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  They went down another corridor, narrow and stinking of human feces. It was lined by doors, each with a tiny barred window set high up. He sensed, rather than heard, movement behind the doors. This was their prison, their execution ground. From somewhere outside, penetrating even to these dismal depths, came the deep lowing of a tug in the harbor. So near to the salt-washed freedom of the sea — and so far.

  Suddenly he knew, with absolute clarity, what he was going to see.

  The corridor ended in another door. It was guarded by a roughly dressed Japanese wearing rubber shoes. He had an old Chicago-type Tommy gun slung over one shoulder. The AXEman, as preoccupied as he was, still noticed the man's round eyes and heavy stubble. Ainu. The hairy people of Hokkaido, of aboriginal stock and not Japanese at all. The Chicoms were casting a wide net in Japan.

  The man stood aside with a bow. Johnny Chow opened the door and shoved Nick into a glare of light shed by the single 350-watt bulb. After the dimness his eyes rebelled and he blinked for a moment. Gradually he made out the face of a woman enclosed in a shiny stainless steel Buddha. The Buddha had no head and from the truncated neck, lolling and limp, eyes closed, blood trickling from nose and mouth, protruded the livid face of a woman.

  Kato!

  Chapter 12

  Johnny Chow pushed Nick to one side, then closed and locked the door. He went toward the shining Buddha. Nick vented his rage the only way he could — he tugged at the handcuffs until he felt the skin break.

  Tonaka was whispering. "I am really sorry about this, Nick. It could not be helped. I forgot something important and had to go back to my apartment. Kato was there. I don't know why. Johnny Chow was with me and she saw him. We had to take her then — there was nothing else I could do."

  He was savage. "So you had to take her. Do you have to torture her?"

  She bit her lip and nodded toward Johnny Chow. "He does. I told you — it is how he gets his kicks. I did try, Nick, I really did I I wanted to kill her quickly and painlessly."

  "You're an angel of mercy."

  Chow said: "How do you like it, big Killmaster man? She don't look so good now, huh? Not as good as when you banged her this morning, I'll bet."

  That, of course, would be part of the man's perversion. Intimate questions asked under torture. Nick could imagine the leer and the frenzy...

  He knew the risk, yet. all the threats in the world could not have kept him from saying it. It was not in his nature not to say it. He had to say it.

  He said it calmly and coldly, his voice dripping ice. "You're a miserable, nasty, perverted sonofabitch, Chow. One of the great pleasures of my life will be killing you."

  Tonaka hissed softly. "No! Don't..."

  If Johnny Chow heard the words he was too engrossed to pay any attention. His pleasure was obvious. He twined a hand into Kato's thick black hair and jerked her head back. Her face was bloodless, as chalky white as though she wore geisha makeup. Her pale tongue protruded from the bloody mouth. Chow began to slap her, working himself into a rage.

  "She's faking, the little bitch. She's not dead yet."

  Nick wished her dead with all his heart. It was all he could do. He watched the slow trickle of the blood, sluggish now, in the upcurved gutter built around the base of the Buddha;. The machine was well named — the Bloody Buddha.

  It was his fault. He had sent Kato to Tonaka's apartment to wait. He had wanted her out of the geisha house, which he had judged unsafe, and he had wanted her out of the way and near a phone in case he needed her. Goddamn it to hell! He twisted at the cuffs in a fury. Pain lanced through his wrists and forearms. He had sent Kato straight into the trap. It was not his fault, in any realistic sense, yet the onus lay on his heart like a stone.

  Johnny Chow stopped slapping the unconscious girl. He scowled. "Maybe she is dead already," he said doubtfully. "None of these little whores have any strength."

  At that moment Kato opened her eyes. She was dying. She was down to her last drop of blood. Yet she looked across the room and saw Nick. Somehow, perhaps with the clarity that is said to come just before death, she recognized him. She tried to smile, a pitiful effort. Her whisper, the ghost of a voice, quavered across the room.

  "I sorry, Nick. I... so... sorry..."

  Nick Carter kept his eyes away from those of Chow. He was sane again now and he did not want the man to read what was in his eyes. The man was a monster. Tonaka was right. If he was ever going to have a chance to strike back he had to play it cool. Very cool. For now he had to take it.

