Mysterious Cairo

by Edited By Ed Stark

  "Whatever happened to just giving somebody a pink slip?" he said aloud. Jasmine gave him a puzzled look.

  Before them were the doors leading to the second floor, firmly shut. Working together, they managed open up a gap of a few inches in the portal, not enough to get through but at least a start.

  "What do you think we will encounter on the other side of this door?" Jasmine whispered.

  "Death rays, gorillas with brain transplants, animated plant life," he answered. "The usual."

  She nodded and went to work steeling herself against these anticipated threats. Despite himself, Bennington found himself thinking how much Natalia would like this young woman.

  Or really hate her guts, he added, before turning his attention back to the door.

  Desperation lent strength to their limbs. The doors were perhaps one more shove from being open wide enough for Jasmine to slip through when Bennington happened to look up. What sixth sense alerted him to do so, he did not know, but had he done it a second later, it would not have mattered.

  There was a second car in the shaft. And it was plunging toward them, ready to take man, woman and the car they stood upon straight to Hell.

  Bennington slammed into Jasmine, sending her through the half-opened door and sprawling on to the carpet. He sprang through himself, landing on top of her just as the cars met with a resounding crash and continued their journey toward the depths of Cairo.

  "I hope your company has a good health plan," Ben-nington said, his heart racing in his chest.

  "Adequate," Jasmine answered. "Would you please get off of me?"

  He rolled on to the carpet. He would have liked nothing better than to go to sleep, but there was no time to rest, no time to worry about the pain now. They were still a long way from escape.

  The staircase was down the corridor. They stole up to it as quietly as possible — any guards downstairs would have to have heard the smashing elevator cars and would be on their way to investigate. Cautiously, Jasmine peered around the corner.

  "Anything?" Bennington whispered.

  Jasmine's answer was a shout, as she flung herself around the corner and sailed down the staircase, slamming like a piledriver into three armed men. All four hit the landing together, Jasmine using one of her foes to cushion her own landing.

  One guard rose immediately and grabbed the woman by the shoulders, trying to drive her to the ground. Bennington winced as she brought her knee up and taught the man the true meaning of pain. It was at that moment the second guard revived, rising to aim his gun at the back of her head.

  Bennington let out a yell and dove head first down the stairs, crashing into the guard as the gun discharged toward the ceiling. Both men struggled to rise, but Bennington managed to do it first, sending the gunman into oblivion with a left to the jaw.

  "Next time, wait for me," he said, as Jasmine took a gun for herself and handed him one.

  "Why?" she answered. "I was doing quite well on my own. I was disarming attackers lurking behind me when I was five."

  "I'm surprised you lived to be six," he replied, as they started down the stairs.

  * * *

  Only one more corridor before the lobby, and the door out of the building. A few yards to freedom. They didn't speak, fearing it would betray their location. Since reaching the first floor, they had encountered no opposition, something that had Bennington worried.

  They made their way to the simple wooden door that opened on to the lobby. If there were any other traps waiting, they would have to be in there.

  Bennington waved Jasmine over to the left side of the door, while he took the right. With one solid kick, he stove in the door, then ducked back to wait for the fireworks.

  Hmmm, he said to himself. No heat beams. No giant robots. No nuclear explosions.

  Heartened, he stuck his head around the corner.

  Just ten guys with guns. No problem.

  Bullets tore through the door jamb, and the two would-be victims replied with a few shots of their own. Bennington knew there was no point retreating back into the building — there would just be more obstacles to overcome. Eventually, fatigue would cause them to move a second too slow, and it would all be over.

  He caught Jasmine's attention and managed a smile. He had always figured he would die in the company of a beautiful woman, but not in quite this setting. Still, we gave them a run for their royals, he thought proudly, squeezing off another round and bringing down an opponent.

  That was when things got strange.

  Powerful yellow light streamed into the lobby from all around the blackout shades. A voice amplified by a megaphone arose over the sound of the gunfire, saying, "All right, Bayan, we know you're in there! Come out with your hands up!"

