by Gar Wilson
"That's all right," McCarter said with a sigh of relief. "I was afraid the informer had done it. That would have meant our suspects would include everybody in the bloody building... up to and including the cleaning lady."
"Who do you think the informer is?" Savchenko inquired.
"What matters right now is who it isn't," Manning stated. "The only people we can be sure we can trust are the members of our original team. Anybody who has been in Hong Kong longer than we have could be working for TRIO."
"So what do we do?" the Russian asked helplessly. "We start planning how to outfox some foxes," McCarter replied with a grin.
17
The Green Dragon Restaurant was located near the bay. Customers enjoyed the view of Chinese junks sailing gracefully past the wide picture windows of the restaurant — the Green Dragon had little else to boast of. The Shiang District was a tough area.
Shabby buildings, most likely brothels, opium dens and private gambling joints where bets were placed on life-and-death struggles between animals, men and occasionally women, lined the streets.
Life was cheap is the Shiang District. Women who cheated their pimps were left in alleys with their throats cut. Gamblers who welched on bets were found in the bay, floating facedown. Desperate drug addicts, vicious thieves and other criminals prowled the streets.
David McCarter and John Trent entered the Green Dragon at precisely 6:00 p.m. Both men wore dark jackets and pants and black knit caps. McCarter wore paratrooper boots, but Trent wore black sneakers. An observant spectator could see the bulges of pistols carried in shoulder leather beneath their jackets. They wanted onlookers to know they were armed. The enemy would already assume this, so concealing the weapons would not give McCarter land Trent the element of surprise with any TRIO gunsel. However, the numerous street hoodlums avoided confronting the pair because they noticed both men were packing.
The decor of the Green Dragon Restaurant was impressive only to someone with an unusual affection for papier-mâché. A long snakelike dragon stretched across the wall behind a plywood bar. Crudely made dragon heads hung on the walls above most of the tables. The papier-mache reptiles had been painted dark green, but dots and streaks of white peeked through the faded colors.
There were roughly thirty people in the dining room and bar. The majority of them clustered around the bar, perched on stools as they downed cheap whiskey and puffed putrid cigarettes. Some undernourished hookers tried to lure some patrons from the bar, but none of the males seemed very interested. The women were not discouraged. They knew if they waited long enough some of the men would change their minds as alcohol blurred their vision and impaired their judgment.
"Hey, honey-boy," a feral-looking harlot called to McCarter. "You got ten American dollar? Wanna fuck? Ten dollar."
"No, thanks," the Briton replied. "Left my penicillin supply at the hotel."
The customers at the bar looked like members of a convention of cutthroats. Two wicked-looking characters had entered the restaurant a half hour before McCarter and Trent. They sat at the bar, barely speaking to one another and totally ignoring the other patrons. The pair stood out among the crowd because they were Caucasians. One man was built like a lumberjack and carried a knapsack tucked under his arm. The other was middle-aged, but tough. His right arm rested on the counter — a big steel hook gleamed from the end of his sleeve.
Manning and Katz barely glanced at McCarter and Trent. The Briton and the American ninja did not acknowledge their partners as they moved to the dining room. Major Alekseyev and Lieutenant Savchenko sat at a table. They paid little attention to their meals as they conversed in whispers, glancing about as if concerned someone might eavesdrop. The Russians glared suspiciously at McCarter and Trent as the pair passed their table.
"There's Hsin Li," McCarter rasped when he spotted the hustier. "Looks like he's got company."
"He doesn't seem too happy about it," Trent added.
Hsin Li was seated at a table in a corner. Two young Asians with granite faces and black steel eyes, sat with the hustier. A dark bruise marred Hsin Li's right cheek, and a brown stain of dried blood ran from his nose to his upper lip. McCarter and Trent approached the table.
"Come across a couple of old school chums?" the Briton inquired.
"They were in the neighborhood," Hsin Li replied in a hoarse voice. "They're very eager to meet you."
"At least you are punctual," Khorloin remarked as he stared up at McCarter. The Mongol's eyes were narrowed into mere slits. A drooping mustache accented the frown etched into his features. "Sit down."
"Shouldn't we exchange introductions first?" McCarter inquired.