  Johnny Ghow thrust Kato's head away from him with a savage movement that broke the neck. The crack was plainly audible in the room. Nick saw Tonaka wince. Was she losing her nerve? Possible angle there.

  Chow stared down at the dead girl. His voice was plaintive, that of a little boy who has broken a favorite toy. "She died too soon. Why? She didn't have any right to do that." He laughed, a sound like rats squealing in the night.

  "There is still you, big AXEman. I bet you'd last a long time in the Buddha."

  "No," said Tonaka. "Definitely no, Johnny. Come on, now. Let's get out of this place. We've got a lot to do."

  For a moment he stared defiantly at her with eyes as flat and deadly as a cobra's. He brushed the long hair out of his eyes. He made a noose of the love beads and dangled it before him. He looked down at the Walther in his hand.

  "I've got the gun," he said. "That makes me boss. Honcho! I can do anything I want."

  Tonaka laughed. It was a good try, but Nick heard the tension uncoiling like a spring.

  "Johnny, Johnny! What is it? You're acting like a fool and I know you're not. Do you want to get- us all killed? You know what will happen if we disobey orders. Come on, Johnny. Be a good boy and listen to mama-san."

  She was cajoling him like a baby. Nick listened. It was his life that was on the toss.

  Tonaka went close to Johnny Chow. She put her hand on his shoulder and leaned close to his ear. She whispered. The AXEman could imagine what she was saying. She was buying him out of the mood with her body. He wondered how many times she had done it.

  Johnny Chow smiled. He wiped his bloody hands on the chino pants. "You will? You really promise?"

  "I will. I promise." She ran a caressing hand down his front. "As soon as we get him safely put away. Okay?"

  He grinned, showing the gaps in his blocky white teeth. "Okay. Let's get it done. Here — you take the gun and cover me."

  Tonaka took the Walther and stepped to one side. Beneath the heavy makeup her face was impassive, as undecipherable as a Noh mask. She trained the gun on Nick.

  Nick could not resist it. "You pay a pretty heavy price," he said. "Sleeping with scum like this."

  Johnny Chow smashed him in the face with his fist. Nick reeled and went to one knee. Chow kicked him in the temple and for a moment darkness swirled around the AXE agent. He swayed on his knees, out of balance because of his hands cuffed behind him, and shook his head to clear it. Lights exploded in his brain like magnesium flares.

  "No more!" snapped Tonaka. "You want me to keep my promise, Johnny?"

  "All right! He's not hurt." Chow got a hand in Nick's collar and hauled him to his feet.

  They took him back upstairs, to a small barren room near the office. It had a metal door with a heavy iron bar on the outside. There was nothing in the room but a filthy bed pad near a pipe that ran from floor to ceiling. High up on the wall, near the pipe, was a grilled window, glassless and too small for a midget to slip through.

  Johnny Chow shoved Nick toward the bed pad. "First class hotel, big man. Get around on the other side and cover him, Tonaka, while I switch the cuffs."

  The girl obeyed. "You'll stay here, Carter, until after the — the business tomorrow night. Then we'll take you out to sea and put you aboard a Chinese freighter. In three days you'll be in Peking. They will be most happy to see you — they are preparing a reception now."

  Chow took a key from his pocket and unlocked the cuffs. Killmaster was tem
pted to try it then. But Tonaka was ten feet from him, against the opposite wall, and the Walther was level on his belly. No use grabbing Chow and using him for a shield. She would kill them both. So he declined suicide and watched Chow snap one of the cuffs around the vertical pipe.

  '"That should hold even the great Killmaster," Chow sneered. "Unless he's got a magic kit in his pocket — and I don't think he has." He slapped Nick hard across the face. "Sit down, you bastard, and keep quiet. You got the needle ready, Tonaka?"

  Nick slid down to a sitting position, his right wrist extended and linked to the pipe. Tonaka handed Johnny Chow a glistening hypodermic needle. He pushed Nick's head down with one hand and slammed the needle into the back of his neck just above the collar of the trenchcoat. He was trying to hurt and he did. The needle felt like a dagger as Chow rammed the plunger down.

