Annotation
Three brutal killings.
The first murder was a professional job, efficiently carried out by high-price executioners. The second was a torture death, the speciality of men who knew how to prolong agony to extract information.
The third was unplanned, the knife mercifully swift to its victim. And each killing ended the life of a top spy.
Two strange double agents.
The man sold out for money and didn't care who knew about it. The girl was forced into betrayal; she had to choose between treason and satisfying the Red agent's insatiable lust…
* * *
Nick Carter
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
notes1
* * *
Nick Carter
Killmaster
The Red Guard
Dedicated to The Men of the Secret Services of the United States of America
OCR Mysuli: [email protected]
Chapter 1
The thin night fog creeping in from the Bay, silent and sinister and as soft as a cat stalking, draped a muffling white shroud over the splinter of old and new China that lies in San Francisco. It had been a dull October day with leaden clouds and intermittent rain, and night had fallen early. Chinatown, seen through a filter of dank gauze, was a neon-washed stage where obscure figures hurried on mysterious errands.
On this night it would have been easy for a stranger to lose his way in Chinatown. But had he elected to stand silently on a corner, wrapped in the fog, listening, he would have known where he was by the dialects of the passersby — Peking, Canton, Shanghai, Hong Kong — and most of all by the slip-slop — slip-slop of Chinese shoes on the wet pavement. This sound, this shoe sibilance, came from the old; the new generation of Chinatown passed with miniskirts swinging and transistors blaring, high heels clicking and iron-shod cowboy boots pounding on the concrete.
On the fringe of Chinatown, on Bush Street near Stockton, was a smallish bookstore with two neon signs the color of blood. One sign, in English, read: Books Bought and Sold — Old and New — Incunabula. The neon sign flashed the same message in Chinese ideograms.
Sun Yat, the owner of the bookstore, was in his back room having a cup of black dragon tea — oolong in the Cantonese — and riffling through the pages of his latest pornographic treasure. It was amusing, also quite stimulating, and Sun Yat was beginning to feel the need of a woman. He would, he thought, take still another opium pill before he sought out the woman. Just one more pill. This as he knew from experience, would dull his senses — but not the pleasure — and would allow his prostitute to stimulate him for an hour at least without any outflow of his life fluid. Sun Yat sipped his tea and smiled, lost in reverie, flicking through the pages of this rare copy of Chin P'ing Mei. For more amusement, and because he had an analytical mind, he tried to calculate what he would be capable of if he took just one opium pill. Suppose he took two pills?
Sun Yat shook his head and smiled at his fantasies, but still trying to work out ratio and quotient and, he supposed, the law of decreasing return. Just because you took two opium pills would not necessarily mean that you would be twice as potent and long-winded. Not at all. There must be an X factor, an unknown, somewhere concealed in…
The bell over the entrance tinkled. Sun Yat sighed and put the book down beside his teacup and saucer, careful not to crumple or stain the pages that had aged to the color of very old ivory. The book was worth two thousand, at least, and he already had an eager buyer. Yet he hated to part with the book. It had been smuggled out of China and through Hong Kong at great expense. The erotic prints, done by a master, were alone worth a fortune.
As he left the back room Sun Yat glanced at a clock on the wall. Ten after nine. He should have locked up shop ten minutes ago, had he not been so engrossed in the Chin P'ing Mei. He straightened his tie as he pushed through green drapes leading into the store proper, wondering who his late customers could be. He never did much business this late at night. He was, in fact, a little annoyed that the bell had tinkled. He did not really need customers — he ran the bookstore as a front, having other and better sources of income — and he detested browsers who wasted his time and bought nothing. He would, he thought now, get rid of these interlopers in a hurry. Then he would call Soo-Soo and ask her to come over. Six thousand thrusts — hummm? Was such a thing really possible?
There were two men in the front of the store. Both were big men, both wore dark raincoats and dark hats, both were white men. One man was standing at the counter, waiting for Sun Yat to approach. The other man was gazing at a wire rack of paperbacks near the front door.
