The Dragon Within His Shadow

by Phyllis M. Rumore

“Tang!” Fong shouted as he ran up to Tang. His face had a sick, ashen look.

  “What?”

  “The men in the side room- - They’re dead. They must've been drugged because they sitting around the table with slit throats.” He still couldn't believe what his own eyes had seen.

  “Damn.” Tang ran his hand through his hair. “That bartender, Alex, find him.”

  “There's no one inside the front doors and two strangers outside.” Fong's voice trembled.

  “What about Thourson?”

  “Thourson's sending the police to cover the front, and I've got another six stationed around the hall. Then - -”

  There was a bang followed by a thud, as if someone had fallen over a metal plate somewhere above. They heard footsteps descending the metal stairs rapidly. Tang gave the signal and the men silenced their voices as he gave them their orders. Fong was ordered to deal with the two strange men and guard the front doors until Thourson's men arrived. Another, Bob, was sent to look for Alex. When Tang moved to let Bob walk pass, a sudden shot rang out. Bob was hit and now near death. Tang dropped behind the door as another of his guards opened fire at the three new arrivals. After he shot one of them, Tang instructed one of his men to deal with the other two.

  With four men, Tang started climbing the stairs. They sensed men approaching from above just as surely as they sensed his presence in that cold, dull gray stairwell. The two groups met at the ninth floor landing and halted. Each observed, studied their counterpart, and the men behind him. Tang faced six well-armed men who had the advantage of being above, with their intense desire to press downward evident in their posture. Tang broke through the tension and ordered the others to “give up.” He didn't realize until after he spoke whom it was that he saw looming above them.

  “Not until you're dead, Tang!” Harry pushed through his men to stand at their forefront.

  Tang recognized Harry as his longtime childhood rival. First, it was their martial art schools, then during their late teens for rival gangs. They were evenly matched, each winning just as many times as they lost. Now they stood measuring the changes in the other.

  “You and me, Tang, this is long overdue.”

  “Sure, Harry,” said Tang.

  Each man unarmed himself, handing his respective guns and knives to his men while never removing his eyes off his opponent. It was a steadfast, unswerving stare, confident yet familiar. Together, like two dogs sniffing out the strengths and weaknesses of the other, they circled. They used their instincts to measure the confining space, a four-foot by ten-foot landing. Harry threw the first strike that was easily countered by Tang. At first, it was as if two kids play fighting. Soon, however, the blows intensified and the strikes became harder. The sound of palm striking flesh became louder. There were no rules. Each knew that today only one would walk away. This combat was to the death and that knowledge changed the very nature of the fight.

  Harry resented Tang for following the rules. He saw Tang as his bitter enemy with enmity that increased his strength. Tang saw Harry with eyes of regret. He felt guilty for causing the physical scars and blindness in one of Harry’s eyes when they were both twelve. Tang fought with hesitation, taking more of a beating than was wise. Retreating, Tang moved down to the eighth floor where he was slammed into the wall by Harry.

  “You've gotten old Tang. What? Nothing to say? I vowed I'd get back at you!” Harry’s series of kicks forced Tang to fall backwards down the stairs yet again.

  Seeing Tang slumped against the wall in a semi conscious state, one of his men couldn't take it anymore. He tried to rush past him, but Tang grabbed him by his shirt and held him back.

  “No!” Tang struggled to stand. He found it hard to breathe. “This fight's mine.”

  “Not any more. Kill them!” Harry coldly pointed at Tang's men.

  Both sets of men were ready, their adrenaline pumped by their dai-low's fight. Harry's men rushed past Tang. They pushed and shoved him aside, to get to his men who had taken the best defensive positions they could, given their location. Harry's men forced Tang's men to retreat down one flight of stairs after another, by the sheer momentum of their downward thrust.

  “I thought you'd be a worthier opponent given the reputation you've earned.” Harry looked condescendingly at Tang.

  Tang rubbed his hands and felt the ring on his pinky finger that Lauren had given him a few weeks ago. His thoughts of her helped him focus his energy, choosing not to attack but to offset his opponent. His mind would have to be the stronger tool he used to recover lost ground.

