The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2015 Myles Campbell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of Myles Campbell.
Cover illustration by Rick Lucey.
ISBN: 9781483553429
For Danielle, my greatest adventure
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
EPILOGUE I
EPILOGUE II
PROLOGUE
He felt the dull pain of a long metal spike jamming into his back, compressing his kidney as the ancient stone walls collapsed slowly inward, squeezing him like a grape in a vise. He felt another on his leg, his shoulder, the nape of his neck. It wouldn't be long before he had more holes than a cork board, and then he'd be just another dark red smear decorating the aging stones. Just like all the other fools who'd come before him, in search of fortune and glory.
In the few moments he had left, he thought it wouldn't be too self-indulgent to engage in some existential musings. He tried to figure out how exactly it was that he had ended up here, about to suffer one of the more ignominious demises that a man can suffer, squished into grape jelly by a booby trap designed by a long lost civilization, without really knowing why he was there in the first place. But then again, maybe he did know why. It was the same reason most men wind up in a jam without understanding exactly how they got there. Kind of a cliché, really. It was because of a dame.
CHAPTER 1
"Honestly, Nicky, you should do something like this!" she squealed at him over the top of the newspaper that she had been reading aloud.
He had only been half-listening. She was always reading to him from one article or another, some news story or theater review or art gallery opening. He'd learned how to tune it out, and realized that if he made the right noises at the right times, she wouldn't get too sore at him and he could go back to reading the box scores or perusing the want ads, which is what he was doing now. Looking for work and trying to pretend he didn't already know that there wasn't any work to be had.
"I'm serious Nick, you should. You really should," she insisted, jamming the article in front of him, blocking his view.
"Do what?" he asked.
"Be a detective. Look, this man here, this…Sam Spade. He found some sort of a…falcon statue…or something. Anyway, you could absolutely do this and you wouldn't have to work for anyone. You could be your own boss and just have people pay you to find things and solve their mysteries," she explained.
"What do I know about solving mysteries? Or finding things?"
"You always find my things when I lose them."
"That's different."
"How? Nicky I'm telling you that you could do it. In this article they interview this Sam Spade and he says the thing a good detective needs most is a sharp eye and a good head for details. And you've got that! You absolutely have," she exclaimed.
"Really?" He asked, half to himself.
It was true that he often noticed things that others failed to. It was half the reason that, during the war, the other guys in his unit used to always make him take point when they were out on patrol, hunting through no man's land.
"Sure you have! Tell me right now, without looking, what's the bartender wearing?" she asked.
"A bone colored shirt, red tie and a black vest, with a pocket-watch chain. But with no bulge in his pocket. I'd guess he pawned the watch a while ago. Business is bad these days, even for bartenders," he observed.
"See? I know you've got what it takes, Nicky, I just know it. You're meant for big things."
"How do you know?"
"Because I love you, that's how," she said matter-of-factly, as if it was just as unquestionable as the law of gravity.
He smiled to himself. She was pretty much the only thing keeping him going right now, the only thing keeping him from crawling back down into the bottom of a bottle and curling up there to stay. He glanced up at the date printed at the top of the newspaper. On New Year's she'd kissed him and told him 1935 was going to be their best year ever, but now the year was more than half over and it sure seemed like it was turning out to be the worst. He thought about what she had said, about his powers of perception, and wondered if she wasn't right about him being able to make it as a detective. He conjured up a mental image of the bar again, seeing it behind his eyes. But the more he thought about it, the more it didn't seem right to him.
This was not a fancy bar. Most of its patrons, like himself, were wearing inexpensive clothing, cheap suits that hadn't been in style for quite some time. But there were three other men, one at the bar, two in a booth, all of them wearing brand new double-breasted suits, black and with a metallic sheen to them. Blood-red roses were thrust into their lapels. Their black fedora hats were jammed low over their eyes, throwing shadows across their faces. And they hadn't ordered anything to drink. Strangest of all, one of the men in the booth was resting his hand protectively on a battered violin case. But he didn't look like any musician Nick had ever seen before. His hands were perfectly manicured, his fingers uncalloused despite the hours that he would have spent practicing, had he really been a musician.
Nick turned his head casually, looking over his shoulder. The men were still there, and the rat-faced one at the bar was staring intensely at his gaudy gold pocket watch, waiting for something. Nick slid out of his seat and began making his way toward the telephone booth at the back of the bar, preparing to call the police if anything should happen. And then it did.
Rat-Face snapped the lid of his watch closed and jammed the timepiece into his pocket. On cue, the men at the booth leapt into action. The one with the violin case slammed it down on the table and flung the lid open. His partner reached into the case, pulled out a tommy gun and sprayed the ceiling with bullets. He got the attention he was looking for.
Women screamed, men dove for the floor, glasses shattered as they fell from the hands of terrified patrons. Rat-Face jumped onto the bar, brandishing a pistol in his right hand.