"Sit," Khorloin repeated. He moved a hand from beneath the table to display a .380 Astra Constable in his fist. "If I have to say it again, I'll put a bullet through your guts. Nobody here would care if I killed you, Englishman."
"I think you're wrong about that," McCarter replied. "I also think you'd rather talk to me than shoot me. Dead men can't tell you a hell of a lot."
"What will we have to say to each other?"
"You tell me," McCarter invited. "Might help if I know what you want. Might as well talk to me, because you aren't going to use that thing."
"Why not?" Khorloin smiled. "If I shoot you, nobody here will tell the police anything. No one will see anything. That's the way things are here. Everybody has their own individual reason not to cooperate with the police. Most of them are involved in activities they don't want the authorities to know about."
Two men dressed in white uniforms entered the restaurant. The tall black man and his Hispanic companion headed straight for the bar. The two "sailors" carried laundry bags slung over their shoulders. Calvin James and Rafael Encizo both ordered beer.
"U.S. Navy to the rescue," McCarter mused. "Things could get a bit sticky for all of us."
"Blood is sticky," the Mongol warned.
"Yours or mine?" the Briton asked as he shoved his hands into his coat pockets. "Or everybody's?"
"Yours for certain," Khorloin answered. "And keep your hands in plain view."
John Trent suddenly headed to a door on the opposite side of the room. Khorloin demanded he return to the table.
"I need to use the bathroom," Trent replied. "I'll be back."
"Get back here, you half-breed bastard!" the Mongol snapped, aiming his pistol at the ninja.
"Calm down," McCarter warned. He held his left fist in front of his face so Khorloin and the other TRIO goon could see the hand grenade he had taken from his pocket.
"What do you think you're doing?" the Mongol asked. His voice was still harsh, but he lowered his pistol.
"I think I'll probably blow us all to hell if I let go of this grenade," McCarter said with a smile. "Take a good look, mate. The pin is out. If I let go of the spoon, this sucker will explode in six seconds. Figure you can reach safety by then?"
"You don't think I'd sacrifice my own life for our cause?" Khorloin asked, his body trembling with rage.
"I think you'd rather stay alive," McCarter replied. The Briton seemed calm, but he did not like the way Khorloin was shaking. The bastard might pull the trigger without meaning to.
"Khorloin syan-shing," the Chinese thug at the table began. "Ching, syau-syinn!"
"Bau shwo!" Khorloin snapped. He noticed Trent had entered the rest room. Two Asians immediately followed the American. Khorloin smiled thinly. "Put the pin back in the grenade, Englishman. Let's talk."
The Mongol lowered his pistol and slipped it under the table. McCarter still held the grenade in his fist. He made no attempt to return the pin to the charging handle.
"I'll just hold it for a while," the Briton explained.
"McCarter, are you insane?" Hsin Li rasped. "I mean, even crazier than I always knew you were?"
"Now how would I know how crazy you think I am?" McCarter replied with a shrug. "Let's let Hsin Li leave. He isn't really involved in any of this, you know."
"He is now," Khorloin stated.
"There are no innocent bystanders. Only people who are too stupid to realize what side they're on. Maybe I'll let you live if you tell me where to find the rest of your people, McCarter."
Calvin James staggered through the dining room and headed toward the rest room, muttering something in a slurred voice. The TRIO enforcers who had followed Trent opened the door and prepared to enter. James tried to move faster and still maintain his drunken sailor act.
Suddenly Yumjaagiyin stepped in his path. The stout Mongol held up his hands to warn James not to come any closer. Patrons decided to leave before violence erupted. The hookers, particularly sensitive to danger, were the first out the front door.
"Time to leave," the bartender told Katz and Manning. He was bigger and more muscular than most Chinese. A jagged scar marked his bald bullet-shaped head. Other scars on his knuckles suggested he had dealt out more punishment than he had received.
"Haven't finished my beer," Manning replied, raising the mug to his lips.
Katz glanced about, making a quick survey of the people who remained in the restaurant. Besides the men of Phoenix Force, Trent and the two KGB officers, Katz counted sixteen. They were all Asian males between the ages of twenty-three and thirty-six. The hardness in their eyes and their menacing attitude revealed that all sixteen were likely members of TRIO. Except poor, terrified, Hsin Li, who looked like he might welcome a massive coronary.