Sun Yat, a rather handsome little man in his fifties, with graying temples, was not a stupid man. Had he not been on Erotic Cloud Nine, his normally sharp mind cluttered with the joys of the coming evening, he might have sensed his danger sooner than he did. He might even have saved himself. He kept a.38 revolver in a box beneath the counter, with the petty cash and the stamps.
Sun Yat faced the big man across the counter. In good, barely accented English, he said: "Yes, sir? What can I do for you this evening?"
The man in the raincoat put two enormous hands on the glass counter and leaned over it. He was newly shaven and a waft of lotion came to the little Chinese. He began, in that instant, not to like the situation at all. The big man had small blue eyes, very pale blue and as cold as snow. Worst of all was the utter lack of expression in the eyes — they were like two blue mirrors glinting at Sun Yat.
Without removing his stare from Sun Yat the big man said: "Okay, Nat?"
The other man, no longer perusing the rack of paperbacks, was staring through the window into the foggy street. He nodded. "Okay."
Instinct warned Sun Yat — too late. The man's big hand came over the counter and, with a single flexure of powerful muscles, twisted itself into Sun Yat's shirt and tie. He was dragged half across the counter. The big man said; "The breath of the dragon is sour."
So that was it! If Sun Yat could have breathed at all he would have let out a sigh of relief. They were simply messengers these two big-nose toughs. But why were they acting so strangely? So rough? As if something had gone wrong — as though someone, they, knew!
The little Chinese kicked and struggled valiantly. He managed to gasp, "But when the dragon loves, his breath is sweet!" Now certainly this monster round eye would let him go. This insane farce would end. And he was going to complain. Complain bitterly. He, Sun Yat, could not be treated like this!
The big hand moved to his throat and tightened there. His eyes were popping now. The big man said: "You are Sun Yat?"
The little man, clawing futilely at the hand on his throat, nodded frantically. He couldn't breath. The room was darkening now, spinning and swaying and full of fog.
A ghost of a smile twitched on the thick lips. "You're sure you're Sun Yat? I wouldn't want to make a mistake."
Sun Yat nodded again. He was aware, with his last vision, that the other man had drawn the blinds over the door and windows. He caught a flash of the CLOSED sign as the man hung it in the door.
The man who had drawn the blinds now locked the front door. He turned and came toward the counter. "Okay," he muttered. "Let's get it to hell over with!"
The man who was choking Sun Yat loosened his hold a trifle. He could breathe again. The man hauled him over the counter like a bundle of laundry and held him erect by his coat collar. Sun Yat, gasping, crying with pain and rage, fumbled with both hands at his throat. His voice, arid and hollo
w, like the last squeal of an already dead thing, came parching from his ruined throat: "Y… you crazy… what you do… I am not for this sort of… I am…"
The other man kicked Sun Yat hard in the groin. The little Chinese opened his mouth wide in a silent scream, the agony so intense, so unbearable, that he could not voice it. His pain filled the store.
The big man twisted Sun Yat's arms behind him and held him erect. The other man kicked him again. "Okay," he grunted. "Let him go. Let's get it over with and get outa here."
The one who had been holding Sun Yat let him go. The Chinese fell to the floor, his slight body coiling into a womboid position, his hands clawing at his groin. His mouth was open. From it poured foam and saliva and sounds that had nothing human about them.
The man who had done the kicking reached under his raincoat and brought out two hatchets. They were old-style tong hatchets, spiked at one end, razor sharp at the other, with a short, weighted handle to give them the proper balance for throwing.
He handed one of the hatchets to the bigger man. The man took it with a hint of reluctance. "This part I don't like," he grumbled. "Too damned messy. Why can't we do it clean, the way we do back East? A couple bullets, a barrel of cement, maybe a little gasoline fire? This crap don't make sense."
