Holding the carton low, Bosch took off the rubber bands and opened it as Sun pulled the Mercedes away from the curb. The carton contained a medium-size pistol made of blue steel. There was nothing else. No backup magazine or extra ammunition. Just the gun and whatever was in it.

Bosch dropped the carton to the floor of the car and held the pistol in his left hand. There was no brand name or marking on the bluing. Just serial and model numbers, but the five-point star stamped into the grip told Bosch the weapon was a Black Star pistol manufactured by the government of China. He had seen them on occasion in L.A. They were made by the tens of thousands for the Chinese military and a growing number ended up being stolen and smuggled across the ocean. Many of them obviously stayed in China and were smuggled into Hong Kong.

Bosch held the pistol down between his knees and ejected the magazine. It was double-stacked with fifteen 9 millimeter Parabellum rounds. He thumbed them out and put them into a cup holder in the armrest. He then ejected a sixteenth round from the chamber and put it in the cup holder with the others.

Bosch looked down the sight to focus his aim. He peered into the chamber, looking for any sign of rust, and then studied the firing pin and extractor. He checked the gun’s action and trigger several times. The weapon seemed to be functioning properly. He then studied each bullet as he reloaded the magazine, looking for corrosion or any other indication that the ammunition was old or suspect. He found nothing.

He firmly pushed the magazine back into place and jacked the first round into the chamber. He then ejected the magazine again, pushed the last bullet into the opening and once more put the gun back together. He had sixteen rounds and that was it.

“Happy?” Eleanor asked from the front seat.

Bosch looked up from the weapon and saw that they were on the down ramp to the Cross Harbour Tunnel. It would take them directly to Kowloon.

“Not quite. I don’t like carrying a gun I’ve never fired before. For all I know, the pin on this thing could have been filed and I’ll be drawing dead when I need it.”

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about that. You just have to trust Sun Yee.”

Sunday morning traffic was light in the two-lane tunnel. Bosch waited until they passed the low point in the middle and had started up the incline toward the Kowloon side. He’d heard several backfires from taxis along the way. He quickly wrapped his daughter’s blanket around the gun and his left hand. He then pulled the pillow over and turned to look out the rear window. There were no cars in sight behind them because the cars back there had not reached the midpoint of the tunnel.

“Whose car is this, anyway?” he asked.

“It belongs to the casino,” Eleanor said. “I borrowed it. Why?”

Bosch lowered the window. He held the pillow up and pressed the muzzle into the padding. He fired twice, the standard double pull he employed to check the mechanism of a gun. The bullets snapped off the tunnel’s tiled walls.

Even with the wadding around the gun, the two reports echoed loudly in the car. The car swerved slightly as Sun looked into the backseat. And Eleanor yelled.

“What the hell did you do?”

Bosch dropped the pillow to the floor and raised the window. The car smelled like burnt gunpowder but it was quiet again. He unwrapped the blanket and checked the weapon. It had fired easily and without a jam. He was down to fourteen bullets and was good to go.

“I had to make sure it worked,” he said. “You don’t carry a gun unless you’re sure.”

“Are you crazy? You could get us arrested before we get a chance to do anything!”

“If you keep your voice down and Sun Yee stays in his lane, I think we’ll be fine.”

Bosch leaned forward and tucked the weapon into his waistband at the small of his back. Its slide was warm against his skin. Up ahead he saw light at the end of the tunnel. They would be in Kowloon soon.

It was time.

27

The tunnel delivered them to Tsim Sha Tsui, the central waterside section of Kowloon, and within a few minutes Sun turned the Mercedes onto Nathan Road. It was a wide, four-lane boulevard lined with high-rise buildings as far as Bosch could see. It was a crowded mix of commercial and residential uses. The first two floors of every building were dedicated to retail and restaurant space, while the floors rising above were residential or office space. The clutter of video screens and signs in Chinese and English was an intense riot of color and motion. The buildings ranged from dowdy midcentury construction to the slick glass-and-steel structures of recent prosperity.

It was impossible for Bosch to see the top of the corridor from the car. He lowered his window and leaned out in an effort to find the Canon sign, the first marker from the photo generated from his daughter’s abduction video. He couldn’t find it and pulled back into the car. He raised the window.

“Sun Yee, stop the car.”

Sun looked at him in the rearview.

“Stop here”

“Yes, here. I can’t see. I have to get out.”

Sun looked at Eleanor for approval and she nodded.

“We’ll get out. You find a place to park.”

Sun pulled to the curb and Bosch jumped out. He’d taken the photo print from his backpack and had it ready. Sun then pulled away, leaving Eleanor and Bosch on the sidewalk. It was now midmorning and the streets and sidewalks were crowded with people. Smoke was in the air and the smell of fire. The hungry ghosts were close. The streetscape was replete with neon, mirrored glass and giant plasma screens broadcasting silent images of jerking motion and staccato edits.

Bosch referred to the photo and then looked up and traced the skyline.

“Where’s the Canon sign?” he asked.

“Harry, you’re mixed up,” Eleanor said.

She put her hands on his shoulders and turned him completely around.

“Remember, everything is backwards.”

She pointed almost directly up, her finger drawing a line up the side of the building they were in front of. Bosch looked up. The Canon sign was directly overhead and at an angle that made it unreadable. He was looking at the bottom edge of the sign’s letters. It was rotating slowly.

“Okay, got it,” he said. “We start from there.”

He looked back down and referred to the photo.

“I think we have to go at least another block further in from the harbor.”

“Let’s wait for Sun Yee.”

“Call him and tell him where we’re going.”

Bosch started off. Eleanor had no choice but to follow.

“All right, all right.”

She pulled her phone and started to make the call. As he walked, Bosch kept his eyes high on the buildings, looking for air-conditioning units. A block here was several buildings long. Looking up as he walked, he had a few near misses with other pedestrians. There seemed to be no collective uniformity of walking to your right. People moved every which way and Bosch had to pay attention to avoid collisions. At one point the people moving in front of him suddenly stepped left and right and Bosch almost stumbled over an old woman lying on the pavement, her hands clasped in beseeching prayer above a coin basket. Bosch was able to avoid her and reached into his pocket at the same time.

Eleanor quickly put her hand on his arm.

“No. They say any money you give them is taken by the triads at the end of the day.”

Bosch didn’t question it. He stayed focused on what was ahead of him. They walked another two blocks and then Bosch saw and heard another piece of the puzzle drop into place. Across the street was an entrance to the Mass Transit Railway. A glass enclosure leading to the escalators down to the underground subway.

“Wait,” Bosch said, stopping. “We’re close.”

“What is it?” Eleanor asked.