Spy Killer by L. Ron Hubbard Page A
Authors: L. Ron Hubbard
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Suspense, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Espionage, Mystery Fiction, Short Stories, Theft, spy stories, Sailors, Outlaws - China - Shanghai, Shanghai (China)
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away from the stone beside his head.
Crouching low, steadying his gun on his arm, Kurt drew a bead on another Chinese to the left. The man and his two mates faltered. That was all Kurt wanted. While he was in the dark, the others were in relief, whether they knew it or not, against the lighter gray wall.
Kurt’s target leaped sideways, crying out and stumbling. His two mates changed their position hastily and started to close in toward the man they could but dimly see.
Rock chips flew beside Kurt’s arm. He shifted his position. One of the Chinese was almost on him. Kurt leaped out, straight into the fellow’s face. Kurt jammed the muzzle catch deep into the yielding stomach and pulled the trigger. The shot sounded dead.
A blast of pain went through Kurt’s shoulder. He whipped away, carrying a knife with him, embedded in his flesh. With a roar the last Chinese flung himself upon Lin Wang’s victim.
They went down into shrubbery with a crash, the Chinese on top. Kurt, anger setting red balls dancing before his face, felt that he embraced a clawing tiger. Kurt kicked hard with both feet. Fingers were locating his throat. Kurt’s gun was gone.
He realized dimly that something was white hot in his shoulder. The man’s knife.
Kurt rolled to one side, struggling. The fingers sank deep into his windpipe. The stars above him began to spin crazily. His chest was burning for lack of air.
He reached across the Chinese’s arms, toward his own shoulder, trying to think, forcing himself to do the thing. With a tremendous effort, Kurt clutched the knife hilt and tugged the weapon free from his own flesh.
He twisted again, trying to get arm room. He held the knife high above the other’s back and brought it down. He pulled it out and brought it down a second time. The blade would not move.
The world was black for seconds, and then the fingers eased up. Throat rattling, the Chinese slumped down on the man he had almost killed.
For seconds Kurt lay dragging in precious air. He had never before known how good it was to just breathe. But after a little he assembled his strength and thrust the body away from him. The Chinese was like an overweight tree, already rigid.
Kurt got to his feet and fumbled about for his gun. He could not find the one he had been given. In its place he took a Colt .45 which had fallen from the hand of the second man he had killed.
He went through the garden toward the shattered gate, stopped beside each body, looking for Yang.
But Yang was not there. Yang was still alive, still waiting for the kill.
From the street came the sound of running men. Equipment clanked. The Japanese guards were on their way to determine the reason for the shooting. Kurt knew that death waited for him at their hands.
He ran down the wall and found another gate. Shouts echoed through the garden. Kurt fumbled with the lock and finally opened it. He slipped out into an alley and quietly eased down its length to another street.
From the direction of the garden came the shouts of the guards. Soon all Kalgan would be searched. Kurt wondered if they would realize who had fought there, and why. But whoever had, would find the going hard before a Japanese court.
Kurt was still mad. He did not give his sliced hands and his gouged shoulder a thought. He felt that he could whip the whole Japanese army with a pop gun and that if he met Lin Wang in the midst of all his guards, it would be an easy matter to blow the man down.
For a long while the bucko mate had been tossed about by worry and by cross purposes. But now he was mad. He didn’t care what happened to him. He was walking out to even up the score, and if he kept going like he started, nothing short of beheading would stop him.
He took the middle of the street with a swagger. His face, usually so handsome, was twisted up into a hard-boiled scowl. His gait was a sea roll and he carried the automatic in plain sight. He was insane and he knew it and didn’t care.
The
Crouching low, steadying his gun on his arm, Kurt drew a bead on another Chinese to the left. The man and his two mates faltered. That was all Kurt wanted. While he was in the dark, the others were in relief, whether they knew it or not, against the lighter gray wall.
Kurt’s target leaped sideways, crying out and stumbling. His two mates changed their position hastily and started to close in toward the man they could but dimly see.
Rock chips flew beside Kurt’s arm. He shifted his position. One of the Chinese was almost on him. Kurt leaped out, straight into the fellow’s face. Kurt jammed the muzzle catch deep into the yielding stomach and pulled the trigger. The shot sounded dead.
A blast of pain went through Kurt’s shoulder. He whipped away, carrying a knife with him, embedded in his flesh. With a roar the last Chinese flung himself upon Lin Wang’s victim.
They went down into shrubbery with a crash, the Chinese on top. Kurt, anger setting red balls dancing before his face, felt that he embraced a clawing tiger. Kurt kicked hard with both feet. Fingers were locating his throat. Kurt’s gun was gone.
He realized dimly that something was white hot in his shoulder. The man’s knife.
Kurt rolled to one side, struggling. The fingers sank deep into his windpipe. The stars above him began to spin crazily. His chest was burning for lack of air.
He reached across the Chinese’s arms, toward his own shoulder, trying to think, forcing himself to do the thing. With a tremendous effort, Kurt clutched the knife hilt and tugged the weapon free from his own flesh.
He twisted again, trying to get arm room. He held the knife high above the other’s back and brought it down. He pulled it out and brought it down a second time. The blade would not move.
The world was black for seconds, and then the fingers eased up. Throat rattling, the Chinese slumped down on the man he had almost killed.
For seconds Kurt lay dragging in precious air. He had never before known how good it was to just breathe. But after a little he assembled his strength and thrust the body away from him. The Chinese was like an overweight tree, already rigid.
Kurt got to his feet and fumbled about for his gun. He could not find the one he had been given. In its place he took a Colt .45 which had fallen from the hand of the second man he had killed.
He went through the garden toward the shattered gate, stopped beside each body, looking for Yang.
But Yang was not there. Yang was still alive, still waiting for the kill.
From the street came the sound of running men. Equipment clanked. The Japanese guards were on their way to determine the reason for the shooting. Kurt knew that death waited for him at their hands.
He ran down the wall and found another gate. Shouts echoed through the garden. Kurt fumbled with the lock and finally opened it. He slipped out into an alley and quietly eased down its length to another street.
From the direction of the garden came the shouts of the guards. Soon all Kalgan would be searched. Kurt wondered if they would realize who had fought there, and why. But whoever had, would find the going hard before a Japanese court.
Kurt was still mad. He did not give his sliced hands and his gouged shoulder a thought. He felt that he could whip the whole Japanese army with a pop gun and that if he met Lin Wang in the midst of all his guards, it would be an easy matter to blow the man down.
For a long while the bucko mate had been tossed about by worry and by cross purposes. But now he was mad. He didn’t care what happened to him. He was walking out to even up the score, and if he kept going like he started, nothing short of beheading would stop him.
He took the middle of the street with a swagger. His face, usually so handsome, was twisted up into a hard-boiled scowl. His gait was a sea roll and he carried the automatic in plain sight. He was insane and he knew it and didn’t care.
The
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