by Buzz Harcus
Stan glared at him, stood, and moved back to the wall. "Keep going," he called to Mr. Ma. "It's gotta be here." With renewed effort, they continued punching large holes in the plaster, cursing each empty hole.
Harry edged forward and started rubbing the rope binding his wrists up and down against the rough bricks at the corner of the
chimney hoping to fray the rope enough so he could break free. Maybe, he thought, I can catch Stan with a lucky punch when he comes back and get his gun.
The rope caught against a piece of the mortar and a brick pulled loose. "Dammit," Harry muttered. This was the only spot he could rub against without drawing attention to his actions. He sat silently, dejected. The damned brick couldn't have come loose at a worse time. Osa's soft sobbing only added to his plight.
From his right came the loud thumping, crunching sound of holes being punched in the wall by Stan and Mr. Ma, each empty hole followed by their curses. Soon they would run out of wall. Time was growing short. Harry realized he had to make an effort to escape, and quick.
He tried to raise up above the loose brick but couldn't without drawing attention. He sat back. Maybe, he thought, if I can get the brick loose and wedge it, I can then saw the rope along the rough edge of the brick 'till it's frayed enough to break.
Slowly, his fingers grasped at the brick, wiggling it back and forth, easing it ever outward until it came free in his hands. He breathed a sigh of relief. Then, all of a sudden, he stopped, almost breaking into a chuckle. There was a chance, just the slightest of chances after all. He was suddenly alive with new hope.
Chapter 63
A TWIST OF FATE
Easing his Fingers back into the opening where the brick had been, Harry touched cloth. My old K-bar, he breathed. He could visualize the knife, long and with a razor sharp edge he had personally honed. The moment he had hidden it back in '48 came flooding back, the investigation surrounding Joe and Stan and the theft of cigarettes, the investigation moving into the barracks. The whole building had been thrown into bedlam. The MP's were scouring the building confiscating illegal weapons, pistols, swords, rifles, non-issue knives, anything that wasn't government issue. Rather than part with the knife, it'd make a good hunting knife after my tour of duty, Harry thought. He remembered wrapping it in an oily cloth and hiding it in the chimney behind a loose brick.
In the rush to get out of China before the advancing onslaught of Communists Chinese soldiers, he'd forgotten the knife, leaving it behind. Now, it was in his hands again.
Quickly, he eased the cloth out of the opening and carefully, awkwardly, unrolled the material until he felt the coldness of tempered steel, the cutting edge and point still sharp. He held the knife between his fingers and sawed back and forth on the rope. Within seconds, the rope loosened, then fell away and he felt the prickly sensation of blood rushing through his hands again. He was free.
"Harry! You lying bastard! You just bought it!" came Stan's raging voice as he stormed across the small room. "You lied to me for the last time. It ain't in the wall!" He was gasping heavily from exertion, sweating profusely, beads of sweat standing across his forehead. "I know it's in this room somewhere, but I don't know where —" He raised his silencer-equipped pistol up leaning the barrel against Harrys temple, the flashlight full in his face. Harry blinked, trying to move out of the glaring light, and at the same time his fingers were wrapped tightly around the handle of his knife.
"You know where the money is! We can't find it, so if we can't have it, neither can you!" He pressed the barrel tighter to Harry's temple. "Say yer prayers, Harry. Yer a dead man!"
Almost at the same moment he finished uttering the words, an incredulous look crossed Stan's face as the K-bar swiftly penetrated into his body, the sharp point continuing to drive deeply into him, thrusting far up under his rib cage, as far as Harry could force it with his remaining strength.
The flashlight dropped from Stan's grasp, it's beam dancing crazily about the room as it came to rest on the dusty floor. With his dying breath, Stan squeezed the trigger. The "thok" of the silencer was heard, but the bullet caromed harmlessly off the bricks of the chimney and burrowed into the ceiling.
Osa screamed, "Harry! Harry! No!" Her scream trailed off into a frightful wail.
"Is he dead?" called Mr. Ma, almost in a knowing manner. When there was no immediate response to his question, he asked, "What's the matter, Stan?"
