"Spirits of Steel"
"Spirits of Steel"
9/18-9/21/1942
I.
"I never thought it would come to this," Robert Hawk said from the back seat.
Chen pulled their leased Lincoln four-door sedan off the side road and turned off the engine. He stared at the scene without comment, then just as silently slid out from behind the wheel.
In the late afternoon sunlight, they saw that every window of the little white bungalow had been smashed. The wooden picket fence had been bodily torn out of the ground and scattered over the closely-trimmed lawn. Hanging by one hinge, the front door had the words REMEMBER PEARL HARBOR crudely daubed in red paint. In front of the house was a tin sign which read SOLD - VALLEY REALTY.
Chen Lee-Sun was wearing a standard chaffeur uniform with its button-flap jacket, thin leather gloves and peaked cap. He was young and fit, hopping out of the sedan and swinging around to the other side where his partner had just stood up. Robert Hawk had reached his mid-forties, with a narrow alert face marked by years of stress and tension. At five feet eight, he was not much taller than Chen but wider than the wiry Chinese man. Hawk wore a tailored business suit of fine dark brown material, with a white topcoat over it and a crisp fedora. He raised one hand in reaction at the sight of the vandalized cottage but let it fall again.
"I had heard about the forced relocation, of course," Hawk said. "But somehow, to actually see it..."
"Ahhh," Chen made a disgusted noise which suggested he wanted to spit on the ground. "If you ask me, America has finally learned what China has always known through bitter experience. The Japanese are no good! I hope this country kills as many of them as possible."
Hawk waited a few seconds before responding. "Daijiro is an American citizen, Chen. He was born in Oakland, he grew up here. I've known him for years. I would trust him with my life."
"Come now. I have told you what happened to my family three years ago. The same day that your Pearl Harbor was attacked, the Japs rampaged through Hong Kong. They're a living plague, they leave nothing but death and horror wherever they set foot." He turned to study his partner's face. "But I do not wish for us to argue, boss. Our work is more important than our personal feelings."
"I wouldn't dismiss your grievances," Hawk said. "Or your loss. But finding Daijiro is urgent."
Chen Lee-Sun tilted his cap back on his head. He was a good-looking young man with a square-jawed face and intense dark eyes that had a single fold. "The Sting, the Dragon of Midnight...they have come to mean hope and justice to many who have otherwise lost hope."
"Let's roll then. From what the War Department told me, the nearest relocation camp is in Gloverton, maybe an hour north of here." Hawk shook his head again. "Daijiro never married. At least he has no wife or children to go through this with him."
When they were back in the Lincoln, Chen started it up and swung around on the road to go in the direction from which they had come. "Wish we had the Dragonwing," he said.
"Oh, I was thinking the same thing," Hawk replied. "Flying out here in a rush. Only being able to bring a few of our gimmicks and gadgets hidden in the luggage. I would rather be riding in the Dragonwing with its armor panels and bullet-proof glass and gas nozzles. But we'll have to get by on quick thinking this time."
"Boss, I've been meaning to tell you. I don't think I will be using the ultra-violet goggles any more. They actually reduce my night vision now."
"Really. I've seen the changes that Dragon Pendant is making in you." Hawk dug through a satchel on the seat beside him. "Let's see. Roast beef, ham and Swiss, tuna fish..."
"I'd like the ham and cheese, if you don't mind."
"Sure, here you go. Plenty of mustard," Hawk passed the wax paper-wrapped sandwich up to his partner. "Looks like a bag of maybe a dozen hard-boiled eggs, too. So, Chen, how well can you see in the dark now?"
Finishing a bite before answering, the Dragon of Midnight said, "Almost as good in darkness as in daylight. Colors are washed out. Everything looks grey or white. I'm developing some sort of, I don't know the English word... extra sense to tell when something is next to me."
"Proximity."
"That's it. When I'm wearing the Pendant, I can mov through rooms I've never been in before and not bump into anything." Chen sighed. "I wish I had a wise old Sifu to explain all this. I am learning by experiment."
Finishing his sandwich, Robert Hawk wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and put the satchel back down on the car floor by his feet. "Hah. Well, I wish there were two of those pendants you won from the Brumal. Being able to walk through walls seems like a useful ability for the Sting to possess."
"We turn up here, right? Heading north?" Chen asked.
"Yes. I wrote down directions when Major Kadish phoned, but of course I had to burn them after we both got a look. Only a few of the top Army brass know they have two New York mystery men working for them now. As long as we can keep our double lives secret, we definitely should."
After a few minutes of silence, Chen Lee-Sun asked, "You want the radio on?"
"Eh? Oh, no thanks, Chen." Hawk was leaned back in the deep plush seats, rubbing his chin. "I'm thinking about our assignment. We know the underworld back home. We understand the local mobsters and the occasional lone wolf crook. But out here, we have no connections. I'm worried we may be out of our depth, Chen."
The Dragon scoffed. "I think our record speaks for itself, boss. Right now, any spies or saboteurs in Northern California have just felt a chill run up their spines without knowing why."
II.
They had to leave their car at the gates of the barbed wire enclosure which circled Tillman Relocation Center. An MP shouldering his M1 escorted them over the bare dried mud of the place, between two rows of simple barracks made of unpainted pine boards. Dozens of Japanese and Japanese-Americans were outside, sitting on the steps of the buildings or standing in small clusters and they all stared at the two visitors.
From what Robert Hawk could see just by passing through, the facility was crude and hastily-built but not squalid. The grounds were neat and uncluttered, several trees had been left standing. At least twenty GIs were visible, walking patrol or taking a smoke break in the shadows between the buildings. Hawk had been told that this site had been chosen because there had been an Army outpost under construction here, with a well already dug and a road leading to the nearest town. This was a mid-sized city also called Tillman.
The silence, though, was eerie. Even the smallest children watched the newcomers being marched past without saying a word. The only movement was everyone's heads turning as Hawk and Chen passed by.
"I see you've rounded up old women and five year old kids as well," Hawk said. "Makes me feel much safer."
"I don't make policy," the MP replied without heat. "In here."
The building at the far end had an American flag flying from a pole over its door. Hawk and Chen were ushered in a small office crowded with chairs and two desks, as well as a green metal filing cabinet and a table littered with loose papers. The room smelled not unpleasantly of pipe tobacco. A name plate on the desk read CAPTAIN THOMAS J Gottfried.
Hanging on one wall was a curved sword three feet long in a ornate scabbard of enameled wood. Two red tassels dangled from the hilt.
Glaring up from behind the desk was a taut, wiry man in early middle age whose cropped black hair had lots of grey sprinkled through it. "Thank you, sergeant. Wait outside."
"Yes, sir."
The officer did not offer seats to his visitors but regarded them with nearly open hostility. "I don't have time to waste. Lots to do. We're getting more Japs tonight."
"I wouldn't be here if this wasn't important," Hawk said. "Captain Gottfried, I believe you received a call from Washington instructing you to see me."