  Tonaka said: "Just something to put you to sleep for awhile. Keep you quiet. It won't hurt you."

  Johnny Chow yanked out the needle. "I'd like to hurt him. If I had my way..."

  "You haven't," the girl said sharply. "That's all we need to do now. He'll keep. Come on, Johnny."

  Seeing Chow still hesitate, glaring down at Nick, she added in a wheedling tone. "Please. Johnny. You know what I promised — there won't be time unless we hurry."

  Chow gave Nick a parting kick in the ribs. "Sayonara, big man. I'll think about you while I'm screwing her. That's the closest you'll ever get to it again."

  The metal door closed. He heard the heavy bar drop into place. He was alone, with a drug working in his veins that was going to knock him out any second now — for how long he had no idea.

  Nick staggered to his feet. He was already a little woozy, lightheaded, but that might be from the beating be had taken. He shot a glance at the tiny window high above him and dismissed it. Nothing there. Nothing anywhere. Nothing at all. The pipe, the cuffs, the filthy bed mat.

  With his free left hand he fumbled through the ripped pocket of the trenchcoat into his jacket pocket. Matches and cigarettes had been left him. And the packet of money. Johnny Chow had given him a fast frisking, almost carelessly so, and he had felt the money, fingered it, then had apparently forgotten it. He had not mentioned it to Tonaka. Nick thought back — it had been cleverly done. Chow must have his own plans for that money.

  What matter? Twenty-five thousand dollars wasn't doing him a bit of good now. It wouldn't buy a key to the handcuffs.

  He could feel the drug hitting him now. He was swaying and his head was a balloon trying to take off on free flight. He fought it off, trying to breathe deeply, the sweat pouring into his eyes.

  He was staying on his feet by sheer will. He stood as far away from the pipe as he could, his right arm extended. He leaned away, using his two hundred pounds, his thumb folded across the palm of his right hand, compressing the muscles and bones. There are tricks in every trade and he knew it was possible, sometimes, to pull your way out of a cuff. The trick was to have a little clearance, a little play, between the cuff and the Bones. Flesh did not matter. It could be torn away.

  He did have a little clearance, but not enough. It wasn't going to work. He gave a sudden tremendous jerk. Pain and blood. That was all. The cuff slid down and locked at the base of his thumb. If he had something to grease it with...

  His head was a balloon now. A balloon with his face painted on it. It flew off his shoulders and away skyward on a long, long string.

  Chapter 13

  He awoke in total darkness. His head ached badly and his body was one huge bruise. His lacerated right wrist throbbed with a sharper pain. Through the tiny window overhead drifted occasional harbor sounds.

  For a quarter of an hour he lay in the darkness and tried to bring his jumbled thoughts together, to fit the jigsaw pieces into a clear picture of reality. He tested the cuff and the pipe again. Nothing had changed. Still trapped, helpless, immobile. He had an idea that he had been unconscious a long time. His thirst was a live thing clawing at his throat.

  Painfully he got to his knees. He took the matches from his jacket pocket and, after two failures, managed to keep one of the paper matches glowing. He had had visitors.

  There was a tray on the floor near him. There was something on it. Something covered with a napkin. The match burnt his 6ngers. He lit another one and, still on his knees, reached for the tray. Tonaka might have thought to bring him water. He snatched away the napkin.

  Her eyes were open and staring at him. The tiny flambeau of the match was reflected in the dead pupils. Kato's head lay on its side, on a plate. Dark hair strayed wildly down to the severed neck.

  Johnny Chow getting his kicks.

  Nick Carter was sick without shame. He vomited on the floor beside the tray, retching and spewing until he was empty. Empty of everything but hate. In the fetid dark his professionalism went by the board and he wanted only to find Johnny Chow and kill him as painfully as possible.

  After a time he lit another match. He was covering the head with the napkin when his hand touched the hair. The elaborate geisha hairdo was a wreck, straggling and collapsed, thick with oil. Oil!

