The Land Lord

By Cheryl Colwell

Landlords: China's most threatening export yet.

Incensed at the economic takeover, America's ethnic populations are killing each other. Bombs are blowing up buildings, buses and businesses.

The President knows someone in his White House is manipulating the hatred. But who? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cheryl Colwell
• Release date: Dec 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9780997079111

Cheryl Colwell

Award-winning author, Cheryl Colwell, has written multiple suspense novels appropriate for the Christian market. Her loyal readers escape to stunning locations where they meet mysterious strangers and encounter unexpected danger. And a bit of romance. 

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The LAND LORD

Copyright © 2017 by Cheryl Colwell

PUBLISHED BY INSPIRED FICTION BOOKS

www.inspiredfictionbooks.com

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Brief quotations may be embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Cover Design copyright ©2017 Cheryl Colwell. All rights reserved.

www.inspiredfictionbooks.com

ISBN: 978-0-9970791-1-1

Printed in the United States of America

The Land Lord is a work of fiction. Though some actual towns, cities, and locations may be mentioned, they are used in a fictitious manner and the events and occurrences were invented in the mind and imagination of the author. Except for historical figures, any similarities of characters or names used within to any person past, present, or future is coincidental.

Category: Fiction/Political Suspense/Romance

Dedication

I would like to express my gratitude to those

who shared their stories after enduring

the Cultural Revolution. May their pain compel us to embrace compassion, understanding and a belief in the dignity of every soul we encounter; from those in our homes and neighborhoods, to those of other nations.

Chapter 1

China, 1948

Chairman Mao leaned hard on the wooden rail, his finger following a crack as it deepened and widened. An omen. His revolution would follow the same course. Turning to his collaborators, he uttered into being the fate of their countrymen, those parasites who crowded the cities like flies, whose starving faces demanded solutions destined to fail. Mao’s chest lifted. His plan would succeed. Certain of his course, wielding absolute power, his voice boomed. For land redistribution to succeed, one-tenth of the peasants must be destroyed. 

He watched as the impact of his statement saturated each man’s understanding. Their eyes dropped to the dirt, that soil capable of yielding nutrients to sustain the human body, or producing greed so ravenous as to demand a man’s life for its ownership. As Mao knew they would, each face before him hardened to the decision—the Communist Party would own the land, and they were the Party. One by one, they began to nod their loyalty to a plan that would systematically destroy a huge, unlucky portion of China’s masses.

Mao’s scheme was finalized by mid-1948 and began its assault in 1949. The first target: landlords and their families. Any land owner, not just the wealthy, suffered the onslaught. Mao ordered the peasants to murder the landlords with their bare hands, blocking any return to normalcy, binding the multitudes, bonding them to his will. Every village was decimated, ending in nearly three million dead.

Once the slaughter started, anyone thought to be an enemy of the Party was at risk. After three decades of successive purges, China was a mass grave. The tally is buried in the earth but estimates of the dead range from 40,000,000 to over 100,000,000. Not counting the broken souls who lived through the nightmare.

WASHINGTON D.C., CURRENT Day

Agent Dain Ryder clenched his fist and contracted the bicep on his left arm where a knife wound had nearly healed. He swore under his breath at the Columbian counterfeiter who had attacked him during the bust. No way could the guy have escaped, so why attack?

Dain stretched his feet that ached from standing in place for hours. The circumstances that had landed him outside the Oval Office still had him baffled. Many qualified agents had waited years for this opportunity, a dream he had never chased. Fraud investigation proved a better fit, even with the load of paperwork involved. But it also provided enough action to keep his reflexes sharp, his mind problem solving as he ran down one matrix after another to catch people who defrauded the United States Government, or more accurately, defrauded the people of this nation. 

Gazing down the hall, he wondered how much his resistance to this assignment had to do with the fact that just beyond the closed door, President Robert Bradley, former USMC general, now sat at the Resolute desk. In front of Dain, the cool elegance of the rooms stretched out like a movie set compared to the super-heated desert where his squad had served for a year under Bradley. The general had been a tough leader. Still, he’d gotten all of them home from the hell of war, nearly losing his leg while pulling the last man out of the line of fire.

Other units weren’t so fortunate. The grisly image of Kevin Manley assaulted his mind. Dain had only known the jovial man casually but seeing what was left of a fellow soldier after a mission gone wrong had created a tight bond. One more life lost for answering the call of duty.

A frown tightened Dain’s lips. Duty, an abused concept. Though Dain had entered the Marines with unquestionable loyalty, he’d witnessed the erosion of his idealism. He had seen too many officers forced to obey commands made on another continent by power-grabbing political heads with no personal regard for the effect on the lives they were about to destroy.

