by Barry Reese
Albert sighed, trying to avoid such negative thoughts. He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass, reflected back in various shades of black and grey. He wore an honorary S.S. uniform, a red band around one bicep, proudly displaying the swastika. His sandy brown hair was neatly combed and he had the physique of a well-trained athlete, barrel-chested and broad-shouldered. But it was the metal jaw that caught everyone’s eye. It was sewn on to his face, leaving a horrid red scar around its edges. Albert flexed it with a thought, making it grind together. He hated it and loved it, using it to rip through his victims like they were so much tissue paper. Women no longer coveted his touch but most were too afraid to resist so the end result was the same: he got what he wanted.
Steel Jaw turned away, checking his watch. It was well past midnight and he was beginning to think his time was being wasted. The psychics in the Fuehrer’s employ had warned that something awful was going to happen and that it had to do with this particular bust… but they could see nothing more specific than that.
And so Albert was here, when he could have been home entertaining his latest prizes: Ursula and Penny, two Jew twins that he had rescued from one of the camps and brought home to be his toys, until he tired of them.
Sordid thoughts danced across his mental landscape, keeping him from noticing movement in the shadows. By the time he did detect the presence of the Ten Fingers, they were upon him, using their martial arts skills to drive him back towards the wall. There were five of them, all wearing matching dark bodysuits.
Steel Jaw roared like an uncaged lion, grabbing hold of the nearest man and pulling him close. His jaw snapped shut around the fellow’s throat, decapitating him. Steel Jaw grunted as another’s foot slammed into his ribs and Albert backhanded the man in return. He snapped his steel jaw open and closed constantly now, catching whatever limb was closest to him. Blood sprayed across the walls and floors, making them slippery. This gave Steel Jaw an advantage—the Ten Fingers relied on agility and speed, both of which required sure footing. Steel Jaw, on the other hand, was a creature of brute force.
Two more of the Ten Fingers were slain under Steel Jaw’s powerful attacks, their bodies falling to the floor missing significant chunks of flesh.
In the end, only one of the Ten Fingers remained and he was limping badly, blood streaming down the right side of his body.
“Who are you?” Steel Jaw demanded in German. When the man replied in Chinese, Steel Jaw swore under his breath and charged. The servant of the Manchu tried to jump out of the way but he was too slow to succeed. The two men slammed together, driving into the glass case containing the bust of Nefertiti. It shattered under the impact, the bust slamming to the floor and bursting. A strange substance encased in an odd white-colored wrapping spilled out onto the floor.
Steel Jaw was too busy ripping out the throat of the man beneath him to notice the odd material. It was only when he’d straightened up and was shaking the blood and gore from his metal chin that he noticed one last figure in the shadows. The man emerged, bending low at the waist to pluck up the wrapped object. The new arrival wore a green Oriental robe with a rampant dragon emblazoned upon it. A square hat sat atop his head and a long drooping moustache hung down his cheeks. His eyes were slitted, almost like a cat’s, and he regarded Steel Jaw with nothing short of open disdain.
“I will never understand your Fuehrer’s fascination with transforming men and women into comedic mockeries of humanity,” the man said in perfectly spoken German. “Look at you. By all rights, you should have been put down like a broken animal. The fact that you live at all is disgusting.”
Steel Jaw rose to his feet, blood still dripping from his mouth. “Whatever that thing is you’re holding, it belongs to the German people.”
“Actually, it belongs to the Egyptians. Like so much else in your museum, it was stolen and claimed as your own.”
“I am giving you one last chance to surrender.” Steel Jaw laughed hoarsely. “Believe me, it’s fine with me if you choose to fight. I’ll eat you alive.”
The Warlike Manchu arched one eyebrow. “How many people have you killed like that, barbarian?”
“Too many to count.”
“Then it is fitting that you should die in the manner in which you lived.” The Manchu strode forward quickly, opening his mouth wider than Albert would have thought possible. Sharp, elongated canines were quickly buried in Steel Jaw’s neck, spilling more blood—only this time, the blood came from Albert himself.
