A Korean Tiger (16 page)

Nick Carter fell to his hands and knees. He felt sweat begin to pop out on him. He knew he must be pale. His jaw muscles hurt. Yet he fought down the rage. Not yet — not just yet. Play along. The odds were still too long.

He began to crawl to where she waited.

Her voice was unsteady now. The glint in her green eyes was hot. "There is a certain manner of making love that I have heard about, that I have seen photos of, but have never experienced. We do not do such things in my country! But I understand that you Americans, being of course decadent and degenerate, are fond of making love in this manner. You will make such love to me now. At once." The little gun moved in admonishment. "At no time will you get off your knees — and you will never raise your hands. One false move and I will kill you at once."

He was before her now, keeping his eyes low. He did not want her to see the rage in them. She would understand and kill him at once. And he understood — what she was really doing! This was a symbolic as well as a physical act. Her sick, perverted psyche would take pleasure in the physical act, but her real pleasure would be in making him perform it! Make him crawl and indulge in a degrading act. This would be sweet triumph indeed. It made a slave of him. It was a projection of what she worked for, and hoped for — the surrender and humbling of decent men before the iron boot of the totalitarian hordes.

Nick Carter knelt before her. He made his voice abject. "I am going to enjoy this," he said. He sounded calm. She would not understand what he meant. Until too late.

He touched her ankles. "Is this permitted? I must have some support."

"Just there. Only there. No higher. And do not look up. I have the gun to your head. Now begin at once." Her voice was husky with strain, with a tremendous excitement.

He knew then who the real Zoe Kalinski was. The beast! It did not matter. Nothing mattered now but killing her. He felt the cold muzzle of the gun on the crown of his head. His hands closed slowly, ever so slowly, over her ankles. A convulsive tremor ran through her.

Nick came up with the released fury of a gigantic steel spring. He butted her under the chin as he rose. The pistol roared in his car and he felt the fire across his scalp, the long burn of a white hot poker tormenting him. But she had missed her first shot and he knew that he had won.

He smashed at her face with his head again, felt the crunch of breaking bone. He was erect now, swinging her around by her ankles, pivoting in place and swinging her body as easily as a hammer thrower spins his hammer. The gun flew from her hand and smashed into the window, breaking it.

Killmaster stepped into the exact center of the compartment and kept swinging her around and around. Her body was up and level with his shoulders now, her skirt high up around her middle. She was screaming — screaming — screaming.

He had meant to knock her brains out against the sharp corner of the bath, where it projected a little into the room. Now, as he took one step that would bring him close enough to kill her on the next swing, the compartment went berserk. It turned into a segment of hell before it became hell — when all was chaos. Everything that was not secure: Nick, the woman, furniture, pillows from the divan, everything soared through the air and slammed into the forward wall of the compartment.

Nick smacked the wall with his skull and felt new pain. He was conscious of blood on his face and ignored it. What the hell was going on? The woman, inert, was heavy across his legs. A lamp, its bulb smashed, had its cord wound around his neck like a snake.

He fought to his feet. There was another slamming, grinding crash and the long train finally slid to a halt. The Seoul Express had stopped. Suddenly. Very suddenly!

Killmaster began to function as only he could when the chips were really down. It was a barricade, of course. The tracks were blocked. Her ace in the hole. The Russians had their own guerrillas, bandits was more like it, working in the mountains. They were here to take Bennett and the Widow.

He picked her up by the throat and held her as easily as though she were a doll. She was unconscious, her face smeared with blood.

Nick held her out away from him, dropped her, and in that moment forgot her. From now on it was going to be a rat race through hell. He had to start now and keep on going and never look back. There was chaos and confusion and hell to pay — and he might just have a chance.

He kicked the door of the bathroom down and got his weapons. With the stiletto in his left hand and the Luger in his right he shot away the lock on the compartment door and gave it a savage kick. It flew open, one hinge breaking away. Like a bulldozer gone berserk Nick Carter charged out into the corridor.

