Eighth Card Stud

by Nick Carter

  "Such as eliminating discarded pawns like Edward George."

  "That is but one small area. I desire greater authority in the field. I am capable of doubling the efficiency of my country's field agents, if allowed to do so. Removing you permanently from the game allows me that much more latitude now, and in the future."

  "A bullet through the head? Or are you going to cut my throat with that fan of yours?" I couldn't get the razor sharpness of the edge of her fan out of my mind. The glint of light against the surgical steel rim still made me flinch. She unfolded her fan dexterously, fanned herself a few times, then folded it back into a slender cylinder.

  "I am not an assassin, Mr. Carter. Very seldom do I personally take a life. Rather, I prefer to be inventive about such things. Your death will be accidental. You have become trapped in this cellar. Why? Who can say where an Occidental tourist might probe in his wanderings? The door locked from the outside, an unfortunate occurrence because of the voracious rats in this part of the city. So near the wharf," she sighed.

  "Eaten by rats!"

  "Succinctly put, Mr. Carter. I now leave you to entertain your guests. Do try to remember they are simply starved. There is no need for hors d'oeuvres. They desire only the entree. Have a nice day, Mr. Carter."

  With that, Madame Lin made her exit. I fought the ropes on the chair. As she had said, the bonds soon yielded to my frantic jerkings. I rubbed my wrists and tried to staunch the flow of blood. When circulation had returned, I began exploring the small square cellar room. The solid stone walls must have withstood earthquakes more potent than anything I could bring to bear against them. The door mocked my efforts to open it. The ubiquitous steel vault door had been installed and was barred on the outside. No lock to pick, no chance of reaching around the doorjamb and lifting the bar existed. The floor of poured concrete could withstand the scratching and digging of even Edmund Dante. I didn't have the long years that the Count of Monte Cristo had, either. Small holes along the sides of the room were already admitting large brown rats.

  I climbed up onto the chair, reflecting on how cruel this torture actually was. Madame Lin had left the light burning so that I saw my fate. In the dark, it might be worse, but I wouldn't debate that point right now. Seeing the sharp incisors and the ratty grins on their snouts did nothing to lift my spirits. The blood on my wrists attracted them. They sensed weakness and moved as a furry army.

  I kicked out and sent one flying. It squealed obscenely, but the others pounced. I managed to bat them away, too. One landed, back broken, only to be devoured by his one-time comrades. Seeing the picked bones drained me even more.

  Checking the ceiling of the cell gave me little cause for joy. The heavy wooden planking that formed the floor of the room above would require a crowbar to remove. I had nothing, not even Hugo. The single strand of electrical cord dangling down to support the light bulb seemed a puny enough weapon.

  Or was it?

  I clambered onto the chair, kicking off the biting rodents intent on stripping the flesh from my legs. My blood flowed from a dozen rat-gnawed spots. I jumped and tried to hang from the rafters by pressing my feet against one side while holding another between thumb and fingers. The strain rapidly told on me. I had to swing back down. The seat of the chair surged with writhing, squeaking, furry brown appetites.

  "Ai!" I cried out involuntarily.

  The pain lancing up my legs almost caused me to slip from my perch. To fall onto the floor would be my end. More and more of the rats poured in through the small holes craftily bored through the stone walls. If I had been able to stop up those holes with my shirt, I might have stood a small chance. But it was too late now for any tactic like that. There were too many rats already in the room for me to fight off.

  I felt them working their way up my legs, nipping at my thighs, jumping high and snapping at my crotch like dogs that have treed their quarry. I swung back up to my precarious perch. A few of the rats fell heavily to the floor, running away squealing, only to return when their fright had passed. Still others moved relentlessly over my body, intent on eating supper — me.

  I would have to escape quickly or end up as a meal for these creatures. One walked up my chest and peered directly into my eyes. I swear he smiled and winked at me.

