‘That’s beautiful,’ Cohen said. ‘What is it?’ ‘Austrian Aug,’ said Hatcher as he assembled the weapon. ‘I need some ammo.’
‘No problem,’ Cohen said. He gave the order to Sing, and the big Chinese slipped out of the room and returned a minute or two later with four boxes. ‘Enough?’ Cohen asked,
Hatcher smiled, ‘Two hundred rounds oughta do it,’ he whispered.
Cohen gathered his small band in the living room, a sturdy enough-looking bunch dressed in black pants and turtlenecks and each wearing a black cotton mask so they would be well concealed in the dark. All were armed with Mac 10 submachine guns. He spoke to them in Chinese.
‘They will probably hit us front and back,’ he told them. ‘Hatcher, Sing and I will stay in the house. We’ll keep the lights out in the house. We’ll draw and make them come to us. Louie, you take the roof. George, Joey Chen and Lee — in the garden. Sammy, you’ll be on the ground in the back. Anything to add, Christian?’
Hatcher shook his head.
Hatcher had one final thought, but it was one he hesitated to discuss with these men. Joe Lung was the last of the five members of Dragon’s Breath, the men who had run dope for White Powder Mama from Thailand to Saigon, and there was a good chance he knew about the Huie-kui camp. He needed to keep Lung alive, at least long enough to try to question him. But that seemed too much to ask of Cohen’s small brigade, all of whom were putting their lives on the line for the Tsu Fi — and for him.
Finally he said, ‘If there’s a chance to keep Lung alive, I’d like to question him.’ Cohen locked at him with raised eyebrows. ‘But not at the risk of anyone’s life,’ Hatcher quickly added.
It had started to rain, a light drizzle with a portent of a heavier downpour to come. This was good news for Lung. It would cover sounds of the movement of the gangsters, all of whom wore black shirts and pants.
His driver parked the car on a curved street below Cohen’s house. Joe Lung and the other two assassins got out and moved quickly and silently up through the foliage to the foot of the wall that surrounded Cohen’s property. The ground here leveled off after sloping sharply away from the house for several hundred yards.
Lung guessed there would be at least one man on the ground at the rear of the house, possibly more, so he made his assault plan accordingly. He tossed a grappling hook up twice before it caught on the wall, then went up the line to the top of the wall and attached a twenty-foot-long insulated jumper to the electric wire on top of the fence, letting it dangle down. Lying flat on the wall, he slid one end of the jumper down the wire until it was taut. Then he crawled back. With the insulated Jumper firmly attached, he cut the electric wire. He punched the button on his flashlight twice, then dropped over to the inside of the fence, landing in a crouch in knee-deep vines and straw grass.
Above him, through the trees, he could see the spotlights on Cohen’s balcony several hundred yards away, throwing arcs of light on the foliage below. He stayed in the crouch, his ears alert for sounds in the darkness. The other two men dropped quietly beside him.
The drizzle turned into a steady rain.
They spread out quickly until the three mobsters formed a line from the east to the west wall of Cohen’s estate. They still had not spotted the guard on the back slope. They moved forward as silently as possible through the tangled vines and grass toward the house, keeping low, looking for a silhouette against the spotlights, each with an earphone in one ear attached to a battery-driven beeper.
It was Lung who spotted Cohen’s guard, Sammy, squatting in the cleared area at the foot of the balcony, his eyes searching the area beyond the arc of spotlights. Lung pressed his beeper button twice. The other two assassins heard the beeps and froze. It was up to Lung to take out the guard when their man signaled that the assault on the front of the house had begun. Lung was lying in the high grass perhaps thirty yards from the crouching Sammy) a black shadow with a mask over his face.
Lung raised his rifle, a Mannlicher loaded with a tranquilizing dart that would immediately knock the man unconscious. Better than a bullet, which might only wound the guard and give him a chance to sound an alarm.
He sighted in on Sammy through the infrared scope, then raised it up to the balcony. The lights in the house were out. He lowered the rifle back down, aiming at Sammy’s throat, and waited for the signal from the street.
On the roof of the house, Cohen’s man watched through binoculars as a car picked up the man near the Botanical Gardens. He whispered into his walkie-talkie, ‘They have picked up the man on the hill. There appear to be three others in the car.’