  Harry paced the small landing, before lunging at Tang who rolled away at the last moment. Both switched to Tiger Claw, the first style they had learned as youths. Tang grasped, clawed viciously at Harry who countered easily. They moved faster, locked in a violent dance, exchanging one blow for one with equal or greater power. Tang tried to thrust to counter Harry’s strikes but was too weak and not as quick as needed; so he aimed his kicks low at Harry's knees, but tripped and fell himself. Tang heard Harry's cold chuckle and the blood clouding his vision made him feel disoriented.

  “Don't worry Tang, I'll take good care of Lauren,” Harry said viciously.

  Tang's rage rose, and in the moment of rest Harry granted, he channeled his anger's negativity rather then succumbed to its irrationality, thereby focusing his strength. Tang laid still and as Harry attempted to kick him, he rolled away at the last moment. Tang stood up and attacked with all the force he could summon. With clear mind, he directed strike and counterstrike, injecting kicks where he could, but for the most part, it was hand-to-hand.

  Becoming the aggressor, Tang pushed Harry against the wall, dealing tenfold for what he'd received. He stopped seeing Harry, the boy. Instead, he saw him as his mortal enemy and with the viciousness that rage engenders; he clawed with all his might, as a tiger might claw to save its life. His hand dug through his opponent's skin, ripping, tearing at the man's jugular vein. Tang stood eerily still as he straddled Harry's limp body that laid partially on the staircase; one hand still clasped around the man's neck. Slowly Tang released his grip and Harry slid down a few steps.

  Tang leaned against the wall taking the time to catch his breath. He wiped the blood from his hand with his handkerchief, before dropping it on Harry’s face. He never took death well and knew the killing wasn't over, but rather it was just beginning. He rushed down the stairs, nearly tripping over two of Harry's men and one of his own lying motionless between the fifth and fourth floors. As he moved around them cautiously, he heard sounds of men fighting one floor away, edging him to race downward. Approaching, he stretched out and grabbed the first of Harry's men that he reached on the third floor landing. He twisted the man’s neck with such force that even he was astounded by his strength. There were two men remaining, and his men sensing his renewed strength dealt their own deadly blows ending the confrontation. They looked up at Tang; saw his nod of approval before they descended past the carnage to return to the building's rear exit.

  A jumble of unnerving questions rushed through Tang’s mind. Besides the obvious of who was behind the attack, the bigger question was why, he thought. Why now when the various Shan Chu’s (leaders) from other societies were present at the banquet? Tang tried to comprehend what it all meant, but his mind was clouded by waves of pain, and when he felt the back of his head, he realized there was blood dripping, but was unsure if it were his.

  They drifted slowly down the stairs to the second floor landing, hearing sounds of sirens and police radios getting louder with each step. For once the sound of police was a gratifying sound and not to be feared.

  Thourson was examining Denny's body. “Are you sure there isn't something you can do medic? He can't be more then what, 13?”

  “Probably younger but he's dead,” said the medic who left to check the next body.

  “What a waste! What an absolute waste! How can they do this to the young?” Thourson looked up from the carnage that disgusted him. Kids as young
as what; may be eleven or twelve to what, maybe twenty and fighting an adult battle. As much as he tried to look away, he couldn't. He was however, grateful to see Tang emerging from the doorway.

  “Tang!”

  “Thourson.” Tang often wondered how much it cost Choi to own an inspector.

  “They are so young, Tang.”

  “But not innocent, Thourson,” he said as he made his way to the inspector.

  “True. One of them is still alive; the rest are dead and you look awful.” Thourson struggled with his girth to get to his feet.

  “Thanks.” Tang stared back, not in any mood for humor.

  “Don't mention it - - Medic,” he said, and an attendant rushed over to Tang. The medic didn't ask questions but began checking and probing Tang's head.

  Tang tried to push the man's hand away. “Stop, I'll deal with it later.”

