first met Roy under a blistering sun in the African veldt. My guide, Ugan, caught sight of the hunting party as they came up in a haze. Roy, true to form, rode in front, his bandanna draped across his neck, Panama hat askew. His rifle hung loose in his hand. I didn’t think much of him. His laconic air led many to underestimate his mettle. Only in a crisis did he show his steel. 

“Hallo there!” he cried, waving his rife. I took out my cigar and rose to my feet, still half-dressed. 

“My name is Roy,” he said, dismounting. His Oxford accent was unmistakable. We shook hands. “You’ve got the paw of a lion!” he exclaimed.

“You need good fists for boxing. I’ve won a few prizes with these,” I said.

“And what’s your name?”

“O’Brien. I’m American,” I added to head off the Irish question. I had no love for the old country and could hardly remember it now.

“That’s a relief,” he said with a twinkle. “Is the hunting good? My company and I were hoping for some action.” 

I chewed my cigar and motioned to the rising sun. “Gazelles came through here, followed by a pride of lions. Followed by us,” I added wryly. 

“I take it you’re a good shot?” he said, impressed by my big game hunting.

The cigar was mostly chewed so I crushed it thoroughly with my heel. “Pretty good.” . 

“I’d like to see your aim,” he said with a smile. 

“Would you?” I couldn’t help smiling myself.

A scraggly tree, split in two, stood a ways off. Roy pointed it out. “That trunk is little more than a pencil width from here. Let’s see which of us can put a bullet in the wood.”

I said nothing, but cracked my knuckles. We both relished competition. 

Roy swept out a beautiful Winchester ‘95, gold inlaid. His clever fingers handled the weapon with care. Aiming with the grace of a nobleman, he planted his feet and fired. 

The technique seemed good and I nodded my approbation. Taking my Bruno, I fell to one knee and aimed carefully between the crook of the riven tree. I could just perceive a shadow on the far side - two eyes gleaming.. The sound of the big gun shattered the silence of the veldt. 

Slowly we trudged to the tree to see our score. Roy almost laughed. “See? My bullet is square in the center of the trunk. But it appears you missed it entirely!”

“Look closer, Englishman,” I said. I pointed between the crook of the tree and beyond. Roy’s mouth hung slack - for there was a dead lion, half-concealed by the tall grass. My bullet had pierced his throat. 

“Who did you say you were?”

“Jack O’Brien,” I said. “And that was lucky.”

“You have amazing luck.”

“Sometimes. I’ve been in a few scrapes.”

The hunt proved fruitful. Roy plugged a lioness later that same day. But as the sun was setting, and we began to jaw, I suddenly hushed him. A lumbering giant appeared out of the bush - a beautiful elephant, old and blue gray. 

Ugan feverishly prepared his rifle, but I swatted it down. “You don’t kill kings,” I whispered. I looked to Roy and saw his eyes shining. We watched the monarch sway to and fro for half an hour. 

“You’ve read Kipling?” he asked. 

“A bit.”

“He loves elephants as well.”

“I don’t love them. But it’s cowardice to kill a great soul. That’s why I came to Africa - to see the greatness in things.”

“They are a dying breed,” said Ugan. “Ivory is worth much!”

“If I were an animal, I would be an elephant,” said Roy. “What about you, O’Brien?”

“It’s a silly question.” 

“Can’t answer?”

I thought for a moment. “I’m a hunter—a big cat—but I admire the elephants. ”

“A lionheart?”

“If you say so,” I laughed. “I like all wildlife. Snakes are the only ones I hate.”

“Elephants and lions both hate snakes in their own way, I suspect,” said Roy.

That hunt was the beginning of our friendship. We spent three years together in South Africa. I roughed it, earning a living through prize-fighting and safaris. What Roy did I never quite knew. He got enough money from his family, but he also had vague connections and responsibilities with the British Government. He had a sense of humor though. Roy was very good at dressing up as an African guide and duping naive Westerners (he was too honorable to actually swindle them). 

One day I bought a camera, thinking I’d sell safari pictures to magazines. It was the only time I saw Roy unnerved. He told me to “put the damn thing down” and made me promise I’d never take his photo. 

They say all good things come to an end, and I suppose they’re right. I finally ran out of money and couldn’t owe anyone anymore. Roy offered to bail me out, but I refused—loans are the fast way to kill friendships—and I used my last few pounds to buy a ticket back to the Big Apple.

Roy saw me off. “I hope our paths cross again,” he said. 