  Still hanging, I grabbed out for the electrical cord. I pulled it to me and forced the rats off my body with the incandescent bulb. I smashed the glass envelope carefully, leaving the tungsten wire inside intact. It continued to glow white-hot for a few seconds until the oxygen in the air oxidized the filament. This was more than enough time to set the tinder-dry wood of the ceiling afire. I watched the tiny flames licking at the wood, uncertain whether to continue or not.

  The squealing of the rats below told me that it was better to die in a fire than to be devoured alive. A few of the less hardy souls among the rats were already running for their stony exits. The fire spread, aided by continued application of the short circuiting remnants of the light bulb.

  The cellar was momentarily plunged into darkness as a fuse failed. I had to drop to the floor. Rats attacked, biting and slashing with their sharp teeth. I fought them off as best I could, demanding out loud, "Catch fire, dammit, catch fire and burn this whole goddamn place to the ground!"

  The wood responded. Soon burning brightly, the dried timber began turning to blackened beams. The planking was slower to ignite but it caught fire, too. Choking smoke filled the room, causing me to fall to hands and knees to breathe. Only one or two of the bravest rats remained. Then they, too, abandoned the room, not wanting a barbequed supper.

  The fire had saved me from the rats. What could save me from the fire? There didn't seem to be anything. The heat singed my eyebrows and I gagged on the thick, billowing clouds of smoke.

  Chapter Eleven

  I huddled into one corner of the room, the blazing fire blistering my back. The only consolation I had was the departure of the rats. They had run frightened through their fist-sized getaway holes, incensed at losing a meal. I began to wish I'd fallen through the rabbit hole like Alice and could take one of the wafers marked "Eat Me." I'd fight off the rats on their own terms rather than being burned alive.

  As my shirt and skin began to smoulder, I held up my arm to protect my eyes. The rafters gave way in the center of the room. For a moment, all motion stopped. With a sudden rush of hot air, it was like being trapped in the bottom of a blast furnace. All the fire and heat surged along this new chimney.

  Seeing my chance, I fought through the shower of sparks, jumped onto the burning chair, and kicked hard, aiming for the edges of the burning hole in the ceiling. Intense pain lanced through my hands and arms as I dragged myself over the side of the hole. I began crawling through the fire on the floor, neglecting to feel the searing agony until I shoved my way into the next room. Even though smoke filled the room, the fire had yet to reach it.

  Keeping low to avoid the heavy smoke, I crawled to the next door and found myself in the center of Wang Foo's tea shop. The customers had long since been driven out with the cries of "Fire!"

  In the distance, out in the street, I heard the howl of sirens. I started up the stairs, winced at the pain in my hands, arms, and back, then saw my shirt burst into flames. The smouldering embers in the cloth had finally found enough oxygen to come to full-bodied life.

  I bolted into the street where I immediately dove and began rolling. The smelly wet garbage proved my salvation. Rolling through the garbage that disgraced the gutters, I quickly smothered the flames threatening to devour me alive.

  Sitting up, I saw a small circle of expressionless Chinese faces around me. I stood, bowed slightly, and walked off on shaky legs just as the fire engine squealed to a halt in the narrow street. I didn't stay to watch them put out the fire I'd started. In this section of Chinatown, if the fire fighters didn't do an adequate job, entire blocks would soon be burning.

  The pain wracking my body made me dizzy. I staggered along, but few paid me notice. They were too
busy watching the firemen unlimber the long hoses and begin experimentally squirting water into the two-story-high flames. Catching my breath, gusting out the smoke clogging my lungs, I tried to push aside all the pain I felt.

  My hands had been charred black. They would be hurting like hell as soon as the shock wore off. My back was a mass of blisters, and I guessed my eyebrows and eyelashes had been burned away by the intense heat.

  Burning brighter now than even the fire a block away was my need for revenge. Madame Lin had been a worthy opponent up to this point. I had treated her with the detachment another foreign agent deserved. Now my feelings toward the woman had turned personal. I wanted revenge. My revenge included robbing her of the high-voltage laser switching device — then I would decide what further action to take.

  I vowed that it wouldn't be pleasant for her.

