A Soft Barren Aftershock

by F. Paul Wilson

  After firing his last shot he turned and ran full tilt for the door. His foot caught on the sill as he rushed through and he tumbled to the floor. The horror of knowing that he was about to be hacked to death shot strength into his legs but he slipped as he started to rise and knew he was done for.

  As he rolled, tensing for the first ax strike, preparing a last stand with his bare hands, he was startled by the sound of gunfire, followed immediately by shouts and screams of pain. He looked up and saw the old man’s turbaned Indian wielding a huge scimitar that lopped off heads and arms with slashing swipes, while the driver hacked away with a cutlass. The old man himself stood in the thick of it, firing a round-handled, long-barreled Mauser at any of the hatchetmen who slipped past his front line.

  Brannigan pawed fresh shells from his jacket pocket and began to reload. But the melee was over before he finished. He sat up and looked around. More than joss-stick smoke hung in the air; blood had spattered the feathered walls and pooled on the floor. The old man and the Indian were unscathed; the driver was bleeding from a gash on his right arm but didn’t seem to notice.

  “What . . . how . . .?”

  The old man looked at him. “I sensed you weren’t telling us everything you knew, so we followed you. Good thing too, I’d say.”

  Brannigan nodded as he struggled to his feet. He felt shaky, unsteady.

  “Thank you. I owe you my—”

  “Is she here?” the old man said. “Have you seen her?”

  “I have her right here, Oliver,” said a sibilant, accented voice.

  Brannigan turned and raised his pistol as a motley group filed into the small room: a green-eyed, turquoise-robed Chinaman entered, followed by a trio of gangly, brutal-looking, dark-skinned lugs dressed in loincloths and nothing else; one carried a red-haired girl in his arms; two black-pajamaed tongsters brought up the rear, one thin, one fat, the latter with his hands tied behind his back and looking as if he’d wound up on the wrong end of a billy club.

  The lead Chinaman spoke again. “I feared you might have been drawn into this.”

  “So it’s you, Doctor,” the old man said. At least Brannigan knew part of his name now: Oliver. “Striking at me through my child? I knew you were ruthless but—”

  “Do not insult me, Oliver. I would gladly cut out your heart, but I would not break it.”

  The doctor—doctor of what? Brannigan wondered—removed a bony, long-fingered hand from within a sleeve and gestured to the loinclothed crew. The one carrying the little girl stepped forward and handed her over to Oliver. She looked drugged but as the old man took her in his arms, her eyes fluttered open. Brannigan saw her smile.

  The word was a whisper. “Daddy.”

  Tears rimmed Oliver’s eyes as he looked down at her, then back to the doctor. “I don’t understand.”

  “This was not my doing.” Without looking he flicked a finger toward the fat, bound tongster. “This doomed one broke an agreement.”

  “I thought I left you back in Hong Kong. When was it . . .?”

  “Three years ago. I understand you recently closed your factory there.”

  He nodded. “The political climate in the Far East has accomplished what you could not. I’m gathering my chicks closer to the nest, you might say. A storm is brewing and I want to be properly positioned when it strikes.”

  The doctor’s smile was acid. “To profiteer, as usual.”

  Oliver shrugged. “Nothing wrong with doing well while doing good.”

  Who were these two? Brannigan wondered. They stood, each with his own personal army, like ancient mythical enemies facing each other across a bottomless divide.

  “And what of you, Doctor?” Oliver continued. “With your homeland being invaded, why are you here?”

  “You heard what the Japanese dogs did in Nanking?”

  “Yes. Ghastly. I’m sorry.”

  “Then you can understand why I am here. To raise money from the underworld for weapons to repel the insects.”

  Oliver’s faint smile looked bitter. “And all along you thought the enemy was people like me.”

  “You still are. My goal remains unchanged: To drive all foreigners from Chinese soil. I will admit, however, that I singled out the white western world as the threat, never realizing that a yellow-skinned neighbor would prove a far more vicious foe.”

