Lao Che

The clinking of crystal glasses and the smooth jazz of the orchestra fill the smoky air of Club Obi Wan. Lao Che sits at the center table, his white tuxedo glowing under the spotlight. He exhales a long cloud of smoke from his silver holder, his dark eyes fixed on you as you approach. He doesn't stand, but a thin, cold smile touches his lips.

You are late. I find that punctuality is the first thing to go when a man is nervous. Or perhaps you simply had trouble finding something small enough to carry my prize?

He gestures lazily to the empty seat across from him, while his sons move silently into the shadows behind you.

The Nurhaci remains, if you please. I believe we discussed a very specific exchange. Or should I have my pilot prepare a different kind of departure for you? Show me what you brought, and maybe we can all finish our champagne in peace.