"Any of you jerks move another muscle and I'll plug every last one of you! Now shaddup and do what I say!" He shouted.
Silence enveloped the bar. Nobody moved.
"Now," he continued, sauntering along the bar, idly kicking drinks to the floor. "This is a stickup. In case any o' youse never been in a stickup before, this is how it's gonna go down. My associates there are gonna be comin' around with laundry bags. But we ain't interested in your dirty duds. Anything you got that's worth anything, put it in the bag. Wallets, purses, jewelry, dollars, quarters, dimes…if you can sell it or buy stuff with it, we want it. And you," he barked, jamming the muzzle of his snub-nosed thirty-eight into the bartender's face. "Empty the register! You got a safe back there?" he asked, using the gun to motion toward the rear of the bar and the door marked "OFFICE" in peeling black letters.
"N-No," the bartender stammered.
"Jacko, go see if he's lyin'," Rat-Face snarled at the thug who had opened the violin case and was now stalking through the bar, shoving a rapidly filling laundry bag at each patron, silently daring them to refuse to dump their valuables into the canvas sack.
Jacko nodded and made for the back of the bar. The other thug leaned back against a table, passing the barrel of his gun back and forth over the crowd, keeping anybody from making a move. Nick already knew how he was going to make his.
Jacko tromped to the rear of the bar, heading for the office. But to get there he would have to pass by the telephone, where Nick was waiting for him. Nick slammed the heel of his hand into Jacko's nose. The thug reeled from the blow but recovered quickly. He surged forward, reaching into his jacket for what Nick assumed was a gun. Nick planted his back foot and launched into a powerful kick, snapping his leg forward and ramming his steel-toed shoe into Jacko's sternum. The big man lurched backwards and grunted in pain. He wrestled the gun free of his jacket and aimed it at Nick's chest. Nick lashed out again and caught Jacko's wrist with a snap kick. During the Great War, Nick had been stationed in France, and his company had fought at Belleau Wood. He'd stayed on after that to help with the reconstruction, and studied Savate, the French martial art with roots in 19th century street-fighting, a deadly hand-to-hand combat system that emphasized vicious kicks and brutal open-handed strikes.
The gun flew out of the thug's hand and spiraled through the air. Nick caught it with one hand, simultaneously bringing his heel crashing down on the back of Jacko's head, knocking him out cold. Nick aimed his newly acquired pistol at the tommy-gunner who was still leaning on a table across the bar, and fired three shots. The bullets punched through the gunner's throat and a gout of arterial blood sprayed across the bar, soaking Rat-Face's rat face. Sputtering and cursing, Rat-Face raised his pistol and fired wildly, emptying it into the room. Nick aimed and fired, putting a slug through Rat-Face's forehead. He tumbled off the bar and crashed to the ground, crumpled and lifeless.
Adrenaline surged through Nick's bloodstream. His hands shook as he laid the gun on top of the phone booth. He took a long step over Jacko's unconscious body and lurched over to his table. He was looking for her, to see if she was alright. He wanted to tell her that everything was fine, that he had saved them. But it wasn't, and he hadn't. He cradled her head in his hand, wiped the blood off her face, and closed her eyes for the last time.
CHAPTER 2
"Honestly, Nick, you haven't even had a single client. I think you should start thinking about another line of work!" Alan shouted over the sound of the big band blaring out a rendition of "Sing, Sing, Sing!" that filled the cramped nightclub to the rafters.
Nick took another belt of scotch, emptied the glass and tapped the rim with his finger. The bartender gave him a judgmental glance, but Nick didn't care. He just tapped the glass again, and the bartender filled it.
"Nick," his companion continued, "how long have I known you?"
"Since bootcamp, Alan, since bootcamp. But you were smart. You went to college after we came back from the war," Nick slurred. "Now you work in a big fancy museum. Good for you."
Alan sipped his gin and tonic. "You're a smart guy too, Nick. Go back to school."
"Can't afford it. Even if I could, you know I'm no good with book learning. I think with my hands, and my eyes, not my brain," Nick protested.
"You realize that makes absolutely no sense, right? Your brain does the thinking."
"And my mouth does the drinking."
"About that. You should probably go easy on the sauce, Nick."
"Should I? Guess that means you don't know what day it is, do you?"
"I…Nick, I'm sorry. Has it been a year already? I just…" Alan stammered, searching for the right words, knowing there weren't any. He tried anyway. "Nick, I know how much you miss her, but-"
He was interrupted by a crackle of static from the speakers that lined the walls. Max Power, owner of the Jade Dragon nightclub, was up on the stage now, tapping the head of a microphone with his fat fingers to get everyone's attention.
"Well this sure has been a swell night, hasn't it everyone? Huh? Let's give it up for the band!" He chirped, trying to fire up the crowd.
They clapped desultorily, with less than genuine fervor. Most of them were regulars. They'd heard it all before.
