by Gar Wilson
"A lot of people in Japan think the same way," Trent remarked. He noticed a ricksha being pulled by a man dressed in a traditional coolie outfit, complete with a conical hat of woven rice reeds. Behind the ricksha was a Rolls-Royce.
"In Hong Kong they have an expression," McCarter mused. "They say the East lives in the past, the West lives in the future, but Hong Kong lives for the present. Maybe that attitude helps them cope with the stress and uncertainty."
"Maybe we should adopt that notion," Trent commented. He glanced out the window, searching for a street sign. The taut canopy of a merchant who sold fish and squid blocked the American ninja's view. "Are you sure this friend of yours will still be at this address?"
"If he isn't, we'll just kick over a few rocks until we find him," McCarter said with a shrug.
Although Trent had failed to find a street sign, the cab-driver had no difficulty locating the address. He steered the taxi into a narrow alley. Several trash cans were lined up by the door of a small restaurant. Some children rummaged through the garbage. They watched the two strangers emerge from the cab. McCarter paid the driver.
"Hau bu hau!" the children cried, holding their hands out in hopes the tourists would toss them some coins.
"Hey, mister," one kid yelled in English. "You want meet girl? Take you see private show. Nice girl there."
"No, thanks," McCarter said gruffly. He dipped a hand into his jacket pocket. "Just get out of here and go hang around somebody else."
The Briton held out a fistful of coins and dropped a few into the greedy hands of each child. Their faces beamed, but they noticed the harshness in McCarter's expression.
"That's all you get," he added. "Don't come back for seconds. Now get out."
"Dzou-chyu!" Trent added sharply. "Dung bu dung?"
"Hau," the kids assured him.
They bolted from the alley. McCarter walked to a metal door in a brick wall. The Briton hammered his fist on the door and then stepped clear of it. Trent followed his example. The Briton carried his briefcase with the M-10 Ingram machine pistol inside. He also had his Browning Hi-Power in the Bianchi shoulder holster under his left arm. Trent was armed with his Colt Commander, manrikigusari fighting chain, some shaken throwing stars and a few other ninjutsu devices.
"Shum-mau-ren?" a voice demanded from the opposite side of the door.
"Mao's ghost," McCarter growled. "It's a dirty old Brit, you bloody bugger."
"McCarter?" the voice inquired.
"Of course I am," the Briton replied. "But don't take my word for it. Check through a peephole or a window."
"Not necessary," the voice chuckled. "I'd recognize that whiny lemon-sucking voice anywhere."
The door opened. A small, portly Chinese smiled up at them. He held a Sterling machine pistol canted against his shoulder. Pudgy fingers waved the pair into the room. The interior startled Trent. He had expected to enter a boiler room or the back room of a tavern. However, the room was adorned with silk-screen prints, jade carvings and delicate crystal figurines.
"This is Hsin Li," McCarter said, introducing the Chinese to Trent. "He's an old friend and informer. A wise man who keeps a hand on the pulse of Hong Kong and knows all the dirty business that others believe are secrets."
"I'm not just an informer anymore, McCarter," Hsin Li declared as he gestured at the fine furniture, expensive stereo-television unit with videotape recorder and assorted works of art. "Can't you see that I've gone up in the world?"
"So you have," the Briton said, nodding. "What sort of work are you into these days? Gunrunning?"
"You mean this?" Hsin Li patted his Sterling subgun. "This is just for home security."
"Very nice," McCarter said. "So what are you doing?"
"I'm sort of an unofficial social director for visiting dignitaries," Hsin Li explained. "I make certain VIP tourists and certain locals enjoy themselves while they're in our fine capital city of Victoria."
"Does that mean you're a pimp, drug pusher or both?" McCarter asked dryly.
"David," Hsin Li frowned. "You know me better than that. I'm not a brute who would peddle women like cattle, and I abhor drugs..."
"But you know people who don't mind doing that sort of thing," McCarter said. "Is that right?"
"Well, yes," Hsin Li admitted. "After all, that's free enterprise. Supply and demand. My customers have expensive tastes in entertainment. I simply arrange for them to meet with individuals who can fill their... needs. If I didn't do this, someone else would. Someone with fewer principles who wouldn't care what sort of ladies the visitors met or the quality of the substances they used."