"That's right. Robert Hawk, right? You're some sort of historian or something. What do you want? Let's get this over with."
Hawk had removed his hat. He met the man's stare without flinching. "I believe a notorious East Coast mobster is in the area. He's known as the Sting."
"And? Shouldn't you be bothering the local police then?"
"You'll see how it's your problem. The Sting is known for robbing other gangsters. He's a sort of privateer. I think he's here because of the recent unsolved murders of two of your officers."
Unexpectedly, Gottfried slammed an open palm down on his desk. "The Army handles its own investigations. Mind your own business. You're dismissed, Mr Hawk."
"No, captain," Hawk said. His voice had gotten lower with a new edge to it. "I can have the War Department contact you with more explicit orders if necessary. I'm working for brass higher up the chain of command. It's the way the two lieutenants died that interests me. Young fit specimens in perfect health, and yet the autopsies showed that their hearts had burst open. Without a mark on the outside of their bodies."
"You know about that? Go on, I'm interested all of a sudden."
"I believe I know how it was done," Hawk said. "One of your prisoners here might be able to give me information that could help track down the killer... before he strikes again."
"Oh, I see where this is going. No dice, Mr Hawk. None of the Japs here are getting past that fence while I'm in charge. Forget it."
"With Daijiro Yoshimura to help, I might be able to prevent another murder, captain."
"No. Don't you know there's a war on? There's not going to be any acts of sabotage by these Nips." He turned those angry eyes on Chen. "Say, your driver there seems to be of the Oriental persuasion himself. Has he been cleared?"
Chen Lee-Sun did not visibly react. His years working undercover and dealing with gunmen had given him an unshakeable poker face. But Hawk knew his partner well enough to see how offended he was. "My friend here is Chinese," Hawk said. "I can assure you he hates the Japanese as much as you do."
"Hmmph. Very well. Tell you what, you can speak with this Yoshimura devil for a few minutes. Then maybe I can get back to finishing this Godamned paperwork in peace." Gottfried raised his voice. "Sergeant! Find out where a detainee named Yoshimura is being held. I will allow these men ten minutes with him, then they'll leave. That's all."
As Captain Gottfried made a show of rustling papers, he did not see the venomous gaze which Chen briefly fixed upon him before the MP showed the two visitors back outside. They were hustled briskly down the row of buildings to the one on the farthest end.
As they walked, Chen whispered, "You saw the katana?"
"Yes. Daijiro's, all right. That sword is two hundred years old, Chen."
"Here we are," said the MP. "I'll wait out here. The captain said to give you ten minutes."
The interior was a single open room without toilet or sink, the only light coming from the small high windows. At least four families were crowded in there, separating their spaces as best they could with a sheet or blanket hung on cords like makeshift walls. As they entered, an elderly man in the far corner gave a start of surprise.
"Robert? HERE?"
"Hello, Daijiro," Hawk said. "I can't tell you how sorry I am about all this."
"It's my own fault for having a yellow face," Yoshimura responded sharply. "Knowing America's history, I should be grateful we haven't all been lynched. What are you doing here?"
"Hunting an assassin," said Hawk. "One who knows the secret of the Death Touch."
III.
The ten minutes were not nearly enough for Hawk to get enough information. Having twenty people in the same room, all listening while making a show of not being interested, complicated things even more. Hawk and Yoshimura had to talk around what they wanted to say, making oblique references and even using some French phrases which they both knew.
All too soon, the MP stomped into the room, holding his rifle at the ready but with the muzzle pointed down in front of him. "Time's up."
"Remember to keep palms away from your chest," Yoshimura said. "Good luck, Robert. And the same for you, young man."
"Thank you," said Chen a bit stiffly.
As they were being led outside, Hawk called back, "I don't know what I can do to get you out of here, Daijiro. Honestly, this is the most shameful thing I can remember seeing." Then they were out into the dusk. Some floodlights high up on posts cast stark shadows.
"Captain Gottfried said for you two to leave immediately," their escort said. "He's at a meeting."
"Fine." Hawk jammed both fists deep into the side pockets of his topcoat and stared down at the ground ahead of them. At the gate, they were watched getting into the Lincoln and wheeling back out up the road. It was getting dark enough that the headlights were needed.
"Boss, first let me say I am not happy about that place," Chen began. "I have no love for the Japanese. Tonight, half the world hates them and with good reason. But those people in the camp had no trial, no charges, there was little reason to think they were a danger to the country."
"It's a shock to me. Many of them are Nisei, second generation. They were born here, which means they are American citizens... last time I read the Constitution, that's what it says."
The Dragon of Midnight slowed as they reached the main road. "Which way?"
"Left. We passed a filling station on the way."
"Also," Chen said, "I did not understand half of what you and your friend said. You were talking in riddles."
"It was tricky. Let me summarize. Daijoro is a bank clerk. But he also taught Jiu-Jitsu at the Winter Snow school. You've heard of them?"
"Oh yes," Chen replied. "I know the sifu of the Black Mantis kwoon back home. There has been a bitter rivalry between Black Mantis and Winter Snow for two generations. So that's why your friend had a katana, then? Those old swords are worth a fortune."
"You should have seen him practicing with it. You could shave clean with that blade. Daijoro was a dangerous man when he was younger. Chen, have you heard of a secret fighting technique called the Death Touch?"
The filling station was ahead. As the sedan stopped in front of the pumps, a man in a light blue uniform came out to fill their tank. He also wiped the windshield and offered to check the oil, but Hawk said that would not be necessary. He handed a bill to the attendant and told him to keep the change.
When they were on the road again, Chen made a skeptical noise. "You asked about the Death Touch. In gung fu, it's called Dim Mak. I don't believe in it. Supposedly, a master can barely tap someone and they will either drop dead there and then, or they'll die a short time later without a mark on them. There are a lot of exaggerated stories about such things."
From the back seat, Hawk laughed. "You're skeptical but you yourself can walk through a solid wall or let a bullet go through you without being affected. Remember the two murders we flew out here to investigate."
"Oh. Yes, I didn't make the connection." The Dragon tilted his head and shrugged as he drove. "Their hearts were physically burst open but there wasn't even a bruise on their skin. Dim Mak. I guess it's more than a wild tale."
"We should be coming into town soon," Hawk said. "I know you called to reserve a room at the Restful Inn."
"You only need to sign in and get the key. Boss, I keep thinking about the kids at the camp. All of them lost their homes. Your friend's house had a sold sign in front of it."
"Yeah," Robert Hawk responded. "I understand the detainees were forced to sell for pennies on the dollar."
"It reminds me of the refugees back in my country. Walking along the roads, carrying all they owned, starving and weary and sick at heart. I was lucky enough to be able to grab a bunk on a freighter to Manhattan."
"These are dark times, Chen. No one knows what what's going to happen." He let out a strained breath. "For now, the best we can do is get a meal and rest for a few hours. The Sting and the Dragon of Midnight have work to do tonight."
