Yoo maintained his grin with some effort, and his hand reached inside his jacket.

“Hi, Charlie. How’s by Yoo?”

Zavala had stepped out behind him.

“Joe!” Yoo said. “Am I glad to see you. What a great surprise . . .”

“That I’m still alive?”

“Huh? Don’t know what you’re talking about, Joe. Guess we got separated at the warehouse.”

Yoo’s hand was moving under his jacket in a way that would have seemed casual to the untrained eye.

“Make a bet with you, Charlie,” Zavala said. “Five bucks says Lyons drills a hole through the back of your skull before you get that gun out of its holster.”

“I’m feeling lucky,” she said. “Make it ten.”

She held her pistol with both hands, arms extended.

“Take your jacket off slowly and drop it on the floor,” Zavala said.

Yoo did as he was told. Zavala stepped forward to relieve him of both his guns, not only the one in the shoulder holster but the one in the belt holster as well. Frisking him, Zavala found a short, double-edged knife in its ankle sheath.

“Let’s go for a ride, Charlie,” he said.

Zavala held his arm in the air as if hailing a taxi. Headlights snapped on. A car roared out of nowhere with a squeal of tires and screeched to a stop just inches from Yoo. Zavala produced a roll of duct tape, bound Yoo’s wrists behind him, put a strip over his eyes, and slapped another over his mouth. Then he shoved Yoo into the backseat and sat next to him, with Lyons on the other side.

They drove in silence for a half hour before stopping. They hustled Yoo out of the back and down a short flight of stairs. He was plunked in a chair, and the tape was removed from his eyes and mouth. He glanced around at the sparsely furnished room.

“Where are we?”

“FBI safe house,” Lyons said.

She was sitting on the opposite end of a rectangular table. Zavala sat on one side, staring at Yoo with no humor in his banged-up face. Across from Zavala was a pale-haired man whose eyes were boring into Yoo like blue lasers.

“My name is Kurt Austin,” the man said. “Who do you work for?”

“The Chinese state security agency,” Yoo said.

Austin sighed and glanced at Lyons.

“Charlie,” Lyons said, “do you remember the time we went to the shooting range and I showed you how well I shoot?” She lifted her pistol off her lap and pointed it at Yoo. “Answer Kurt’s question or I’ll drill you a third eye.”

Yoo swallowed hard.

“I also work for the Pyramid Triad,” he said.

Austin motioned for her to lower her gun.

“What’s your job?” he said.

“I never left the gangs,” Yoo said. “I’m a high-level foot soldier. I don’t make decisions. I only follow orders.”