"You're obviously a man of great principles," Trent said dryly.
"I'm glad you appreciate that," Hsin Li said, smiling. "I like your friend, David. Why don't we all have some French brandy before we discuss whatever business brings you here?"
"Because we don't have very much time, Hsin Li," McCarter replied. "We need information. Just like the good old days."
"Will I get paid?" the Chinese inquired, sinking into a large leather armchair. "After all, my services always have a price."
"I remember," McCarter assured him. "Just don't get too greedy. You'll take what we pay you, and don't try to blackmail me, Hsin Li."
"Would I do such a thing to an old and dear friend?" the Chinese hustler asked in an injured voice.
"I know you would," McCarter told him. "But don't try it with us, Hsin Li. That could be hazardous to your health, mate."
'Then I'll have to get a decent payment from the beginning," Hsin Li said, smiling. "But I'm certain you'll pay me a fair price for my valuable knowledge."
"What can you tell us about an organization called TRIO?" the Briton inquired.
"Excuse me?" Hsin Li stared at McCarter and raised his eyebrows. "Did you ask me a question? Does that mean I'm working for you? Then I must insist on a one-hundred-dollar office fee..."
"Hong Kong dollars or American currency?" McCarter asked.
"American dollars," Hsin Li answered. "Or fifty British pounds, if you prefer."
McCarter tossed two fifty-dollar bills into the hustler's lap. "Tell me about TRIO."
"I've heard of it," Hsin Li replied, folding the money and sticking it in his pocket. "Heard it's supposed to be some sort of international crime syndicate that combines some tong societies with Japanese yakuza members. Probably a myth."
"That's hardly giving us our money's worth," Trent commented. "You're telling us less than we already know."
"I can only give you information about what I know," Hsin Li said with a shrug.
"You don't want to earn any more money?" McCarter sighed. "You've certainly changed, Hsin Li."
"Ask me for details about something else," Hsin Li urged. "Uh... I'd rather not discuss anything connected with the Triad. Now that can certainly be hazardous to one's health."
"What about the Black Serpent Tong?" Trent inquired.
"That's almost as bad," Hsin Li replied.
"A thousand dollars interest you?" McCarter asked.
"Won't even pay for my funeral," Hsin Li replied.
"Are you really that worried?" McCarter asked.
"Make it two thousand," Hsin Li said with a shrug.
"Let's hear what you can tell us about the Black Serpent Tong first," the Briton insisted.
"All right," Hsin Li began. "Hong Kong waterfront. You'll find Lung Harbor there. It's a Black Serpent Tong front. They're running a smuggling operation. Drugs, guns, stolen merchandise, I'm not sure what all they're involved with. Those storage houses could hold anything."
"Storage houses?" Trent asked. His pulse quickened. "There are storage houses at the harbor?"
"Of course," Hsin Li confirmed. "Are you two looking for something special?"
"The less you know," McCarter replied, "the better off you'll be. What else can you tell us?"
"Just that the Black Serpent Tong is one of the largest and best-organized tongs in Asia," Hsin Li warned. "Their operat
ions are not limited to Hong Kong. The Black Serpents have branches in Thailand, Taiwan, possibly even inside the People's Republic of China."
"They're bigger than that," McCarter said with a nod. "I think you ought to know that the Black Serpent Tong is just, part of a larger organization."
"You mean TRIO is for real?" Hsin Li glared at him.
"That's right," the Briton confirmed. "If you decide to find out more about the Black Serpent Tong, you'd better know what you'll be poking your nose into."
"Thanks for telling me," Hsin Li said glumly. "Don't expect any more information from me."
"Then," McCarter said as he counted two thousand dollars and handed it to Hsin Li, "don't expect any more money either."
"Fair's fair," Hsin Li said with a nod.
"Well, thanks for the information," McCarter said. "Take care of yourself and maybe I'll see you again before we leave Hong Kong."
"No offense, David," the hustler replied, "but I'd rather you didn't."