The other man was leaning over the moaning Chinese, the hatchet raised. "Come on," he rasped. "You're in this as much as I am. You got a raincoat, ain'tcha? It'll get most of the blood. And we're getting paid damn good — so come on! They want it to look like a tong killing — so okay, it'll look like a tong killing!"
"I reckon," said the bigger man. He raised his hatchet and brought it down viciously, spike end first. It smashed through Sun Yat's fragile skull and penetrated deep into the brain. The other man aimed a cutting blow at the little man's throat.
Sun Yat, wandering in his pain hell, saw the hatchets glint and flash in the bright electric light and knew, in the very last second of time, who was killing him. And why. They had found him out.
His brain, even with the steel in it, functioned for another micro-second. He thought of the girl, the lovely Chinese girl, to whom he had spoken that very evening. She had betrayed him, then? No. He did not think so. She had been straight, that girl. Sun Yat hoped that she would somehow manage to break her trail, so this would not happen to her. But she was straight. She was what she had claimed to be. He had bet his life on it. And lost.
Both men were wearing thin, flesh-colored rubber gloves. These they did not remove as they tossed the hatchets to the floor beside the mutilated body. The bigger man was grumbling again. "We got to leave the weapons for the cops to find, huh? Whyn't we just leave our fingerprints, too, and make it easier for the bulls?"
The other, the one called Nat, gave his companion a look of disgust. He was a Chicago hood and he did not like anything about the New York killer. Even the Brooklyn accent grated on his none too sensitive nerves.
"Why don't you stop bitching?" he snarled. "We do a job, we do it right! The way they want it done. You should oughta try working out of Chi for awhile, buddy. Biggest thing I been wondering ever since we took this job — how come you're still alive or not in the can? Now cut the crap and let's get cleaned up and blow."
They went into the back room and found the bathroom. They washed their rubber-gloved hands and soaked towels in hot water to clean their shoes and trouser legs. When they had finished each inspected the other for blood stains.
At last the Chicago man was satisfied. "Okay," he said. "Let's beat it"
Carefully avoiding the bloody mess that had been Sun Yat, they walked to the front door. The New York man turned off the lights. The Chicago man said: "Leave the night light, stupid! A prowl car or a beat man sees it dark in here, he'll come looking. We ain't made no mistakes up to now, so let's not start. This is Saturday — with luck they won't find him till Monday morning. Maybe not then. By that time well be long gone."
The single, dim night light was on now, a feeble yellow glim in the gloom that enveloped the little shop and the corpse. There were no sounds from the street. A solitary fly, granted an extension of October life, buzzed down from the ceiling and lit in the blood near Sun Yat's head.
The Chicago man opened the front door and peered out. A tendril of white mist leaked into the room. The Chicago man tested the lock and nodded to the other. "Okay, New York. I'll go left, you go right. We never met, remember? S'long."
He held the door open for the New York man to slip through, then tested the lock again and closed the door. Without a word the New York man turned right and stalked away into the fog. The Chicago man turned left, pulled down his hat brim and snuggled into the collar of his raincoat. He strolled slowly through the writhing gray smoke, trying to orient himself. Shouldn't be too hard — all he had to do was get farther into Chinatown, find Grant Avenue and follow it back to where it crossed Market Street. From there on he would know his way.
He passed a big cop in a shiny black raincape. The cop was testing doors on the block and he gave the stroller a cursory glance. They were near a street light, its aura both amber and rainbow shot in the mist. The man from Chicago nodded and said pleasantly, "Good evening, Officer. Nasty night."
The cop grunted an unintelligible reply. The stroller strolled on, lighting a cigarette with a handsome leather and silver lighter, his thin mouth smiling in the brief flick of flame.