"Now I know most of you are regulars and you think you've heard it all before," Max continued, undaunted. "But tonight we've got a special treat, just for you lovely ladies and gents. Direct from Shanghai, singing the brand new song 'Smoke Dreams,' I give you, the fabulous, the fantastic, the unforgettable, Ms. Gwen Chen!" He crowed, his voice building in a relentless crescendo.
The house lights snapped off and the club was bathed in darkness.
A single spotlight flicked on. There, at the front of the stage, stood the most enrapturing woman that Nick had ever laid eyes on. Her hair was like ebony silk, her amber-colored eyes shaped like elegant slivers of almond. Her skin was pale and creamy, and it glowed like a jar of fireflies. She wore a slinky green dress that complimented her slender figure, embroidered with a hypnotic pattern of golden dragons. And when she sang her voice sounded the way chocolate syrup tastes. He couldn't tear his eyes away from her. Even after she had finished her set, and left the stage to thunderous applause, he stared at the place where she had stood. Alan waved his hand in front of Nick's face.
"Nick? Nick! Snap out of it pal!"
"Hmm?" Nick said, glancing up at Alan. "Oh, you're still here?"
"That's right buddy, I'm still here. But don't you worry, I was just leaving. Got a new exhibit I'm pitching to the museum director. Lemuria! Ancient, lost civilization, drowned by the seas of Asia. Like Atlantis but, you know, not in the Atlantic."
"Uh-huh. Sounds great," Nick mumbled, staring off into space.
"She really did a number on you, didn't she?" Alan asked, already knowing the answer.
Nick didn't bother responding. He just knocked back another slug of scotch. Alan saw the look in his friend's eyes, a look he hadn't seen in a long time, and decided to do something about it. On his way out the door he flagged down a waiter. He reached in the breast pocket of his white dinner jacket, pulled out a five dollar bill and one of Nick's new business cards.
"Here," he whispered, palming the bill and the card into the waiter's hand. "Has Ms. Chen received many flowers?"
"Too many, if you ask me," the waiter replied, shaking his head. "Why?"
"Take this card and swap it with the one that's on the biggest bouquet in her dressing room. And write something nice on the back. Do it right and there's another five in it for you the next time I'm here."
"You got it, boss," the waiter said, pocketing the money and the card. Alan walked out with a satisfied smile on his face.
Nick had heard the whole thing. He'd always had pretty good hearing. But he hadn't bothered to stop Alan. He figured that most likely nothing would come of it. He was listening to the conversation so intently that he never saw the man in the black suit, a blood red rose pinned to his lapel, slip backstage and head toward Gwen's dressing room.
CHAPTER 3
Nick saw her shadow first, thrown against the frosted glass door. Then he smelled her. Like a river of jasmine and spice, but subtle, so that it didn't overwhelm or offend. It was complex, mysterious, intriguing. The door swung open and he stood, suddenly, pulled to his feet by her presence. He hastily tossed the morning paper onto the pile of bills on his desk, hoping to cover the eviction notice that sat high atop the stack. She strode into the dim, dingy office that reeked of stale scotch, sweat and failure, and to her credit, she never so much as wrinkled her nose.
"Is this you?" she asked.
With a flick of her wrist, she sent his business card spinning across the desk. It stopped in front of him. He read his own name on it, and realized that this wasn't some cruel joke that the universe was playing. She was actually there to see him.
"Um…yes, that's me," Nick stammered.
"Excellent. Please, sit down," she ordered imperiously, doing so herself. "I have a problem."
"Oh…um…I see. What kind of problem?" he asked, attempting to regain his composure.
"I-" she began, but never finished, because at that moment the west wall of his office was torn apart by a hail of machine gun fire.
Without thinking, he leapt forward and tackled her to the floor, covering her with his body as bullets chewed holes in his cheap desk. Over the past week, he'd thought about being with her in this sort of position on more than a few occasions, but he'd always imagined fewer bullets.
"Ms. Chen, I'm terribly sorry…I-" he began to apologize, shouting over the racket made by a storm of hot lead ripping through the wall and ricocheting around his office.
"Don't waste time apologizing! Just get off me and shoot something!" She shouted back, pressing her palms against his chest.
He rolled off of her, but stayed close.
"I…don't have a gun," he replied sheepishly.
"You don't…your card says you're a private detective! How can you not have a gun?!"
"I don't like guns."
"Well this would be a good time to change your mind. Here, take mine," she offered.
She reached through the slit of her skirt, and when her hand came out she was holding a .38 Special. For a moment he was dazed, his eyes fixated on the sight of the tops of her stockings and the clips of her garter belt. Then a bullet sliced through the air right next to his ear and he snapped out of it.
"I told you I don't like guns!" He yelled.
"Look. Either you take this shooter and start shooting, or those guys from the Blood Rose Crew are going to turn us both into hamburger meat!" She screamed back.
"Those guys are Blood Rose Crew?" he asked.
"That's what I said!"
He took a moment to think.
"Gimme the shooter," he growled through gritted teeth.