He compiled a mental list of the most famous offenders, tapping out their names on his fingers—Stalin, Hitler, Mao Tse-tung. He could repeat their names in seconds, but not enough time remained on earth to list their victims.

Dain rubbed the tension out of his jaw. Heated voices boomed in debate from within the famous office, just before FBI Director Jeffrey Mane opened the door and stomped past, his black hair accentuating his narrow, ice blue eyes. This was the third time this week Dain had seen him enter the Oval Office and the third time the director had left in a huff. Apparently, he wasn’t getting what he wanted from President Bradley.

Closely following, and towering over Jeffrey Mane’s small frame, was Secret Service Special Agent in Charge, Charles Krueger, whose mouth drew tight as he hissed at Mane, He’s gonna destroy two centuries of democracy in two years.

Though Dain had called the general a few choice names in private, he tensed at the open disrespect for the man who held the highest office in America. He studied the grimace on Krueger’s face. He’d seen a lot of that lately. Maybe he shouldn’t, but he was beginning to understand the staff’s mounting frustration.

Krueger passed, then turned back. Agent Ryder, you getting settled?

Straightening to attention, Dain said, Yes, sir.

Join me tonight at Pat’s. Nine-thirty. The tone made it obvious this wasn’t a request.

I’ll be there, sir, Dain answered, but Krueger had already returned his attention to Jeffrey Mane.

Just after nine p.m., Dain entered Pat’s, a favorite all-night bar used by Secret Service agents near the National Mall. He scanned the room until he encountered Krueger. Dain advanced warily. Agent Krueger.

Ryder. Glad you could make it, aren’t we, boys? Krueger glanced at the solemn faces of those seated nearby. A few feet away, two agents Dain recognized glanced up from their game of pool. No one seemed to feel the need to answer.

Thanks for the invite, Dain said, taking a seat on an empty stool between Krueger and another agent. He ordered a beer as he checked out the activity reflected in the mirror behind the bar, then raised his bottle in salute and took an ice-cold swallow.

Krueger smiled, an expression that seemed foreign to the tension in his face, as though his mouth would shatter if it widened a centimeter more. How do you like working for POTOS?

I like it fine.

Not too sedentary after chasing frauds around New York?

Dain allowed a hint of a smile. It’s quieter.

Krueger shifted in his seat. I’ve been with PPD for three presidents. I always knew America was safe, maybe shaky, but safe. Until now.

Wariness froze Dain’s expression. What was Krueger hinting at?

The grin widened, and Krueger’s face failed to crack. Still, it lacked mirth. Got your attention, I see. I can exercise my freedom of speech and still carry out my sworn duty to the Constitution, right?

Immediately, Dain’s investigative instincts shot to full attention. He took another swig to gain time and scanned the room filled with off-duty Secret Service agents. This was the last place he would expect subversive conversations. He shrugged and decided to play along with whatever game Krueger was into. Free country. Still, I wouldn’t want to be overheard criticizing my Commander in Chief in this setting.

The hardness in Krueger’s face eased. Well said. This is a bastion for loyal, patriotic servants, right Ben?

The man on the other side of Dain nodded and stuck out his hand. Ben Johnson, he said.

Dain Ryder.

Krueger continued in a lower tone. Did you ever wonder why Secret Service agents swear to defend the Constitution, not the President? His face sobered. Men are fallible. It’s the Constitution above everything else that makes America great. And stable. And we, he glanced at Johnson, then at several others in the area . . . we are sworn above every other duty to protect it.

Feeling rigid, not wanting to make a wrong move, Dain cleared his throat. So, you’re saying you don’t agree with the way President Bradley is running the country?

Do you?

Dain had pondered that question for hours as he watched the Vice President and Chinese officials parade in and out of the Oval Office. Thousands more jobs had drifted over the ocean in just the few weeks he had been there. Still, he didn’t know the details that affected the hard decisions. Not always, but mine is not to reason why. . .

Ben Johnson cut in, . . . but to do or die. What we need to ask is ‘what actions are pro-America or what are pro-China?’ That distinction is critical.

Krueger rose off his stool and stared down at Dain, a scar above his eye adding an ominous tone to his words. Don’t look so rattled. We love America. It’s our job to defend her from our enemies. And in case you hadn’t noticed, China is at the top of the list.

Dain nodded, agreeing wholeheartedly with this sentiment. Our streets are overflowing with chopstick food venders and the black-market gangs that accompany them. In New York, we had our hands full dealing with the fraudulent activity they brought from China.

Krueger nodded. China is invading us month by month. We need to take her down a notch. Can you get behind that?

With no hesitation, Dain answered, You don’t know how hard I can get behind that.

Krueger clapped him on the back. Welcome. Apparently finished with what he had to say to Dain, he and Ben shoved off their stools and leaned on the pool table. The agents who had been in a game stopped and handed over their cues.