  Something the doctor had said rang through Brannigan’s brain: To raise money from the underworld . . . that could only mean—

  He pointed his pistol at the green-robed chink. “You’re the Mandarin! You’re—”

  The green eyes glanced his way and the pure malevolence in them clogged the words in Brannigan’s throat. Before he could clear it, Oliver pointed to the bound chink and spoke.

  “I’ll take him from here. My associates and I have a score to settle.”

  “No, he is mine. He broke his word to me. I have experts in the Thousand Cuts. He will die long after he wishes to, I promise.”

  Brannigan couldn’t believe his ears. These two acted like laws unto themselves. It was like listening to two sovereign nation-states argue over extradition of a prisoner.

  “Hey, wait just a minute, you two.” He stepped closer to the Mandarin. “Neither of you is going to do anything.” The green eyes turned on him again. “I’m arresting you and your tongster buddy here for—”

  Something smashed against the back of Brannigan’s skull, dropping him to his knees. He tried to regain his feet but the edges of his vision went blurry and he toppled forward into darkness.

  Jiang Zhifu poised his fist over the fallen detective’s neck and looked to the master for permission to finish the worm. The master nodded. But as Jiang raised his hand for the death blow a shot rang out and a bullet plowed into the feathered wall beside him.

  “That will be enough,” said the man called Oliver.

  The master motioned Jiang back toward Yu and he obeyed, albeit reluctantly. He was confused. Who was this white devil to give orders in the master’s presence, and have the master acquiesce? Although this Oliver and the master seemed to be old enemies, the master treated him as an equal.

  Something became clear to Jiang. It must have been because of this man that the master had sent Jiang to the Fairmont Hotel where he’d been instructed to ask a certain question of the kitchen staff. When Jiang returned with word that yes, meals were indeed being delivered to the penthouse suite, the master had changed his plans.

  Jiang looked at the little red-haired girl in Oliver’s arms. Yu had brought all this to pass by abducting her. The master had hinted that consequences most dire and relentless would befall anyone even remotely connected with harming that child.

  Jiang had doubted that, but looking around the joss room now, he believed. So many of his tong brothers

  dead, shot or hacked to pieces. He and Yu were the only two members of Yan Yuap left alive in the house. Jiang would have to leave and return at dawn with the rest of the members, feigning shock at the carnage here.

  “As I was saying, Oliver, before we were interrupted, this worthless one is mine to deal with, but if you wish I can have some expert seamstresses stitch his skin back together and make you a gift of it.”

  “Thanks for the offer,” he said but did not look grateful. “I think I’ll pass on that.”

  “Then I shall nail it to the wall of this tonghouse as a warning.”

  Jiang jumped as a slurred voice said, “The only thing you’ll be doing is looking the wrong way through the bars of a jail cell.”

  Aiii! The detective was conscious again. He must have a skull as thick as the walls of the Imperial Palace!

  The master spoke without a trace of fear. “You have at most six shots, Detective. My dacoits will be upon you before you can shoot all of them.”

  The detective leveled his pistol at the master’s heart.

  “Yeah, but the first one will go into you.”

  Yu started to move forward, crying, “Yes! Arrest me! Please!”

&n
bsp; But Jiang yanked him back and struck him across the throat—not a killing blow, just enough to silence him.

  The master only smiled. “You may arrest me if you wish, Detective, but that will doom the ten women this bloated slug collected for export.”

  The detective’s eyes widened. “Ten? Good Christ, where are they?”

  “In a ship in the harbor, moored at Pier Twelve. A ship wired to explode at midnight.”

  “You’re lying!”

  “He doesn’t lie, Brannigan,” said Oliver. “Over our years of conflict I’ve learned that the doctor is capable of just about anything, but he never lies.”

  “If you look at your watch,” the master said, “you will see that you have time to bring me to your precinct house or rush to the harbor and save the women. But not both.”

  Jiang could see the detective’s resolve wavering.