  The shooting stopped abruptly. Jasmine shot a glance at Bennington, wordlessly asking if this was his doing. He shook his head to say no and fought down an urge to burst out laughing.

  "I mean it, 'Mad Dog'!" the megaphone voice was continuing. "You've got five seconds, or we bring that rat trap down around your ears!"

  One of the Nippon gunmen — from the way he moved, apparently the executive who had consigned Bennington and Jasmine to their fates—moved toward the front door. His men kept the hall doorway covered as their boss opened the gate to the street.

  The executive was halfway through "There must be some misunderstanding" when the tommy-guns cut him, and the door, to pieces.

  The other gunmen whirled around and started firing through the windows, but between the firepower outside and the two foes to their rear, they did not last long. When the shooting was over, the lot of them lay dead.

  Bennington and Jasmine stepped cautiously into the lobby. "Throw down your gun," he said to her, and took it from her when she resisted. "Now put your hands up."

  She did as she was told, though not without a hard look in his direction. An instant later, the battered door swung open to reveal the burly form of a Cairo policeman.

  The cop instinctively raised his gun when he saw two people still on their feet. Before he could shoot, Benning-ton shouted, "We surrender, Tarif! We surrender!"

  Sergeant Hali Tarif lowered his gun — slowly — and led them from the blood-soaked room.

  * * *

  "Bennington? What the blazes were you doing in there? And who were all those weird Orientals?"

  The red-faced questioner was Captain Karl Sampson, a Terran expatriate now working with the Cairo police force, and an old acquaintance of Bennington's. "Answer me, damn you!" he continued. "And who's the frail in the black scraps of cloth? What, some kind of a peep show going on in there?"

  Bennington stepped in before Jasmine could fire back a reply. Managing, with great effort, to keep a straight face, he said, "No, Captain. It was a white slavery ring."

  "What are you talking about?"

  Bennington was just getting warmed up. "They wanted to use the Icarus Club as a front for their filthy business. Naturally, I said no, so they kidnapped me and brought me here. This ... er, innocent young thing helped me escape."

  He put a paternal hand on Jasmine's shoulder as he said this. She restrained herself from protesting.

  Sampson was clearly confused. "This makes no sense. We got a call that Alif 'Mad Dog' Bayan was holed up in here. Then we get here and find you, some dame whose dress is in shreds, and a bunch of dead Orientals."

  "Well, maybe Bayan was involved with the ring, Captain," Bennington said. "Maybe he was here, but left before you arrived."

  That seemed to please the policeman. "Sure, that must be it. We'll comb the whole area for him! Meanwhile, you two will have to come downtown for questioning."

  "Could it wait 'til tomorrow?" Bennington asked. "The lady and I have had a harrowing evening. And by the way, have I told you how much the Icarus Club has suffered by not having a man of the law like yourself as a member?"

  * * *

  A few phone calls from his apartment allowed Ben-nington to put all the pieces together. When they ha
d lost the tail, "Numbers" and "The Dutchman" had gathered a few of Icarus' best clients together and gone to visit the Golden Dragon. After an hour or two of knocking heads together, they had gotten the address of the Nippon firm's headquarters.

  Not knowing how much muscle they'd be facing or how much time they had, "Numbers" decided to play it safe and bring the cops in on it. Telling them "Mad Dog" Bayan was around was like waving a red flag in Sampson's face.

  "All of that, I understand," Jasmine said. She was sitting on his couch, sipping a cup of tea. He had loaned her a bathrobe to wear. "But why did you not tell the police the truth about what was in that house?"

  "It's like I said, Jasmine: the underworld is a family. We look after our own," he said, sitting down beside her. "If Nippon is trying to get its claws on Cairo's shadier businesses, it's up to the gangs to stop them. And the Icarus Club can organize the resistance. The Golden Dragon was just a start, kid."

  She put down her cup and turned to him. "Why did you lie about me? I would have destroyed all you hold dear in the name of profit."