Voices sounding of mutiny rang in Dain’s ears. He finished his beer and left, an uneasy feeling in his gut at the state of the union and the state of the White House.

DAIN WATCHED CHIEF of Staff Mike Norton leave after his morning briefing. A moment later, President Bradley’s secretary surprised Dain and directed him into the Oval Office.

Yes, Mr. President? Dain asked. He met Bradley’s serene green eyes. Experience had taught Dain those eyes masked a cat-like quickness to observe not only words, but the intentions behind them.

President Bradley, his straight jaw appearing tight, shook hands casually. Sit down, Agent Ryder.

Thank you, Mr. President. Dain sat stiffly in a chair opposite his commander. It had been awhile since they had spoken. The thought-provoking, mostly frustrating, contents of their deep conversations were stored in a private album in Dain’s memory, a memory with too few happy moments. He wondered if his life, his concerns, had ever crossed Bradley’s mind after he’d left the Marines. Did Bradley ever give any thought to the inner conflict he had created?

Are you enjoying the detail?

It wouldn’t do to lie. Bradley would see right through it. It’s quieter.

That’s not what I asked, Agent Ryder. I assume your answer reflects the monotony of standing in one place, am I right?

Obviously, the President wanted a full rundown. Yes, sir. There’s not much to occupy one’s mind, yet it is a privilege to protect you, sir. That was the truth.

Bradley nodded. Then, as if no time had passed, as though it was yesterday, standing in the hot tent discussing strategies for reaching their target, Bradley took Dain into his confidence. He lightly punched his fist into his other palm. Then without offering any context for his remarks, he said, Something’s going on—has been even before I was elected. His sharp eyes studied Dain. Can you sense the defiance for the authority of this office? Patriotism, loyalty, common sense—they seem to be values held in contempt.

Reluctant to divulge his own doubts and the conversations he’d overheard, Dain kept his answer short. People consider it their right to disagree.

Bradley leaned forward. "No dispute there, but it’s more than that. It’s as though another general has launched a counter-offensive. I get the feeling I’m not being given all the information, as if someone is a step ahead of me. It’s like they already know what my next move is and are ready to twist it to create further dissention. 

He huffed and held Dain’s eyes. You were a fine Marine—courageous and one to follow orders . . . except for your problem with Jimmy Wu. I had to lean pretty heavily on you about that one.

Dain tensed. He had hoped Bradley had forgotten. It was personal.

Bigotry always is.

Dain frowned. The Chinese blinded my father.

So, all Chinese are guilty? You shoot my brother, I shoot yours?

I never shot back, Dain said, heat creeping up the back of his neck. Bradley had harped at him about pre-judging, as he called it.

Bradley leaned back. No, you didn’t shoot back. I admire that. He pinched his temples between his thumb and finger. We’ve had this talk before. Hate can eat away our humanity. It’s eating away at the American way of life, polarizing neighbor from neighbor, driving a wedge of distrust between people who once considered each other extended family.

But the Chinese are taking over everything, backing us into a corner.

Bradley studied his face. You were ten and small for your age when they roughed you up. Now you’re strong and a force to deal with, a Secret Service agent, son.

Son. Dain’s chest lifted imperceptibly, yet he struggled against the bond Bradley held out to him, a bond made impossible because of the huge disagreements between them. Yet, the invitation remained. Where Dain’s father had been unable to see any of his accomplishments, General Bradley had commented on each triumph, had looked Dain in the eye and saluted when he graduated top in his class from Officer Candidate School. Dain’s throat still thickened at the memory. Bradley was right, he was a competent Secret Service agent. Yes, sir.

Bradley peered at Dain as though looking for any hint of subversion. In the Marines, we were a unit, depending on each other for our lives in a hostile environment. That was overseas, but that hostility has come home, infiltrated the fiber of our country. We’ve got to root it out.

Dain wondered why Bradley was telling him all this. Is the FBI on it?

Shaking his head, Bradley lowered his voice. No. I don’t know who I can trust.

Dain opened his mouth to ask another question, but Bradley cut him off.

Before I go any further, you understand that what you hear in this office is classified?

Dain nodded.

Good. I’m putting together a mission more important than any I’ve led before.

What’s the objective?

To ferret out the traitors who are using violence and the media to crumble the unity that holds this country together. I want you on my team.

Dain’s attention perked up. Bradley had been hard, but the missions he led still had the power to rush adrenaline through Dain’s veins. You’re my Commander in Chief, sir. What do you need?

"I need soldiers I can trust to act below the radar—a covert team accountable only to me. There is a . . . I hate to use the word mole because it minimizes the enormous power I sense the traitor wielding. As the President, my calls and actions are scheduled, monitored. I can’t snoop around without alerting my enemies."