IV.
A big man moved through the shadows of the detention camp. Six feet tall but very broad-shouldered, the Sting wore a long black coat which reached to his shins, with a scarf wrapped into the collar. Beneath a wide-brimmed slouch hat, his face was concealed beneath a black mask of thin material with only two revealing dark watchful eyes.
Stealing around the corner of the barracks building with agonizing slowness, the infamous mastermind raised a strange weapon in his gloved hand. A handcrafted gun of strange design, it had an extended needle-thin barrel and a round cylinder clipped to the butt. The Sting waited, his breathing as shallow as possible, until a soldier stopped in the darkness beside the building. The scratch and flare of a match showed he was sneaking a cigarette.
The barely audible cough of the CO2 cartridge sounded. The guard grunted and slapped at his neck, probably thinking he had been bitten by a mosquito. Instead, a thin steel dart came out of his skin. He did not have time to comprehend what had happened. The potent drug was already in his bloodstream. In less than a second, he was dazed enough that his knees buckled. The Sting caught him and lowered him silently to the dirt.
Moving quickly now, the masked man swung around and flung open the door of the building. Daijiro Yoshimura stood inside, peering out into the gloom.
"Come on, pops, you're coming with me!" snapped the Sting in a raspy voice. To the gawking prisoners inside, he added, "Not a peep out of you jokers, understand?" The implied threat of that unfamiliar weapon keep everyone speechless.
Tugging the older Nisei by one arm, the masked man led him back behind the barracks building. They nearly got to the opening in the barbed wire before a voice shouted, "Hey! What the Hell do you think you're doing?"
It was Captain Charles Gottfried, holding a still warm briar pipe in one hand. He moved quickly toward the two men, dropping his free hand to the regulation .45 automatic holstered at his right side.
"I'm taking this man with me," the Sting replied. "I need him more than you do."
"Good God, there really is such a person. You're the Sting..!" As the last word passed his lips, Gottfried sagged limply to the ground and rolled over onto one side. One of the anesthetic darts had caught him in the left cheek dangerously close to his eye.
"Hurry," the masked man urged his captive. They squeezed through a narrow opening that had been cut in the barbed wire. Another, smaller masked figure shoved Yoshimura roughly into the back of a long sedan, with the Sting climbing in behind him and pulling the door shut. A second later, the car was accelerating along the hard dirt area around the camp and roaring off into the night.
"This is where that night vision of yours is exceedingly useful," the Sting said.
"I don't need headlights at all," replied the Dragon of Midnight. "But I will turn them on if there's any other cars coming."
"Amazing. Amazing." Yoshimura caught his breath as the excitement of the past few minutes sank in. "You, the Sting! I have read so much about you in the newspapers, but I never thought that I knew you in your true identity. You told me to be ready at one o'clock, but I thought you had arranged some legal way to release me."
The Sting took off his hat and undid his mask where it had been tied in the back. "This is the best I could do," Robert Hawk said. "I wasn't expecting the captain to see us but actually it was a lucky break. Now he thinks you were abducted by the Sting. If you return, you have a valid excuse. You won't be punished for escaping."
"IF I return...! Where is there for me to go? Is a Japanese safe anywhere in this country today?"
"Right now, we need to look for the Death Touch assassin. You said you thought you knew where he might be hiding?"
Yoshimura took a moment to answer. "It may be nothing. You may have risked your life freeing me for nothing. But before we were forced out of our homes, a friend gave me a veiled warning to avoid a particular address."
Hawk said, "Go on."
"There is a house on the outskirts of town that is owned by a Chinese family, the Wangs. They have been in California since the grandfather came to work on the railroad in the 1880s. In a back room, illegal gambling goes on. That is something my people and the Chinese do share, we love to gamble."
Despite himself, Chen Lee-Sun gave a snort. "True enough."
"I have been known to sit in on a friendly poker game once or twice," Yoshimura said. "Shortly before the Pearl Harbor attack, a friend quietly advised me not to visit that home. He did not say why. Then, even while the military was rounding us all up, there was gossip that the Wangs had moved out yet lights were still sometime seen."
"Thinner clues have paid off," Hawk said.
"Forgive me, Robert, but why do you look so different?" asked the old man. "Until you took off the mask, I was sure you were someone else."
"Oh. I have three-inch lifts in my shoes. This suit is carefully padded to make me look bigger. It's part of the Sting disguise. So our next move is to poke around the Wang house and see if we turn up any assassins?"
"Yes. Of course. We should drive straight through town to the other side. I wanted to ask, what did you do to those guards? To Captain Gottfried? They're not dead, are they?"
"Lord, no," Hawk said. "I use anesthetic darts. Those men will wake up in an hour more or less. They'll feel like crap for another half hour after that, but there's usually no lasting effects."
"Amazing. I have never heard of a drug so effective and yet safe."
"There's a story behind that," Hawk said. "Maybe later. You're keeping off the main street, Dragon?"
"Yes. I think it's safer that way." Chen turned his head slightly as they passed under a street lamp, and it could be seen that he was wearing a full cloth mask like the Sting's. But Chen's mask had an emblem of an imperial dragon in a fine silver outline. He drove parallel to the main street, which had the unimaginative name Broadway. Tillman seemed more a village than a proper city. Mostly it was neat new single-family homes. There were three blocks which contained a few stores, barber shop, restaurant and pharmacy. Just beyond this cluster of busineses was a movie theater showing SINCE I MET YOU with a B-picture, SOUTH SEAS QUEEN.
The houses started to be space out further apart. At the far end of the town itself stood a neat little Roman Catholic church with its belltower. Behind it was a cemetery, and beyond that, a two-store white plank house standing alone. The door to an attached garage was pulled down and not a single light showed.
As they had seen no other cars in the past few minutes, Chen had switched off the Lincoln's headlights. Wearing the Dragon Pendant had enhanced his nocturnal senses to the point where he could easily read the placard on the church announcing the time of services. Chen eased the car over where the church would conceal them from the view of anyone watching from that lone house.
"Perhaps I should go first," the Dragon of Midnight offered.
"Better we separate and close in from opposite sides," said Hawk had tied the mask back on and fixed the slouch hat down over his head. "I do wish you would carry on the dart guns, partner."
For his part, Chen was tugging up the cowl of the snug black cotton tunic he wore. Each forearm had a stiff leather cuff holding heavy metal darts in grooves with the flared ends out to be grasped. "I have my throwing darts. The longer I wear the Pendant, the more traditional methods seem proper to me."
"Trust your own judgement," the Sting agreed. With consciously realizing it, he had switched to a deeper, gruffer voice. "Daijiro, you should wait here. These affairs usually don't take too long."
But to Hawk's unease, the older man was already stepping out of the rear of the Lincoln. "My Fourth Dan black belt was not awarded to me as a courtesy," he muttered. "I have earned it."