* * *
It was near dawn before the bodies were discovered. There were two: the night watchmen and Steel Jaw. Of course, there was far too much blood for only the two deaths, but no one really noticed… for most of the attention was focused on the state of Steel Jaw’s body, which had been mostly devoured.
From the shadows, the Peregrine watched in grim silence. He had arrived too late, which meant that whatever it was, the Warlike Manchu already had his prize. Max had studied up on alkahest on the way over to Germany and now knew that his old enemy was seeking the fabled Philosopher’s Stone. Just as trouble, however, was the realization that the Manchu had become something not quite human: he was a cannibal, with unimaginable hungers.
Enjoy your feasts while you can, you monster, Max thought to himself. Because I’m coming for you.
CHAPTER VI
To Track the Beast
Six hours later, the Peregrine was in the middle of a Berlin bar, one that catered to a select clientele, even in the middle of the day. There were girls in the back, chained to beds, serving as physical receptacles for the sick desires of men who coveted pain and despair. Out front, there was a small pub that rarely served any alcohol. The Peregrine was thoroughly disgusted by the place and planned to leave it in ruins—after having freed the poor slaves in the back. But before that, he had questions that required answers.
Three men lay groaning on the floor, two of them nursing broken arms. The third had a shattered nose, blood streaming down his face.
The Peregrine was barely breathing fast, his eyes narrowed behind his bird-like mask. Both gloved hands were clenched into fists, speckles of red on the knuckles. “I’m only going to ask you gentlemen nicely one more time: the Warlike Manchu is in town. He pulled off the heist at the museum last night. If my sources are correct, no one comes in or out of Berlin without passing through the checkpoints without paying off the three of you, who in turn pay off the border patrol. Am I right so far?”
The one with the broken nose, Dieter, looked up at the American vigilante and nodded. Poor Dieter’s face would probably never be quite as handsome again, not after that nose healed up. “We don’t know where he’s staying,” Dieter whispered. “I swear it!”
“You’d know if he left the country, though, wouldn’t you? Which means he’s still here.” The Peregrine strode over to Dieter, crouching beside him. The German flinched at his approach, fearful of another assault. “So if you know he’s still here, I’m betting you can help me locate where he’s staying.”
“I… might be able to find out for you.” Dieter struggled to his feet, still eyeing the Peregrine warily. “But it will take time. This man… he is crafty. If he doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be found.”
“Then that’s very bad news for you,” the Peregrine said with a cold gleam in his eye. “Because the more time it takes to find him, the angrier I’m going to become… and I’m going to take out my rage on your face.”
Dieter nodded, believing that to be absolutely true. “I will need to leave. If you want me to put out feelers on the Warlike Manchu’s whereabouts, I can’t do that from here.”
Max gestured to the door. “Then go. But don’t try and jerk me around. You won’t like what happens if you do.”
Dieter bolted towards freedom, having momentarily forgotten about his damaged nose. Max watched him go, cast one glance at Dieter’s companions, and then left the building himself.
* * *
The Peregrine stuck to the shadows
, avoiding notice both from the armed Nazi guards who patrolled the streets and, most importantly, from Dieter. The career criminal had rushed down the street, moving so quickly that it was obvious he had no plan other than escape from the Peregrine for the first few moments. Once he was confident that the American was not behind him, he’d slowed his pace and stopped next to a public telephone.
Max took out a small device which he secreted in one ear. He then unfolded a triangular-shaped unit which he pointed towards Dieter. The Peregrine was hidden from view in an alleyway across the street but the directional microphone allowed him to hear Dieter as if he were standing right next to the man.
“Jian? This is Dieter. We have a problem. The Peregrine is here in Berlin. He nearly killed me!”
Through the transceiver, Max heard the tinny voice of an Oriental man responding. “What did you tell him?”