Harry grabbed the gun from Stan's lifeless hand. Quickly, he picked up the light and aimed it at Mr. Ma. "He's dead," Harry replied, his voice husky.
Startled at hearing Harry's voice, Mr. Ma grabbed his pistol from his belt swinging it around in the direction of the light, getting off a snap shot that splattered off the chimney. In the same movement, he rushed toward Harry.
Harry squeezed the trigger. The gun kicked hard in his hand. The bullet entered just below Mr. Ma's right eye, knocking him off his feet as it continued smashing through his brain, blowing off the back of his skull, splattering bone, brain, flesh and blood against the pock-holed wall. Mr. Ma fell dead at Harry's feet next to his partner, Stan.
Holding the smoking .38 still kicked high in the air from firing,
Harry looked down at the carnage before him, thankful that he was still alive.
"Control!" he breathed aloud, still visibly shaken. "Got to control myself. Got to get us the hell out of here!"
Yet, already, his mind was working at break-neck speed, reviewing his options: Grab Osa and run, get out of the building and get back to the ship as fast as possible. No. Get the money, and then run! The two had made one hell of a racket pounding holes in the wall. If anything, it should have attracted the police bringing them on the run up to the room.
Hold your breath and listen, he commanded himself. He strained to hear the sounds of footsteps, voices, sirens, anything, but there was nothing, nothing save the sobbing, distraught Osa.
"It's okay, honey, it's okay," he whispered, moving to her, kissing her, wiping at the tears. "We're alive, everything will be okay now."
He yanked the knife from Stan's lifeless body and cut the ropes binding her wrists. "Oh, Harry," she sobbed rubbing her wrists vigorously trying to restore circulation, "ve must get out of here. I'm so afraid." She looked apprehensively down at the two dead men. "Ve must leave now."
"We will, but first the money. We'll leave with the money."
"But -" she started to protest, only to have him raise his finger to his lips.
"Listen," he uttered.
They listened in silence. There was no sound except for their labored breathing. "I don't hear anyting," she said with a questioning look. "Not a ting."
"That's just it," he said. "You'd think there'd be a thousand police swarming over the place by now what with all the noise those two made. Nothing. We've got to take advantage of the time now to get the money. It's now or never!"
He turned shining the light across the two bodies lying grotesquely, blood oozing from their lifeless forms. Harry stepped over and took the gun out of Mr. Ma's hand. He replaced it with his knife, squeezing his fingers tightly around the handle. Next, he wiped any fingerprints off Stan's gun, and then put the gun back in Stan's
hand molding his hand to the weapon, his finger clutching the trigger. Standing back, he flashed a light over his handiwork. It gave the appearance of a falling out between two thieves.
"Dis is terrible -"
"Hey. Don't say that. Terrible? In another minute it would have been us lying there. It was them or us. Don't worry about them; they're both killers. The world is better off without em."
Picking up Mr. Ma's pistol, he looked about. "Now what'll I do with this damned thing?" he said. He had no intention of walking down the street with it in the event they were stopped. How do you explain to the police why you're carrying a gun with a silencer on it? "I gotta get rid of this thing," he said, "but where?"
On the edge of the light beam he saw the strands of rope that had bound them. "Christ! These too!" Reac
hing down, he snatched up the pieces of rope. As he did, the light fell across the brick. "Why not," he grinned as the answer came to him. "Why not."
Quickly, he wiped off any fingerprints on the pistol with the oiled cloth, then wrapped the pistol in the cloth and slipped it into the opening in the chimney. It slipped in easily and was quickly followed by the strands of rope. Harry replaced the brick fitting it snuggly back into place, flush as it was before. Shining his light on the spot, he defied anyone to find which brick had been replaced. "Maybe when they tear this building down they'll discover the gun," he mused.
"Okay. Come and help me now," he said grabbing Osa's wrist. "Don't ask questions; just do as I tell you."
Osa, who had been watching his busy activity, seemed somewhat puzzled but was snapped out of her thoughts as he literally yanked her across the room.
"Oh, God, Harry!" she screeched as the beam of light shone fully on the blood splattered wall, at the bits and pieces of Mr. Ma scattered across it's length. She turned away sick to her stomach.
