Hatcher dived for the floor and covered his head with his hands. Fire roiled over his head and set the passage aflame.
A gas-fed fireball swept over Fong. His face was seared by the flames. His clothes burst into flames. Then the second tank blew, exploding the side of the junk, and the screaming Fong arced like a blazing skyrocket through the hole into the river.
The regulars rushed up the stairs and out of the roaring tomb, leaving behind Fong’s dead or dying mobsters. Earp and Potter, dragging the wounded corkscrew, rushed down the gangplank with the terrified Thai produce men into pure chaos on the wharf. A fire truck came through the crowd with its siren screaming. Behind it a police car appeared, then another. Riker spotted them and dropped the van into gear, pulling over beside his friends. Earp shoved Corkscrew in the side door before rolling in himself, and was followed by Potter, who slammed the door shut.
‘Let’s move it,’ Earp said, and Riker turned the van away from the blazing junk, and headed away from Chinese Town.
‘How’d it go?’ Riker asked.
‘We did the job,’ Earp said.
‘Three minutes, twenty-five seconds,’ Potter said.
Earp checked the wounded Corkscrew. ‘How’s the leg?’ he asked.
‘Think it’s broken,’ he groaned.
‘I got an old Purple Heart you can have,’ said Potter, lying on his back gasping for breath.
‘Already got one,’ Corkscrew said and mustered as much of a laugh as the pain would allow.
Inside the burning passageway, Hatcher crawled quickly toward the bow of the junk. The fire roared around him, flames snatching at his clothes. He kicked open one of the small hatches, then the next, and saw Sloan crouched against the bulkhead clutching his bleeding side. Flames roared overhead like a furnace. Heat devoured oxygen. Hatcher dashed in, grabbed him by the collar and, dragging him to his feet, rushed toward the only open side hatch that wasn’t consumed by fire.
‘Can’t do it!’ Sloan cried out.
‘Bullshit,’ Hatcher answered.
‘Hatch, over here!’ Sy yelled, still in the snakeboat and hanging on to the side of the junk. Hatcher dragged Sloan through the flames and shoved him out of the open hatch and into the boat and tumbled in after him.
‘Get the hell out of here,’ he said, and Sy turned the slender boat and roared away from the inferno.
FINISHED BUSINESS
Sy eased the snakeboat up beside the wharf and Hatcher helped Sloan out. The wound in his side was still bleeding, despite a makeshift bandage Hatcher had fashioned from Sloan’s shirttail.
‘See you around sometime, Sy,’ Hatcher said as he and Sloan struggled out of the boat and onto the wharf. Three blocks away the waterfront was pandemonium. The flaming junk cast a yellow glow over the river and the fire trucks, police cars and spectators on the pier.
‘You be okay?’ Sy asked.
‘We’re fine, pal. Head up one of the klongs and dump the boat. And stay away from the Longhorn for a couple of days.’
‘You okay guy, Hatch,’ the little Thai said.
‘And you’re a great fighter,’ Hatcher answered.
He hoisted Sloan, helping him away from the wharf and across the street to an alley. It was deserted and quiet, the clamor from the fire scene barely discernible in the background. Finally Sloan fell against the wall and, sliding to the ground, squeezed his riddled side. Hatcher knelt beside him, pulled his hand away and inspected the wound.
‘A bee-sting,’ he said, ‘you’ll get over it.’
‘It’s killing me,’ Sloan groaned, pressing his jacket against the wound.
‘I should kill you. You’re a menace. You lied to me, double-crossed me, set me up If anybody deserved to die, it was you, not Cody.’
The customary smile played at Sloan’s lips. ‘No sympathy, huh, laddie?’
‘I’d sooner have sympathy for the devil.’
‘Hell, you couldn’t kill me,’ Sloan said wearily. ‘I’m family.’
‘Oh, I could kill you, Harry. But I’m not going to and it has nothing to do with family.’
‘I did what I had to do, you did what you had to do,’ said Sloan. ‘I don’t have to explain that to you.’
‘There was no other way to deal with the problem,’ Hatcher said.
‘I’ve got the same trouble all over the world.’
‘No, Harry. This was survival. Your job is political expediency.’
‘Whatever you call it, you do it and forget it.’