“I told him I’d have to call in a few favors to find out where the Manchu is… but I told him I might come up empty. He said I’d regret it if I didn’t give him what he wants.” Dieter looked around, eyes wild. “The Manchu has to help me, Jian! I gave you a good one in getting you into the country, now do me one back!”
“Please be patient,” Jian replied. Dieter waited while Jian apparently went to speak with the Manchu. Dieter licked his lips, unable to keep still. When Jian returned to the line, the German turned his back to Max, who continued listening in. “The Warlike Manchu wishes you to bring him to 17 Belarus. He will lay a trap for the Peregrine. You are to accompany him if he insists.”
“Done,” Dieter said, hanging up the phone. When Max saw him step back onto the street, he could tell that the German wasn’t completely happy about the situation. No doubt he was hoping to be left out of any further plans…
The Peregrine watched him for a moment, trying to decide if he should head back to the bar and wait for him. In the end, he decided that Dieter’s role in the affair was over for now. There would hopefully be time later on to punish the crook for his litany of sins.
The Peregrine picked up a small telephonic device and punched in a code. Seconds later, McKenzie answered. “Will, are you still across the street from the pub?”
“Yep. Right where you left me.”
Max smiled. He’d convinced his friend to accompany him to Berlin, hoping that McKenzie could serve as the sort of back-up that Evelyn used to do before her pregnancy. “Go on in, gun in hand, and let those girls out. Dieter is on his way back.”
“What then?”
“Get out of there. Head back to the plane and wait for me there.”
“What will you be doing?”
“Settling old scores.” Max cut the connection before McKenzie could press him further. He knew that his friend would want to tag along and Max didn’t want that: McKenzie needed to remain safe, so he could return to the States and help watch over Evelyn and the baby… if something did go wrong, Max wanted as many friends as possible for Evelyn to lean upon.
The Peregrine began moving through the city, heading towards the address Dieter had been given. The trek took a little over an hour, as the Peregrine kept to the shadows as much as possible. He could always ditch the mask and walk about in his suit, but there was the chance he could be stopped and asked for papers, of which he had none. Better, he thought, to use stealth.
The Peregrine finally arrived at the location, which was a small boarding house in one of the older parts of the city. Next door was a small shop of some kind and across the street was a butcher’s. Max crept around the back of the building, carefully peering inside. He saw several members of the Ten Fingers, all armed with a variety of weaponry: sai, shuriken and even pistols. The men were taking positions around the various entrances, obviously planning to strike as soon as the Peregrine entered the building.
Max continued around the boarding house until he was positive that the Warlike Manchu was nowhere to be found. He’d hoped that the master criminal would have wanted to take part in the ambush but obviously the Manchu was too clever for that. This was nothing more than a gamble on the villain’s side—if his men actually managed to kill the Peregrine, all the better. If they failed, they might still delay Max long enough for the Manchu to either successfully create the Philosopher’s Stone or else flee the country first.
The Peregrine took a deep breath, trying to consider his next move. He could try and locate Dieter again and beat him into giving more information… or he could enter this ambush and try to get information from the Ten Fingers.
In the end, it wasn’t much of a decision: he was angry and he wanted to hit something.
With a cold smile slowly spreading across his face, the Peregrine burst into the house through the window, landing in a rolling ball. He sprang up, guns blazing.
The Ten Fingers whirled about but it was obvious that they had been taken flatfooted. One of them managed to hurl a shuriken in Max’s direction but he was able to duck under the weapon, which embedded itself in the wall behind the Peregrine’s head.
Another rushed forward, his edged weapon—an Oriental sword known as a Sai—whipping through the air. The Peregrine dodged to his left, narrowly avoiding losing an ear to the man’s attack. Max was close enough to catch the fellow in the stomach with a knee, following that with the butt of his pistol against the man’s skull.
The Peregrine then resumed his firing at the others, using pinpoint aim to take them down.