"I guess I can live with that." The Briton turned to Trent. "Let's go. I'm sure Hsin Li would like to be alone with his money."
Hsin Li unbolted the door and opened it. McCarter and Trent stepped across the threshold into the alley. Both men stiffened. They sensed something was wrong immediately, even before they noticed the driver was no longer seated behind the wheel of his taxi. The alley was too quiet. Too still.
The alley seemed deserted. Even the cab appeared to be empty. McCarter and Trent glanced about, first left, then right. Then they looked up. Two men were positioned on the roof directly overhead. Both aimed pistols at the Phoenix pro and his ninja companion.
McCarter and Trent dived to the pavement. The Briton leaped to the right while Trent jumped to the left and rolled toward the cover of the taxi. They had separated so as not to present a single easy target. The gunmen on the roof tried to track their quarry through their gun sights. They squeezed triggers. The pistols hissed loudly, but neither McCarter nor Trent were struck.
The Briton held his briefcase in one fist and drew his Browning Hi-Power with the other hand. He extended his arm and pointed the Browning at the figures on the roof. The blade of the front sight lined up with a gunman's head. McCarter snapped off the safety and fired his pistol. The Browning roared, and the gunman's skull popped open.
A 115-grain parabellum slug punched through the gunman's head. Brains and blood splashed the face of his companion. He dropped his pistol and hastily wiped the gory debris from his face. McCarter fired another 9 mm round at the remaining gunman as Trent unsheathed his Commander and fired a .45 missile at the same target.
McCarter's bullet struck the lip of the roof and ricocheted off stone to strike the gunman in the side of the face. The round had little energy left when it slashed the assailant's right cheek, barely breaking the skin. The man cried out, more from alarm than pain. He weaved away from the edge of the roof, but did not move fast enough. Trent's .45 slug hit him in the center of the chest. The big 185-grain projectile crushed his sternum and pulverized his heart. The man sprawled across the rooftop and gasped a final desperate breath before he died.
The two gunmen were only part of a hit team. The rest of the assault group swiftly attacked. Two Chinese assailants rose from behind the trash cans. One aimed a bulky pistol at McCarter while the other jumped into the open and charged, wielding a club in his fist. Another club-swinging opponent lunged at Trent from the rear of the taxi. Two more Chinese charged through the mouth of the alley, each man armed with a fighting staff roughly five feet long.
McCarter raised his briefcase to shield himself from the club-wielding attacker and aimed his Browning at the pistolman stationed by the trash cans. He realized he was too late. The gunman's pistol hissed. A projectile struck McCarter's briefcase as he fired his Browning.
The British ace was astonished when his case did not burst apart from the enemy's bullet. He looked down and recognized the reason instantly. The gunman had not fired a bullet at McCarter; it was a tranquilizer dart.
However, McCarter had fired a high-velocity semijacketed hollowpoint slug at the ambusher. The bullet hit the Chinese triggerman at the bridge of the nose and knifed through his skull. The man collapsed behind the trash cans. An ugly stain of crimson-and-gray brain matter marked the wall above the garbage containers.
The man with the club kept coming. He swung his weapon at the Phoenix warrior. McCarter awkwardly blocked the attack with his case. The cudgel struck hard. McCarter felt the briefcase jerk from the blow. The handle snapped, and the briefcase hurtled to the end of the alley.
McCarter reacted swiftly, reflexes preempting thought. He wanted to take at least one attacker prisoner for questioning. Although he could have easily shot the club-wielding opponent, McCarter held his fire and slashed the barrel across the assailant's wrist. The club fell from the man's grasp, but his other hand quickly grabbed McCarter's wrist above the Browning.
The Chinese hit man shoved McCarter's pistol toward the ground and whipped the Briton's face with the back of his fist. McCarter's head bounced from the blow, and he tasted blood. The assailant twisted McCarter's wrist and forced his fist to open. The Browning fell at their feet.
McCarter swung a left hook at the side of his opponent's jaw. He followed with a knee to the man's abdomen. The Chinese groaned, but held on to McCarter's arm. He suddenly stepped to the right, twisted his upper body and hauled McCarter over his hip. The Briton's back hit the pavement hard. The Chinese bent a knee and jammed it into McCarter's stomach with all his weight behind it.