In the darkened house, Hatcher swore vehemently. ‘That’s it. That son of a bitch, Varney, turned me up to Joe Lung. He’s in on it.’
Varney and his assistant, a young Oriental corporal named Henry Dow, reached the top of the mountain. Corporal Dow knew few details about the job. They were taking a man into protective custody, that was all he needed to know. The beefy young corporal had been a cop for four years and never asked questions.
Varney approached the gates of Cohen’s estate slowly through the rain. He saw the triad mobster’s car turn in behind him, its lights out. The corporal, distracted by the rain, was peering intently through the windshield and did not notice the car. As they neared the gate Varney flicked his lights, then picked up the radio phone, got the police operator and asked for a patch through to Cohen’s phone number.
‘Their play will be to follow Varney’s car through the gates while they’re open,’ Hatcher whispered.
Cohen relayed the message to the other men. He had a Smith & Wesson .357 and an old Army Colt .45 stuck in a web belt he had strapped on for the occasion. Hatcher laughed at him. ‘China,’ he said, ‘you look ridiculous.’
Cohen smiled grimly. ‘Don’t underestimate me, Occhi di Sassi,’ he said. ‘I know how to handle these things.’
‘That’s a relief to know,’ growled Hatcher. He opened the glass door to the balcony. ‘I’ll check the back.’
He eased out the back door in a crouch and crept to the railing of the balcony. Rain was coming down steadily now and the visibility was poor. Below him, he saw the guard, Sammy, crouched near one of the support posts, his Mac 10 protected by a poncho. Hatcher went back inside to get out of the rain.
Down below, crouching in the wet grass, Lung checked his watch. Varney would be making his move anytime now. Once the action started in front of the house there would be enough distraction for his men to go up the support posts, over the balcony and hit the house from the rear.
‘Here they come,’ Cohen’s man on the roof said into his walkie-talkie.
In the car behind Varney, one of the assassins saw Varney’s lights flick. ‘Go!’ he said into his walkie-talkie.
Behind the house, Lung heard the order and squeezed off the tranquilizer, watching through the night scope as the dart smacked Sammy in the throat. He saw the Cohen guard fall back against the support post. His eyes rolled up and he dropped against the post in a sitting position. His shoulders drooped and his weapon fell to the ground.
Lung pressed the beeper twice, and the two mobsters in the rear charged rapidly through the grass and rain to the balcony support posts. Lung drew a stiletto from his sleeve, then, grabbing Sammy’s hair, pulled back his head and slit his throat.
‘This is Sergeant Varney,’ the British sergeant said into his phone when he heard Cohen answer his call. ‘Open the gates, will you?’ He slowed to a stop.
‘Here we go,’ said Cohen, pressing the gate switch.
As the two big iron grille gates swung slowly open, Varney slammed down the gas pedal. His car lurched forward and roared into Cohen’s driveway. His headlights caught one of Cohen’s men before the Cohen gunman leaped into the protection of the rose garden.
Behind him, the assassins’ car, its tires screaming, roared through the closing gates behind Varney. Varney’s car skidded to a stop near the front of the house, jumped a small curb and crashed into the ga
rden. He and Corporal Dow tumbled out opposite doors of the car. Behind them, Lung’s killers rolled out of their car into the flower gardens, and as Dow stood up, the driverless car slammed into Varney’s machine. It hit the rear fender, glanced off and screeched down the side of the police car. The sturdy policeman shrieked as he was crushed to death between the two cars. Varney, dazed, tumbled from his car only to be cut down immediately by the assassins.
Inside, Sing and Cohen ducked behind a sofa as the door was shattered by a dozen bullets. Glass and lamps exploded in the room. Hatcher, watching from the door of the bedroom, whispered, ‘Everybody okay?’
‘So far, so good,’ was Cohen’s quick reply.
They could hear the rattle of the Uzis used by Lung’s men quickly answered by the deeper roar of the Mac 10’s. The night was ripped by gunfire and an occasional scream. Flashes of gunfire reflected through the windows like distant lightning. Cohen and Sing concentrated on the front door, in case Lung’s men broke through.