She handed the pistol to him. He reached out and grabbed it, feeling its weight in his hand, the cold steel on his fingertips. It was the first time he'd held a gun since that day.
"Stay down," he cautioned, and crawled toward the window.
On his way there he reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a small shaving mirror. He inched it up above the windowsill, angling it so that he could see outside without getting his face shredded by a fusillade of hot lead.
There were six gunmen, firing three at a time in alternating volleys. As soon as one went dry, another would slap a fresh drum of ammo into his tommy gun and start shooting again. He crouched on the balls of his feet, coiled like a spring. Then he leaped.
He sailed past the window, twisted in midair, raised the gun and sighted down the barrel. He aimed for the staccato symphony of muzzle flashes that lit up the night like a swarm of dying fireflies, squeezed off six shots, and crashed down on the other side of the window.
"I'm out!" He shouted.
"Get any of 'em?"
"Um…" he angled the mirror back over the windowsill. "Looks like two…no, three."
"Not bad."
"Not good enough," he hissed under his breath.
He'd gotten rusty. Used to be six shots meant six bodies. He'd lost his edge, and now he was out of bullets and out of time.
"I'm guessing it'd be too much to hope that you've got a few extra rounds in your stockings," he said.
"Left them in my other set. Come on, pal. Looks like this time discretion is the better part of valor. Make for the hallway!" She ordered.
Without bothering to see if he had listened, she sprang to her feet, jumped, landed in a handspring and launched herself through the door and into the hallway.
"Who are you?" Nick wondered aloud as bullets whizzed by his face and tore the walls of his office to shreds. "Guess I won't be getting that security deposit back," he mused before crawling into the hallway, inching his way along like a worm.
He'd almost made it through the door when he remembered he'd left his hat on the desk, and crawled back to get it. He jammed the brim down low over his eyes and headed back into the hall. She was waiting for him, tapping her foot on the carpet, wearing an exasperated expression.
"Really?" she asked. "You went back for the hat?"
"I have a history with this hat," he replied defensively.
"Whatever. Let's just get out of here," she urged.
Nick recognized that their relationship was not off to such a great start, but hoped he could find a way to salvage it once people stopped shooting at them.
They ran down the hall, jumped the stairs and made for the rear exit. Unfortunately they weren't the only ones who had considered the possibility of making an escape by this route. Four men waiting for them at the back door. To Nick they seemed strangely dressed, in what looked to him like traditional Japanese garb, their dark hair pulled back into samurai top-knots. Blue jewels were embroidered on their tunics, arranged to form the silhouette of a scorpion with a barbed tail poised to strike.
"I don't think those guys are Blood Rose Crew," he observed.
"Very observant," she replied. "They're Sapphire Scorpion Clan."
"Who?"
"Yakuza. Japanese gangsters."
"What are they doing here?"
"Looking for me," she sighed.
"Well, they found you. Now what?" Nick asked, hoping that she had some kind of plan that was at least a little more sophisticated than just fighting their way out.
"We fight our way out," she said, her mouth set in a grim smile.
With a flick of her fingers and a shrug of her shoulders, her dress was on the floor. Underneath all those layers of silk she was wearing a skin-tight sleeveless leather shirt and short pants that cut off at mid-thigh. A belt of knives encircled her slender, muscled waist. A leather pouch was strapped to her back, nestled between her shoulder blades.
"What…um…what?" was all he could manage to say as he gawked at her, mouth agape.
"Ready?" She replied.
Without waiting for an answer, she launched herself down the corridor at the men who were blocking their escape. She leaped toward the wall, landed feet first and catapulted herself off of it, backflipping in midair. She grabbed two knives off her belt and threw them with practiced grace. The first one hit its target, puncturing the throat of the sinewy Yakuza gangster who was blocking the door. He went down hard, gurgling, gasping, spitting blood as he clutched at the handle protruding from his neck.
The other guy was faster. With preternatural speed, he snatched the knife out of the air and sent it hurtling back toward her. It missed, but just barely. She landed, shifted into a fighting stance, and squared off against her opponent.
Nick struggled to understand what he was seeing, and decided that it just wasn't worth trying. He focused on what he could understand, which was that Gwen was fighting with Japanese gangsters, outnumbered three to one, and she probably wouldn't mind a little help.
He took a running start and heaved himself into the air, stretching out his right leg and bracing for impact. His flying kick slammed one of the scorpions in the jaw, sending him down the hallway and crashing into the back door. The door flew open and a gust of rain-soaked wind blew into the hall. Even the weather was bad tonight.
Nick glanced at Gwen and saw her trading blows with the other scorpion, their movements a blur of motion. Despite her skill, she was at a disadvantage, as her assailant had drawn a Japanese katana sword, and he looked like he knew how to use it. As Nick turned back to his opponent, he silently hoped that the sword wasn't standard issue for all scorpions. It was.
