Page 79 of Reaper
“Unless you’d rather us go it alone, take on Volkov’s men until we find one with the intel on where he’ll be at the time we need him to be, and then risk a frontal assault on his headquarters?” I say.
Tank grunts. Once, then twice. “What’s the pastry situation like at this mahjong club? Did you see any egg tarts or sesame balls?”
Adriana shrugs. “We saw none of that. But knowing Madam Lin, I’d be shocked if she allowed anything less than excellent pastries at her club. She has a way of making anything that doesn’t meet her standards, even people, feel like an utter crime against humanity.”
“Sounds like a fucking blast. Let’s go meet this bitchy old woman and play some fucking mahjong with Triads.”
We head out. I fire up my bike and lead the convoy through Sacramento's darkening streets. The Jade Palace sits tucked down an alley between a defunct electronics repair shop and a Vietnamese restaurant, the place you'd walk past a hundred times without noticing if you didn't know what to look for.
The door is exactly as nondescript as I remember — weathered wood painted an unremarkable brown, with only a few faded Chinese characters carved into a small wooden plaque beside the frame. No neon signs, no obvious markers. Just the way the Triads like it.
I rap my knuckles against the door three times, the sound echoing dully in the narrow alley. A small slot slides open, revealing a pair of suspicious eyes that scan our group before settling on Adriana.
"We're here to see Madam Lin," Adriana says in Mandarin, her pronunciation smooth and confident.
The slot snaps shut. Locks tumble. The door creaks open to reveal Madam Lin herself—a tiny woman in her seventies with steel-gray hair pulled into a severe bun and eyes that could cut glass. She's wearing a burgundy silk jacket that probably costs more than my bike.
She launches into rapid-fire Mandarin, gesturing at our group with obvious disdain. Adriana responds, but Madam Lin cuts her off with a sharp wave of her hand and continues her tirade, pointing directly at me, then Tank, then Diesel.
"What's she saying?" Diesel mutters.
Adriana's jaw tightens. "She's... expressing her opinion of your life choices. She says you look like the type of man who has brought nothing but shame to your mother and dishonor to seven generations of your ancestors, all of whom die many times over in hell as punishment for your disgrace."
"Jesus Christ."
Madam Lin shifts her attention to Tank, rattling off another string of what are clearly insults. Tank's face darkens as Adriana translates: "She says your beard makes you look like a vagrant who sleeps under bridges and that your parents probably weep when they think of you."
But then Madam Lin's gaze lands on Mayhem, and her entire demeanor transforms. Her harsh features soften, her voice drops to something almost melodic, and she actually smiles.
A few melodious words come out of her mouth, and then she reaches up to pat Mayhem's cheek.
Mayhem grins and responds in what sounds like passable Mandarin. Adriana gasps.
Madam Lin actually giggles — fucking giggles — and swats at his arm playfully. Her cheeks flush pink as she continues chattering to him in a voice I've never heard her use before.
"What the hell is happening?" Tank whispers.
Adriana stares, her mouth ajar. "She's... she called him her darling prince. And he just told her she looks beautiful today."
Mayhem winks.
Adriana straightens her shoulders and addresses Madam Lin directly in Mandarin, her tone respectful but firm. I can't understand the words, but I recognize the cadence of a request.
Madam Lin's flirtatious demeanor vanishes instantly. She snaps back at Adriana, her voice sharp as broken glass. The two women go back and forth, their exchange growing more heated with each volley. Adriana gestures toward our group,then toward the interior of the club. Madam Lin shakes her head emphatically, pointing at Tank and Diesel with obvious disgust.
"She doesn't want to let us in," Adriana mutters to me without breaking eye contact with the older woman. "Says we'll disturb her clientele."
The argument continues, voices rising. Madam Lin crosses her arms and plants her feet like she's preparing for battle. But Adriana doesn't back down, firing off what sounds like a series of compelling points. She mentions something that makes Madam Lin's eyes narrow, then something else that makes her tilt her head thoughtfully.
Finally, Madam Lin throws her hands up in exasperation and steps aside, muttering what I'm pretty sure are curses under her breath.
"We can enter," Adriana says, relief clear in her voice.
Madam Lin beckons us inside with obvious reluctance, leading us past the main gaming room where the click of mahjong tiles creates a steady rhythm. The air is thick with cigarette smoke and the indistinct murmur of conversation in multiple dialects.
She guides us down a narrow hallway lined with red silk wallpaper and into a small sitting room that feels like stepping into another century. Elegant carved wooden furniture in the traditional Chinese style fills the space—chairs with intricate dragon motifs, a low table inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and a cabinet displaying jade figurines. Calligraphic art pieces hang on the walls, their flowing black characters creating patterns I can't read but somehow find beautiful.
Madam Lin gestures for us to sit, then positions herself behind the ornate desk like a general preparing for negotiations. She speaks in accented English now, her words precise and deliberate.