In the rear of the house, Lung and his two men quickly attached leather straps with spik.es on the inside to their ankles. They slung belts — like those used by telephone linemen — around the posts, jammed the spikes into them and started up.
Inside, Hatcher saw the first of Lung’s killers reach the top of the balcony, leap over the railing and charge toward the bedroom. Hatcher dived behind the bed. In the dark and the rain, the killer saw only movement in the room and fired a blast from his Uzi. The bullets ripped into the mirrored wall, and Hatcher’s reflection erupted in shattering glass. Hatcher dropped both lands on the bed and fired a short burst from his Aug. Half a dozen shots stitched the gunman from chin to belly. The shocked gangster was thrown backward as the bullets tore into him. He flipped over the balcony railing and dropped from view.
From the other room Hatcher heard another burst of Uzi gunfire. He ran in a crouch to the doorway of the living room in time to see a second triad gangster zigzag into the darkened room, firing from the hip. Bookcases, vases, flowers and paintings exploded a moment before Cohen stood up from behind the sofa and fired his .357 once. It hit the gunman in the chest, spinning him around, his gun still chattering. Blossoms of down feathers erupted from the sofa. Cohen felt a tug at his side, a sharp pain like a bee-sting. He looked down. My God, he thought, I’m shot!
The assassin felt the hot bullet burn deep into his chest and rupture his heart while his lungs flooded with blood. His body jackknifed and he fell forward on his face, like a man praying before Buddha.
As Hatcher rolled back into the bedroom he saw Lung vault the balcony. The mobster w-as silhouetted in the doorway, his face drenched with rain, his eyes glazed with hatred. An instant later he saw Hatcher but not before Hatcher fired a burst at him. Lung jumped to one side but a round clipped his ear, which vanished in a spray of blood and flesh. Hatcher leaped across the bed and dived through the doorway, swinging the Aug as he did.
He punched Lung across the jaw, shattering it, and knocked him back against the railing. But the Oriental was tougher than Hatcher thought. He lashed out with his knife and nicked Hatcher’s sleeve. Hatcher grabbed Lung’s wrist, shoved it up, twisting it away from him, and the knife dropped from his hands. Lung flipped backward he grabbed Hatcher, and they both landed on top of the railing. Hatcher hooked his elbow over the wooden crossbar and caught himself. He still had Lung by the wrist, but the falling gangster snapped loose and dropped, twisting as he fell, trying to get his feet under him. He landed sideways, the heavy fall slamming the air out of him and smashing two ribs, Lung bounced down the slope to the edge of the grass.
He rolled painfully over on his face, his broken ribs searing with pain, the side of his face ripped by Hatcher’s gunshots. He pulled his knees up under him and staggered in a crouch, down the hill toward darkness.
Behind him, Hatcher wrapped his legs around the post and slid to the ground. He snatched up Lung’s knife, which was lying in the mud, and charged down the slope.
Lung leaped into the tall grass, but his broken ribs were more painful than he could bear. He fell with a cry and began crawling the last few feet toward the dark. He was almost out of the spotlight’s arc when he felt Hatcher’s iron grasp on the back of his collar, felt himself hauled to his feet, heard Hatcher’s rasping voice in his ear, ‘You son of a bitch, Hatcher hissed, ‘you should have died a long time ago.’ He placed the point of Lung’s own stiletto against the back of the gangster’s neck, pressed on it hard enough to break the skin. ‘You’ve got some questions to answer,’ he rasped.
Lung, humiliated and defeated, got his legs under him and lunged upward, ramming the knife deep into his own throat. His cry was like an animal’s. Hatcher pulled his hand back, but the knife was buried so deep the soggy hilt slipped out of his hand. He heard Lung’s gargling scream, the unmistakable death rattle, felt him shudder and fall limp.
Hatcher stood over him, still grasping his collar. Lung’s head lolled forward. Hatcher dropped the killer face down in the mud. at his feet.
‘Welcome to hell,’ his shattered voice said as he stood over the dead killer’s body with rain pouring down his face.
HARD BALL
By daylight Cohen’s mansion had become a scene of frenzied activity. Six officers had finished photographing, interrogating and trying to piece together what had happened the night before. Photographers had taken pictures of bodies and cars and the remains of both had been hauled away. Now gardeners were at work repairing the damage in the front of the house.