Nick turned to his left as he slammed out of the compartment. The Kotos were two cars back. A massive, slab-shouldered goon at the end of the car was just getting to his feet, a dazed expression on his flat features. Nick shot him in the head. At that moment lead traced down the corridor and bounced off metal, whirring about him like angry bees. Nick turned as he gained the vestibule. Two more of her men were charging down the corridor after him. He fell to one knee, the Luger an extension of his pointed arm. He sighted carefully, brought them down with two shots. This was no time to waste ammunition. He was carrying only two spare clips.

He pelted through the next car as fast as he could run. Heads were popping out of compartment doors now and Nick kept yelling at the top of his voice: "Bandits — bandits! Stay in your compartments! Everybody stay in their compartments!" It might help keep the aisles clear and certainly it would add to the confusion.

As he ran through the next vestibule and entered the car where the Kotos were hiding he saw that it was going to be a narrow thing. Four or five rough-looking types were just spilling into the car from the other end. The "peasants" who had come aboard at Pusan-Ju hadn't taken long to figure out the deal. They were here to protect the Kotos — the Yellow Widow and Bennett!

The lead man had a Tommy gun. He saw Nick and raised the weapon, hailing lead down the corridor. Nick fell away to one side and down, fiat on his belly, feeling cold and naked. There was no cover! He poured a stream of fire down the corridor — if that bastard got off another burst with the Tommy gun, he was cooked. The man with the machine gun was running toward Nick now, but instead of spraying the coach at random he wasted time sighting the gun. That was his mistake. Nick shot him in the guts and he fell forward heavily, sprawling and blocking the narrow passage. The machine gun skidded nearly to Nick's outstretched hands. He fired twice more with the Luger, saw the other men turn and start running for the vestibule again. They had only pistols and knew what was coming.

Nick picked up the Tommy gun, stepped over the still twitching corpse, and sent a hell of fire down the corridor in short stuttering bursts. One of the retreating men screamed and lurched sideways in the vestibule. The others ran back into the next coach and slammed the door behind them.

He had gained a minute or two. Nick ran to Compartment B. This was no time for formalities. He shot away the lock and kicked in the door. All the time he was acting he was thinking — change of plans. Don't kill Bennett or the Widow right away. Might need them for hostages!

The window of the compartment was open. Her face was framed in the square against a background of hard sloshing rain. Nick got his one and only look at the infamous Yellow Widow. It was a face to haunt his dreams. Pale yellow flesh stretched taut over bone, the mouth slittcd and thin now but hinting of past sensualities. The eyes narrow and wide set, carbon black, hurling defiance at him even as she released her grip on the window sill and fell away. He caught a flutter of dark clothing; then she vanished.

Nick ran for the window, covering the little compartment in two leaps, sheathing the stiletto and jamming the Luger into his belt. He threw a leg over the sill and dropped to the shoulder of the track bed beside the train. He was instantly wet through, soaked to the skin, the downpour heavy on his head and shoulders. He kept the Tommy gun ready and peered toward the head of the train. No sign of them. He could see a few scattered lights and the sound of sporadic firing came to him. The lights of the first class cars sent narrow druggets of yellow into the wet gloom.

He spun around. Damn fool! They wouldn't go that way, to the front! The Widow knew what she was about. They would run back, back to where she had her peasants planted in the third class coaches. Nick started to run along the narrow, dangerously sloping shoulder. It fell steeply away here to a ditch. As he ran, stray bullets whimpered around him, parting the rain curtain with a sighing
zing
—
sing
—
sing...

He saw them. The Widow had the slight figure of a man by the hand and was pulling him along over the treacherous footing. Nick increased his pace and brought the Tommy gun up and ready for firing. If worst came to worst, if they looked like getting away, he would have to kill them both. At least make sure of Bennett!

Somewhere in the gloom just beyond the fleeing couple a door opened and a glare of white light shot out and invaded the night. There was a tumble of figures down the car steps, out of the vestibule, silhouetted in the light. It was the military car, the tiger hunters! They had been drinking, and they were all armed, and the train was being attacked by the goddamned bandits and they all wanted in on the fun.