  Settling my mind, willing away the pain, I dabbed mud from the street onto my wounds to keep off the air. My strength came back slowly but it did return. I was hardly fit enough to go a fifteen-round championship fight with a contender, but I had conquered the pain raging through my body. I clenched my hands, felt the skin tighten and break, but continued until I had mobility and dexterity back. Soon, in an hour or a day, my body would exact its toll from me and simply quit.

  Until then, I had a job to do.

  I watched the crowd pushed back as the fire grew in intensity. One man in particular caught my eye. Lo Sung shuffled away from the crowd, went to a long black limousine, and hastily got into the backseat. Curtains all around prevented anyone from looking in — or out.

  My body reacted before my dazed mind fully comprehended what I had to do. I ran across the street and grabbed onto the back bumper. The driver gunned the engine, and my arms almost ripped from their shoulder sockets. I danced along behind the speeding car for a few paces, then kicked hard and succeeded in getting my body precariously up and onto the bumper. Hanging on wasn't as difficult as I'd thought it would be in my weakened condition.

  I even relaxed a little. Wrapped around the back bumper, I became part of the car as it raced into the foggy night. Worry that some well-meaning pedestrian might see me and call the police slowly diminished as I realized visibility was less than fifty feet now. The cold tendrils of San Francisco fog wrapped around me, chilling me to the bone. It was the best available medicine for my burns.

  As the car rushed up Columbus Avenue, I made out the spire of Coit Tower to the right as the fog parted and closed in never-ending patterns. I almost fell off when the car began the long climb up Filbert Street. The fog cleared slightly, and I had an unobstructed view down the long, long hill. I clung on for dear life, hoping that Lo Sung wasn't simply going for a joy ride. This had to lead me to Madame Lin or it would be all over for me. Relief flooded my mind as quick turns put us on Van Ness and then Lombard Street going west toward the Presidio.

  I tried to imagine the kind of rendezvous that Madame Lin would prefer. Near the ocean, I guessed. This allowed relatively unnoticed comings and goings from freighters just off the coast. As Lombard faded into Lincoln Boulevard, I knew we would press right on to the ocean. The abandoned gun emplacements provided a warren of concrete tunnels that still attracted the occasional tourist.

  As we passed the Palace of the Legion of Honor and headed on a back road away from Ft. Miley, I knew my suspicions were justified. We would probably end up at Ft. Funston. The bumping along the unkept road almost tossed me to the ground several times. Grimly, I held on. This had long since ceased to be solely a matter of duty with me. Personal pride had entered the picture in a big way.

  From the start, I'd been pushed around like a pawn in a gigantic chess match. Hawk had sent me into battle with scarcely any briefing. I'd jumped to a conclusion carefully nurtured by Edward George that Dr. Sutter was the culprit responsible for Richard's death and the repeated sabotage on Project Eighth Card. By the time I learned otherwise, Madame Lin had tried to kill me, George had tried to kill me, everyone had taken their turn at trying to kill me.

  I'd been kicked about, and having the laser switching device snatched from my hands back at the tea shop added insult to my numerous injuries. Having Marta Burlison in Madame Lin's hands only turned hot anger into deadly cold rage on my part.

  As the limousine took a sharp corner, I dropped off. I sensed a slowing in the car's headlong flight. Their base must be near. If I proceeded on foot, I could gain more information — and something as important: weapons.

  The engine noises died suddenly. I skirted the road and rounded the bend to see Lo Sung emerge from the car and head toward the dark square of one of the coastal defense tunnels left after World War II. He vanished, not a light showing anywhere along the way. I crept closer, keeping my advance as silent as possible.

  The driver of the car lounged against the front fender. I watched as he carefully pulled out a small pouch and a pipe. Taking a dark cylinder from the pouch, he scraped particles into the pipe bowl, lit it, and sighed as he puffed deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs as long as possible before exhaling. The pungent aroma of hashish reached my nostrils. Eliminating a stoned chauffeur seemed easy, even for someone in my debilitated condition.

  I rounded the car, gauged the distance, and then launched myself through the air. One arm circled the dope-smoking man's throat while my other hand mashed the hash pipe into his mouth and crushed his nostrils with a powerful pinch.