The scorpion that Nick now faced swung his sword over his head, its blue-steel blade glistening in the dim lighting of the dingy hallway. Nick sighed and slid his right foot back, slipping into a combat stance. He held his hands up in front of him, palms open. Sailors, soldiers and scoundrels invented Savate, developing the martial art on the streets and docks of Marseille in the late 19th century, and they were well aware that punching an opponent with a closed fist is usually an exceedingly stupid idea. More often than not, the puncher would end up breaking his own hands, and "fight bites" that left gangrenous wounds on the knuckles were all too common. Savate emphasized open palm strikes that used the heel of the hand, or the elbow, which are much stronger and less likely to break than the knuckles. Savate practitioners also relied heavily on kicks, recognizing that a man's legs were many times more powerful than his arms, and that a well-placed kick would often end a fight soon after it had begun.
Nick rushed at his opponent, executing a spinning back kick that knocked the sword from his opponent's hand and sent it spinning down the hallway. Using his momentum to carry him forward, Nick followed through with an open-hand strike against his adversary's ear, shattering the man's eardrum and thoroughly disorienting him. Nick aimed a low sweeping kick at his opponent that would have shattered his kneecap if it had connected, but at the last second the man darted out of the way. Shifting his weight to his back foot, the scorpion lunged forward and counterattacked, aiming a spear-hand jab at Nick's solar plexus. Nick sidestepped and brought his arm across his body, blocking the strike with the blade of his hand. He moved in close and unleashed a vicious backhand to the scorpion's face, but the man grabbed his wrist before Nick could land the blow. Nick twisted his arm toward the scorpion's thumb to break the grip, and planted his palm on the man's chest. He slid his foot forward and hooked it behind the scorpion's leg, then pushed with all his strength, tossing the scorpion off his feet. He landed hard on the grimy carpet, the breath knocked out of his lungs. He put his hands behind his head and was about to pop back up onto his feet when Nick hit him with a crescent kick. Nick swept his leg up and around, then brought his heel crashing down on the scorpion's throat, crushing his trachea.
"Stay down," Nick grunted, grinding his heel into the struggling man's throat.
Nick looked up, just in time to see the last scorpion fall like fresh-cut timber, collapsing to the ground with a knife handle jutting from his chest. He lay there, motionless, blood sloshing out onto the hallway floor.
"Shall we?" Gwen asked casually, sheathing a knife.
"Wait a minute," Nick gasped, breathing heavily. It had been a while since he'd had a workout like that. "Just what the hell is going on here?"
"Do you want answers, or do you want to not die?" She shot back. "Because right now you can't have both. Where's your car?"
"I…it's in the shop," he lied. The repo man had towed it last Wednesday. "Where's yours?" he retorted.
"Took a cab."
"Well…maybe we can commandeer one," he said.
They moved low, sneaking through the door and into the parking lot, hunching down to avoid being seen. Nick still wasn't sure which was causing more of a racket, the rain lashing the pavement or the bullets thudding into his office. Across the parking lot they saw three black sedans, facing away from the building. A bloom of orange light filled the interior of the middle one; the smoldering cigarette of a lone sentry left behind to guard the getaway cars. Nick could tell from the man's silhouette that he was a member of the Blood Rose Crew, his black fedora hat cocked at a ridiculous angle.
"Think you can hit him with one of your knives from here?" he whispered.
"Maybe. But it might not break through the glass, and I don't think it would be worth wasting my last one to try," she replied, moving her mouth closer to his ear.
He caught a whiff of her perfume and it nearly knocked him out.
"Can you create a distraction?" he asked, pulling himself together.
"It's never been a problem before," she said, smirking.
He looked at her and believed it. Even sweaty, rain-drenched and spattered with the blood of a Japanese gangster, she was gorgeous.
"Ok, here's what we do," he said, taking the opportunity to lean even closer to her, inhaling her scent. He explained the plan and she gave a curt nod.
There was a tap on the passenger side window, even louder than the rain hammering the roof. The gangster took a drag on his cigarette and swiveled his head to the right. Nick could tell he was shocked by what he saw. It was a dame. And not just any dame. A real looker. He leaned across the bench seat, rolled the window down and then leaned back, trying to look cool.
"Hey baby, what's happening?" Gwen asked, leaning down to give him a better look at her.
"Not much, gorgeous. What's happening with you? Sure is wet out there. Why don't you come in out of the rain? I'll keep you nice and warm," he offered.
"That's ok, honey. I think your dance card's full tonight," she replied.
The driver's side window exploded inward. Shattered glass tore into the thug's face and he reeled back in pain. Nick's steel-reinforced boot slammed into his temple, knocking him out cold. Nick dragged the unconscious body out of the car and dumped it onto the asphalt. He slid into the driver's seat, flipped the sun visor down and snatched the car keys out of the air as they were falling into his lap. He looked to his right and saw that Gwen was already in the seat next to him, using a makeup mirror to fix the few strands of her hair that were out of place.
"You must hate the Blood Rose Crew about as much as I hate the Scorpions," she observed, delicately sweeping a wisp of midnight-colored hair behind her ear.