And you’d like me to . . . what?

Your successful investigations in the field are impressive.

"Is that why I was transferred? You requested me?" A swell of pride threatened to break Dain’s resolve to resist the man’s personal charisma.

Bradley nodded. It didn’t require a genius after taking office to realize something was amiss here. I’ve been pushing people’s buttons, listening for clues, but I can’t get my finger on it. Are you in?

Yes, sir. This new job just got interesting.

Looking relieved for the first time, Bradley leaned back. Good. Last month, the Chinese Ambassador to the U.S. was murdered and the People’s Republic of China thinks we are responsible. To calm the situation, I agreed to let them send their own investigator. He smiled. Once he arrived, it didn’t take my guy in the CIA long to flip him.

"A Chinese spy? You trust that?"

Bradley rested his elbows on the chair arms and pressed the tips of his fingertips together. Yes. I’ve met the guy. Li Kui. He shares my determination to find who’s behind this assassination, but more importantly, he’s committed to helping me uncover the identities of my adversaries.

Dain’s mind raced to connect the unexpected dots. The President was working with a Chinese spy. So, my part is to . . .?

Set up meetings with Li Kui. Find out what he’s learned. You’ll relay his reports directly to me. Bradley studied his face and said, You’ll be working under Jimmy Wu, CIA.

Heat rose in Dain’s cheeks. Bradley had to know the pain he was inflicting. He and Jimmy had gone at it hard in hand-to-hand combat training. Most of the time their skirmishes ended badly. Their relationship continued to blister, even after they graduated from Officer Candidate School. Yeah, I remember.

Will that be a problem?

Gritting his teeth against an honest reply, he said, No, sir. No problem, sir. Dain heard his own bitterness.

Ignoring the tone, Bradley inquired, "Are you still practicing martial arts?

Tilting his head at the sudden change in subject, Dain answered, Twice a week.

"Good. Tomorrow after work, I want you to join the Jeong Hung Sing Kwoon. It’s a Chinese martial arts center."

For what purpose? Dain’s protest found words this time.

Jimmy Wu will meet you there and arrange an introduction to Li Kui. Get to know the other members, especially anyone associated with the WCIS.

The what?

Wen Chang Intellectual Society. Bradley glanced at his watch and stood. You’re dismissed Agent Ryder.

Feeling as though he’d been socked in the gut, Dain stepped back to his post and contemplated what he’d gotten into. He swiped at the beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Bradley was sending him into the dragon’s pit, surrounded not just by Chinese, but highly trained fighters. His chest tightened against Bradley’s blatant disregard of the grief he bore, the pain that had shaped his life.

His thoughts were interrupted by a newscast on the secretary’s computer monitor that attracted two staffers to her desk. Dain strained to hear the commentator.

"As temperatures rose, tempers followed, inciting dozens of terminated autoworkers to attack a car lot. Before being arrested, they bashed windows of Chinese-made automobiles and threatened the salesmen and other Chinese-American employees. Groups of angry citizens are again demanding Congress halt the exodus of American jobs flowing to China.

Although the President inherited the dilemma from the previous administration, he reiterated that violence is not the answer. Opponents say he has failed to bring a solution to this crisis. The staffers stomped off. The secretary frowned, closed the computer tab, and resumed her work.

Throughout the afternoon, Dain mulled over the President’s unorthodox request. Why was he working with two Chinese men to look for dirt in the U.S. government? Agent Krueger called Bradley pro-China rather than pro-America. Was that true?

On the other hand, if Bradley was right about an adversary orchestrating the dissidence, inciting civil violence, Dain felt compelled to investigate. He ran down a list of possible names, but none answered the question, who could wield that much power without being detected?

BEYOND THE SAFETY GLASS that covered the eastern wall of the D.C. high rise, Master Yishi stared out at America’s trademarks of power, their familiar columns glistening white. Two-hundred years were nothing compared to China’s enduring history. His eyes moved to the mighty clouds overshadowing the city while his mind reworked the master plan that would soon alter the course of both nations.

Crossing one trim leg over the other, Master Yishi brushed a wrinkle out of his silk pants and assessed Guan Di who sat at his impressive desk. Meeting with one’s opponent on his turf, even if they shared the same goal, could be risky. He glanced confidently at his bodyguard, Tao, and wondered at Guan Di’s choice to meet with him unguarded. Though forced to wait for Guan Di to finish typing on his computer, Master Yishi purposed a pleasant hint of a smile. When the man turned toward him, he said, Guan Di, you have come up with a plan to set fire to the bee’s hive?

A blaze. The man’s small, round face revealed no emotion, his quick eyes indicated a mind that ran like a computer—a skill highly prized by Master Yishi in this game that must be won