M J Lee - City Of Shadows

For a second, the mob of reporters was stunned into near silence.

One more shot. Then another, followed by a loud click.

The reporters screamed, trying to get away from the deadly noise as quickly as they could, tripping over legs, dropping cameras and notebooks and pens.

Policemen went down, bludgeoned out of the way by the scared reporters. People ran everywhere, desperately seeking cover from the sound of the shots.

A woman, caught in the mad rush, was struck by the hard edge of a flashbulb holder. The light went off, catching her in its light as she fell onto the hard concrete.

Those who had fought in the war simply threw themselves down on the ground looking to escape the gunfire, hugging the pavement as if it were a long-lost lover.

One reporter, braver or more stupid than the rest, picked himself up and walked gingerly to the three bodies lying on the ground. He tripped over a camera on the floor, setting off the flash once again, illuminating the scene with a harsh explosion of light.

His eyes were momentarily blinded, but he stumbled forwards, his sight gradually clearing. In front of him, Moore sat moaning, holding his right arm as blood oozed from the shoulder. Beside him, Kao lay on the steps, his arms spread and his eyes wide open, a small hole sitting between them. To his left, Cowan was curled up in a ball, trembling.

The reporter looked back at the body in the middle. He thought for a moment that it had an extra eye. Then he realised what it was and, and from somewhere deep within him, there escaped a shrill keening shriek.

Chapter 14

Lightbulbs were going off. Reporters were shouting.

Up ahead, the crowd jostled each other.

He checked his position. Perfect.

He stepped forward from behind the ambulance. The crowd of reporters were thinning out in front of him, pushed out of the way by the policemen.

The cold metal of the butt solid in his fingers. There were six bullets loaded in the Smith & Wesson. He would not use them all. No need.

The mob thinned out even more. He could see the targets up ahead. They were positioned exactly as agreed.

He stepped forward pulling the revolver out of its holster as he did so.

Nobody noticed him, focused as they were on the people leaving the police station.

He levelled the revolver. Pressed the trigger. There was a brief noise. A flash of flame. The recoil jerked his hand upwards. He would have to use less powder next time.

The target fell backwards onto the stairs, dragging the two policemen down.

The screams. The noise. The shouts of the reporters and the photographers and the watchers, all disappeared.

He was in a bright tunnel. Just him and the target.

He stepped forward and fired again. Into the head.

The kill shot.

The revolver flashed. He was using too much powder.

The target lay still, a small round hole in his forehead.

Perfect.

Now to take care of the policeman on the right. A sitting duck, literally. He squeezed the trigger again. A wounding shot, not necessary to kill.

Cowan was looking at him, eyes strident with fear. The man tried to scramble away but he had forgotten the handcuffs that bound him to the prisoner.

He levelled the revolver at Cowan’s head. Time to kill him. Time he was gone.

He pulled the trigger. Another forehead shot.

A click.

He looked at the gun. A misfire. Too much gunpowder, must change the ratio next time.

The reporters were beginning to move now. Time to leave. Cowan could wait.

He slid the revolver back into the holster, feeling the warmth of the barrel through his shirt.

He turned and walked towards Foochow Road.

Move quickly, don’t run. Running suggested fear and a desire to escape. He wasn’t afraid but he wanted to get away.

Behind him, he could hear the screams of chaos.

He turned the corner and crossed the street to a quiet lilong. Twenty yards left along a lane he took off his hat. He turned to check if anybody was following him.

Nobody.

Good.

He pulled the Mandarin coat up and over his head, revealing his uniform beneath. Reaching up to the washing line above his head he hung the coat over it. He would return later to get it back. He hated waste in any job. Waste was inefficiency.

The blue coat had served him well, blending in with the thousands of others just like it on the streets of Shanghai.

He threw the hat away into a rubbish heap at the side of the alley. One of the rubbish collectors would remove it and sell it cheaply. Somebody, somewhere would enjoy the soft feel of the brown felt.

He pulled a dark cap from his trouser pocket, adjusting it so that it sat well on his head.

He was in uniform now. Nobody ever noticed people in uniform. They blended in with everything else on the street, part of the furniture. Some nosey person might remember there was a man in uniform, but they would never be able to describe his face. That was the beauty of a uniform: it guaranteed anonymity.

He did a final check and then walked back towards the police station he had just left.

Invisible again.

Just another person going to see what had happened.

Another uniform in the crowd.

Chapter 15

The clamour outside the window increased. Lightbulbs flashed. The shouts of the reporters above the noise. The lawyer’s voice, calm and collected.

More shouts from the reporters. More flashes. Then a loud bang.

Silence.

Danilov and Strachan raced towards the door.

Two more bangs.

Screams and shouts of chaos. People running. More shouts, shriller now, desperation in the voices.

They hurtled through the double doors. On the steps to the left of them, all was chaos. Men lay close to the ground desperately trying to crawl away. A woman searched for her glasses on her hands and knees. Cameras, notepads, and used bulbs lay strewn down the steps.

At the bottom, two bodies lay next to each other joined by a steel chain. One was on its back, staring up at the sky, the other had rolled onto his side and was moaning loudly, like a bull that had just been gelded.

A photographer was taking shots of the bodies, his flash blinding despite the sunlight.

‘ Stop ,’ Danilov shouted. Strachan rushed past him and hustled the protesting photographer away.

Danilov stepped over a large brown shoe lying on its side. He walked down the step and knelt down next to Detective Constable Moore. The man was moaning loudly.

He rolled him over and saw blood seeping into the man’s jacket from a wound on his shoulder.

He heard Strachan run back to join him.

‘I confiscated the camera, sir. Might come in useful.’

‘Good. Those ambulance men,’ he pointed to two men dressed in white coats crouched down behind the rear of their vehicle, ‘get them up here to take Moore to the hospital. Quickly, man.’

He stood up and stepped across Moore. The body of Kao lay stretched out on the steps, exactly where it had fallen, arms out wide like the pope blessing the multitudes in St Peter’s Square.

Between the eyes, in the centre of the forehead, a small round hole with a blackened edge disturbed the smoothness of the skin. One eye was wide open, staring into space as if looking for something that wasn’t there. The other was still closed, the bruise around it puffy, yellow and purple.

The face itself looked as though it was at peace, removed from the terrors of life. So different from the last time Danilov had seen it in the cells beneath the station, illuminated by the flickering flame of a lighter.