Coming around to stand beside the Japanese budioka, Chen said, "Jiu-Jitsu is not child's play. If there is a fight, boss, your friend will be valuable on our side." With that, the Dragon of Midnight swung around and disappeared in the shadow of two elms. Neither the Sting nor Yoshimura saw him emerge, yet an instant later Chen could be spotted crouching near some bushes twenty yards further along.
"Wish I knew how he does that," Hawk complained. "Let's get going, Daijiro."
The two long-time friends strode across the slightly overgrown field between the church and the Wang family home. The Sting held his dart gun in both hands, reading to swing it in any direction. The silence was oppressive. From many miles away, a mournful wail told of a train speeding through the night and then noise vanished again.
Closer to the garage, Robert Hawk held up a gloved hand telling Daijiro to halt. For long tense moments, they both listened as if nothing in the world was more important. The Sting caught the faintest scrap of leather on wood from overhead, he wheeled around and raised his weapon as a small dark shape dropped on him from above. In the instant that they were tangled on the ground together, the newcomer stabbed three fingers into the middle of Hawk's back with a crunching noise and leaped up and away.
"Ack. Christ, that hurts," gasped the Sting. He was pushing down against the ground with both hands but could not rise.
"That is called the Interrupted Summons," said the small dark figure. He was a gaunt man not much over five feet tall, concealed in black tights which left only his hands and face exposed. "Your nerves cannot talk to your muscles."
Almost within reach of the assassin, the old budoka assumed a traditional forward-leaning stance with his hands raised and taut as axe blades. "You will do him no further harm. I am Daijiro Yoshimura of the Winter Snow school."
"Oh, playing by the old customs?" laughed the man. "Very well. Once I was Wang Liu-Tsing, a Northern Shaolin monk. Now I am best known as the Walking Death." He took a menacing step toward the older Japanese, and Yoshimura shifted his stance to face him.
Unexpectedly, Wang spun around with his arms whipped in a tight circle. Two metal darts were slapped out of the air, showing a perception and dexterity at the upper levels of human capability. "Hah, the other amusement player. Show yourself."
Chen Lee-Sun moved into sight from the corner of the house. "A Shaolin renegade. Is there anything lower?"
"And you. A Chinese selling your dignity to work with the white man. Dragon of Midnight, indeed. That name goes far back into history. In the Three Kingdoms, the Dragon of Midnight was known. You have immense conceit to call yourself that."
As the two men spoke, they were circling each other. They placed their weight differently, raised and lowered their arms, opened and closed their hands. To someone ignorant of Asian fighting arts, none of this would have any significance. But Chen and Wang were analyzing each other's reactions. Every gesture showed a degree of skill or speed that the other noted.
Edging in closer, Chen Lee-Sun growled. "You can NOT be working for the Japanese warmongers! No true Chinese would disgrace himself that way."
"You sound like a child." The Walking Death turned sideways, his right side facing the Dragon. "All that matters is mastering our arts. The Death Touch. The Iron Palm. The Three-Legged Kick. It does not matter who pays me to practice these techniques."
"It matters to ME!" Chen shouted.
"Our bodies are weak and soft, mere meat and bone. But we have spirits of steel, forged through suffering and denial. It is our spirits alone that matter." In a blur, the small dark plunged toward his opponent. His open palm thrust toward Chen in a heart-bursting Dim Mak blow... and passed entirely through as if swiping at smoke.
Wildly off balance, Wang staggered with his defenses completely neglected. Chen had raised his fist up high and now he crashed it down right at the exposed nape of Wang's neck. The renegade fell face down as if dropped from a height, his face hitting the lawn with a wet thump that showed he was not longer alive to even try to catch himself.
Chen exhaled and moved back a few steps. He had to admit to himself that he was trembling from the after-effects of that short but intense duel. Using the Dragon Pendant to turn emphemeral for a few seconds had meant that Wang's Death Touch had not affected him. But the timing had been critical. He had had to judge precisely when to become solid again and strike.
"Young man! Young man, come here, hurry," called Yoshimura. "Our friend cannot rise."
"My legs are numb. I can't feel them. I'm dead from the waist down," groaned Robert Hawk. "What the hell did that monster do to me?"
"Let's carry him to the car," Chen said. "Here, we can each drape an arm across his shoulders. Gently. Boss, that man knew secret gung fu techniques I thought were only tall tales."
"This is awful," Hawk gasped. "I can't feel my feet dragging across the ground. Will I need an operation? Surgery?"
They were approaching the church, where they carefully loaded the Sting into the back seat. "Western doctors will not be able to help, boss. Robert. You have not heard of acupuncture. This is its dark counterpart, the energy in your body had been disrupted so it will not flow."
While Chun rushed around to jump in behind the wheel, Hawk was kneading his legs frantically. "Oh my God. I never expected this. We both knew it's a dangerous game we play, Chen, but to be crippled...!"
The Dragon threw back his hood and yanked off the cloth mask to reveal a tense sweat-streaked face. "It may not be hopeless. Some sifus are wise in these matters. I will find a greybeard who knows how to open the meridians."
"Yes. Never give up, that was our motto," Hawk said. "I'm just terrified this is going to be permanent."
From the back seat beside the Sting, Yoshimura interrupted. "I did not want to say anything before. But the Dim Mak, the Iron Palm.. these are Chinese tricks using Chi. I thought it likely we were facing a Chinese master who had sold out to Japan."
Speeding through the night, Chen Lee-Sun could not completely repress a half sob. "The world is turned upside down. I saw you bravely defending my best friend, an honorable Japanese against a disgraced Chinese. What have things come to?"
The old budoka in the back said gently, "There is always more to learn about life."
Chen sighed. "I guess I still do not have, what did Wang call it? 'A spirit of steel.'"
VIII.
The reading lamp on Gottfried's desk had been left on, whether by inadvertence or as policy. From the rear wall, a black-clad figure emerged as smoothly and easily as passing over a shadow instead of walking right through pine boards. Chen took a breath and glanced around. While he was in his unsolid state, he could not take in air and so could only become immaterial as long as he could hold his breath.
Outside, excited voices were yelling. He had left Daijiro Yoshimura at the front gate of the compound. The old man had his wrists tightly bound behind his back with wire, his clothes were ripped and disarrayed, and there was an ugly bruise forming around one eye. That blow had been struck by Chen, reluctantly, to support the alibi. Pinned to Yoshimura's shirt had been a note, 'He's all yours. Compliments of THE STING.' Hopefully, the military would believe the old man had been abducted by an East Coast gangster and would not charge the old man with escaping.
Chen was worried about his partner. Robert Hawk was brave enough, but the loss of his legs was an unexpected traumu and stronger men had fallen apart from such loss.
Hanging on the rear wall, next to a map of the local area, was the katana. Chen lifted it up off the hooks from which it hung. He would take it with him for now. Whether Yoshimura and the other prisoners would be released soon or whether they would be stuck here for the duration, Chen would return the weapon to the man. It would not hang here as a trophy to be gloated over.