The bartender swung a paddle-sized hand and knocked the beer mug from Gary Manning's grasp. Glass exploded when the mug crashed into a wall. The bar man glared at Manning.
"I tell you get out!" he snapped. "You and your cripple friend. That goes for you too, sailor."
"Wh... what you be... bein' so shitty... uh... for?" Encizo asked, stumbling over his words as he weaved from his barstool in a drunken manner.
"You get that black monkey boy and leave," the bar tender told Encizo. "You sailors shouldn't be in a place like this anyway. There's a whorehouse across the street. Go there."
"I've had enough of you," Manning announced, drawing his .357 Magnum autoloader from his jacket.
The bartender's mouth fell open in astonishment. He started to raise his hands in surrender. Manning slammed the barrel of his Eagle pistol across the guy's face. The blow knocked the bartender to his knees.
"My turn," Encizo muttered as he vaulted over the bar.
The Cuban landed, feet first, between the shoulder blades of the dazed bartender. The brutal stomp drove the man to the floor. His jaw smashed into wood, and his nose was crushed into a crimson smear. The bartender moaned softly and passed out.
Two Chinese goons at the bar jumped off their stools and lunged toward Manning. Knives flashed in their fists as they attacked the Canadian. Neither man paid much attention to Yakov Katzenelenbogen, whom they regarded as an "old cripple." An instant later, they knew they were very wrong.
Katz swung his right arm and smashed the hard steel curve of the hook across the closest opponent's jaw. The Chinese crud's head spun from the blow. Three teeth spewed from his mouth as he slumped unconscious.
The Second TRIO assailant lunged at Katz, knife aimed at the Israeli's belly. Katz sidestepped the knife thrust and slashed the side of his left hand across the tong hood's wrist. The knife fell from the goon's fingers. The Phoenix Force commander's right arm streaked out, and the hook snared the thug's neck. Katz slammed the heel of his left palm under the guy's jaw. The impact drove the hood's head and neck back into the hook. Sharp steel pierced flesh and muscle to splinter vertebrae and sever the spinal cord.
Another TRIO creep pulled a 9 mm Browning from his belt. Gary Manning promptly shot him. A 158-grain flatnosed slug smashed through the man's chest and splattered his heart. The force of the magnum punch hurled the hoodlum's body into a wall. His corpse slid to the floor.
Since TRIO had expected to close the trap on only one or two opponents, a few of the goons involved had not bothered to carry weapons. A Chinese thug who had left his firearms at home attacked Manning with the only weapon he had — his body. The man was a kung fu expert. He charged toward Manning while the Canadian was busy blowing away the gunslinging hoodlum. The Phoenix fighter turned his Eagle .357 toward the blurred shape of the next opponent, but he was a split second too late.
The martial artist thrust a kick to Manning's hands, and the pistol sailed from the Canadian's fingers. With a war shout, the Chinese hood hit Manning with a roundhouse ming-chuan punch to the head, followed by a straight punch to the chin. Manning fell against the bar, his head throbbing from the blows. Kung fu and karate punches were delivered with the two big knuckles of the middle and index finger. It was a popular misconception that every punch or kick by a martial artist shattered bone as if it was glass. In a "breaking demonstration" the artist took time to concentrate on a single target, building up breath control and focusing all his energies on the object. A living opponent was a moving target — there was no time for concentration with a target that could hit back.
However, the kung fu artist hit very hard and very fast. He snapped a kick to Manning's midsection. The Canadian doubled up under the force of the blow. The Chinese goon slashed the side of his hand at Manning's neck. A brawny forearm broke the stroke.
Manning rammed his fist into the Asian's solar plexus. The kung fu man gasped for breath. The Canadian slammed a left hook at his opponent's face. The kung fu artist stumbled backward from the blow, but quickly lashed out a kick. Manning slapped a palm at the man's shin to block the attack.
The Chinese thug slashed a sideways hand chop at the Canadian's face. Manning ducked under the attacking limb and thrust another punch at his opponent's solar plexus. The kung fu fighter doubled up, rasping desperately as the breath was driven from his lungs. Manning rammed a fist! into the man's kidney and quickly smashed the side of his hand at the base of the Chinese hood's skull. The Asian hurtled forward and crashed headfirst into the bar. Cheap plywood burst, and the man's head and shoulders vanished through the gap. The tong enforcer groaned and slumped into unconsciousness.