"Don't look at it," he said releasing her. He looked at the wall, at the many holes punched in it. They hadn't come close to the money, but it was there before them all the time.
"Der money isn't here or dey vould haf found it," came Osa's anxious whisper. "I tink ve should leave right now, don't you?"
"They didn't know where to look," Harry replied. "Just hold on for a few more minutes."
As he had rehearsed so many times before in the solitude of his cabin, Harry quickly stripped off his jacket, reached up under the armpits and extracted three screwdrivers, a pry-bar, steel saw blade and penlight. "Now hold the light on the heat vent cover," he commanded, kneeling before the vent. Selecting a Phillips's head screwdriver, he unscrewed the two large screws holding the faceplate. Dropping the screws on the floor, he pried the plate loose and set it to one side. Next, he picked up the flathead screwdriver and, reaching several inches back into the opening, unscrewed a set of four slotted, round-head screws. A thin metal frame fell forward and he extracted it, setting it next to the faceplate.
Then, facing the unit, he reached inside, grabbing a tab on either side of the ductwork and slid a long section of the heat duct out into the room. Back about two inches from the face of the ductwork were four more screws, two on either side. Using the Phillip's head screwdriver again, he unscrewed the four screws, and then popped off the front section of the duct. He felt inside, his fingers touching plastic.
"Bingo!" he chirped, winking at Osa.
He grabbed the plastic tightly and pulled. A large section of black plastic conforming to the shape of the duct, slid out. Quickly, Harry unwrapped the plastic covering spewing packets of money on the floor. He fanned through the packets, large denomination American bills. His eyes lit up. Osa gasped.
Harry quickly pulled the entire duct unit out from the wall, tilted it on end and shook it, watching as several oblong plastic packages slid out, piling on the dirty floor. When it was empty, he shined the light inside the empty duct just to make sure, then knelt at the opening and shined the light back into the ductwork. There was nothing but wood framing. He slid the empty container back into the opening, and then reversed the entire procedure until the faceplate was finally back in place. No one would ever be the wiser. Ingenious, he thought. Even now, heat was pouring out of the duct.
Except for Stan and Mr. Ma, finding the money had been relatively easy, just as old Joe said it would be.
"You knew all der time," Osa whispered, wide-eyed.
"Of course. Telling them or not telling them made no difference. They were determined to kill us anyways. I had to use the information and give it out sparingly in order to give us additional time, time to do some fast planning, to keep us alive."
"I-I guess you're right," she nodded with a sudden shudder of revulsion. "I just don't like to see people get hurt, to get killed."
"I know. I feel the same way. Taking a life isn't right. But when it comes down to his life or mine; better his."
He glanced at his watch. "We have to hurry. It's 10:00. It's getting late and we have much to do."
He began ripping open all the pockets of the jacket, then systematically stuffed packets of money inside each pocket, sealing each in turn as Osa stripped open the rest of the plastic packages and handed the money to him. "The seabag," he said continuing to stuff money into the pockets as he had so methodically rehearsed a hundred times. "They were kind enough to bring it with them."
Osa opened the seabag wide and started stuffing packets of money in the hidden inner lining. Soon, all the money had been tucked safely away. As an afterthought, Harry stuffed the plastic covering into the bottom of the seabag. The tools were replaced in the jacket armpits and it was done; he had the money. They could leave now.
Shining the light carefully about the room, he was satisfied. There was no indication that anyone except Stan and Mr. Ma had been in the room. Good. He glanced at his watch. It was 10:30.
"C'mon. We've got to get out of here," he whispered as he hoisted the seabag up and flattened it against his stomach. Pulling a piece of twine from the jacket pocket, he tied the seabag off around his waist. Excruciating pain cut through him from battered ribs and tender stomach as he snugged the seabag tight, suffering with every breath.
Stan had hurt him but as far as he could determine, nothing was broken. He'd have to endure the pain in order to get back to the ship. Too, it was best Osa didn't know. As distraught as she was, he felt she really couldn't handle much more.