9/30/2020
9/18-9/21/1942
I.
"I never thought it would come to this," Robert Hawk said from the back seat.
Chen pulled their leased Lincoln four-door sedan off the side road and turned off the engine. He stared at the scene without comment, then just as silently slid out from behind the wheel.
In the late afternoon sunlight, they saw that every window of the little white bungalow had been smashed. The wooden picket fence had been bodily torn out of the ground and scattered over the closely-trimmed lawn. Hanging by one hinge, the front door had the words REMEMBER PEARL HARBOR crudely daubed in red paint. In front of the house was a tin sign which read SOLD - VALLEY REALTY.
Chen Lee-Sun was wearing a standard chaffeur uniform with its button-flap jacket, thin leather gloves and peaked cap. He was young and fit, hopping out of the sedan and swinging around to the other side where his partner had just stood up. Robert Hawk had reached his mid-forties, with a narrow alert face marked by years of stress and tension. At five feet eight, he was not much taller than Chen but wider than the wiry Chinese man. Hawk wore a tailored business suit of fine dark brown material, with a white topcoat over it and a crisp fedora. He raised one hand in reaction at the sight of the vandalized cottage but let it fall again.
"I had heard about the forced relocation, of course," Hawk said. "But somehow, to actually see it..."
"Ahhh," Chen made a disgusted noise which suggested he wanted to spit on the ground. "If you ask me, America has finally learned what China has always known through bitter experience. The Japanese are no good! I hope this country kills as many of them as possible."
Hawk waited a few seconds before responding. "Daijiro is an American citizen, Chen. He was born in Oakland, he grew up here. I've known him for years. I would trust him with my life."
"Come now. I have told you what happened to my family three years ago. The same day that your Pearl Harbor was attacked, the Japs rampaged through Hong Kong. They're a living plague, they leave nothing but death and horror wherever they set foot." He turned to study his partner's face. "But I do not wish for us to argue, boss. Our work is more important than our personal feelings."
"I wouldn't dismiss your grievances," Hawk said. "Or your loss. But finding Daijiro is urgent."
Chen Lee-Sun tilted his cap back on his head. He was a good-looking young man with a square-jawed face and intense dark eyes that had a single fold. "The Sting, the Dragon of Midnight...they have come to mean hope and justice to many who have otherwise lost hope."
"Let's roll then. From what the War Department told me, the nearest relocation camp is in Gloverton, maybe an hour north of here." Hawk shook his head again. "Daijiro never married. At least he has no wife or children to go through this with him."
When they were back in the Lincoln, Chen started it up and swung around on the road to go in the direction from which they had come. "Wish we had the Dragonwing," he said.
"Oh, I was thinking the same thing," Hawk replied. "Flying out here in a rush. Only being able to bring a few of our gimmicks and gadgets hidden in the luggage. I would rather be riding in the Dragonwing with its armor panels and bullet-proof glass and gas nozzles. But we'll have to get by on quick thinking this time."
"Boss, I've been meaning to tell you. I don't think I will be using the ultra-violet goggles any more. They actually reduce my night vision now."
"Really. I've seen the changes that Dragon Pendant is making in you." Hawk dug through a satchel on the seat beside him. "Let's see. Roast beef, ham and Swiss, tuna fish..."
"I'd like the ham and cheese, if you don't mind."
"Sure, here you go. Plenty of mustard," Hawk passed the wax paper-wrapped sandwich up to his partner. "Looks like a bag of maybe a dozen hard-boiled eggs, too. So, Chen, how well can you see in the dark now?"
Finishing a bite before answering, the Dragon of Midnight said, "Almost as good in darkness as in daylight. Colors are washed out. Everything looks grey or white. I'm developing some sort of, I don't know the English word... extra sense to tell when something is next to me."
"Proximity."
"That's it. When I'm wearing the Pendant, I can mov through rooms I've never been in before and not bump into anything." Chen sighed. "I wish I had a wise old Sifu to explain all this. I am learning by experiment."
Finishing his sandwich, Robert Hawk wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and put the satchel back down on the car floor by his feet. "Hah. Well, I wish there were two of those pendants you won from the Brumal. Being able to walk through walls seems like a useful ability for the Sting to possess."
"We turn up here, right? Heading north?" Chen asked.
"Yes. I wrote down directions when Major Kadish phoned, but of course I had to burn them after we both got a look. Only a few of the top Army brass know they have two New York mystery men working for them now. As long as we can keep our double lives secret, we definitely should."
After a few minutes of silence, Chen Lee-Sun asked, "You want the radio on?"
"Eh? Oh, no thanks, Chen." Hawk was leaned back in the deep plush seats, rubbing his chin. "I'm thinking about our assignment. We know the underworld back home. We understand the local mobsters and the occasional lone wolf crook. But out here, we have no connections. I'm worried we may be out of our depth, Chen."
The Dragon scoffed. "I think our record speaks for itself, boss. Right now, any spies or saboteurs in Northern California have just felt a chill run up their spines without knowing why."
II.
They had to leave their car at the gates of the barbed wire enclosure which circled Tillman Relocation Center. An MP shouldering his M1 escorted them over the bare dried mud of the place, between two rows of simple barracks made of unpainted pine boards. Dozens of Japanese and Japanese-Americans were outside, sitting on the steps of the buildings or standing in small clusters and they all stared at the two visitors.
From what Robert Hawk could see just by passing through, the facility was crude and hastily-built but not squalid. The grounds were neat and uncluttered, several trees had been left standing. At least twenty GIs were visible, walking patrol or taking a smoke break in the shadows between the buildings. Hawk had been told that this site had been chosen because there had been an Army outpost under construction here, with a well already dug and a road leading to the nearest town. This was a mid-sized city also called Tillman.
The silence, though, was eerie. Even the smallest children watched the newcomers being marched past without saying a word. The only movement was everyone's heads turning as Hawk and Chen passed by.
"I see you've rounded up old women and five year old kids as well," Hawk said. "Makes me feel much safer."
"I don't make policy," the MP replied without heat. "In here."
The building at the far end had an American flag flying from a pole over its door. Hawk and Chen were ushered in a small office crowded with chairs and two desks, as well as a green metal filing cabinet and a table littered with loose papers. The room smelled not unpleasantly of pipe tobacco. A name plate on the desk read CAPTAIN THOMAS J Gottfried.
Hanging on one wall was a curved sword three feet long in a ornate scabbard of enameled wood. Two red tassels dangled from the hilt.
Glaring up from behind the desk was a taut, wiry man in early middle age whose cropped black hair had lots of grey sprinkled through it. "Thank you, sergeant. Wait outside."
"Yes, sir."
The officer did not offer seats to his visitors but regarded them with nearly open hostility. "I don't have time to waste. Lots to do. We're getting more Japs tonight."
"I wouldn't be here if this wasn't important," Hawk said. "Captain Gottfried, I believe you received a call from Washington instructing you to see me."
