The Vulcan Disaster

Our path cut down to Salisbury Road on the waterfront and turned up Canton Road, past the Ocean Terminal. The Mercedes stayed with us, neither gaining nor falling behind.

“Can you run in a cheongsam? The necessity may present itself.”

Her hand went to my arm: electricity again. What the devil was it about her? “I had that in mind, Mr. Carter. I was a prizewinning athlete in my teens.” And where was that? I was thinking. “They won’t try anything until we are well inside the market, I believe. It is poorly patrolled at night. The address we are going to is three blocks above Jordan Road. Once there, I think we will be relatively safe.”

I wasn’t so sure. Maybe she knew something I didn’t, but those toughs behind us looked like people who meant business. The cab turned at Jordan Road; I told him to pull up at Shanghai Street. “But you said Temple Street,” the driver said.

I slipped him a bill: too much. “We’re going shopping for a porcelain tea service,” I said. “Now could you do me a favor and flip around right here? And tie up that black Mercedes just long enough to delay letting them park?”

“I...”

“There’s another bill in it.” I flashed it.

“Okay.” He picked them up in the rear-view mirror, just turning into Jordan Road. He did a speed turn in the street and began to drive like a drunken idiot down the middle of the road, weaving crazily.

I didn’t think it’d pay to wait and watch. “Come on,” I said, grabbing her hand. We ducked up Shanghai Street, double-timing, and didn’t slow down until we’d reached the first cross street; then we cut over to Temple and the deserted bazaar.

We stopped there, out of any view they could have of us. “Now what?” I said. “You said three blocks down.”

“Yes,” she said. “You see? Far up the street? A dim light on the left-hand side?”

“Yeah. Come on.”

That should have been enough lead for us. By all rights, the problems they’d run into with our enterprising cabbie should have stalled them just enough to let us fake them out, switching streets like that. Maybe it wasn’t our night. I was just about to congratulate myself on getting home free when Tatiana gripped my arm, hard, and pointed up ahead. “Mr. Carter! They’ve cut us off!”

So they had. And as I whirled and looked behind us, there were the rest of them. The car had dumped three of them at the first alley then pulled up ahead of us where the rest had hopped out. We were surrounded.

Worse, they were armed — and grotesquely so.

Matter of fact, I’d never seen such a weird assortment of weapons. Of the three ahead of me, one bore a sharp-pointed spear, around six feet long, another a razor-edged three-foot machete, the third a six-foot trident with a spread of perhaps two feet. As I rotated my head around, I could see the other group was identically outfitted.

“Hey,” I said in a low voice. “Tatiana. Back against the wall, out of the line of fire.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Well,” I said, “I’m not going to play fair, for one thing.” The three up ahead were farther away; I decided to deal with the closest first. I turned back toward Jordan Road, pulled Wilhelmina, and squeezed off three shots rapid-fire.

Two of them went home: the first caught the guy with the trident in the middle of the chest and blew him back three or four steps before he fell, his shirt nearly black with his own dark blood. The second caught the man with the spear in the left eye. It vanished in a red smear; the back of his head erupted, blowing giblety brains halfway down the street. The spear clattered on the pavement.

The third...

Wilhelmina jammed,

Faithful Wilhelmina, who rarely fails me, now failed to fire. Too late I remembered: I hadn’t cleaned her since I’d taken her back from the General. They stopped making new Lugers before World War Two; sensitive weapons get old and cranky; they have to be cleaned often and reassembled with care. My old friend hadn’t been.

The guy with the machete was upon me.

Behind me I heard Tatiana’s shrill scream. And footsteps. And a man’s sudden, violent bellow of rage: the kind of bellow a karate champ sometimes uses as a kind of weapon in itself. And the clash of metal against metal.

I didn’t have time to look around.

The machete sliced through the air past my head; if it’d caught me even a glancing blow it would have killed me easily.

I made a quick motion with my right arm; Hugo, my pencil-thin stiletto, was in one hand the moment I did it. And I danced quickly out into the middle of the street, hoping no one was behind me waiting to strike.

It wouldn’t do, I knew, to parry with Hugo. Not against those three feet of razor-sharp steel. The only chance I had was to make him lunge, and miss, and let me slice his wrist open. Then, with the tendons cut through and his arm disabled for life, I could slip in and gut him the way I’d gutted Tamura.