  “No, you won’t, I'll fix this now. Hold still,” said the medic who did his job despite Tang's protests. Thourson watched in amusement as Tang succumbed to the man's quick work.

  “Enough,” Tang finally said, and the medic moved off with a “humph.” He saw that the ambulance attendants were about to take away the lone survivor. Laboriously, he walked over to the man on the stretcher, looked down, and recognized the twenty-something as Chang. A slight twist of the kid’s arm confirmed the presence of the black eagle tattoo. How could Harry have taken control of them? The medic tried to stop Tang, but Thourson pulled him back.

  “I'll give you five minutes Tang.” Thourson ushered the medic away.

  Chang opened his eyes to see Tang's eyes staring hard at him. Everyone who knew Tang's reputation knew better then to cross him. Tang was supposed to be dead, and if he wasn't then Harry was, thought Chang. He tried to wriggle free, but being secured to the stretcher, he couldn't move. Tang grabbed his arms and started to push the intravenous needle deeper causing him to wince in pain.

  “Who?” Tang stated forcefully.

  Chang didn't answer knowing at least that if he were silent, his brothers would live. Tang repeated his question, pressing on the meridian points in his arm, causing more pain yet he resisted. Even in face of Tang's fervor, he lay quietly.

  “Are you ready to die, Chang? How about your mother and sister? Don't think I won’t keep you alive long enough to watch them die. Your sister would do well for the Rising Phoenix!” Tang let his words carry their own weight. “Give me a name!”

  Chang's meek response was deafening to Tang who released the near lifeless body and stood up straight. Summoning one of his men, he took status as he walked back through the kitchens. Standing by the banquet room doors Tang peered into the main dining room. It was buzzing with delight as the seventh course was served. The guests were totally oblivious to the battle that had taken place. He found the door guard on the opposite side and sent the man on two missions; first, he was to go to George and tell him quietly that Tang had dealt with the situation; and secondly to the press, to request strongly that nothing be mentioned in the papers.

   * 

  George emerged from the shower, and towel dried quickly before selecting his deep blue silk robe. His mind was busy in thought about the evening's events and what future course he must take. Given that Richard had declared war, he must detect where loyalties would align. Tang had showed support tonight, but would he remain with him, or ally with the others. Then there was Catherine. Did she love him enough to stand with him or will she oppose him. Indirectly, she could upset things if he weren't careful.

  Entering the bedroom, he pressed the button on the bedside console to call Catherine. Picking up his advanced copy of the South China Morning Post that, as always, was waiting reassuringly on the coffee table, he scanned the pages. He knew the day's events but wanted to see how things were reported. It pleased him to find that the only photograph marking the banquet was the one for which he posed with his family. He would have to remember to thank Tang for encouraging such discretion. Mostly, he stared at Catherine's image thinking she looked regal and realized the depth of his love for her was as intense as ever.

  Gazing at the photo brought back pleasant memories of the first time Lauren had seen her photo in the newspaper. She was ten then and felt all grown up to be included. He was pleased with her choice in Tang. Still he often wondered if that would be enough to bind the man to him. Tang's alliance would bring support from the younger factions of the organization and as his son-in-law; Tang would owe him that loyalty. Still Tang was not a man to follow custom for custom’s sake.

  The focus of both the picture and its accompanying article, however, was his son John, who stood prominently in the center. The photo showed a young man of position, slender in build and happy; yet even here in the picture, his arrogance, true to the nature of the Monkey, the year he was born, came through. George knew John didn't want to learn from the bottom up as he and all the rest had done in the past. John liked wielding power a bit too much, he thought. That was not John's fault but his own as he had failed to prevent Richard’s influence. Perhaps he could have directed his son to be more responsible. Perhaps he wasn't as attentive a father as he should have been. It was too late for those thoughts, but not too late for John. Only now when his own position was in danger, did he see the errors of his past with such clarity.

  Looking up, he was delighted to see that Catherine had softly entered his bedroom carrying a tray of tea and a light snack. She always had a knack for knowing his needs. Even in a simple royal blue tee shirt and navy cotton pants, beauty radiated from deep within her.