"That's right. Robert Hawk, right? You're some sort of historian or something. What do you want? Let's get this over with."
Hawk had removed his hat. He met the man's stare without flinching. "I believe a notorious East Coast mobster is in the area. He's known as the Sting."
"And? Shouldn't you be bothering the local police then?"
"You'll see how it's your problem. The Sting is known for robbing other gangsters. He's a sort of privateer. I think he's here because of the recent unsolved murders of two of your officers."
Unexpectedly, Gottfried slammed an open palm down on his desk. "The Army handles its own investigations. Mind your own business. You're dismissed, Mr Hawk."
"No, captain," Hawk said. His voice had gotten lower with a new edge to it. "I can have the War Department contact you with more explicit orders if necessary. I'm working for brass higher up the chain of command. It's the way the two lieutenants died that interests me. Young fit specimens in perfect health, and yet the autopsies showed that their hearts had burst open. Without a mark on the outside of their bodies."
"You know about that? Go on, I'm interested all of a sudden."
"I believe I know how it was done," Hawk said. "One of your prisoners here might be able to give me information that could help track down the killer... before he strikes again."
"Oh, I see where this is going. No dice, Mr Hawk. None of the Japs here are getting past that fence while I'm in charge. Forget it."
"With Daijiro Yoshimura to help, I might be able to prevent another murder, captain."
"No. Don't you know there's a war on? There's not going to be any acts of sabotage by these Nips." He turned those angry eyes on Chen. "Say, your driver there seems to be of the Oriental persuasion himself. Has he been cleared?"
Chen Lee-Sun did not visibly react. His years working undercover and dealing with gunmen had given him an unshakeable poker face. But Hawk knew his partner well enough to see how offended he was. "My friend here is Chinese," Hawk said. "I can assure you he hates the Japanese as much as you do."
"Hmmph. Very well. Tell you what, you can speak with this Yoshimura devil for a few minutes. Then maybe I can get back to finishing this Godamned paperwork in peace." Gottfried raised his voice. "Sergeant! Find out where a detainee named Yoshimura is being held. I will allow these men ten minutes with him, then they'll leave. That's all."
As Captain Gottfried made a show of rustling papers, he did not see the venomous gaze which Chen briefly fixed upon him before the MP showed the two visitors back outside. They were hustled briskly down the row of buildings to the one on the farthest end.
As they walked, Chen whispered, "You saw the katana?"
"Yes. Daijiro's, all right. That sword is two hundred years old, Chen."
"Here we are," said the MP. "I'll wait out here. The captain said to give you ten minutes."
The interior was a single open room without toilet or sink, the only light coming from the small high windows. At least four families were crowded in there, separating their spaces as best they could with a sheet or blanket hung on cords like makeshift walls. As they entered, an elderly man in the far corner gave a start of surprise.
"Robert? HERE?"
"Hello, Daijiro," Hawk said. "I can't tell you how sorry I am about all this."
"It's my own fault for having a yellow face," Yoshimura responded sharply. "Knowing America's history, I should be grateful we haven't all been lynched. What are you doing here?"
"Hunting an assassin," said Hawk. "One who knows the secret of the Death Touch."
III.
The ten minutes were not nearly enough for Hawk to get enough information. Having twenty people in the same room, all listening while making a show of not being interested, complicated things even more. Hawk and Yoshimura had to talk around what they wanted to say, making oblique references and even using some French phrases which they both knew.
All too soon, the MP stomped into the room, holding his rifle at the ready but with the muzzle pointed down in front of him. "Time's up."
"Remember to keep palms away from your chest," Yoshimura said. "Good luck, Robert. And the same for you, young man."
"Thank you," said Chen a bit stiffly.
As they were being led outside, Hawk called back, "I don't know what I can do to get you out of here, Daijiro. Honestly, this is the most shameful thing I can remember seeing." Then they were out into the dusk. Some floodlights high up on posts cast stark shadows.
"Captain Gottfried said for you two to leave immediately," their escort said. "He's at a meeting."
"Fine." Hawk jammed both fists deep into the side pockets of his topcoat and stared down at the ground ahead of them. At the gate, they were watched getting into the Lincoln and wheeling back out up the road. It was getting dark enough that the headlights were needed.
"Boss, first let me say I am not happy about that place," Chen began. "I have no love for the Japanese. Tonight, half the world hates them and with good reason. But those people in the camp had no trial, no charges, there was little reason to think they were a danger to the country."
"It's a shock to me. Many of them are Nisei, second generation. They were born here, which means they are American citizens... last time I read the Constitution, that's what it says."
The Dragon of Midnight slowed as they reached the main road. "Which way?"
"Left. We passed a filling station on the way."
"Also," Chen said, "I did not understand half of what you and your friend said. You were talking in riddles."
"It was tricky. Let me summarize. Daijoro is a bank clerk. But he also taught Jiu-Jitsu at the Winter Snow school. You've heard of them?"
"Oh yes," Chen replied. "I know the sifu of the Black Mantis kwoon back home. There has been a bitter rivalry between Black Mantis and Winter Snow for two generations. So that's why your friend had a katana, then? Those old swords are worth a fortune."
"You should have seen him practicing with it. You could shave clean with that blade. Daijoro was a dangerous man when he was younger. Chen, have you heard of a secret fighting technique called the Death Touch?"
The filling station was ahead. As the sedan stopped in front of the pumps, a man in a light blue uniform came out to fill their tank. He also wiped the windshield and offered to check the oil, but Hawk said that would not be necessary. He handed a bill to the attendant and told him to keep the change.
When they were on the road again, Chen made a skeptical noise. "You asked about the Death Touch. In gung fu, it's called Dim Mak. I don't believe in it. Supposedly, a master can barely tap someone and they will either drop dead there and then, or they'll die a short time later without a mark on them. There are a lot of exaggerated stories about such things."
From the back seat, Hawk laughed. "You're skeptical but you yourself can walk through a solid wall or let a bullet go through you without being affected. Remember the two murders we flew out here to investigate."
"Oh. Yes, I didn't make the connection." The Dragon tilted his head and shrugged as he drove. "Their hearts were physically burst open but there wasn't even a bruise on their skin. Dim Mak. I guess it's more than a wild tale."
"We should be coming into town soon," Hawk said. "I know you called to reserve a room at the Restful Inn."
"You only need to sign in and get the key. Boss, I keep thinking about the kids at the camp. All of them lost their homes. Your friend's house had a sold sign in front of it."
"Yeah," Robert Hawk responded. "I understand the detainees were forced to sell for pennies on the dollar."
"It reminds me of the refugees back in my country. Walking along the roads, carrying all they owned, starving and weary and sick at heart. I was lucky enough to be able to grab a bunk on a freighter to Manhattan."
"These are dark times, Chen. No one knows what what's going to happen." He let out a strained breath. "For now, the best we can do is get a meal and rest for a few hours. The Sting and the Dragon of Midnight have work to do tonight."