  The master continued in a silky, almost seductive voice. “May I suggest the former course? Think what bringing in the mysterious and notorious Mandarin will do for your career. It will guarantee you the promotion you most surely desire.”

  The detective looked to Oliver. “Will you hold him here until—?”

  The older man cut him off with a quick shake of his head. “This is your show, kid.” He looked down at the child stirring in his arms. “I have what I came for. You choose.”

  He backed toward the door.

  “Damn you all!”

  Then he turned and ran.

  Jiang knew that if the young detective broke all speed records, he might reach the docks in time. Fortunately for him, he would meet little resistance aboard ship; most of the crew had deserted once word leaked out that Yu had displeased the Mandarin.

  When the detective was gone, Oliver smiled. “Dear Doctor, you never fail to find interesting ways to test people. I’m glad he chose what he did, otherwise I’d have had to send my associates to the waterfront. As it is, I’ve got someone here who needs some attending to, and I have a call to make.”

  He turned to go, then turned back.

  “Oh, and those weapons your people need . . . if you have trouble buying through the usual channels, call me. I’m sure we can work something out.”

  And then the master shocked Jiang by doing the unthinkable. He inclined his head toward this man named Oliver.

  There’s still a chance, Brannigan thought as he jumped behind the wheel of his radio car. He’d call the station and send a squad of cars to the docks while he returned to the tonghouse and collared the Mandarin.

  But when he snatched the microphone from its holder he noticed the frayed end of its coiled wire dangling in the air.

  “Damn!”

  He tossed the useless piece of garbage against the passenger door. No options left. He started the car, threw it into gear, and floored the gas pedal. He didn’t think he could make it, but he was going to try.

  Traffic was light and with his siren howling he reached the docks in five minutes. He found Pier Twelve and raced up the gangplank of a rustbucket freighter, his pistol held before him.

  He reached the deck and, with only that wash of light from the city behind him for illumination, looked around. The tub looked deserted. Two of the three cargo hatches lay open. He ran to the third and rapped on it with the gun butt.

  “Hello! Anyone in there?”

  The muffled chorus of female voices from below was a sweet symphony. He found the fasteners, released them, and pulled off the cover.

  “Detective Brad Brannigan,” he said into the square of darkness below him, and the words had never sounded so good on his tongue. “Let’s get you gals out of there.”

  As the captives shouted, cried, and sobbed with relief, Brannigan grabbed the rope ladder coiled by the hatch and tossed it over the edge.

  “Squeeze the minutes, girls! We haven’t got much time.”

  As the first climbed into view, a rather plain blonde, he grabbed her arm and hauled her onto the deck.

  “Run! Get down the gangplank and keep going!”

  He did this with each of the girls—amazingly, all blondes.

  “I thought there were ten of you,” he said as he helped the ninth over the rim.

  “Margot hurt her ankle when they grabbed her. She can’t climb up.”

  Hell and damn. Margot Kachmar, the one who started all this for him. He wished he could see his watch. How much time did he have left, if any?

  Didn’t matter. He hadn’t finished the job.

  He directed number nine to the gangway, then leaned over the rim and called into the darkness below.

  “Margot? Are you near the ladder?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No buts. Put your good foot on a rung and hold on tight.”

  “O-okay.” He felt the ropes tighten. “I’m on. Now what?”

  “I bring you up.”

  Brannigan sat on the deck, braced his feet against the hatch rim, and began hauling on the rope ladder. The coarse coils burned his palms and his back protested, but he kept at it, pulling rung after ropy rung up and over the edge until he saw a pair of hands grip the rim.

  “Keep coming!” he shouted, maintaining tension on the rope.

  When her face was visible and she had both elbows over the rim, he grabbed her and hauled her onto the deck.

  “Oh, thank you!” she sobbed as she looked at the city. “I’d given up hope of ever seeing home again!”

  “Don’t thank me yet.” He lifted her into his arms and carried her toward the gangway. “C’mon, kiddo. Your daddy’s waiting for you.”