The Briton gasped as the wind was driven from his lungs. His opponent raised a fist and swung it like a hammer at McCarter's face. A hard forearm block met the man's wrist and stopped the fist before it found its target. McCarter's other arm streaked forward and drove a ming chuan "ram's head" punch to the point of his opponent's chin.
The blow toppled the Chinese from McCarter's prone body. The Asian hit the pavement, but quickly started to rise. McCarter braced himself with the palms of his hands and pivoted on the small of his back. The Chinese was in a crouched position, about to straighten his legs and back, when McCarter lashed out with his boot. The kick slammed into the hit man's face. The Chinese fell, moaned softly and passed out.
John Trent had been just as busy as McCarter. A Chinese lashed a cudgel across the American ninja's forearm. The blow jarred the ulna nerve, and Trent's Colt Commander fell from numb fingers. The assailant's left hand slashed a shuto chop at Trent's neck. The ninja raised a shoulder to block the hand stroke, but his opponent thrust the end of the club into the American's midsection.
Trent groaned and started to double up from the blow. He quickly swung a roundhouse stroke to his opponent's head. The heel of his palm hit the guy between the right ear and temple. The blow stunned the Chinese aggressor. Trent snap-kicked the man in the lower abdomen and quickly grabbed the attacker's arm to prevent him from swinging the club.
The ninja pushed the guy's arm down with his left hand while his right launched a punch under the Asian's chin. Trent's half-closed fist struck hard. The fingers were bent at the second row of knuckles. The panther punch hit the man in the throat. A knuckle crushed the thyroid cartilage. The Chinese dropped his club and staggered backward, both hands reaching for his throat. Trent turned sharply and slammed a powerful side kick at the injured man's chest. The blow propelled his opponent into another assailant. Both men fell to the ground.
The Chinese who had received the panther punch to the throat could no longer offer any threat to Trent or anyone else. His windpipe had collapsed, and he was rapidly dying. However, two opponents remained, and each wielded a five-foot fighting staff made of rock maple.
A wooden shaft slashed at Trent's skull. He ducked beneath the whirling staff and reached into his jacket. The Chinese stickfighter lunged, stabbing the end of his staff at Trent's solar plexus. The ninja dodged the stroke and pulled his manhkigusari from his belt. The hit man raised the staff and swung it toward Trent's fac
e. The American ninja pulled the chain taut, and steel links blocked the fighting stick.
Trent hooked a kick at his opponent's side, the toe of his shoe striking the Chinese under the ribs. The man gasped and fell against the frame of the taxi, but his partner came to the man's assistance. The second stickman swung his staff in a roundhouse stroke aimed at Trent's head. The ninja took the blow on his left shoulder. The impact knocked him onto the hood of the car.
A staff slashed at him. Trent rolled from its path, and the hardwood shaft struck the frame of the cab near the windshield. Trent tried to roll to the opposite side of the automobile to put the vehicle between himself and his opponents. However, the other stickfighter had dashed to the front of the cab and thrust his weapon at the ninja's groin.
Trent wiggled away, and the butt of the fighting staff struck the windshield hard enough to smash a deep crack in the thick glass. In a kung fu or ninja movie, the hero would escape by executing a fancy backflip. But such acrobatics were more impressive than practical, and they were almost impossible without trampolines and mats. Trent simply scrambled onto the roof of the car. It did not look very impressive, but the tactic got him out of the way of another staff stroke that smashed a foot-long section of the windshield.
A staff whipped Trent across the left thigh muscle. He clenched his teeth, hissed from the pain and lashed out with his manrikigusari. A weighted end of the chain struck the stickman in the face. The man staggered backward, one hand reaching for his bruised and bloodied cheek.
The other Chinese attacker thrust his staff like a lance, trying to stab Trent in the throat with the hard blunt end. The ninja's manrikigusari swung again. The chain wrapped around the wooden shaft. Trent caught the weighted ends and pulled to trap the staff with the steel links. His opponent tried to yank the stick free, but Trent held the staff captive and lashed a foot at the Asian's face.