* * *
When the fighting erupted at the bar, David McCarter and Calvin James also burst into action. McCarter and Khorloin were faced with an apparent standoff, the Briton holding a grenade in his fist and the Mongol armed with a pistol. McCarter abruptly ended the stalemate. He tossed the grenade onto the table in front of Khorloin.
The Mongol stared at the grenade, startled that the Briton had apparently decided to kill himself along with the TRIO members. The Chinese enforcer with Khorloin desperately grabbed for the M-26 fragger. Hsin Li closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, bracing himself for the terrible explosion.
McCarter had thrown himself to the floor the instant he had dropped the grenade, his right hand drawing the Browning Hi-Power from shoulder leather. Khorloin reacted to the blur of movement and fired his pistol, but McCarter had already dropped from the path of the .380 slug, which sliced across the room.
The Briton held his Browning in a two-handed Weaver grip. Khorloin swung his Astra autoloader at McCarter. The Mongol's finger tightened on the trigger. A sizzling 9 mm projectile smashed through the center of Khorloin's forehead. The Mongol fell across the table, his Astra still clenched in his lifeless fist.
The Chinese seated beside Khorloin was confused and horrified. He had tried to grab the grenade, but hesitated when McCarter shot his Mongol companion. The Asian thrust a hand inside his coat to draw a weapon. It was the last mistake he ever made. McCarter shot him twice through the heart. The Chinese gunman tumbled from his chair and fell to the floor, his life spilling out from his punctured heart.
Hsin Li flinched from the sound of gunshots. He nearly fainted with relief when he realized he had not been shot. The hustler opened his eyes to behold Khorloin's corpse draped over the table, next to the unexploded grenade.
"Is this thing going to go off?" he asked in a trembling voice.
"Of course not," McCarter replied as he rose from the floor. "It's just a dud. No explosives. N
ot even a fuse."
"Oh..." Hsin Li replied. "Good."
* * *
Yumjaagiyin thought Calvin James was just a drunken sailor. He did not see James as a threat when he blocked the black man's path to the rest room. When the battle began, Yumjaagiyin discovered his mistake.
James's left fist shot out to jab Yumjaagiyin on the point of the chin. The Mongol's head bounced from the punch. James hit Yumjaagiyin with a hard right cross, opened his hand and swiftly slashed a karate chop under his opponent's sternum. The stunned Mongol groaned and raised his hands to fight back.
The black warrior clubbed his forearms into Yumjaagiyin's wrists to block the Mongol's attack. James smashed his fist in the guy's mouth. Yumjaagiyin staggered, his knees buckling as his body swayed unsteadily. James's left hand seized the Mongol by the forelock and pulled him down. The Phoenix fighter's right fist slammed a powerful uppercut at the Mongol's face. Yumjaagiyin's body sagged.
James shoved the unconscious Mongol aside and reached under his shirt for the Colt Commander tucked in the waistband of his trousers. Suddenly a Chinese goon dashed from a table and leaped toward James. The Asian swung a foot at James's head. The black commando dodged the kick; and drew his pistol. The tong thug swatted a palm against the Colt to force the pistol toward the floor. His other hand thrust two fingers aimed at James's eyes.
The Chicago-bred badass bobbed his head forward to avoid being hit in the eye. The Asian's fingers poked James's forehead. The Phoenix fighter countered with a left hook at his opponent's face. The punch staggered the Asian. James pivoted on his left foot and launched a powerful side kick at his opponent's abdomen. The Asian folded from the kick. James slugged the barrel of his Colt across the tong goon's skull, and the Chinese hoodlum fell senseless at James's feet.
Two TRIO hoodlums drew pistols. Another pair turned over a table and ducked behind the wide wooden top for cover. Calvin James dropped to one knee and fired at the two enemy gunmen. The black fighting machine fired two rounds into the chest of the closest opponent. The impact of two .45 slugs smashed the hoodlum into a wall. His body slumped to the floor as another gunman aimed his weapon at James.