then.”
A black limousine pulled into the curb. Dillon was aware of someone else at his back, took a deep breath, and brought up all his resources. He swung his right foot up, caught Terry’s hand, and the Walther soared over the railings into the Thames. He jerked his head back, crunching the nose of the man behind, then ran along the pavement. He turned the corner and found himself on a deserted wharf blocked by high gates securely padlocked.
As he turned, the limousine arrived and they all seemed to come at him together. The first man with an iron bar which clanged against the gate as Dillon lost his footing and fell, rolling desperately to avoid the swinging kicks. And then they had him up, pinning him against the gates.
McGuire, lighting a cigarette, stood by the limousine. He said, “You asked for this, friend, you really did. Okay, Terry, slice him up.”
Terry’s hand came out of his pocket holding an old-fashioned, cut-throat razor which he opened as he came forward. He was quite calm and the blade of the razor flashed dully in the light of a street lamp and somewhere a cry echoed flatly on the damp air. Terry and McGuire swung round and Yuan Tao came walking out of the rain.
The jacket of his gabardine suit was soaked and somehow he was different, moving with a kind of strange relentlessness as if nothing could ever stop him, and McGuire said, “For God’s sake, put him out of his misery.”
The man with the iron bar darted round the limousine and ran at Yuan Tao, the bar swinging, and the Chinese actually took the blow on his left forearm with no apparent effect. In the same moment his right fist jabbed in a short screwing motion that landed under the man’s breast bone. He went down like a stone without a sound.
Yuan Tao leaned over him for a second and McGuire ran round the limousine and kicked out at him. The older man caught the foot with effortless ease and twisted so that Dillon could have sworn he heard bone crack, then he lifted, hurling McGuire across the bonnet of the car. He lay on the pavement, moaning. Yuan Tao came round the limousine, his face very calm, and the man holding Dillon from the rear released him and ran away.
Terry held up the razor. “All right, fatty, let’s be having you.”
“What about me then, you bastard?” Dillon said, and as Terry turned, gave him a punch in the mouth, summoning all his remaining strength.
Terry lay on the pavement, cursing, blood on his mouth, and Yuan Tao stamped on his hand and kicked the razor away. A van turned into the street and braked to a halt. As the chef got out, the two waiters came ’round the corner holding the man who had run away.
“I’d tell them to leave him in one piece,” Dillon said in Cantonese. “You’ll need him to drive this lot away.”
“An excellent point,” Yuan Tao said. “At least you are still in one piece.”
“Only just. I’m beginning to see why your niece was annoyed. Presumably you were actually hoping McGuire would show up?”
“I flew in especially from Hong Kong for the pleasure. Su Yin, my niece, cabled for my help. A matter of family. It was difficult for me to get away. I was at a retreat at one of our monasteries.”
“Monasteries?” Dillon asked.
“I should explain, Mr. Dillon, I am a Shaolin monk, if you know what that is.”
Dillon laughed shakily. “I certainly do. If only McGuire had. It means, I suspect, that you’re an expert in kung fu?”
“Darkmaster, Mr. Dillon, our most extreme grade. I have studied all my life. I think I shall stay for two or three weeks to make sure there is no more trouble.”
“I shouldn’t worry, I think they’ll have got the point.”
McGuire, Terry, and one of the blacks still lay on the pavement and the chef and two waiters brought the fourth man forward. Yuan Tao went and spoke to them in Cantonese and then returned. “They’ll deal with things here. Su Yin is waiting in her car at the restaurant.”
They walked back, turned the
A black limousine pulled into the curb. Dillon was aware of someone else at his back, took a deep breath, and brought up all his resources. He swung his right foot up, caught Terry’s hand, and the Walther soared over the railings into the Thames. He jerked his head back, crunching the nose of the man behind, then ran along the pavement. He turned the corner and found himself on a deserted wharf blocked by high gates securely padlocked.
As he turned, the limousine arrived and they all seemed to come at him together. The first man with an iron bar which clanged against the gate as Dillon lost his footing and fell, rolling desperately to avoid the swinging kicks. And then they had him up, pinning him against the gates.
McGuire, lighting a cigarette, stood by the limousine. He said, “You asked for this, friend, you really did. Okay, Terry, slice him up.”
Terry’s hand came out of his pocket holding an old-fashioned, cut-throat razor which he opened as he came forward. He was quite calm and the blade of the razor flashed dully in the light of a street lamp and somewhere a cry echoed flatly on the damp air. Terry and McGuire swung round and Yuan Tao came walking out of the rain.
The jacket of his gabardine suit was soaked and somehow he was different, moving with a kind of strange relentlessness as if nothing could ever stop him, and McGuire said, “For God’s sake, put him out of his misery.”
The man with the iron bar darted round the limousine and ran at Yuan Tao, the bar swinging, and the Chinese actually took the blow on his left forearm with no apparent effect. In the same moment his right fist jabbed in a short screwing motion that landed under the man’s breast bone. He went down like a stone without a sound.
Yuan Tao leaned over him for a second and McGuire ran round the limousine and kicked out at him. The older man caught the foot with effortless ease and twisted so that Dillon could have sworn he heard bone crack, then he lifted, hurling McGuire across the bonnet of the car. He lay on the pavement, moaning. Yuan Tao came round the limousine, his face very calm, and the man holding Dillon from the rear released him and ran away.
Terry held up the razor. “All right, fatty, let’s be having you.”
“What about me then, you bastard?” Dillon said, and as Terry turned, gave him a punch in the mouth, summoning all his remaining strength.
Terry lay on the pavement, cursing, blood on his mouth, and Yuan Tao stamped on his hand and kicked the razor away. A van turned into the street and braked to a halt. As the chef got out, the two waiters came ’round the corner holding the man who had run away.
“I’d tell them to leave him in one piece,” Dillon said in Cantonese. “You’ll need him to drive this lot away.”
“An excellent point,” Yuan Tao said. “At least you are still in one piece.”
“Only just. I’m beginning to see why your niece was annoyed. Presumably you were actually hoping McGuire would show up?”
“I flew in especially from Hong Kong for the pleasure. Su Yin, my niece, cabled for my help. A matter of family. It was difficult for me to get away. I was at a retreat at one of our monasteries.”
“Monasteries?” Dillon asked.
“I should explain, Mr. Dillon, I am a Shaolin monk, if you know what that is.”
Dillon laughed shakily. “I certainly do. If only McGuire had. It means, I suspect, that you’re an expert in kung fu?”
“Darkmaster, Mr. Dillon, our most extreme grade. I have studied all my life. I think I shall stay for two or three weeks to make sure there is no more trouble.”
“I shouldn’t worry, I think they’ll have got the point.”
McGuire, Terry, and one of the blacks still lay on the pavement and the chef and two waiters brought the fourth man forward. Yuan Tao went and spoke to them in Cantonese and then returned. “They’ll deal with things here. Su Yin is waiting in her car at the restaurant.”
They walked back, turned the
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