  His haste gave him a bad moment on the gangway as he slipped halfway down and nearly fell off. He was just stepping onto the dock with his burden safe and unharmed when a bright flash lit up the night.

  “Hold it!” a man’s voice said. “One more!”

  The purple afterimage of the flash blotted out whoever was talking.

  “What?”

  A second flash and then another voice saying, “Joe Stenson from the Chronicle. Your name’s Brannigan, right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “That’s with a double ‘n’?”

  “Get out of here!” Brannigan shouted as he began carrying Margot away from the ship. “The ship’s going to blow at midnight!”

  “Blow?”

  “As in explode!”

  “But it’s already after midnight,” Stenson said.

  Brannigan slowed for a few steps. Had he been duped? Then he remembered what Oliver had said about the Mandarin always keeping his word and resumed his frantic pace.

  “Just get away from the ship!”

  “If you say so.”

  Stenson was pacing him to his left. A photographer ambled on his right.

  “How come you two are down here?” Brannigan asked.

  “Got a tip. Guy didn’t give his name, just told me to get down to Pier Twelve if I wanted to catch a hero cop in action, and am I ever glad I listened. The girls told me what happened to them, and that picture of you carrying this little lady down the gangplank—hoo boy, if that’s not front-page stuff, I’ll quit and open a flower shop.”

  Ahead Brannigan could see the rest of the girls waiting near the street, cheering when they saw he had Margot. He set her down on the curb and they all gathered around, hugging her, hugging him, while the photographer flashed away.

  “What was that about the ship exploding at midnight?” Stenson said. “Were you—?”

  And then the pavement shook and the night lit up like day as huge explosions ripped through the old freighter, rupturing her hull and shooting hundred-foot columns of flame up from the hatches.

  Stenson turned to his photographer. “Are you getting this, Louie?”

  “I’m getting it, Joe. Am I ever getting it!”

  The adrenaline began seeping away then, leaving Brannigan fagged. He’d missed collaring the Mandarin, but looking at these ten girls, all alive and well because of him, he couldn’t help but feel on top of the world.

  But
who in the world had called the Chronicle?

  He sensed motion behind him and turned to see a silver Rolls Royce gliding by. A little red-haired girl smiled and waved from the rear window before the car was swallowed by the fog.

  Pure luck, that’s what it was. A minute earlier or ten seconds later and he woulda missed him. As it was, Perry reached the corner just as the guy opened his door and stepped inside. Yeah, it was dark, but no mistaking him.

  He’d called himself Jack when he’d set Perry up, but who knew if that was his real name. Perry had had a sweet scam going on the old lady circuit, relieving old bitches of their excess cash. This Jack had come along and said he had some flush marks but wanted a cut for the info. Fair enough. But turned out the first one he delivered had an NYPD sergeant for a son. Perry’d been busted and busted up, but good. And Jack? Jack was gone like he’d never been.

  Perry beat it back to his apartment for the sawed-off twelve he kept around for protection. When he returned to the block he peeked in the townhouse window and spotted the guy with a good-looking blonde and a kid. Thought about busting in but that was stupid. Be patient.

  The block dead-ended at a little park hanging over the FDR. He hid in the shadows there, took the sawed-off from under his coat, and listened to the traffic below as he waited.

  Sutton Square. Ritzy block. What was this guy, some rich do-gooder getting his jollies by screwing up things for working men like Perry? Well, his do-gooder days was over. When he came out Perry would get close, cut him in half with both barrels, and keep walking like nothing happened. And then –

  “Hello, Perry.”

  Perry jumped and started to spin at the sound of the soft voice so close behind but stopped when the muzzle of a pistol pressed against his cheek. He recognized the voice and his bladder clenched.

  “Jesus, Jack. Hey, what’re you doing here?”

  “That’s my question.” He took the shotgun from Perry’s hands.

  “I’m hidin. Got on the wrong side of a shy and he’s got some boys lookin for me.”

  “You’re watching that townhouse, Perry.”

  “No, I—”

  “I saw you peek in the window.”