"They took something from me," he said simply.
"Me too. Ever hear of the Rape of Nanking?" she asked.
He nodded.
"First came the soldiers. Then the gangsters. Now I'm practically the only family I have left," she explained.
"I'm sorry," he said, not knowing what else there was to say.
He knew from experience that the words mattered less than the sentiment behind them.
"Everyone's sorry about something. But I appreciate the sentiment. Say, why isn't the engine on? In case you hadn't noticed, this isn't exactly the friendliest neighborhood in New York right now," she said, snapping the lid of her hand mirror closed and stashing it in her leather outfit, although it didn't look like there was much room to stash anything in there.
"I thought I'd take the opportunity to get a few of my questions answered, seeing as how nobody's shooting at us for the moment," he said.
"Ok, go ahead. But make it snappy," she warned.
"First, let's start with the basics. Who the hell are you and what do you want with me? Because you're definitely not just some nightclub singer from Shanghai."
"That's a complicated question," she said, demurring.
She looked down and saw a pack of cigarettes had fallen out of the thug's jacket. She picked it up and pushed it in Nick's direction.
"Smoke?"
"No, thanks."
"Me neither," she sighed, and tossed the pack out the window. "Filthy habit."
"You're stalling."
"I'm thinking. Like I said, it's complicated."
"Try me."
"Well…you're sort of right. I am a nightclub singer. And I am from Shanghai. But there's more to me than that. I mentioned Nanking earlier. That's when it started. The Japanese occupied my country, my city, my home. They brutalized us in ways you can't even begin to imagine. So I did what any daughter of a Kung Fu master would do. I joined the Chinese resistance," she said.
"I guess that explains the knives. But what are you doing here?"
"It would be easier to show you," she said, reaching behind her head and undoing the straps that secured the leather pouch on her back.
She opened the pouch and pulled out something that looked like it had once been half of a flat stone disk, slightly smaller than a dinner plate and about as thick as a hockey puck. The disk must have been broken into two pieces, because there was a jagged edge running along the flat side of its half-moon shape. One of its faces was covered in strange etched markings, and there were a number of protrusions and indentations jutting out of its curved edge, as if it were part of a cog or a gear in a complex machine.
"What is that thing?"
"Exactly."
"Exactly what?"
"That's exactly why I'm here. I don't know what it is. I know it belonged to my grandfather. I know the Scorpion wants it, and so do his Nazi pals. But that's about it."
"Well I obviously don't know what it is. Why come to me?"
"I was actually looking for your friend Alan. I caught that waiter trying to swap out the cards on a big bouquet of flowers in my dressing room and he spilled the beans. I was on my way to the museum when I realized I had picked up a tail."
"A scorpion tail?" Nick joked half-heartedly.
"Not funny. So then I remembered your address from the card and I knew your office was around here. I figured you could help me get rid of the gangsters, and then we could find your friend and get some answers."
"Why Alan?"
"Because this thing, whatever it is, supposedly came from Lemuria. And Alan's an expert."
"Right. He curated that exhibit at the museum. But that whole lost empire thing. It's just a myth. A story. Not real, right?" Nick asked.
"You're the one holding a piece of it in your hand. You tell me."
"Ok fine. Let's say I buy all this. And I'm not saying I do. What happens next?"
"We find Alan. Hopefully he'll be able to tell us-" she started to say, but she was cut off by the sound of gunfire erupting from across the street, muzzle flashes lighting up the sky like bottled lightning.
"Looks like they found us," Nick observed.
"You think?" she asked as a bullet ripped one of the side view mirrors off of the car.
"So what now?" he asked, firing up the engine.
"Punch it!"
He threw the car into gear, slammed his foot down on the gas, popped the clutch and peeled out of the parking lot, leaving a cloud of scorched rubber behind him. He glanced into the rearview mirror. Three pairs of headlights shined out through the darkness.
"Looks like three of them are on to us," he told her.
"Can you lose them?" She asked.
"Maybe. It would be nice if they weren't the only ones doing any shooting."
"You see a gun anywhere?"
"Check the back seat," he suggested.
She looked back over her shoulder. "Nothing. Just a violin case, for some reason," she reported, a quizzical expression on her face.
"I was hoping you'd say that. Open it up," he said.
She snapped the latch and heaved the lid up.
"Wow. Really?" she asked.
"I know."
She pulled out the tommy gun and held it on her lap.
"You know how to use one of those?" he asked.
She grabbed a drum of ammo, slapped it into the firing mechanism and chambered a round.
"I think I can manage," she said, grinning.
She leaned her head out the window, sighted down the barrel and squeezed the trigger. Hot lead flew out into the cold night, bullets screaming through the air, tearing chunks out of the street, sidewalk and building facades. Nick spun the wheel and squealed around a corner. Gwen hooked her legs under the dashboard and tried not to spill out onto the pavement.
