Here's a new story of the Ghost of Hong Kong, one of the world's most lethal assassins. You can find other stories featuring here on the blog, or you can check out the 15-story anthology.
The Target
The first blow came without warning—a knife-hand strike that would have crushed Mae Ling Chen's larynx if she hadn't sensed the displacement of air and twisted away at the last microsecond. The edge of Harland Coates' hand caught her shoulder instead, sending a jolt of pain down her arm that she immediately compartmentalized and filed away for later consideration.
Former CIA, she reminded herself as she pivoted into a defensive stance. That means Langley's hand-to-hand program, probably supplemented with private training. Dangerous.
The hotel's back corridor was narrow, lined with industrial carpet that muffled their footfalls as they circled each other. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows that made reading Coates' body language more difficult. He was older than her by perhaps fifteen years, but he moved with the fluid economy of someone who'd spent decades refining violence into an art form.
"You don't want to do this," Coates said, his voice carrying the flat affect of someone stating facts rather than making threats. His hands remained loose at his sides, ready but not aggressive. "Whatever they're paying you, it's not enough."
Mae Ling didn't waste breath on a response. She'd been hired to eliminate Harland Coates, a former CIA operative who'd allegedly gone rogue and sold classified intelligence to the highest bidder. The dossier had been thorough—his training, his known associates, his last three confirmed locations. What it hadn't mentioned was the possibility that he might be innocent, and Mae Ling had learned long ago not to question the contracts that came through her handler.
She struck first, a testing combination—jab, cross, low kick—designed to gauge his defensive reflexes. Coates deflected the punches with minimal movement and checked the kick with his shin, the impact producing a dull crack that echoed in the confined space. He countered immediately, driving forward with a palm strike aimed at her sternum that she barely managed to redirect.
The exchange accelerated from there, both fighters abandoning caution for controlled aggression. Mae Ling's Muay Thai background emphasized powerful strikes and clinch work, while Coates demonstrated a hybrid style that blended Krav Maga's brutal efficiency with what looked like Jeet Kune Do's intercepting philosophy. They traded blows in rapid succession, each strike blocked or deflected, each counter met with a counter-counter.
Coates drove her backward down the corridor, his longer reach giving him a slight advantage in the confined space. Mae Ling felt the wall behind her and used it, planting her foot and launching herself forward with a flying knee that forced Coates to stumble back. She pressed the advantage, landing a solid elbow to his ribs that produced a satisfying grunt of pain.
But Coates was far from finished. He caught her next strike, twisted her arm, and sent her crashing through the swinging doors that led into the hotel's kitchen.
The kitchen was a maze of stainless steel surfaces and hanging pots, the air thick with the smell of garlic and searing meat. A sous chef looked up from his station, eyes widening in shock as Mae Ling rolled to her feet and Coates came through the doors behind her. The kitchen staff scattered, shouting in Cantonese as the two fighters resumed their deadly dance among the prep stations.
Mae Ling grabbed a chef's knife from a magnetic strip and hurled it at Coates' center mass. He twisted, the blade passing close enough to slice through his jacket, and countered by kicking a pot of boiling stock off a burner. Mae Ling dove aside as scalding liquid splashed across the floor where she'd been standing.
They crashed through the kitchen like a localized hurricane, upending equipment and sending dishes clattering to the tile floor. Coates used the environment ruthlessly, throwing obstacles in Mae Ling's path and using the narrow aisles between stations to limit her mobility. She adapted, vaulting over a prep table and catching him with a spinning back kick that sent him stumbling into a rack of hanging pans.
The noise was tremendous, a cacophony of metal on metal and breaking ceramics that surely had to be drawing attention. Mae Ling didn't care. She was committed now, her professional pride demanding that she complete the contract regardless of the complications.
Coates recovered faster than she'd anticipated, grabbing a heavy cast-iron pan and swinging it like a medieval mace. Mae Ling ducked under the first swing, felt the wind of its passage ruffle her hair, and drove her fist into his kidney. He grunted but didn't drop the pan, bringing it around for a backhand strike that she barely blocked with her forearm. The impact sent a spike of pain up to her shoulder, and she knew she'd have a bone-deep bruise tomorrow.
If there is a tomorrow, she thought grimly.
They grappled among the ovens, each trying to gain a dominant position. Coates was stronger, but Mae Ling was faster and more flexible. She slipped his attempted rear naked choke, drove her elbow into his solar plexus, and used his momentary breathlessness to break free. She grabbed a sauté pan and swung it at his head with all her strength.
Coates caught the pan, twisted it out of her grip, and threw it aside. "Listen to me," he said, breathing hard. "You've been set up. We both have."
"Save it," Mae Ling replied, launching a high kick at his temple.