  The match went out. Nick thrust his hand deep into the massy pile of hair and worked it around. The head moved to his touch and nearly fell and rolled beyond his reach. He pulled the tray closer and wedged it with his feet. When his left hand was thickly coated with the hair oil he transferred it to his right wrist, rubbing it up and down and around on the inside of the steel cuff. He did this a dozen times, then he pushed the tray away and stood erect.

  He took a dozen deep breaths. The air filtering in through the window was tinged with shipyard smoke. Someone moved in the corridor outside the room and he listened. After a time the sounds fitted into a pattern. A guard in the corridor. A guard wearing rubber shoes as he walked his post. No mistaking that Oriental slip-slop-slip-slop as the man paced up and down the corridor.

  He moved as far to his left as he could, pulling steadily against the manacle that bound him to the pipe. Sweat started on him as he put every ounce of his great strength into the effort. The cuff slid down on his greased hand, slid a little more, then locked at his big knuckles. Killmaster strained again. Agony now. No good. It wasn't working.

  All right. He admitted that it was going to mean broken bones. So get it over with.

  He stepped as close to the pipe as he could, pulling the cuff up the pipe until it was level with his shoulders. His wrist, hand and the cuff were all slimed with bloody hair oil. He should be able to do it. All it needed was resolution.

  Killmaster took one deep breath, held it, then lunged away from the pipe. All the hate and fury that was boiling in him went into the lunge. He had been an All-American halfback once and men still spoke with awe of the manner in which he smashed opposing lines. The way he exploded now.

  The pain was brief and terrible. The steel gouged cruel furrows in his flesh and he felt the bones go. He reeled against the wall near the door, clinging for support, his right hand a dangling bloody wreck at his side. He was free.

  Free? There was still the metal door and the heavy bar. It was going to take guile now. Courage and brute power had brought him as far as they could.

  Nick leaned against the wall, panting, listening intently. The guard in the corridor was still slip-slopping up and down, the rubber shoes sibilant on the rough boards.

  He stood in the dark and weighed the decision. He was only going to get one chance. If he muffed it everything was lost.

  Nick glanced at the window. Dark. But what day? What night? Had he slept the clock around and more? He had a hunch that he had. If so then this was the night set for the riots and the sabotage. That meant that Tonaka and Johnny Chow would not be around. They would be somewhere in central Tokyo, busy with their murderous plans. And Philston? Philston would be smiling that upper-class, epicene smile of his and getting ready to assassinate the Emperor of Japan.

  The AXEman was aware of a sudden desperate urgency. If his thinking was correct it might alr
eady be too late. In any event there was no time to lose — and he must stake everything on a single cast of the die. It was pure gamble now. If Chow and Tonaka were still around he was dead. They had brains and guns and they wouldn't be fooled by his tricks.

  He struck a match, noting that he only had three left. It should be enough. He dragged the bed mat over near the door, and stood on it and began ripping it to pieces with his left hand. His right was useless.

  When he had enough cotton out of the thin pad he pushed it into a pile near the crack beneath the door. Not enough. He pulled more cotton from the pad. Then, to conserve his matches in case the stuff did not catch at once, he reached into his pocket for the money, meaning to twist a bill into a spill and use that. The money was gone. The match went out.

  Nick cursed softly. Johnny Chow had taken the money when he slipped in with Kato's head on the tray.

  Three matches left now. New sweat broke out on him and he could not keep his fingers from trembling as he carefully lit another match and held it to the cotton. A tiny flame flickered, wavered, nearly went out, caught again and began to grow. Smoke began to curl upward.

  Nick wriggled out of the old trenchcoat and began to fan the smoke with it, directing it out under the door. The cotton was blazing now. If this didn't work he just might kill himself by asphyxiation. It was easy to do. He held his breath and kept waving the trenchcoat. sweeping the smoke under the door. That was enough. Nick started yelling at the top of his voice. "Fire! Fire! Help — help — Fire! Help me — don't let me burn. Fire!"

  Now he would know.

  He stood away from the door, flattened against the wall to one side. The door opened outward.

  The cotton was blazing merrily now and the room was filling with acrid smoke. He didn't have to fake the coughing. He screamed again: "Fire! Help — tasukete! Tasuketel Hi — Hi!"