False Witness by Randy Singer

cursing. As he drove back toward the city limits, Clark felt guilty, watching Chin squirm in an effort to decrease the pain, using his bound hands to support his wounded leg as much as possible, emitting muffled groans of agony every time he moved. The hit man was pale and looked like he might pass out at any moment.
    Clark hardly trusted his own judgment now. He was beyond tired, his neck aching from the tranquilizer injection, or possibly from being thrown against the wall by Mortavius Johnson, or possibly from the head butt he had given Bones McGinley. He had a splitting headache. And he had that jittery feeling that comes from no sleep, no food, and too much caffeine. He was like a college student pulling all-nighters during exam week, living on energy drinks and coffee, his stomach churning up acid.
    And he had just finished torturing another human being.
    He needed to concentrate. His stopwatch now registered 24:17:12. He could send out another notice to bounty hunters listing the two new names of triad leaders Chin had provided—Li Gwah and Victor Chi. Given time, his network might locate one of them. But he didn’t have that kind of time. Complicating matters, Chin’s cell phone, containing the phone numbers of the leaders, and the bank account information were still in Chin’s hotel room. How could I have left that cell phone behind?
    Clark knew he was out of options. Xu had warned him that bringing in the authorities would cost Jessica her life. But Clark had no chance of rescuing her alone. He still didn’t know where Professor Kumari was hiding. Or even if the professor was still alive. Or where Jessica might be. What little information he could gain from going back to Chin’s room—cell phone numbers and bank account information—was useless without the feds. The FBI could call the cell phones and triangulate the locations. They could get a warrant for the banking information. But that, too, took time.
    Still, it was his only hope.
    The small matter of Clark’s own desperate crime spree also suggested that calling the feds might not be a bad idea. So far, he had been involved in kidnapping, malicious wounding, forging a driver’s license, theft of an automobile, and probably a few more violations that he couldn’t remember. If he went to the feds first, explaining the entire mess, he might be able to trade cooperation for immunity.
    Might being the key word.
    He dialed the U.S. attorney’s office for the district of Nevada. After a few minutes of getting shuffled around from one staff person to another, he finally reached an assistant U.S. attorney.
    â€œMy wife’s been kidnapped by the Chinese mafia,” Clark began.
    â€œWho is this?” the attorney interrupted.
    â€œJust listen,” Clark said, his voice testy. “In less than twelve hours they begin torturing her. They’ve told me if I contact you, they’ll kill her.”
    Chin moaned loudly into his duct tape. Clark glared at him, but Chin only increased the volume.
    â€œThey’re demanding that I find and kidnap another person and trade him for my wife.” Clark switched the phone to his left ear and made a chopping motion with his right hand.
    Chin ignored him again and kept moaning.
    â€œI need your name. Your wife’s name. And the names of the persons who kidnapped her.” The attorney sounded calm, methodical.
    â€œWill you grant me immunity?” Clark asked.
    â€œImmunity for what? What crimes have you committed? Federal or state? How serious are they? What are you offering in return?”
    This was getting too complicated to handle over the phone. And Chin, who suddenly seemed to have a second wind, wasn’t making things any easier with his defiant moaning.
    â€œDo you know where the side entrance is for the Mirage?” Clark asked the attorney.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œBe waiting there in your vehicle in exactly twenty minutes. You might want