Then, slipping on the jacket, he buttoned up. It felt snug. With the addition of the money, the bulky appearance was once again restored to the jacket, which pleased him. At this late hour no one on board ship would notice the change in his appearance, at least that was his hope.
Moving to the door, Harry eased it open, and listened. It was quiet in the darkness of the stairwell, too quiet. A sixth sense warned him that someone might be waiting there, part of Stan's gang of cutthroats. One? More than one? He couldn't risk it. He closed the door and locked it.
"Vas is der matter?" came Osa's hoarse whisper, surprised that he locked the door.
"Shhh," Harry cautioned. He flicked on his penlight. "There might be someone down there waiting for us. Can't chance it."
"How do ve get out den?" she asked clutching his arm, a tightness in her voice, terrified at the thought they might be captured again.
"Come with me," he whispered. Taking her hand, he led her back across the room, stepping over the two bodies now laying in ever-widening pools of dark blood, to the far outside wall. "Perfect," he breathed as the penlight shone on the painted hinges. They were still intact. Reaching up, he grabbed at one of the open studs and jerked sideways. Nothing happened. He jerked again, then again. Still nothing.
"Vot are you doing, Harry?" she asked, an urgency in her voice, puzzled at his action. "Ve must get out of here. I am frightened."
Harry glowered at her. Didn't she think he knew that. With a growing apprehension, he jerked at the stud again, even harder this time. Suddenly the wood moved ever so slightly. He squatted down and jerked at the stud about a foot off the floor. It was stuck, not budging. In desperation, he gave it a sharp karate chop. The wood popped to one side and then he could see the two screw heads, one at the top of the stud, one about two feet off the floor.
Relieved, he took a flathead screwdriver and eased each screw a begrudging half turn, wincing as the screws squeaked, spitting on the metal to silence the noise. The slotted heads were now in a horizontal position. Dousing the light, he pushed against the wall. It swung outward, squeaking as it moved, opening ever wider. Stepping out onto a narrow ledge, Harry surveyed the area. Nothing. Not a damned soul in sight.
Reaching back inside, he took Osa's hand and guided her out onto the ledge and motioned for her to stand still and not move. Stepping back inside, he jerked the studding back in place covering the two screw heads.
Once again out on the ledge, he swung the door c
losed. Fumbling in the dark, he felt for the outside screwheads. Finding them, he stuck the screwdriver into the slot and twisted each a half turn clockwise and, once again, the door was secured.
"See," he whispered. "If anyone's waiting inside the building they'll go nuts trying to figure out how we got out of the place without being seen." He gave a muffled laugh. "Now let's get the hell out of here."
Chapter 64
TSINGTAO FOREVER
Standing in the shadows next to the old Third Marine barracks, Harry took a moment to look back at the old 12th Service Battalion building. He had led Osa down the side of the building walking on the cement planter steps they had built so many years ago. He had to admit it; the planter steps did enhance the architectural beauty of the building, just as his commanding officer had said.
Crouching low, using the shadows to their advantage, he guided her down along the athletic field to the small stream and gap in the fence. He rolled under the fence, and then pulled up on it to allow her to roll under. Brushing themselves off, they moved up the grassy embankment and quickly hurried down the street.
"We can't risk going through town," he whispered. "If the cops ever stopped us they'd want to know what happened to me."
Osa gasped as she caught a glimpse of his face in the dim light of a streetlamp as they passed under it.
"We'll have to take the side streets to get back to the ship," he continued. "We'll have to hurry. C'mon!" Even as he spoke, he started jogging and she quickly fell in step beside him praying he knew the way.
Straining under the added weight of the money, he continued on, cursing himself to keep on going. Waves of nausea swept over him forcing him to stop several times to catch his breath, to let the feeling pass. "The police, the police, got to stay away from them," he kept telling himself.
It was colder. A gentle snow was falling, large flakes drifting down about them, on them. Yet, Harry was sweating profusely. Wracked with pain, hurting with every breath, he had to stop frequently, feeling the extra weight starting to drag him down. This wasn't the way he had planned it, not the beating, not the painfully sore ribs, and certainly not her. He could tell by the way she looked at him, at the way she glanced about that she knew they were lost.