IV.
A big man moved through the shadows of the detention camp. Six feet tall but very broad-shouldered, the Sting wore a long black coat which reached to his shins, with a scarf wrapped into the collar. Beneath a wide-brimmed slouch hat, his face was concealed beneath a black mask of thin material with only two revealing dark watchful eyes.
Stealing around the corner of the barracks building with agonizing slowness, the infamous mastermind raised a strange weapon in his gloved hand. A handcrafted gun of strange design, it had an extended needle-thin barrel and a round cylinder clipped to the butt. The Sting waited, his breathing as shallow as possible, until a soldier stopped in the darkness beside the building. The scratch and flare of a match showed he was sneaking a cigarette.
The barely audible cough of the CO2 cartridge sounded. The guard grunted and slapped at his neck, probably thinking he had been bitten by a mosquito. Instead, a thin steel dart came out of his skin. He did not have time to comprehend what had happened. The potent drug was already in his bloodstream. In less than a second, he was dazed enough that his knees buckled. The Sting caught him and lowered him silently to the dirt.
Moving quickly now, the masked man swung around and flung open the door of the building. Daijiro Yoshimura stood inside, peering out into the gloom.
"Come on, pops, you're coming with me!" snapped the Sting in a raspy voice. To the gawking prisoners inside, he added, "Not a peep out of you jokers, understand?" The implied threat of that unfamiliar weapon keep everyone speechless.
Tugging the older Nisei by one arm, the masked man led him back behind the barracks building. They nearly got to the opening in the barbed wire before a voice shouted, "Hey! What the Hell do you think you're doing?"
It was Captain Charles Gottfried, holding a still warm briar pipe in one hand. He moved quickly toward the two men, dropping his free hand to the regulation .45 automatic holstered at his right side.
"I'm taking this man with me," the Sting replied. "I need him more than you do."
"Good God, there really is such a person. You're the Sting..!" As the last word passed his lips, Gottfried sagged limply to the ground and rolled over onto one side. One of the anesthetic darts had caught him in the left cheek dangerously close to his eye.
"Hurry," the masked man urged his captive. They squeezed through a narrow opening that had been cut in the barbed wire. Another, smaller masked figure shoved Yoshimura roughly into the back of a long sedan, with the Sting climbing in behind him and pulling the door shut. A second later, the car was accelerating along the hard dirt area around the camp and roaring off into the night.
"This is where that night vision of yours is exceedingly useful," the Sting said.
"I don't need headlights at all," replied the Dragon of Midnight. "But I will turn them on if there's any other cars coming."
"Amazing. Amazing." Yoshimura caught his breath as the excitement of the past few minutes sank in. "You, the Sting! I have read so much about you in the newspapers, but I never thought that I knew you in your true identity. You told me to be ready at one o'clock, but I thought you had arranged some legal way to release me."
The Sting took off his hat and undid his mask where it had been tied in the back. "This is the best I could do," Robert Hawk said. "I wasn't expecting the captain to see us but actually it was a lucky break. Now he thinks you were abducted by the Sting. If you return, you have a valid excuse. You won't be punished for escaping."
"IF I return...! Where is there for me to go? Is a Japanese safe anywhere in this country today?"
"Right now, we need to look for the Death Touch assassin. You said you thought you knew where he might be hiding?"
Yoshimura took a moment to answer. "It may be nothing. You may have risked your life freeing me for nothing. But before we were forced out of our homes, a friend gave me a veiled warning to avoid a particular address."
Hawk said, "Go on."
"There is a house on the outskirts of town that is owned by a Chinese family, the Wangs. They have been in California since the grandfather came to work on the railroad in the 1880s. In a back room, illegal gambling goes on. That is something my people and the Chinese do share, we love to gamble."
Despite himself, Chen Lee-Sun gave a snort. "True enough."
"I have been known to sit in on a friendly poker game once or twice," Yoshimura said. "Shortly before the Pearl Harbor attack, a friend quietly advised me not to visit that home. He did not say why. Then, even while the military was rounding us all up, there was gossip that the Wangs had moved out yet lights were still sometime seen."
"Thinner clues have paid off," Hawk said.
"Forgive me, Robert, but why do you look so different?" asked the old man. "Until you took off the mask, I was sure you were someone else."
"Oh. I have three-inch lifts in my shoes. This suit is carefully padded to make me look bigger. It's part of the Sting disguise. So our next move is to poke around the Wang house and see if we turn up any assassins?"
"Yes. Of course. We should drive straight through town to the other side. I wanted to ask, what did you do to those guards? To Captain Gottfried? They're not dead, are they?"
"Lord, no," Hawk said. "I use anesthetic darts. Those men will wake up in an hour more or less. They'll feel like crap for another half hour after that, but there's usually no lasting effects."
"Amazing. I have never heard of a drug so effective and yet safe."
"There's a story behind that," Hawk said. "Maybe later. You're keeping off the main street, Dragon?"
"Yes. I think it's safer that way." Chen turned his head slightly as they passed under a street lamp, and it could be seen that he was wearing a full cloth mask like the Sting's. But Chen's mask had an emblem of an imperial dragon in a fine silver outline. He drove parallel to the main street, which had the unimaginative name Broadway. Tillman seemed more a village than a proper city. Mostly it was neat new single-family homes. There were three blocks which contained a few stores, barber shop, restaurant and pharmacy. Just beyond this cluster of busineses was a movie theater showing SINCE I MET YOU with a B-picture, SOUTH SEAS QUEEN.
The houses started to be space out further apart. At the far end of the town itself stood a neat little Roman Catholic church with its belltower. Behind it was a cemetery, and beyond that, a two-store white plank house standing alone. The door to an attached garage was pulled down and not a single light showed.
As they had seen no other cars in the past few minutes, Chen had switched off the Lincoln's headlights. Wearing the Dragon Pendant had enhanced his nocturnal senses to the point where he could easily read the placard on the church announcing the time of services. Chen eased the car over where the church would conceal them from the view of anyone watching from that lone house.
"Perhaps I should go first," the Dragon of Midnight offered.
"Better we separate and close in from opposite sides," said Hawk had tied the mask back on and fixed the slouch hat down over his head. "I do wish you would carry on the dart guns, partner."
For his part, Chen was tugging up the cowl of the snug black cotton tunic he wore. Each forearm had a stiff leather cuff holding heavy metal darts in grooves with the flared ends out to be grasped. "I have my throwing darts. The longer I wear the Pendant, the more traditional methods seem proper to me."
"Trust your own judgement," the Sting agreed. With consciously realizing it, he had switched to a deeper, gruffer voice. "Daijiro, you should wait here. These affairs usually don't take too long."
But to Hawk's unease, the older man was already stepping out of the rear of the Lincoln. "My Fourth Dan black belt was not awarded to me as a courtesy," he muttered. "I have earned it."