He blocked it, but the force of the impact drove him backward through another set of swinging doors. They tumbled together into the restaurant's main dining area, a elegant space with white tablecloths and crystal chandeliers. Diners screamed and fled as the two fighters crashed through their midst, upending tables and sending wine glasses shattering to the floor.
Mae Ling used a chair as a weapon, swinging it at Coates' head. He ducked and drove his shoulder into her midsection, lifting her off her feet and driving her backward. She felt the window behind her, the glass radiating cold against her back, and realized his intention a split second too late.
They went through the window together in an explosion of shattered glass, tumbling through the air for one weightless moment before hitting the pavement of the alley below. Mae Ling managed to twist in mid-air, landing on top of Coates and using his body to absorb most of the impact. They rolled apart, both coming to their feet despite the punishment they'd taken.
Mae Ling tasted blood in her mouth and felt a dozen cuts from the broken glass, but nothing seemed broken. Coates looked equally battered, his jacket torn and his face sporting several lacerations. They faced each other in the alley, both breathing hard, both knowing that the next exchange might be the last.
But before either could move, the alley flooded with light and the sharp commands of police officers filled the air. Mae Ling counted at least six officers, all with weapons drawn and pointed at them. She raised her hands slowly, watching Coates do the same from the corner of her eye.
"On the ground! Now!" The lead officer's voice carried the authority of someone used to being obeyed.
Mae Ling complied, lowering herself to the pavement with deliberate slowness. Rough hands grabbed her arms, wrenching them behind her back as handcuffs clicked into place. She didn't resist. There was no point—not with this many officers and not when she was already exhausted from the fight.
As they hauled her to her feet, she caught Coates' eye. He looked at her with an expression she couldn't quite read—not anger, not fear, but something closer to resignation mixed with grim determination.
This isn't over, his look seemed to say.
Mae Ling turned away, allowing the officers to guide her toward the waiting police vehicles. Whatever Coates thought he knew, whatever game he believed they were playing, it didn't matter. She'd failed to complete her contract, which meant she'd need to try again once she'd dealt with this inconvenience.
--
The police station was a typical mid-sized precinct, all fluorescent lights and institutional green paint that seemed designed to drain hope from anyone who entered. Mae Ling sat in the holding cell, watching the officers process paperwork and make phone calls. They'd separated her from Coates immediately, placing him in the adjacent cell where she could see him through the bars but not speak to him without being overheard.
She'd been through this before, in half a dozen countries. The key was patience and the right connections. Her handler would be notified of her arrest within the hour, and arrangements would be made. She'd be released on some technicality or transferred to a facility where escape would be easier. It was simply a matter of waiting.
Coates, however, seemed less patient. He paced his cell like a caged animal, his eyes constantly scanning the precinct's layout, cataloging exits and counting officers. Mae Ling recognized the behavior—he was planning something, which meant he either had resources she didn't know about or he was desperate enough to try something foolish.
After perhaps half an hour, Coates moved to the bars separating their cells and spoke in a low voice that barely carried to her ears. "You've made a mistake."
Mae Ling didn't respond, keeping her gaze fixed on the far wall.
"They're coming," Coates said. "The people who hired you. They used you to flush me out, and now we're both in their crosshairs."
Mae Ling turned to look at him. His face was drawn, sweat beading at his temples despite the cool air. Not the expression of a man running a con.
"The contract came through channels you trust," he continued, his words coming faster now. "Intelligence too good to question. They knew exactly how to make you bite."
She kept her face blank, but her mind began to race. The handler's insistence. The perfect intel. The urgency that had felt like opportunity but now tasted like a setup.
"They want us both in one place, locked down, limited security." Coates gripped the bars between them. "We're not prisoners here. We're bait that's already been swallowed."
Mae Ling felt fury rising hot in her chest. She'd been played. Used like a damned amateur.
Before Mae Ling could respond, the lights went out.
The precinct plunged into darkness, the sudden absence of fluorescent humming replaced by startled exclamations from the officers. Emergency lighting kicked in after a few seconds, bathing everything in a dim red glow that turned the familiar space into something alien and threatening.
Then the gunfire started.
The sound was unmistakable—the rapid staccato of automatic weapons, multiple shooters, coming from the front of the precinct. Officers shouted, drawing their weapons and taking cover behind desks. Return fire echoed through the building, punctuated by screams and the crash of breaking glass.
Mae Ling was on her feet instantly. Coates had been right, she decided. The realization brought no satisfaction, only a cold fury at having been manipulated.
The firefight intensified, moving deeper into the precinct. Mae Ling counted at least four distinct weapon signatures—the distinctive hollow cough of suppressed submachine guns, military-spec hardware. The police were outgunned and unprepared for a military-style assault. This wasn't a rescue operation; it was an execution squad.
One of the officers who'd arrested them—a young man with a fresh face and frightened eyes—appeared in the detention area, his service weapon drawn but his hands shaking. He looked at Mae Ling and Coates with wild eyes, his finger tight on the trigger.