"How am I supposed to shoot with you driving like that?" She scolded.
"Hang on, I'm gonna try something. Just aim forward!" He shouted.
"Forward? But-" she started to protest, but never finished.
Nick stomped on the clutch, threw the gear shift into second, yanked the wheel to the left and pulled the emergency break. The tires shrieked like banshees as the car spun around. He jammed on the gas pedal and they went flying down the alley again, back the way they came. Gwen let loose with a volley of gunfire, shattering the windshield of the car that had been hottest on their tail. She pumped six slugs into the Blood Rose Crew driver, who slumped over the wheel as his foot mashed down on the accelerator. The car listed to the left, spun out of control, careened into a dumpster that crumpled on impact. It flipped end over end and crashed upside down, pancaking its roof.
"That's one down!" Gwen exclaimed, a little too gleefully.
But there were two more left, still hurtling toward them on a collision course. Nick saw gunmen hanging out the passenger windows, preparing to fire. From the corner of his eye he noticed a vacant side street, and at the last moment he jerked the wheel to the right. The tires screeched as the car skidded, jumped the curb and caromed off a building facade, shredding the driver's side door and knocking them back onto the pavement. Gwen nearly tumbled through the window again. She pulled herself back into the passenger seat.
"Who taught you how to drive? Helen Keller?!" She growled at him.
"Actually I used to be a stunt driver in the pictures," he explained. "Got hired by MGM after the war."
"Well I could do with a little less stunt and a little more drive, ok pal? Almost lost my lunch with that last maneuver you pulled."
Nick eased back on the gas, gripped the wheel a little tighter, and stole a glance at her. She was soaked from the waist up. Her hair was a mess. Mascara ran in rivulets down her rain-battered cheeks, making her seem as though she were crying black tears. She looked beautiful, fragile, vulnerable. He wanted to save her. Then she cocked the hammer back on the tommy gun and squeezed the trigger. He realized that between the two of them, she probably wasn't the one who needed saving.
"Look out!" she shouted, snapping him back to reality.
He had slowed down too much. The second car had closed the gap and was nearly on top of them. He heard a thump on the roof, the shriek of metal on metal, and the point of a sword punched through the ceiling of the car, stabbing him in the shoulder. He wanted to scream, but gritted his teeth through the pain. He jerked the wheel right, then left, trying to dislodge the swordsman on the roof, but it was no use. The sword disappeared for a moment and then plunged back down into the car, nearly impaling Nick though the head.
"Do something about that, would you?" Nick grunted.
Gwen slid out the window and aimed the tommy gun across the roof. Just as she was about to fire, the scorpion braced himself against the embedded sword and lashed out with a booted foot, kicking the gun from her hands. It clattered to the street and bounced down into a storm drain. She swung back into the car.
"Did you get him?" Nick asked.
The sword blade punched another hole in the roof, barely missing his other shoulder.
"Apparently not," he muttered.
The sword descended again, slicing Nick's wrist. Blood flowed down his arm.
"That's it!" he barked. "I've had it with this guy. Take the wheel!"
"What are you-?" Gwen began to ask, but Nick had already released the steering wheel and was reaching down into the foot well.
Gwen lunged over to the driver's side and grabbed the wheel, pulling it to the right, narrowly avoiding a collision with a parking meter. When Nick came back up, he was holding a shoe. He slithered through the broken driver's side window and leaned out into the rain. He looked out over the roof and saw the scorpion lifting his sword over his head, preparing to stab down into the car again. Nick cocked his arm, aimed, and hurled his shoe at the swordsman. The shoe bashed against the man's nose with a sickening crunch. His body went limp, and he was blown off the roof. Both the man and his sword toppled back and crashed through the windshield of the car that had been following closely behind. The sword skewered the driver in the throat and a fountain of blood erupted, soaking the car's interior and splattering against the windows. The car swerved, skidded and crashed, wrapping around a telephone pole in a twisted, smoking wreck.
"That's two," Gwen pronounced as Nick pulled himself back through the window and took the wheel. "How'd you do it?"
"Threw my shoe at him," Nick replied.
She looked at him silently and blinked twice.
"You threw your shoe. And that worked?"
"Apparently. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but now the big problem is I only have one shoe," he explained. "My foot is cold."
The car was suddenly filled with a rattling cacophony as a barrage of bullets ricocheted off the back bumper and punched more holes through the already cracked windshield, which at this point looked like it was mostly held together by spider webs.
"I think we have some slightly bigger problems now. There's still one more car and we're out of guns," Gwen said. "Got any more bright ideas?"
"I have another shoe," Nick offered.
"A better idea than that," Gwen sighed.
"I dunno, check the glove box," he urged, exasperated.
She popped the glove box open and peered inside. She reached her hand in and pulled out a stick of dynamite.
"What the…?"
"Must have used this car in that bank job they pulled last Thursday," Nick concluded.
"Got a light?" she asked, holding it out to him.
"Check my left jacket pocket," he suggested.
