Don Pendleton - Blood Tide

The Communist revolution had only driven them further underground and made their business dealings even more Byzantine.

“So what does he do now?”

“He’s kind of on the outs, but one of his strengths is that he’s unconventional. Since he got pushed out of normal Chinese crime, he’s specialized in peddling information. He’s also interested in high tech. At this point, I believe the old men of the Red League council consider him a useful embarrassment.”

“What does that mean?”

Mei locked eyes with Bolan. “It means he’s not what you’re expecting to meet, and when you meet him you be respectful.”

“I’m always respectful.” Bolan shrugged. “Until it’s time not to be.”

“Yeah, you just let me do the talking, and if you have to say something, mention the Eight Trigrams Double Broadsword.”

Bolan nodded. “Got it.”

Du pulled them down one side street and then another, each more narrow than the last, until he brought them to a halt before the wooden gate of a Portuguese villa that looked at least three hundred years old. The tile and stucco were faded and cracked, but the stonework was still incredible. It was a picture of lost colonial glory. Men with rifles peered down from the ornamental minarets at the wall corners.

Du set down his yoke and rapped the brass, lion-head knocker on the gate.

A pair of men with AK-47s opened the gate and let them in. Bolan, Mei and Du walked into the courtyard. A Spanish-style fountain with a potted flowering lemon tree in its middle dominated the tiled courtyard. Peacocks strutted freely, pecking among the rose beds.

Bolan locked eyes with their hosts.

The man was huge. He sat artfully draped across a cerulean chair, enthroned beneath a pink silk awning. Ming Jinrong looked like a six-foot-six, 270-pound Chinese version of Oscar Wilde. Right down to the wine-colored crushed velvet suit and the lily he held across his breast. A jaw like a steam shovel and a massive brow belied his soft eyes, cheeks and lips. His hair fell away from his face in languorous black curls.

Ming Jinrong danced the razor’s edge between effeminate and Frankensteinian.

“Marcie.” A half smile lifted one corner of his mouth as he spoke in an Oxford-accented baritone. “Such a pleasure to see you once again, and you have brought me an American.” He looked Bolan up and down through thick lashes and met the Executioner’s gaze without blinking. “And such blue eyes…”

He raised an eyebrow at the third member of their party. “Oh, and I see you’ve brought little Du.”

Du’s knuckles creaked into fists.

“Tell me.” Ming cocked his leonine head at Mei. “Did you ever become proficient with the Southern Butterfly knives I gave you?”

“I’m sorry, Ming. The weapons you gave me hang in a place of honor in my home.” Mei grinned impishly. “But I’m an island girl, and the kris is my life.”

“Ah…the Serpent Waving Blade.” Jinrong gazed off into the distance for a moment. “Well, then, how may I assist you? You know I can deny you nothing.”

“I ask only for your expertise.” Mei held the leaf-shaped throwing weapon that had ended Scott Clellande’s life. The muzzles of automatic rifles along the walls raised slightly as the woman stepped forward with the blade.

Ming raised his eyes heavenward as if in infinite weariness at his guards. “Oh, please.”

The weapons lowered as Mei set the blade on the low table before the gangster. “What do you make of it?”

Jinrong took up the red-tasseled weapon between immaculately manicured fingers and pursed his lips at it. “Why, it’s a piau.” His eyes widened slightly as he examined the slitted blade. “Piau is a loose term for a family of throwing weapons.” He set the weapon back down on the table. “But this piau is not Chinese.”

“Can you identify it?” Mei asked.

“Where did you find it?” Ming countered.

Bolan stepped forward. “In the throat of a friend.”

“Ah.” Jinrong sighed and sniffed at his lily. “Well, I can tell you what I know, which is that this weapon is Javanese and very likely the weapon of a prisai sakti practitioner.”

“Javan?” Bolan and Mei exchanged glances. “Not Philippine? From a Muslim style of Arnis or Kali? Perhaps an esoteric one?”

“Oh, no, no, no. I have a similar weapon in my collection. As I mentioned, this form of piau is a specialty of the prisai sakti style of pentjak-silat. Prisai sakti means Holy Shield, and far from being a Muslim style, prisai sakti is affiliated with the Christian Javanese.”

Bolan decided to be blunt. “You’ve heard of the rash of piracy in the South Seas.”

Ming leaned back in his chair. “Yes, and such a distasteful way of doing business. It is bad for everybody.” He waved a dismissing hand. It was clear he wished to change the subject. “Gau, bring our guests tea.”

Bolan looked into Ming Jinrong’s eyes. The man was an aficionado. Some men obsessively devoted themselves to baseball, blondes or bullfighting. The gangster’s encyclopedic knowledge showed that his all-consuming passion was martial arts, and Bolan suspected it bordered on the fetishistic. “I’ve heard you are a master of the Eight Trigram Double Broadsword set.”

“A master?” Ming raised a condescending eyebrow at Bolan and then looked at Mei disappointedly for clearly having fed the American information.

Bolan smiled. He was a master of no martial art, but he knew men who were. “I have a friend who is proficient in Monkey Kung Fu.”

Ming tossed his hair distractedly. “What form?”

“Lost Monkey.”

Ming reluctantly showed interest as Bolan continued.

“He also has some skill in the Seven Stars Mantis broadsword technique. He once told me that double broadswords are almost impossible to learn. They restrict each other’s movements and endanger the practitioner. Only a master can wield them together effectively.”

Mei stared at Bolan in shock.

Bolan kept his eyes on the man before him and knew he’d hit pay dirt. Ming Jinrong’s eyes had lit up. Gau arrived with the tea, and Ming waved it away as he spoke rapidly, this time in Mandarin. The servant scampered away as Ming rose and removed his velvet jacket. He stood slightly stooped, as if he were embarrassed by his height and size, but he straightened to his full height as Gau returned with a silken pillow upon which he bore a pair of Chinese broadswords.

Gau took a brass-inlayed wooden sheath in each hand and presented the hilts to his master. Ming drew his weapons. The wide, curved blades made a loud rasping sound as they came free. Sharpening steels had been set within the sheaths so that the blades would be honed every time they were drawn or put away.

“This—” the man smiled at Bolan as he stepped into the courtyard with a dragon inlayed blade in either hand “—would interest your friend.”

Ming stamped his foot and began striking the empty air. He held the blades parallel, so that each strike was a double attack as he cut to one side, twisted and cut again. The blades hissed through the air as his double cuts grew wider and he began slicing vertically and on the diagonal. His feet walked an octagon pattern of deep stances and quick leaps. Sweat began to sheen his face as he forced the heavy weapons to his will. With a shout the parallel blades began pinwheeling in the mobster’s hands.

Bolan’s eyes narrowed with appreciation. He was watching a master.

The blades blurred around Ming’s body like counterrotating propellers and smeared into bright flashes. How he did it without clanging the blades or cutting himself was a mystery to Bolan. He whipped the blades so fast they made a noise like tearing cloth as they sliced the air. The grace, speed and control was astounding. The light gleaming in Ming’s unblinking eyes revealed that his consummate skill was wedded with homicidal impulse.