Opposite the booth on the forward end of the main hold was a wooden door leading to the cubicles called the House of Dreams. Nestled in the prow were three small cells.
There was only one stairwell – at the stern of the hold.
There was an open hatchway near the water level on the river side of the boat through which produce was being off-loaded to waiting boats on the river. On deck, a thin latticework hatch afforded a view- of the main hold.
A two-master with a small captain’s cabin on the stern end.
‘On this side, gas tanks,’ said Sy, pointing to the starboard side, above the booth, the side adjoining the wharf.
‘How do you know?’ Hatcher asked.
‘They were putting new fuel in from dock.’
‘You don’t miss a thing,’ said Hatcher.
‘Good fighter cannot miss anything,’ he answered proudly.
‘How many Chinese?’ asked Hatcher.
‘Fong, Kot, three others. They were sitting in the booth drinking. I do not see Sloan. There are two gunners on each side of hold downstairs, two more on main deck.’
‘A mere eleven of them to four of us,’ Hatcher sighed. ‘You’d think the odds would get better with time.’
‘What do you mean, four. I count six of us, if you include Sy,’ said Riker.
‘Sy stays outside,’ said Earp. ‘It isn’t his fight. But he can provide us with a back-up getaway. You can’t go in either, Riker. You can’t afford to get caught — you have to keep the van warm.’
‘When it starts,’ said Hatcher, do it fast. Waste Fong and all his boys, burn the junk, and get the hell out. Don’t think, just do it. And one more thing — Sloan is mine. We have unfinished business. Sy, find us a snakeboat real fast. And, Riker, keep the engine running. However it goes, this won’t take long.’
Earlier in the day, Sloan had sought relief from his nightmares at the House of Dreams. Walking down its darkened depths, he descended into his own personal hell, following the old man and the smell of opium to one of the cubicles, watching eagerly as the old man rolled the
‘Sloan?’ The voice was familiar hut seemed miles away.
Sloan sighed.
‘You spend too much time on the pipe,’ Tollie Fong’s voice said. ‘You have not been attending to business, as was our agreement.’
He stared up and refocused his eyes. Tollie Fong stood over him. There were three other Chins standing behind him. One of them was the new Red Pole, Billy Kot.
‘You’re ruining a perfectly good dream,’ Sloan said softly, staring backup at the smoke.
‘We need to talk.’
‘Later.’
‘You have broken a promise to me.’
‘Later. I’m busy,’ Sloan said dreamily.
‘You stinking junkie,’ Fong snarled back and hit Sloan in the mouth with a straight, hard right punch. Sloan went over backward, falling off the cot, his lips split and bleeding. He sat up, his eyes suddenly afire.
‘That was a stupid thing to do,’ he said through numbed lips.
“You made me a promise,’ Fong hissed.
Sloan clambered off the floor. Only his eyes reflected his rage. ‘You better pull it together, Fong, unless you’re ready to take on the whole United States Army, because that’s —‘
Billy Kot hit him a sharp, hard rap on the back of the neck and Sloan fell abruptly to his knees. He turned painfully toward the short, wiry killer.
‘This is the man who did your killing work for you,’ Fong said contemptuously. ‘His name is Billy Kot.’
Sloan slid onto the cot and wiped his mouth, staring down mutely at the blood on the back of his hand. The dope was beginning to wear off, chased by anger and pain.
I’ll give you one thing,’ Sloan said quietly to Billy Kot. ‘You’re very good.’
The assassin nodded but said nothing.
‘You don’t know how good he really is — yet,’ said Fong.
Sloan smiled up at his ally turned adversary. ‘You scare me to death,’ he said with resignation.
‘You made me a promise, Sloan.’
‘And so far I’ve kept my end of the bargain,’ said Sloan.