He came to Grant Avenue and turned south. Here the fog was thinner, diluted by a blaze of neon tubes twisted into Chinese characters. From a doorway a skinny, slant-eyed whore muttered at him. She was wearing stilt heels and a cheongsam, shivering under a ratty-looking jacket of Jap mink. He shook his head and stalked on. Ruthie was waiting for him in Chicago, and he was saving it all for her. An image of Ruthie flashed into his brain for a moment — Ruthie naked on the bed, waiting impatiently, staring at him and wetting her lips the way she did. His loins stirred at the image and the thoughts and he increased his pace. Work was over — now the pleasure. He'd check out about eight in the morning and get a flight back to CM. No sweat. No problem. None of the airport dicks had made him coming in; none would make him going out. That was the great thing about not having a record. It made it so easy. He had always been very careful, very cautious, and it had paid off. Ten thousand for this job alone — ten big ones for knocking off an old Chinaman with a hatchet.
For a moment, as the Chicago killer walked beneath a street light, his long face itself resembled a hatchet — an intelligent, merciless hatchet.
Funny, he thought, as he turned into Market Street, that they had insisted on hatchets. Make it look like a tong killing, the typed instructions had said. His grin was hard. Any dumb sonofabitch knew there hadn't been a tong killing in Frisco in thirty years, maybe longer. The tongs were as dead as the Purple Gang.
So who cared? For ten thousand dollars, who cared? And who asked questions? Not this boy. He was way too smart for that. He decided to ride the rest of the way to his hotel and stepped off the curb to hail a cab. No, he thought again as a cab pulled up, you sure as hell didn't ask questions about a job like this. As he settled back in the leathery-smelling cab and told the driver where to take him, another faint smile touched his cold mouth. One thing it wasn't — a Cosa Nostra job! The techniques were entirely different. Cosa Nostra usually tried to hide their killings, tried to bury the remains where they would never be found, even maintained certain very secret «cemeteries» around the country.
But they, his current employers, wanted publicity for this murder. They wanted the old Chinese to be found with the hatchets beside him. They were, he thought, trying to get a message to someone, somewhere. For a brief moment the Chicago man wondered who it was that they were trying to reach and just what the message was; then he forgot it.
He had better forget it, he told himself grimly as the cab pulled up before his hotel. Because he was no dummy, this lad, and he knew what the stupid New York punk had not even guessed at — he knew who his employers were! He had serv
ed in the infantry in Korea and he had killed a lot of them. The irony of it struck him as he paid off the cab. Then he had been killing them — now he was working for them. He shrugged. That was life. And he would go on living just so long as they didn't know that he knew.
Chapter 2
Nick Carter, highest ranking killmaster for AXE, could feel the evening slipping away from him, sliding into ruin and chaos and God only knew what He was like a man alone on a sinking ship, standing numbly on the bridge as the water crept steadily up to engulf him. Yet not quite alone. She was there. She was sweet and lovely and tiny and she smelled simply delicious. She had golden hair and a mouth like a wet crushed rosebud and knowing, very knowing, gray eyes. Her name was Debbie Hunt and she was up from her school, Sweet Briar, to spend the weekend in New York. She said she was twenty-one and Nick knew that she lied in her teeth. He gave her eighteen — nineteen at the most.
Nick was just back from an assignment in Israel — it had turned out to be a bloody mess, with far more than the usual number of killings — and he had wanted a week or so of rest and relaxation before Hawk could think up a new way of putting Nick's head in another noose. It was not to be.
First had come the letter, followed by a telegram. Both from a very old friend of Nick's, a Meredith Hunt who was a gentleman farmer in Indiana and very proud of his hogs — Poland Chinas — and of his daughter, though not necessarily in that order. Both telegram and letter entreated Nick to look after Debbie on this, her first, trip to Sin City. Nick, between the lines, could detect the fine hand of Mrs. Hunt, whom he remembered as once having been the most beautiful girl in Indianapolis. She wanted her darling looked after by a man of good repute. As Nick read the letter and telegram for the nth time, desperately seeking a way out, it occurred to him that Meredith had not fully confided in Faith, his wife. Certainly not to the extent of telling her about that weekend in the Village. It was, even now, all that Nick could do to think about it!
The Red Guard Page 1