"Call them off!" he shouted, his voice cracking with fear and adrenaline. "Call off your friends or I swear to God I'll shoot you both right now!"
"They're not our friends," Coates said, his voice calm despite the chaos erupting around them. "We're targets, just like you. Just like everyone in this building."
"Bullshit!" The officer's gun wavered between them. "You're with them! You have to be!"
Mae Ling stepped forward, ignoring the weapon pointed at her chest. "Listen to me. Those shooters out there are professionals. Military contractors, probably. They're here to kill us, and they'll kill anyone who gets in their way. That includes you and every other officer in this precinct."
"She's right," Coates added. "You can shoot us and die when they get here, or you can let us out and maybe we all survive this. Your choice, but you need to make it now."
The officer looked between them, his face pale in the emergency lighting. Another burst of gunfire echoed through the building, closer now. Someone screamed, the sound cutting off abruptly.
"How do I know you're telling the truth?" the officer asked, but his voice had lost its aggressive edge. He was scared, and he knew he was out of his depth.
"You don't," Mae Ling said. "But in about thirty seconds, those shooters are going to reach this detention area. If we're still locked up, they'll kill all three of us. If you let us out, we might have a chance."
The officer's hand trembled as he reached for his keys. He unlocked Coates' cell first, then Mae Ling's. "If you're lying—"
"We're not," Coates said. "Now get down and stay down. This is about to get ugly."
Mae Ling and Coates moved into the precinct's bullpen with the practiced silence of predators. The emergency lighting cast everything in shades of red and black, turning the familiar office space into a maze of shadows and blind corners. Bodies lay scattered among the desks—officers who'd been caught in the initial assault, their weapons still holstered or clutched uselessly in dead hands.
Mae Ling knelt beside the nearest corpse, a female officer who'd taken three rounds to the chest. She retrieved the woman's Glock 17, checked the magazine, and chambered a round. Her hands moved on autopilot while her mind churned with cold fury.
Coates did the same with another fallen officer's weapon, his movements efficient and practiced.
They heard the shooters before they saw them—two men moving in tactical formation, their suppressed weapons sweeping the bullpen methodically. Mae Ling caught Coates' eye and gestured, a simple hand signal that he understood immediately. They split up, using the desks for cover as they flanked the approaching assassins.
The first shooter never knew what hit him. Mae Ling rose from behind a filing cabinet and put two rounds through his head before he could react. The anger made her faster, sharper—every movement channeling the humiliation of being played. The second shooter spun toward her, his weapon coming up, but Coates was already there. Three shots, center mass, and the man went down.
Mae Ling moved to the bodies, retrieving their weapons—Heckler & Koch MP5s with suppressors and extended magazines. Top-tier hardware. European procurement. The kind of arsenal that spoke of deep pockets and deeper connections. Someone had invested serious capital in this operation, and she'd been stupid enough to be their opening move. She tossed one to Coates and kept the other, the familiar weight of the submachine gun a comfort in her hands.
"How many more?" she asked quietly.
"At least four," Coates replied, his eyes scanning the bullpen. "Maybe six. They'll be moving in teams, clearing rooms systematically."
More gunfire erupted from the front of the precinct, followed by the distinctive crack of a flashbang grenade. The assault team was being thorough, which meant they had time and resources. This wasn't a quick hit—it was a complete sanitization operation.
Mae Ling and Coates moved deeper into the precinct, using the chaos to their advantage. They encountered another pair of shooters near the evidence room, and this time the fight was harder. The assassins moved with practiced efficiency, coordinated and lethal, using suppressing fire and tactical movement to try to pin them down.
But Mae Ling and Coates had something the shooters didn't—desperation and the intimate knowledge that comes from years of operating in hostile environments. They worked together with an instinctive coordination that surprised Mae Ling, each covering the other's blind spots, each anticipating the other's movements. The irony wasn't lost on her. She was fighting alongside the man she'd been sent to kill, protecting him from the people who'd hired her.
Coates laid down suppressing fire while Mae Ling flanked left, using a overturned desk for cover. She moved with controlled aggression, each tactical decision fueled by the cold burn of her rage. She caught one shooter reloading and put a three-round burst through his chest. Not for survival. For the insult of being manipulated like an amateur. The second shooter tried to retreat, but Coates was already moving, cutting off his escape route and dropping him with a controlled pair of shots.
They paused to catch their breath, both breathing hard from the adrenaline and exertion. Mae Ling's earlier injuries from their fight were making themselves known now, a dull ache in her ribs and a sharp pain in her shoulder every time she raised the MP5. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the fury coiling in her chest. Someone had looked at Mae Ling and seen a puppet. A useful idiot to point at a target. That mistake was going to cost them everything.
"You're hurt," Coates observed.