The little tableau took only a micro-second to enact. A ROK officer, staggering, with a bottle in one hand and a machine gun in the other, lurched away from the car. He saw the Widow and Bennett just as they ran into the band of light. Nick Carter, some twenty yards behind, could do nothing but watch. He saw an American officer leap from the car, yelling, heading for the ROK too late. The Tommy gun in the ROK's hand spewed a short burst of flame and the Widow fell.

Nick, gaining all the time, heard Bennett scream something. The man turned sharply to his left and plunged down the embankment, losing his footing and sliding head first into the gloom and out of the aura of light.

Nick Carter cut to his own left and slid down the bank. Gravel and sand carried him to the bottom on a miniature avalanche. A final glance into the light showed the end of the tableau — the Yank officer snatching the Tommy gun from the ROK and felling him with a smashing blow. The Widow was a crumpled dark figure near the car steps.

Nick fell into a deep ditch bordering the embankment at the bottom. It was totally dark here, away from the train, and rain smashed down without mercy. He was up to his knees in water. He stood perfectly still and listened, Bennett must be within a few yards of him. Nick's heart skipped a beat at the thought of losing the man now.

Something moved in the rain-encased night, a blob of something darker than the other shadows. Nick tensed, listening, straining every nerve. The man was coming toward him along the same ditch. There it was — the splash and suck of feet going in and out of mud and water. Nick crouched in the ditch and waited. Bennett was coming to him. From overhead came a long and frenzied burst of gunfire mingled with shouts and curses. Nick's grin was tight as he recognized a few choice Americanisms — the tiger hunters were getting into the fray in earnest. A nasty surprise for both groups of guerrillas — neither the Widow nor Colonel Kalinski could have reckoned on so many unfriendly guns.

Bennett had almost reached him by now. Nick stood like a statue, hardly breathing, as he ran the possibilities rapidly through his mind. His orders were to kill Bennett Not in so many words, perhaps, but it had been implied. A bullet in the soft tissues of the brain.

Yet there was the matter of positive identification. In this business you took nothing for granted. He thought the man edging toward him now was Raymond Lee Bennett — he was sure it was Bennett — yet he had to be positive, sure without any shadow of doubt. Nick's smile was harsh in the blinding rain. So ask the little creep! Point blank! Right out of the literal black of night — the reaction was sure to be a true one.

He could hear a whimpering sound now, an animal sound like a dog in pain. A whimpering and a breathy squealing and muttering. He realized that the man was crawling on all fours in the ditch, making very slow progress. And the muttering, the moaning, the complaining! Killmaster knew then that he had nothing to fear from the creature in the ditch — and also knew that he had a whole new set of problems.

It was time. Softly, in a conversational tone, Nick said: "Is that you, Mr. Bennett?"

The splashing stopped. Silence broken only by the cry of the rain. Bennett was listening. Nick spoke again. "Is that you, Bennett? Speak up. Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you. I'm here to help you."

As he finished speaking there was a new burst of firing from the train. The man who crouched on all fours in the ditch, like an animal, said in a tremulous voice: "Is that you, Jane? Help me, Jane. Please help me! I'm so cold."

Jane? Jane — Nick racked his brain for a moment and it came. Jane Bennett! That had been the wife's name — the woman he had killed with an axe. Nick sighed aloud. This was all he needed — to find Bennett at last, to find him far around the bend and wandering in cuckoo land. But it did solve one problem — he wasn't going to execute a crazy man.

"I'm not Jane," he told Bennett gently. "But she sent me to help you. I've come a long way to help you, Mr. Bennett. So we had better get started. I'm cold and hungry, too. The sooner we start the sooner we can get something to eat, and get nice and warm. Okay?"

Bennett was at Nick's feet now, still on all fours. He reached out and tugged at Nick's sodden trousers. "I'm afraid. You won't make me go back there, will you? Back where all the noise is — I'm afraid of those bad people. They want to hurt me."

"No. We won't go back there." Nick hauled the man to his feet. He ran expert hands quickly over the slight, shivering figure, not expecting to find weapons. He didn't. He wondered just when Bennett had gone over the line. It must have been some time since that night on the Ladenstrasse, when he had visited Helga — and he must have been a hell of a burden for the Yellow Widow. Now she was lying back there by the tracks, a wet bundle of nothing at all, and Carter had the problems.