  He struggled less than ten seconds before he passed out. I didn't want anyone awakening behind me and giving alarm. I maintained the choke hold until I was certain he was dead. Allowing his lifeless body to slide to the ground, I spun off the hood of the car and crouched beside the corpse. A rapid search lifted my flagging spirits.

  In one pocket was Wilhelmina, and strapped to a leg was Hugo. I didn't know if this was the man who had slugged me in the rabbit warrens behind the tea shop or not. Just possessing my weapons indicted him — and I already had been judge, jury, and executioner.

  The heft of the Luger in my right hand and the familiar hilt of Hugo weighing down my left gave me added confidence. I padded off in the direction Lo Sung had taken. The mouth of the concrete tunnel had deteriorated since the war. Originally intended to allow forklifts and other heavy equipment to supply the sixteen-inch coastal guns at the far end of the tunnel, there was scant reason for the government to maintain this complex now. Ft. Funston provided a perfect hiding place for Madame Lin.

  Who would ever search for a foreign agent in the midst of an abandoned military base?

  I edged into the tunnel, proceeding with the utmost caution. The darkness wrapped me like a velvet blanket. The air inside was humid, ancient, and unstirring. Tiny signs of others passing this way recently kept me on the right trail. At every branching of the tunnel, I checked for several yards in each direction for fresh clues. Tracking in this environment caused my pulse to race and adrenaline to pound through my arteries. I felt like a jungle cat closing on its prey.

  No longer was I the prey; I had become the predator. I liked the feeling.

  Pressure against my left ankle caused me to hesitate. Gently, I reached down and felt the string across the tunnel. A trip wire. Following it to the right, I found a small black box. I couldn't decide if it was high explosive or some alarm system designed to alert the others farther down the tunnel.

  Stepping over it, I continued moving in the all-encompassing blackness. I cursed my bad luck in not bringing along a flashlight. The limousine probably had one in the glove compartment. Lo Sung had not shown a flash, but others might have met and guided him once they were deep enough inside.

  I stiffened, aware that an electric tension had entered the fetid air. I felt around on the ground for a broken trip wire. I found nothing. Still, the sixth sense that had kept me alive for so long screamed that something was wrong. I ran my hands over the wall and found it. A photocell. Since I hadn't seen any telltale glow, it probably used either an infrared or ultraviolet beam. And I had blundered along and broken
that beam.

  To turn back or forge ahead. Which? Ahead lay a trap, that I knew with deadly certainty. The photocell had been waist high, which prevented it from being tripped by a stray dog or cat. Only a man or a man-sized object would trigger it.

  I ran forward to meet the ambush. I was tired of being carelessly batted around by everyone else. It was high time Nick Carter, Killmaster, fought back.

  I got my wish almost immediately. A tiny snick of an automatic's slide coming back to cock a weapon warned me. I fired in the direction of the sound and was rewarded by an ear-piercing shriek and a crash as a body fell forward.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  Machine guns spat foot-long gouts of flame from their bores. Heavy slugs ripped through the air where my head had been a fraction of a second earlier. I hit and rolled and kept rolling. All the while, Wilhelmina fired shot after precise shot. I was heartened by the cessation of several of the machine guns and anguished screeches from men wielding the automatic pistols.

  The faint shuffling of more feet against the concrete floor warned me of reinforcements arriving. These men might not be shooting blind. The possibility of a firefight in the darkness must have occurred to Madame Lin. These men might be equipped with infrared goggles. I'd stand out like a thumb with an orange bandage.

  Finding a side tunnel, I took off at a dead run, blundering along, stumbling in the darkness many times. When I came to another branching tunnel, I slid down this for a few feet, then dropped to my belly and waited.

  Wilhelmina rested in my hand, a staunch ally capable of eliminating more of Madame Lin's henchmen. And when Wilhelmina tired, I still had Hugo. They had meant that ambush to be a bloodbath. It had been — but it was their blood that had flowed swiftly. And more would be spilled before the night was over.

  Nick Carter, Killmaster, would see to that.