"I'll live," Mae Ling replied. "How many left?"
"Two, maybe three." Coates ejected his magazine, checked the remaining rounds, and slapped it back into place. "They'll know we're armed now. They'll be more careful."
As if to punctuate his words, a voice called out from somewhere in the precinct's maze of corridors. "Coates! We know you're here! Come out and we'll make it quick!"
Neither Mae Ling nor Coates responded. Talking would only give away their position.
They moved toward the voice, using the building's layout to their advantage. Mae Ling had memorized the precinct's floor plan during her initial processing, a habit that was now paying dividends. She led them through a series of offices and conference rooms, circling around to flank the remaining shooters.
They found them near the precinct's rear exit—two men in tactical gear, their weapons trained on the corridor they expected Coates and Mae Ling to emerge from. It was a good ambush position, but they'd made the mistake of assuming their targets would take the direct route.
Mae Ling and Coates emerged from a side office, catching the shooters in a crossfire. The fight was brief and brutal. One shooter went down immediately, Mae Ling's burst catching him in the side where his body armor didn't cover. The second shooter was faster, diving for cover and returning fire.
A round caught Coates in the shoulder, spinning him around. He went down hard, his weapon clattering across the floor. The shooter rose from cover, his weapon trained on Coates' prone form, finger tightening on the trigger.
Mae Ling didn't think. She moved on pure instinct, her MP5 coming up as she squeezed the trigger. The burst caught the shooter in the throat, above his body armor, and he went down choking on his own blood.
She rushed to Coates, helping him to his feet. Blood soaked his shoulder, but the wound looked clean—through and through, missing the bone. "Can you move?"
"Yeah," Coates grunted, retrieving his weapon with his good hand. "Thanks."
Before Mae Ling could respond, a voice called out from the darkness. "This isn't over!" The accent was Eastern European, the tone filled with cold certainty. "ORACLE won't stop until you're dead, Coates! And you, Ghost, you picked your side! You'll pay for your choice!"
Mae Ling heard footsteps retreating, running toward the rear exit. She started to pursue, but Coates grabbed her arm with his good hand.
"Let them go," he said. "We need to get out of here before backup arrives—theirs or the police's."
Mae Ling hesitated, every instinct screaming at her to pursue and eliminate the threat. But Coates was right. They were in no condition for a prolonged engagement, and staying here would only lead to more complications.
They made their way to the rear exit, moving through the carnage they'd created. The precinct was a slaughterhouse, bodies of officers and assassins scattered throughout. Mae Ling felt a pang of guilt for the dead police—collateral damage in a war they hadn't known they were fighting.
The night air hit them like a physical force as they emerged into the alley behind the precinct. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. They had minutes at most before the area was flooded with reinforcements.
Coates leaned against the wall, his face pale from blood loss. Mae Ling tore a strip from her shirt and fashioned a crude pressure bandage for his shoulder. It wouldn't hold for long, but it would keep him mobile for now.
"We need to move," she said.
"Agreed." Coates pushed himself off the wall, swaying slightly. "There's a safe house about three miles from here. We can—"
"No," Mae Ling interrupted. "We're not going anywhere together until you tell me what the hell is going on. Who is ORACLE? Why do they want us both dead? And why did they use me to flush you out?"
Coates looked at her for a long moment, his eyes searching her face. "It's a long story."
"Then you'd better start talking," Mae Ling said, "because we're going to meet again, Coates. Soon. And when we do, you're going to explain everything. Every detail, every connection, every reason why I was manipulated into hunting you."
"Fair enough," Coates said. He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to her. It was blank except for a phone number written in pencil. "Call this number in forty-eight hours. I'll tell you everything I know about ORACLE, about why they want us dead, and about the people who've been pulling your strings."
Mae Ling took the card, memorizing the number before tucking it into her pocket. "Forty-eight hours. If you're not there, I'll find you anyway."
"I don't doubt it," Coates said with a ghost of a smile. "You're good, Chen. Better than I expected. That's probably why they wanted you for this."
They heard voices from inside the precinct—more police arriving, securing the scene. Mae Ling and Coates moved in opposite directions without another word, disappearing into the Hong Kong night like shadows fleeing the dawn.
As Mae Ling ran through the back alleys, her mind raced with questions. ORACLE. The name meant nothing to her, but the implications were clear. Someone with significant resources had manipulated her into hunting Coates, had used her as a tool to flush him out of hiding. And now that same organization wanted her dead for the crime of surviving their trap.
She'd been played, used like a amateur. The realization burned in her gut, a cold fury that demanded satisfaction. Someone would pay for this manipulation, for turning her into an unwitting pawn in their game.
But first, she needed answers. And in forty-eight hours, Harland Coates would provide them.
The game was far from over. It had only just begun.
--
If you liked this story, you should check out The Ghost of Hong Kong anthology!