An official car pulled in the driveway. Colonel Jeffrey Holloway got out and slowly turned on one heel, a 360-degree turn, surveying the battered grounds of Cohen’s home.
Holloway was not a pleasant person. The man who headed the Central District of the Hong Kong police was six feet tall, his white hair cropped almost Nazi-short, his face a thin, stern triangle dominated by almost blind-gray eyes. Even in the heat of the morning sun, his starched khaki uniform was unwrinkled.
He strode toward Cohen’s front door like a palace guard, so straight he almost leaned backward. He slapped one thigh with a riding crop, his symbol of rank.
Holloway sniffed about the house appraising the damage, then walked down to the open doorway to the guest room. Cohen, whose side had been nicked by a bullet, lay on the bed. Ping, the acupuncturist, leaned over him, placing needles here and there to kill the pain in the wounds, which a medical doctor had already repaired.
When Ping had finished his work, Holloway entered the bedroom. He ordered the man repairing the shattered wall mirrors to leave. Hatcher leaned against the wall and said nothing.
‘A gangland fight, two police officers dead, eight others dead. One hell of a mess, I’d say,’ he snorted.
‘You’re a little confused, aren’t you, Colonel?’ Cohen answered, still not looking at him. ‘My home was attacked by triad mobsters. How dare you come in here and imply that I instigated this mess.’
‘You’ve been asking for trouble for years,’ he snapped back.
Cohen lay quietly with the long needles protruding from his neck, stomach and knees. He lay there forming his strategy, deciding how best to handle the situation diplomatically, The old Tsu Fi had once advised Cohen, ‘Never force a man into a corner. He has no choice but to fight. Always leave a door open for him.’
Cohen sighed and folded his hands across his chest. ‘You’re walking a very thin wire’ he said to Holloway.
‘Is that a fact?’ the priggish officer said, raising his eyebrows..
‘Your man Varney was on the take,’ Cohen said flatly.
‘Ridiculous!’ Holloway snapped, his voice beginning to boil. ‘One of the finest officers on the squad.’
Cohen laughed at him. ‘First, ‘Varney tipped off Lung that Hatcher was in Hong Kong. Then he led the killers through my gates. And finally Lung’s own men killed him to shut him up.’
‘Absolute trash,’ the colonel bellowed.
‘Colonel, Varney visited Hatcher yesterday morning
at the Peninsula. Within two hours, Lung broke into the room to kill Hatcher. He missed because Hatcher was out here. Then Varney called Hatcher here and told him the Triad Squad wanted to take him into protective custody. Are you aware of all that?’
Holloway silently glared at Cohen through narrowing eyes.
Cohen went on: ‘When he arrived at my gates he patched through a call to this number from his police car. Then he led Lung’s men in here. I’m sure all this can be verified by your own records. But I’ll bet Varney didn’t report Hatcher’s arrival in Hong Kong, because he reported it to Lung, not to the police. Or that he planned to provide protection for Hatcher, because he had no such intention. Check your radio operators. You’ll find he made a call from his car to my unlisted number seconds before they attacked us.’
Holloway’s anger began to slowly change to doubt. ‘Very convenient conjecture,’ he said uncertainly.
‘Not on your life,’ said Cohen ‘Hatcher thought the cops were tailing him, but they were actually Lung’s White Palm mobsters, who were tipped off by Varney. Or worse, men on your own squad who were on the take, too.’
‘You’re making irresponsible accusations,’ Holloway said menacingly.
‘The killers were waiting out there for us to open the gates for Varney,’ Cohen said with a sigh. ‘He led them in here.’
‘Circumstantial. It will be interesting to see what happens when you take that story to court,’ said Holloway.
‘Nobody’s going to court,’ Cohen said flatly.
‘Oh?’
‘Colonel, don’t give me that stiff-upper-lip shit. Are you interested in the truth?’
‘Truth? Hah!’ Holloway snorted.
‘Listen to me,’ Cohen snapped. ‘Hatcher threw off his tails on Cat Street. But when he got here, Lung’s people were observing the house. That’s how Varney located Hatcher — Lung told him.’
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