“Not likely,” I replied, but I gave him my uncle’s address in Hell’s Kitchen. “Look me up if you’re ever Stateside.” I can still recall him leaning on his silver cane, feet crossed on the pier, whistling a tune.

t was three years till I saw Roy again. It was a rainy, moonless night, the kind of evening that turns the city into a grease-and-water mirror. I’d just stumbled out of the ring, washing a cut over my eye when a knock came on the bathroom door.

“Telegram for you,” said a voice. 

I snatched the paper. My ill-humor, the fruit of low funds and ring-side aggression, evaporated as I recognized the words of a friend. He asked me to meet at a high-end hotel on the West Side. Something in the telegram struck me as strange, but I quickly dressed and set off into the night. A cab-ride later, I entered a smoky restaurant in the hotel underbelly. The telegram had mentioned dinner, but through a concierge, I discovered that Roy had arranged a private meal in his own rooms. 

A servant opened the door. Roy’s back was to me, a telephone against this ear. He was arguing with someone. “Yes, I do understand. Here he is now. Alright,” There was a click and a broad smile.

“My old friend!” he exclaimed.

“Hello Roy.” 

We shook hands, and he motioned to a table already laid. The food was delicious, but I felt uneasy. Roy looked much older than I remembered; lines of care criss crossed his face. Our conversation came in fits and starts. 

When dessert arrived a deep gloom settled over Roy, and it occurred to me that he might be in some sort of trouble. “You seem worried, Roy,” I said. 

“I’m in a pickle, Jack. I can’t trust anyone, not even the hotel staff.” His eyes darted to the door in a way I’d never seen from him before. 

“What’s the problem? Can we call the police?”

“No! This is not for the police. It’s government secrets, Jack. I just got the clearance to bring you in, if you’re willing.”

This was stupefying, and it took a minute for me to comprehend. A series of strange incidents from three years ago fell into place - letters from odd places, topics that Roy avoided, and, of course, the episode with the camera.

“You work for the Secret Intelligence Service,” I said.

“Yes. I left South Africa not long after you for an assignment in Hong Kong. I’ve been there for the last three years, but I’m afraid we’ve been completely outmaneuvered by the Japanese. Their spymaster on the ground, a man they call The Serpent - he’s been gathering intelligence against our military for the last decade. My task was to disrupt his operation. I’m afraid I’ve failed. Now the Japanese are preparing for war, and it's critical that we shut down this ring so Tojo is blind to our movements. We’re leaking like a sieve and as long as we can’t whistle without Tokyo hearing, we’re toast.”

“I’m no spy, Roy.”

“No. You’re one better—you’re a hunter, and that’s who I need right now. I’ve had enough of bureaucrats and paper-pushers. I want someone I can trust in the field. The Serpent—he’s the man I’m most interested to find. Everything we do he seems to know ahead of time, like a magician.”

“I don’t know the language.”

“No need. I have a close friend, Dr. Laos—he and I met on the voyage from South Africa. He’ll be your translator and guide to the city.”

I played with my fork. I wanted to say no, but the specter of returning to my overdue rent rose up like indigestion. “Does it pay?” I asked.

“Quite well,” said Roy, motioning to his room and board. “But it’s dangerous work. I wouldn’t bring you into the business without saying it. I’ve had five men knifed and left for dead in the last five months.”

“Knives is it?”

“These men like to look you in the eye.”

I pushed back from the table. “Sounds like hell. But I don’t like to see you in trouble.”

“Then you’ll do it?”

“Yes.”

Roy’s talk turned to politics. The situation in Hong Kong was complicated, more complicated than I could follow easily. After a thorough exploration of Japanese imperialism, British fecklessness, and American isolationism, I pushed my chair back and rubbed my eyes.

“But you are wanting me to kill someone? The Serpent?”

“I’d prefer to take him alive—he would be a precious asset.”

“It’s hard to kill someone, but harder not to.”

“I trust your judgment, which is more than I can say for my current crew.”

“How do I find him?”

“I’m more afraid that he’ll find you. I’ve seen how you fight. The Serpent hasn’t.” 

“When do I leave?”

“Tomorrow morning. There’s a military flight that leaves out at 7. When you touch down in Hong Kong, Dr. Laos will meet you. He’s a real treasure, Laos—he’s helped me cultivate a network of informants in the city and what success I’ve had bringing in the bad sort is due to him.”

“What kind of bad sort?”

“Roughs, mostly. The men who knifed my agents, for instance. But I haven’t gained any clue to the spy ring itself, just its hirelings. And now that war clouds are gathering, London is on my back.”

“And you hope I can solve this with a bullet?”

“I’ve tried the bookish way. Now I need the African bush way. If Laos ends up dead in an alleyway, all the intellect in the world will be useless to me.”

