Nick Carter - The Defector

It was just light enough to see the window clearly. Nick saw the wiry man’s head and shoulders poke through it. In his right hand he held an Army .45. This group sure had a passion for Army .45s, Nick thought. The man took his time looking up and down the street.

Then Nick heard the sailor’s voice. “All right, now. This is gettin’ to be too much. Fun is fun — one guy, okay, but two is just too damned many.” Nick saw the sailor’s arm reach around the man’s chest, yanking him back into the room. “Damn it, clown. Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you.”

“Mac! Mac!” Vicki shouted.

Then the sailor said, “Don’t point that gun at me, buddy-boy. I’ll cram it down your throat and make you eat it.”

There was scuffling, the sound of splintering wood, the crack of a doubled fist striking a face. Glass broke, heavy things fell to the floor. And Vicki screamed, “Mac! Mac!”

Nick smiled and leaned against the fence. He shook his head, reached into his coat pocket and lit one of his gold-tipped cigarettes. The noise from the window went on without letup. Nick calmly smoked his cigarette. A third voice came from the window, deep, demanding. The Army .45 crashed through the upper part of the window and landed on the roof of the shed. Must be Mac, Nick thought. He blew smoke rings into the air. As soon as the wiry man came out of the building, he’d follow him. But that looked as though it was going to take quite a while.

Dawn came without the sun; it remained hidden behind dark clouds. The air still had a chill in it. Early morning people began appearing on the streets of Hong Kong.

Nick Carter leaned against the fence, listening. Hong Kong was opening its eyes, stretching, getting ready for a new day. All cities were noisy, but somehow the night noise seemed different from that of early morning. Smoke curled from rooftops, mingling with low clouds. The smell of cooking food filled the air.

Nick stepped on the butt of his seventh cigarette. There hadn’t been a sound from the window for more than an hour. Nick hoped the sailor and Mac left enough of the wiry man to follow. The man was a straw Nick was grabbing for. If he didn’t pay off, a lot of time would have been wasted. And time was something Nick didn’t have a lot of.

Where would the man go? Nick hoped that once he realized he’d lost the one he was supposed to be following, he’d report to his superiors. That would give Nick two straws.

Suddenly the man appeared. He sort of stumbled out the front door, not looking well at all. His steps were halting, staggered. The coat of his suit was torn across the shoulder. His face was discolored with bruises, both eyes had begun to swell. He stumbled about aimlessly for awhile, not seeming to know where to go. Then he started off in halting steps toward the harbor.

Nick waited until the man was almost out of sight, then started after him. The man moved painfully, slowly. Each step seemed to take great effort. Killmaster had wanted the man delayed, not beaten half to death. He could appreciate the sailor’s feelings though. Nobody likes to be interrupted. Especially twice. And he imagined the wiry man was totally without humor. He probably got belligerent, waving that .45 around. Yet, Nick sympathized with the man, but he could understand why the sailor did what he did.

Once out of the sailor’s playground, the man seemed to perk up a bit. His steps became more deliberate, quicker. It was as though he had just decided where he was going. Nick kept two blocks behind. So far, the man had not once looked back.

It wasn’t until they had reached the docks along the harbor that Nick realized where the man was heading. The ferry. He was going to cross back to Kowloon. Or was he? The man approached the early-morning crowd at the landing and stood on the fringe of them. Nick stayed against the buildings, keeping out of sight. The man didn’t seem to know what he wanted to do. Twice he took steps away from the landing, only to return. The beating seemed to have affected his mind. He looked at the people around him, then across the harbor where the ferry would be coming. He started back along the dock, halted, then walked purposely away from the landing. Nick frowned, puzzled, waited until the man was almost out of sight, then followed him.

The wiry man led Nick right to his own hotel. Outside, under the same street lamp where Ossa and the other man had met, he stopped and looked up at Nick’s window.

This guy just didn’t give up. The man’s actions on the ferry landing became clear to Nick then. He had to work it this way. If he reported what had actually happened to his superiors, they’d probably kill him. Was he really going to cross to Kowloon? Or was he headed somewhere on the dock itself? He had looked across the harbor, then started out along the dock. Maybe he knew Nick was on to him and he thought he’d try a little confusion.

One thing Nick was sure of — the man had stopped moving. And you couldn’t follow a man who didn’t lead you anywhere. It was time to talk.

The wiry man had not moved from the lamp post. He looked up at Nick’s room as though praying Killmaster would be in it.

The sidewalks had become crowded. People moved swiftly along them, dodging each other. Nick knew he’d have to be careful. He didn’t want a crowd around when he confronted the man. In the doorway of a building across the street from his hotel, Nick transferred Wilhelmina from the belt to his right-side coat pocket. He kept his hand in the pocket, his finger on the trigger, just like the old gangster movies. Then he started across the street.

The wiry man was so wrapped up in his own thoughts and watching the hotel window that he didn’t even see Nick approach. Nick walked up behind him, put his left hand on the man’s shoulder, and jammed the barrel of Wilhelmina into the small of his back.

“Instead of looking at the room, let’s go to it,” he said.

The man stiffened. His gaze shifted to the toes of his shoes. Nick could see the muscles twitching in the side of his neck.

“Move,” Nick said quietly, jamming the Luger harder into the man’s back.

The man silently moved off. They entered the hotel and, like old friends, climbed the stairs, with Killmaster giving friendly smiles to everyone they passed. Nick already had the key in his left hand when they reached the door.

“Put your hands behind you and lean back against the wall,” Nick ordered.

The man obeyed. His eyes watched Killmaster’s moves closely.

Nick got the door open, then stood back. “Okay. Inside.”

The man moved away from the wall and went into the room. Nick followed, closing and locking the door behind him. He pulled Wilhelmina out of his pocket, leveled its barrel at the man’s stomach.

“Lock your hands behind your neck and turn around,” he ordered.

Again, the man silently obeyed.

Nick patted the man’s chest, pants pockets, the inside of both legs. He knew the man no longer had the .45, but maybe he had something else. He found nothing. “You understand English,” he said when he’d finished. “Do you speak it?”

The man remained silent.

“All right,” Nick said. “Drop your hands and turn around.” The sailor and Mac had worked him over pretty good. He looked in sad shape.

The look of the man made Nick relax a little. As the man turned to face him, his right foot lashed out, catching Nick between the legs. The pain raced like a brush fire through him. He doubled over, staggering back. The man took one step forward, and with his left foot, kicked Wilhelmina out of Nick’s hand. There had been the click of metal against metal when the foot hit the Luger. Filled with pain from his groin, Nick stumbled back against the wall. He silently cursed himself for not noticing the steel tips on the man’s shoes. The man was going for Wilhelmina. Nick took two deep breaths, then moved away from the wall, his teeth clenched in anger. The anger was aimed at himself for relaxing when he shouldn’t have. Obviously the man was not in as bad a shape as he looked.