far—more than enough to make him shiver under his weighted vest. 

He never understood the thought process behind choosing decapitation over the simplicity of a gun. A firearm provided distance. Decapitation was close and personal. All he could conclude was that a person who reveled in this manner of dispatching people put absolutely no value on life. How could they? It’s traumatic to see the aftermath, let alone watch it take place. Reilly couldn’t imagine being the executioner.

He continued up the stairs as he heard the assault team’s stomping boots make their way toward him. The top floor had been cleared.

“No threats,” said the team leader as he came into view. “Our job here is done. I’ll leave six men outside the building until SFPD can set up a contained perimeter.”

Reilly nodded.

The team leader took another step but stopped and grabbed Reilly by the arm. “It’s bad in there.” He motioned to what remained of a shattered door barely hanging by its hinges.

Reilly’s intelligence indicated that the top floor was where Jing Woo held court. From the look on the team leader’s face, Reilly had a pretty good idea that questioning the elusive leader would be a no-go. He stepped through the doorway, careful not to spear his arm on a splinter. 

The room was still lit, by his count, with fifteen candles of varying heights. He didn’t see the body right away, his eyes needing a moment to adjust to the lower light levels. But once they did, it was unavoidable.

Lying on top of a small teak table, in the middle of the room was Jing. His head, both arms, and both legs from the knees down hung off the edges. The flaps of his robe lay open, revealing his grisly death. He had been opened from sternum to pubic bone.

Reilly took a step forward, unsure whether the shadows from the candle lighting were deceiving his eyes. They weren’t. Jing had been gutted. Only an empty cavity remained. Careful of where he stepped, Reilly moved around to the other side of the table where he discovered Jing’s innards, completely intact and left to rot. 

Later, when medical examiner Timothy Green weighed in, he said, “He was alive when his organs were removed. While the procedure was speedy and precise, I believe he felt every bit of it.” Green also reported high levels of amphetamines in Jing’s body. “Most likely used to keep him from passing out during the procedure.”

It was obvious to Reilly that someone else had wanted Jing more than he had. Was it to punish Jing for the disorder that had taken place on his watch? Had they wanted to silence him? Who knew? This was a first for law enforcement in San Francisco. Never had the walls of Chinatown been breached. The department had moved into uncharted waters, and no one knew what to expect from the vacuum created by Jing’s death. All they could do was hope for the best.