She leaned over his lap and snuck her hand into the pocket. It was extremely distracting, but another spray of bullets mercilessly battering the back of the car helped Nick keep his mind on what he was doing. When she returned to her seat, she held a lighter in her hand. A tiny pin-up girl in a bathing suit was painted on it.
"Really?" she asked, holding the lighter up to him.
"It was a gift," he assured her.
She cocked an eyebrow at him.
"This guy Soap. Pilot. Crashed behind enemy lines and my unit got him back home safely. He said nothing keeps you warm like a good woman, but this lighter would be the next best thing."
"Right. Very classy," she said, rolling her eyes.
She popped the lighter into her mouth and held it between gritted teeth. She took the dynamite in one hand and pulled a knife off her belt with the other. She held up the dynamite and stabbed it with the blade, piercing it through the middle, sliding the edge of the explosive stick all the way up to the knife handle.
"What the hell are you doing?!" Nick screamed.
"Relax! Dynamite is entirely stable until it's ignited. You should know that. You were a soldier, right?" she admonished.
"We used grenades," he muttered. "So what are you doing now?"
She flicked the wheel of the lighter with her thumb, conjuring a narrow flame. She touched it to the dynamite wick, which instantly flared alight. It crackled and sparked, the flame chewing its way down the fuse. Gwen leaned out the window again. She half-closed her left eye, squinting, aiming, assessing the distance. She moved her arm through the throwing motion several times, getting a feel for the added weight of the dynamite stuck to the knife blade. She waited for the perfect moment, and then she let it fly.
It tumbled through the air, end over end. The glowing fuse sailed out into the night, forming a disc of light as it spun through the darkness. The knife hit the pursuing car, blade first. It embedded in the hood, fixing the dynamite in place. The explosion tore the front of the car into shreds. Gnarled chunks of charred shrapnel flew out in every direction. What was left of the car continued scraping forward until it collided with a lamppost and screeched to a halt. It was a flaming, smoking, blackened wreck, still holding a handful of smoldering gangster carcasses.
Gwen and Nick looked at each other.
"Nice throw," he commented.
She was all set to make a sarcastic quip in response, when out of nowhere a black sedan slammed into the driver's side fender. Nick wrestled with the wheel but couldn't keep them from spinning out of control, jumping the curb and crumpling against the wall of an enormous building that took up more than half a block. Nick's head bounced off the steering wheel and he nearly blacked out. Gwen was thrown through the windshield and lay on the hood of the car, unconscious. Shattered glass had shredded her forehead and blood streamed down over her face, mingling with her mascara. Nick's vision went all fuzzy around the edges, and he felt like someone had stuffed his head with cotton balls. He was having trouble stringing more than a few thoughts together at a time, but the one thing he knew was that he had to help Gwen.
He pushed himself up out of his seat, pulled himself over the wheel and crawled out onto the hood, groaning in pain with every inch. He reached out his hand, fingers brushing against her leather bag. Two shadows leaped out of the darkness. It took a moment for him to recognize the blue insignia and understand that they were scorpions, to realize that they were staring down at him with cruel, expressionless faces, and that this was not a good thing. They grabbed Gwen, each taking hold of one of her arms, then pulled out what looked like crossbows loaded with grappling hook bolts. The scorpions aimed upward and fired. The hooks sped off into the night sky, trailing ropes that unspooled rapidly as the hooks flew higher.
Nick lunged toward Gwen, desperately grasping for her. He thought he could keep the scorpions from carrying her away by grabbing onto her, but he grabbed her bag instead. The straps broke, and he was left holding nothing but the sodden leather pouch, staring into the rain as the scorpions carried Gwen up the side of the building and out of sight. He craned his neck up, peering through the darkness. A fork of lightning stabbed the sky and he could just barely make out the top of the building. It was the Empire State Building. Another flash of lightning, and he saw the hulking, bulbous silhouette of a zeppelin, floating toward the mast that protruded from the roof of the world's tallest building, preparing to dock.
CHAPTER 4
Nick pounded so hard on the enormous double doors he thought they might break. He was panting from his run up the stairs and his breath fogged the glass as he pressed his face against it. If Alan didn't open the door soon, he was fully prepared to kick it in. Fortunately his friend arrived before it got to that point.
"Nicholas?" Alan asked, unlocking the door and grunting as he pushed it open. "What are you doing at the museum?"
"I need your help and I need it now," Nick said, pushing his way inside.
"With what?" Alan asked, confused, running a hand through the thick unkempt mop of hair that sat awkwardly atop his head, like the nest of an exotic sea bird.
"With this," Nick replied, tossing Gwen's pouch to Alan.
Alan bobbled and then dropped it. It fell to the ground with a dull thunk. Nick ignored Alan's clumsiness and let the man recover his dignity, along with the pouch. Alan opened it and pulled out the artifact. His eyes went wide.
"Do you know what this is?" Alan exclaimed.
"I was hoping you could tell me."