Coming around to stand beside the Japanese budioka, Chen said, "Jiu-Jitsu is not child's play. If there is a fight, boss, your friend will be valuable on our side." With that, the Dragon of Midnight swung around and disappeared in the shadow of two elms. Neither the Sting nor Yoshimura saw him emerge, yet an instant later Chen could be spotted crouching near some bushes twenty yards further along.
"Wish I knew how he does that," Hawk complained. "Let's get going, Daijiro."
The two long-time friends strode across the slightly overgrown field between the church and the Wang family home. The Sting held his dart gun in both hands, reading to swing it in any direction. The silence was oppressive. From many miles away, a mournful wail told of a train speeding through the night and then noise vanished again.
Closer to the garage, Robert Hawk held up a gloved hand telling Daijiro to halt. For long tense moments, they both listened as if nothing in the world was more important. The Sting caught the faintest scrap of leather on wood from overhead, he wheeled around and raised his weapon as a small dark shape dropped on him from above. In the instant that they were tangled on the ground together, the newcomer stabbed three fingers into the middle of Hawk's back with a crunching noise and leaped up and away.
"Ack. Christ, that hurts," gasped the Sting. He was pushing down against the ground with both hands but could not rise.
"That is called the Interrupted Summons," said the small dark figure. He was a gaunt man not much over five feet tall, concealed in black tights which left only his hands and face exposed. "Your nerves cannot talk to your muscles."
Almost within reach of the assassin, the old budoka assumed a traditional forward-leaning stance with his hands raised and taut as axe blades. "You will do him no further harm. I am Daijiro Yoshimura of the Winter Snow school."
"Oh, playing by the old customs?" laughed the man. "Very well. Once I was Wang Liu-Tsing, a Northern Shaolin monk. Now I am best known as the Walking Death." He took a menacing step toward the older Japanese, and Yoshimura shifted his stance to face him.
Unexpectedly, Wang spun around with his arms whipped in a tight circle. Two metal darts were slapped out of the air, showing a perception and dexterity at the upper levels of human capability. "Hah, the other amusement player. Show yourself."
Chen Lee-Sun moved into sight from the corner of the house. "A Shaolin renegade. Is there anything lower?"
"And you. A Chinese selling your dignity to work with the white man. Dragon of Midnight, indeed. That name goes far back into history. In the Three Kingdoms, the Dragon of Midnight was known. You have immense conceit to call yourself that."
As the two men spoke, they were circling each other. They placed their weight differently, raised and lowered their arms, opened and closed their hands. To someone ignorant of Asian fighting arts, none of this would have any significance. But Chen and Wang were analyzing each other's reactions. Every gesture showed a degree of skill or speed that the other noted.
Edging in closer, Chen Lee-Sun growled. "You can NOT be working for the Japanese warmongers! No true Chinese would disgrace himself that way."
"You sound like a child." The Walking Death turned sideways, his right side facing the Dragon. "All that matters is mastering our arts. The Death Touch. The Iron Palm. The Three-Legged Kick. It does not matter who pays me to practice these techniques."
"It matters to ME!" Chen shouted.
"Our bodies are weak and soft, mere meat and bone. But we have spirits of steel, forged through suffering and denial. It is our spirits alone that matter." In a blur, the small dark plunged toward his opponent. His open palm thrust toward Chen in a heart-bursting Dim Mak blow... and passed entirely through as if swiping at smoke.
Wildly off balance, Wang staggered with his defenses completely neglected. Chen had raised his fist up high and now he crashed it down right at the exposed nape of Wang's neck. The renegade fell face down as if dropped from a height, his face hitting the lawn with a wet thump that showed he was not longer alive to even try to catch himself.
Chen exhaled and moved back a few steps. He had to admit to himself that he was trembling from the after-effects of that short but intense duel. Using the Dragon Pendant to turn emphemeral for a few seconds had meant that Wang's Death Touch had not affected him. But the timing had been critical. He had had to judge precisely when to become solid again and strike.
"Young man! Young man, come here, hurry," called Yoshimura. "Our friend cannot rise."
"My legs are numb. I can't feel them. I'm dead from the waist down," groaned Robert Hawk. "What the hell did that monster do to me?"
"Let's carry him to the car," Chen said. "Here, we can each drape an arm across his shoulders. Gently. Boss, that man knew secret gung fu techniques I thought were only tall tales."
"This is awful," Hawk gasped. "I can't feel my feet dragging across the ground. Will I need an operation? Surgery?"
They were approaching the church, where they carefully loaded the Sting into the back seat. "Western doctors will not be able to help, boss. Robert. You have not heard of acupuncture. This is its dark counterpart, the energy in your body had been disrupted so it will not flow."
While Chun rushed around to jump in behind the wheel, Hawk was kneading his legs frantically. "Oh my God. I never expected this. We both knew it's a dangerous game we play, Chen, but to be crippled...!"
The Dragon threw back his hood and yanked off the cloth mask to reveal a tense sweat-streaked face. "It may not be hopeless. Some sifus are wise in these matters. I will find a greybeard who knows how to open the meridians."
"Yes. Never give up, that was our motto," Hawk said. "I'm just terrified this is going to be permanent."
From the back seat beside the Sting, Yoshimura interrupted. "I did not want to say anything before. But the Dim Mak, the Iron Palm.. these are Chinese tricks using Chi. I thought it likely we were facing a Chinese master who had sold out to Japan."
Speeding through the night, Chen Lee-Sun could not completely repress a half sob. "The world is turned upside down. I saw you bravely defending my best friend, an honorable Japanese against a disgraced Chinese. What have things come to?"
The old budoka in the back said gently, "There is always more to learn about life."
Chen sighed. "I guess I still do not have, what did Wang call it? 'A spirit of steel.'"
VIII.
The reading lamp on Gottfried's desk had been left on, whether by inadvertence or as policy. From the rear wall, a black-clad figure emerged as smoothly and easily as passing over a shadow instead of walking right through pine boards. Chen took a breath and glanced around. While he was in his unsolid state, he could not take in air and so could only become immaterial as long as he could hold his breath.
Outside, excited voices were yelling. He had left Daijiro Yoshimura at the front gate of the compound. The old man had his wrists tightly bound behind his back with wire, his clothes were ripped and disarrayed, and there was an ugly bruise forming around one eye. That blow had been struck by Chen, reluctantly, to support the alibi. Pinned to Yoshimura's shirt had been a note, 'He's all yours. Compliments of THE STING.' Hopefully, the military would believe the old man had been abducted by an East Coast gangster and would not charge the old man with escaping.
Chen was worried about his partner. Robert Hawk was brave enough, but the loss of his legs was an unexpected traumu and stronger men had fallen apart from such loss.
Hanging on the rear wall, next to a map of the local area, was the katana. Chen lifted it up off the hooks from which it hung. He would take it with him for now. Whether Yoshimura and the other prisoners would be released soon or whether they would be stuck here for the duration, Chen would return the weapon to the man. It would not hang here as a trophy to be gloated over.
9/30/2020