  He frowned. "I'm not sure. Maybe because I saw that you'd been sold a bill of goods — I don't like seeing people used. Maybe because I know you could have talked your way out of that death sentence, if you had put your mind to it, and let me take the fall alone."

  She blushed slightly. "I considered it. My former employer was . attracted to me."

  "And maybe because now we're up against a new kind of enemy in Cairo. One that's colder, quieter, and doesn't play by our rules. To beat them, we need to understand them — and for that, I need your help."

  "Are you offering me a job?" she asked.

  "If you want it," he said. "The Icarus Club could use you. And after seeing what you did to that sumo, I'd rather have you on my side than against me."

  She thought about it for a long moment before speaking. "You are a very strange man, Paul Bennington. But perhaps you are right—perhaps mere profit is worthless if there is not some sense of . belonging to go with it. I will accept your offer."

  He smiled and moved to get himself another cup of coffee. She stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  "You forget, we are in Cairo," she said, smiling. "We must seal the deal with a handshake."

  She took his hand in hers and drew him down toward her kiss.

  Outside, a soft rain began to fall .

  Dead End

  Shane Lacy Hensley

  The rain. It kept her awake. But that was about all. Other than that, it was as cold and miserable as her heart. It had been that way for over a year and a half — ever since the invasion.

  Mobius' realm had crashed down on her planet like some great sprawling net on an unsuspecting school of fish. Tanks, troops, and even magic were used against those who resisted the rule of the new Pharaoh. The brave died early. The cowardly and the foolish seemed to live forever. Half of the nation joined his regime and the other half cowered beneath its ugly shadow.

  But not her father. Hasim al-Haffah had worked for peace all of his life. He had made himself unpopular many times for wanting to negotiate with the Israelis, but had never wavered from the path of harmony. And then he had spoken out against the Pharaoh. Only a few nights later, he had kissed her good night and gone into his room. The morning paper called it a suicide.

  On the outside, Yishara wept, but inside, hatred and vengeance swirled about her like the turbulent storms which bordered the invader's realms. On that day, a part of Yishara had died. But something new was born in her place.

  She had made herself a set of metal "talons" and a skin-tight black outfit from the darkest satin. Yishara cropped her long flowing hair short so that it wouldn't interfere with her vision; it was hair that had taken her eighteen years to grow to perfection. She had no special "powers" like many of the heroes which had recently surfaced in her strangely transformed world, but she had been a gymnast in school and she would use her natural agility to combat the dark forces released by the invaders. Between her acrobatic prowess, her talons, a trusty bullwhip, and her hatred of Mobius, Yishara became the heroine known as the Raven.

  She realized that it would be a long time before she was ready to take on the Pharaoh himself, so the back alleys and crime filled streets of Cairo became her training ground.

  It was over one of these alleys that she was now perched. Hidden in the shadows of a rooftop, she gazed into the rain soaked street which had only recently acquired a grim reputation.

  The black haired, slim, and muscular beauty had read in the Cairo Clarion that several people had disappeared in or about this section of Old Cairo in the last three days. The locals had already named it the 'Alley of Death,' but either reputation or the drizzling rain had kept the street deserted for the last four hours. Now it was almost four in the morning and ...

  She heard a delicate splash in the water behind her. Raven whirled, barely raising her metallic talons in time to catch the very large blade of a scimitar. Wielding the blade was a giant of a man. The cloth from his red turban ran down around his face, leaving visible only his mocking, hate-filled eyes. His shirt and pants were also dark red.

  This was all Raven had time to see before she had to parry the heavy blade once again. A quick glance to the left revealed a lower rooftop. She leapt, leaving her astonished attacker behind her ... or so she thought. She landed poorly, wrenching her ankle as she misjudged the depth of the rooftop puddle. Her attacker landed with a dull splash behind her and she felt the sharp steel of his scimitar bury itself deep in her thigh.