  “I thought you might like a snack; you barely ate dinner.” Placing the tray upon the coffee table, she served the tea.

  “Thank you, Catherine.”

  Catherine sat on the sofa and poured herself some tea. “Is that tomorrow's paper?”

  “Yes and there's your picture, you look radiant, as always.” He took the cup offered.

  “Thank you. John's eighteen now, have you decided yet?” Pretending to stare at the photograph, she indirectly looked at George.

  “No, but I'll let you know when I have.”

  “You will? We can't discuss this?”

  “Catherine,” his voice pleaded for peace.

  “Your expensive presents are nice George, but I'd rather have your love and attention. Who's my rival these days?”

  “You have no rival, Catherine. No one could come close to you in beauty or spirit.”

  “Not even- - ohhhh- - What was her name? Becky? Betsy? You know the one who came with that actor. And let's not forget Rose.”

  “We will not discuss Rose now or ever. Is that understood?” George's face reddened with anger. Yes, he thought, she did know how to get to him.

  “Very well, for now, besides I didn't come to fight with you tonight. I've come to talk.”

  “You want something.”

  “I don't always want something.” Catherine was getting only slightly defensive. She knew something happened tonight, just as she knew George wouldn't talk about it with her but needed to see her, to feel reassured. That was why he requested her to come and why she came.

  “You no longer care for me, do you Catherine?”

  Struck by the question, she wondered if she had gone too far. “That's not true. I still love you, George.” Leaning back, she took a sip of tea.

  “Then why must you always put a brick wall between us? Especially when I try to get close to you! Why do you make it difficult for me?” He faced her, searched her eyes but her mask was firmly in place.

  “You know the answer, her name is Rose, but we aren't allowed to discuss her. That is the rule. Nevertheless, I want to discuss our son.”

  “What's there for discussion? I've given him a position within the organization and soon we'll see if he can prove himself.”

  “A position? You assigned him tonight to be a chief clerk in the accounting office of one of the lesser companies that Richard controls!”

  “Woman! I'm tired and have no desire t
o discuss business or anything more this evening. It was a good party; John got along well with the governor's son, our daughter was happy and we were together as a family. This is something I've been missing for some time.”

  “Then don't go to America or Europe so often, if you want your family here.” Catherine placed the teacup on the gold porcelain tray, got up, and walked to the bedroom door.

  “My business requires my presence; I've no choice but to go.” George walked over and reached for her hand. When she pulled it back, he touched her lightly on the shoulder. She turned to look into his eyes and was stunned to see such a vulnerable gaze.

  “No, George, you always have a choice. You could very easily have sent one of your men, or have your people report to you here. Don't tell me you go away for business. I know the truth of what you have hidden in California.”

  “Catherine, please let's not fight for one evening. Let us for once forget about the walls of problems separating us and build bridges as we once did. I need your love.”

  “You have my love.” Catherine spoke coolly, before averting her eyes, trying hard not to succumb to him as she desired. But she couldn't resist and looked again into his tender brown eyes and saw the eyes of youth.

  “Then soften your heart,” he responded softly.

  Catherine couldn't recall the last time he looked at her with such passion. “Only when she is gone,” she said tersely.

  “John was our hope. Remember when he was born, we said he would bring us closer?”

  “I remember. But you failed with the other half of your promise, soon after. Speaking of John, where is he? He didn't come home in the other limo.” Catherine turned.

  “Ah, no, he went out to party with his friends. Catherine, let me in.” George stroked her hair in a touch so delicate that her memories from long ago rushed to the surface. He traced the hair barrette till it loosened and her hair cascaded down about her shoulders.

  Catherine wanted George’s love more than ever, even if she had held her vengeance for eighteen years. When she fell in love with him, it was absolute and pure, the feeling running deep into the core of her very being. She still loved him but her honor and pride were the bricks and mortar of her wall between them. Unable to resist, she relented and hugged him.