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Authors: Unknown Author
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jumped down after him. Durell rolled, got one leg up, and caught the flying attacker in the belly. Pain burned through his left knee. He stepped back, the leg buckling momentarily; then it held him. The iron barb lay a few feet away. He caught it up, rammed it hard into his opponent’s body, and heard the bellowing roar of Benjie’s big gun. The stocky Chinese tumbled down the stairs in a tight ball. The man with the sweatband groaned and went down, holding his gut.
“Benjie?”
“I’m all right, Sam.”
“Come down here. Lights out. Lock the office.”
“Did you hurt your leg?”
“Just a bit. Hurry.”
She was not fast enough. He did not know where the other men came from. He could not count them all. They ran up the ramp from the canal in a dark, overwhelming wave. Benjie’s gun went off again, but he had no chance to help himself. Bodies came over him in a bruising, crushing torrent. Fists and clubs rained upon him, and he went down alongside the Chinese. He kicked at one face, and hopefully broke another’s neck with a karate chop, but there were too many of them. There was a roaring in his ears, and he thought he heard Benjie yelp in sudden anguish, and then he was picked up and hurried away among a thick knot of panting men. He still tried to struggle, but his arms and legs were tightly pinioned. They swept him across the sawmill yard toward the dark sheds where the saws were silent. They had Benjie, too. He heard her cursing like a man among the dark mass of their opponents.
Light blinded him. He was thrown down on a steel table. There was sweat and blood in his eyes, and he could not see well. Something began to whine, whipping up a deafening scream of spinning steel. He twisted his head. One of his captors grinned and pointed. The huge circular saw blade in the shed was going, not more than a few inches from his stomach.
“Wait,” he gasped.
He smelled teak sawdust and saw the loom of sawed logs around him, and steps going up into the darkness of high rafters overhead. One of the men laughed. There was a spate of Thai, the smells of sweat and garlic. The spinning saw was a huge steel blur before his eyes. He tasted blood in his mouth.
“Wait,” he said again.
“Yes?”
The reply was quiet under the whine of the roaring blade. The Chinese in the Western suit bent over him on the saw table. The man’s glasses were broken, and there was blood on his coat. He held his side, where Benjie’s bullet had nicked him. Durell looked for the girl, but the men who held him would not let him turn his head.
“Tell us,” said the Chinese, “Tell us everything.”
“About what?”
“Why did you go to Hu Gan Tranh’s house?”
“To hell with you,” Durell said.
The Chinese raised his voice against the scream of the saw. The steel table vibrated. “You wish to die?”
“Let me see Mr. Chuk again.”
“You had your opportunity to talk to Chuk. Now you talk to me. Why did you go to Hu’s house? Why did you speak to Hu’s nephew?”
“I’m a friend of the family,” Durell said.
The Chinese said, “I have no time to waste.” He nodded to one of the men standing out of Durell’s sight. The speed of the saw suddenly increased. The hands that pinned Durell to the table tightened, began to shove him toward the blurred arc of shining steel. He felt the hot wind from the revolving blade against his face. Suddenly he knew there was no hope. There was an implacability in the Chinese face that backed away from him.
Above the scream of the saw he heard the hooting of a siren, shouts, a series of shots. Feet shuffled uneasily around the saw table. The faces retreated. Several of the men who held him loosened their grip. Their faces wavered. The Chinese shouted angrily, but one spoke back, chattering with alarm. There were more shots. Footsteps pounded in the compound yard. Durell suddenly bunched his muscles and heaved up and away from the spinning saw. He broke free on one side, twisted, slid
“Benjie?”
“I’m all right, Sam.”
“Come down here. Lights out. Lock the office.”
“Did you hurt your leg?”
“Just a bit. Hurry.”
She was not fast enough. He did not know where the other men came from. He could not count them all. They ran up the ramp from the canal in a dark, overwhelming wave. Benjie’s gun went off again, but he had no chance to help himself. Bodies came over him in a bruising, crushing torrent. Fists and clubs rained upon him, and he went down alongside the Chinese. He kicked at one face, and hopefully broke another’s neck with a karate chop, but there were too many of them. There was a roaring in his ears, and he thought he heard Benjie yelp in sudden anguish, and then he was picked up and hurried away among a thick knot of panting men. He still tried to struggle, but his arms and legs were tightly pinioned. They swept him across the sawmill yard toward the dark sheds where the saws were silent. They had Benjie, too. He heard her cursing like a man among the dark mass of their opponents.
Light blinded him. He was thrown down on a steel table. There was sweat and blood in his eyes, and he could not see well. Something began to whine, whipping up a deafening scream of spinning steel. He twisted his head. One of his captors grinned and pointed. The huge circular saw blade in the shed was going, not more than a few inches from his stomach.
“Wait,” he gasped.
He smelled teak sawdust and saw the loom of sawed logs around him, and steps going up into the darkness of high rafters overhead. One of the men laughed. There was a spate of Thai, the smells of sweat and garlic. The spinning saw was a huge steel blur before his eyes. He tasted blood in his mouth.
“Wait,” he said again.
“Yes?”
The reply was quiet under the whine of the roaring blade. The Chinese in the Western suit bent over him on the saw table. The man’s glasses were broken, and there was blood on his coat. He held his side, where Benjie’s bullet had nicked him. Durell looked for the girl, but the men who held him would not let him turn his head.
“Tell us,” said the Chinese, “Tell us everything.”
“About what?”
“Why did you go to Hu Gan Tranh’s house?”
“To hell with you,” Durell said.
The Chinese raised his voice against the scream of the saw. The steel table vibrated. “You wish to die?”
“Let me see Mr. Chuk again.”
“You had your opportunity to talk to Chuk. Now you talk to me. Why did you go to Hu’s house? Why did you speak to Hu’s nephew?”
“I’m a friend of the family,” Durell said.
The Chinese said, “I have no time to waste.” He nodded to one of the men standing out of Durell’s sight. The speed of the saw suddenly increased. The hands that pinned Durell to the table tightened, began to shove him toward the blurred arc of shining steel. He felt the hot wind from the revolving blade against his face. Suddenly he knew there was no hope. There was an implacability in the Chinese face that backed away from him.
Above the scream of the saw he heard the hooting of a siren, shouts, a series of shots. Feet shuffled uneasily around the saw table. The faces retreated. Several of the men who held him loosened their grip. Their faces wavered. The Chinese shouted angrily, but one spoke back, chattering with alarm. There were more shots. Footsteps pounded in the compound yard. Durell suddenly bunched his muscles and heaved up and away from the spinning saw. He broke free on one side, twisted, slid
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