  Sharp pain screamed up her nerves and slammed into her brain, sending her reeling and staggering over the rooftop. Only the elasticity of the typical Cairo awnings saved her life. In a delirium, she looked up to where she had fallen. The swordsman was doing something strange. It was hard to see him clearly through the rain and mist, but it seemed as if he was . cleaning his blade! Her bewilderment suddenly gave way to panic when she saw the blurry shapes which joined him. He wasn't alone! She had to get away. But how?

  Across the narrow alley was a wooden beam protruding from high upon a stucco wall. She yanked out her bullwhip. She heard the men on the rooftop yelling at each other in a language unfamiliar to her. Her fear gave her energy — now was the time. She lashed the whip, watched it catch tight on the wet wood of the beam, then leapt off the awning and swung across the darkened alley.

  Several knives whipped past her lithe form and clanged into the wall in front of her. She slammed into the wall and scrambled up the leather line. At the top, she dragged herself over the lip, retrieved her bullwhip, and dropped onto another water filled rooftop.

  Strangely, the water she was now lying in had a red tint to it. She didn't care to think about this further, and promptly passed out.

  She wasn't sure how long she had been lying there, but when she looked up, one of the men was just crawling over the lip of the roof. The glaring eyes peaked the lip and seemed surprised that she was awake. She slammed her boot into his face and sent him screaming into the street below. The crunch was particularly satisfying.

  Then she saw another hand on the roof's edge. She had to run again. But where?

  In her brief career as a crime fighter, Raven had run across several other so called "pulp heroes," including some of the famed Mystery Men. She even knew where two of them lived. But only one was close enough to do her any good. She didn't really want to go to him; something about him scared her. He was the Shroud, a dark avenger who took his name from the mysterious cloak he wore.

  Her trick didn't work again. As she tried to kick the second thug in the face, his hand blocked it with dazzling speed and threw her off balance. He followed up by spilling her over. With a shove off his rock hard body, she tumbled, just barely, onto another rooftop, as the surprised goon fell to the ground. When he leapt to his feet, Raven had already cleared the adjoining building.

  The wound in her side was aching, and her ankle felt like someone had driven over it with an Aperehen, but she knew t
hat to stop was certain death. The next roof must have been to some sort of apartments due to the number of clothes lines and chimneys she saw there. Raven grabbed one of the clothes lines, slashed it with her talons, and quickly crouched behind a stone chimney. When the thug came racing by, she gave it sharp tug and sent him sprawling over the nearby edge.

  She began to run again and heard the splashing footsteps of the others behind her. The man she had just tripped was hanging on by one hand. Four seconds later, there was only a bloody hand print fading quickly in the pouring rain. Raven slung the blood from her talon and smiled grimly. It was only a little further to the Shroud's.

  * * *

  She had almost made it when they caught up with her. She thought she might outrun them at first, but then the sharp pain in her side betrayed her — she slammed to the ground and smacked her head painfully into the unforgiving roof. Summoning every ounce of her spirit, she crawled towards the last roof edge. Across the street she could see the bedroom window of Gunner Hayes, the Shroud. If only she could make it across the alley.

  And then they were all around her. She wasn't as angry about them catching her as she was that she was wheezing and they were not. One of them tore away his mask, revealing a grinning face with two teeth missing. Raven spit at her murderer, but only managed to coat her chest with a thick string of her own blood and saliva. The thug laughed, and raised his scimitar.

  In quasi-consciousness, Raven noticed a red, round hole, surrounded by some sort of pulpy material, appear in the swordsman's forehead. The crimson stream which mixed with the rain and meandered down his face looked strange, but not alarming to the delirious heroine. From the back of her mind, a part of her psyche that was trying to slam its way through a mental wall of pain broke through. From the hole came the sound of ... laughter. But it was not the kind of laughter that she had once made with her father. And it was certainly not the laughter of love or happiness. It was the unbridled laugh of dark insanity. She knew it all too well, and the recognition of its source caused her mind to rejoin her physical self. She almost wished it hadn't.