Within seconds it was over. Two of the Ten Fingers lay on their backs, blood streaming from their shoulders and legs. Three more had been wounded in their stomachs and would die without medical treatment.
Max holstered his smoking weapons, feeling a cold rage growing within him. These idiots were willing to die for a man who saw them as nothing more than cattle… and nothing Max could say to them would ever make them realize their mistake.
The Peregrine looked around at them and asked in Chinese, “Where can I find your master? And answer me quickly… before I decide that all of you can handle a few more bullets.”
“We would die before betraying our lord,” one of them muttered through clenched teeth.
The Peregrine laughed then, a mirthless sound that was chilling to hear. “Then don’t bother betraying him. He’s like a living god to you, isn’t he? Then what does he have to fear from me? Tell me where to find him… so he can kill me once and for all.”
CHAPTER VII
The Philosopher’s Stone
The Warlike Manchu watched Jian at work, stroking his moustache as he observed the scene. Jian had sculpted a rectangular shape out of the various ingredients, including the odd powdery substance that had been hidden in the bust of Nefertiti.
“Are you finished?” the Manchu asked when his advisor backed away from his creation, which rested atop an otherwise bare table in the villain’s true hideout, which was located several miles from the scene of the anticipated ambush.
“I think so. I have gathered several small pieces of lead… if the mixture is correct, we should now be able to transform them into gold.” Jian looked into his master’s eyes, which burned with a hunger both literal and symbolic. “Obviously, the true power of the Philosopher’s Stone is not just that it creates items of material wealth… the gold produced is blessed with a healing power. Being in the presence of such can imbue the user with eternal life and health.”
The Manchu’s tongue darted out, licking his upper lip. He reached for the Stone and lifted it in both hands. It had the consistency of a recently dried mud brick, still soft enough to be crushed in his fingers if he squeezed but firm enough that it held together otherwise. “I’m hungry,” he informed Jian. “I have this overwhelming desire to sink my teeth into human flesh, to drink warm red blood and to watch as someone dies to satisfy my hunger. I thought it a curse at first… but it’s such a powerful display, to watch as another person dies to feed your belly.”
Jian shifted uneasily, disturbed by the sudden shift into discussion of cannibalism. “Should I fetch one of your p
risoners?”
“No,” the Manchu said, smiling broadly. “I think I’ll try and slake my thirsts in another way.” The Warlike Manchu stunned his follower by extending his neck and taking a strong bite from the Philosopher’s Stone. He chewed it with a grimace, not liking the taste, but he did not pause until the entire thing was gone.
Jian watched in mute shock, his mouth hanging open. “Master… I am not certain that was wise.”
The Manchu ignored him, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. He looked towards a member of the Ten Fingers, who was standing nearby. “Come,” he said, gesturing for the man to approach. The servant did so without hesitation, though he obviously recognized that his lord’s hunger had not been satisfied. The Warlike Manchu gripped the man and pulled him close, ripping his throat out with one powerful bite.
Jian took a step back, looking away until the sounds of his master’s gorging faded into silence. When he knew that the deed was completed and the corpse lay tossed to the floor, the aged advisor turned back, keeping his eyes lowered.
“You were saying?” the Manchu asked, wiping his chin on one of his oversized sleeves.
“Excuse me, my lord?”
“You were telling me that I shouldn’t have eaten the Stone. Why would you say that?” The Manchu reached towards the table, gripping a piece of lead. He closed his eyes and a strange orange glow surrounded his hand. When he relaxed his grip, he opened his palm to reveal that the lead pieces were now entirely composed of gold.
Jian swallowed hard, having lost the ability to speak temporarily. “I just meant that there are stories of the Stone not working for those whose hearts are not pure… I was merely fearful for your safety.”
“Then you should have warned me earlier.” The Manchu’s eyes narrowed and his face became feline and menacing. “And why would you think I would not count as pure, my trusted advisor? Do I not seek to bring peace and order to this fractured world?”