“I follow you.”

“Good. Now go out by the kitchen door. Don’t miss your flight—I will see you before long.”

he flight was cold and comfortless. The tin can they called a plane shook me the whole way. The other passengers were strangers, odd men from various walks of life who were also in need of a military flight to Asia, no questions asked. I pulled my coat close and flipped the collar, fighting the relentless wind.

I’d packed light, but was well armed. Two revolvers rested in a case beneath my seat, a gift from my mentor, Carl Reiberstadt, the old Boer hunter. I could hit two glass bottles at 30 paces with the both of them together, a trick Carl had found useful in his own colorful history. Over my head in the netting hung my prized possession, the old Bruno that had brought low a lion, a hippo, and a bad-tempered gorilla.

Lastly my hands gripped a leather satchel. Inside sat a long boot dagger, a smaller throwing knife to hide by the wrist, and metal rings for the fist. It also contained a bottle of very old scotch, a grooming kit, a few explosives, and a dark change of clothes.

Thus I landed in the Orient. The tarmac was almost empty when I exited the plane. There was only a diminutive figure standing by a steaming car against the illuminated grease of the rainy night. A long coat draped across his stooped shoulders. His face was long and his mouth wide. A pair of spectacular eyes gleamed beneath the brim of his fedora. I shall never forget those eyes. They were hard as cut diamond and had a spark of remorseless intelligence. The face made a thousand gestures, but those eyes never changed.

“Jack O’Brien, I presume?” he said in faultless English.

“Dr. Laos?” 

“You are correct. Please get in.” He opened the door and I obeyed. The car was comfortable and warm. He followed me and sat opposite. 

“Mr. Roy warned me of your arrival only a few hours ago. I have made arrangements, however.”

“Thank you.” I stared at this strange man, trying to make sense of his mix of intelligence and servility. 

“Do you know my mission here?” I asked.

“Roy told me something of it, but I do not know much. I am to give you a tour of the city and acquaint you with our network. We have several operatives still working to curb the Japanese expansion. You have heard the unfortunate news?”

Laos went on to describe the state of the city. Apparently the Japanese had moved with me in the night, cordoning the city in a net. Many were already fleeing.

“Doesn’t bother me,” I said flatly.

Laos arched his eyebrows, the first expression of his that surprised me. It felt more genuine.

“Oh? And why may I ask?”

“It doesn’t interfere with my purpose.”

Laos nodded his head. His tongue pressed against his teeth.

“And what is your purpose, Mr. O’Brien?”

“I’m not a spy, Dr. Laos. I’m an assassin. I’m here to kill The Serpent.” 

Despite Roy’s protestations I’d already moved to the murder phase. I’ve always been one for Alexandrian solutions and killing the enemy’s brains seemed good enough for me.

Dr. Laos’s eyes widened. “Indeed!” he said. There was something inscrutable in his look. “And how do you plan on doing this? None of our operatives have succeeded in finding him.”

“Same as any big game hunt. Find his tracks, follow him—I’m a good shot and better at close quarters. I hear he’s good with knives.”

“And you think killing him will stop the Japanese?”

“Not stop them exactly. But from what Roy’s told me, he’s the brains of the outfit and it will take them some time to rebuild their spy ring. And by then, we might have a fighting chance.” 

I was only parroting Roy’s phrases now, and I sounded like an idiot. Laos nodded with hooded eyes, seemingly losing interest. 

“As always,” he said, “I will help in whatever way I can.”

The car had traversed the city in a roundabout way until I had little idea of where I was. Finally we pulled alongside a bright hotel with a look friendly to Western eyes. 

“Please wait right here, Mr. O’Brien,” said Laos and exited the car. 

Memory plays tricks on you, but I believe even then I already half-suspected Laos. I had plenty of time on the plane to think through everything Roy had told me. My thoughts all tended the same direction: one, that I was looking for a mole, and two, that Roy, the noble elephant, was the last person to suspect those around him. The “accidental meeting” he had with Laos immediately after his posting to Hong Kong seemed far too convenient.

Over long years I’ve learned to trust appearances. It’s all a crock what they say: “Don’t judge a book by its cover.” Sure you find an unlikely person now and then. But nine times out of ten your first impression was your last impression. Tracks didn’t lie. If you thought a man was unfriendly, he was. If it looked like rain, it would. Civilization spends a whole lot of time trying to convince you to not trust your gut. The African bush takes that all away. 

If Roy had really lost five men in the last few weeks it meant The Serpent was playing for keeps. So instead of concealing myself and playing the shadow, I’d decided on the opposite: declare my intentions so loudly that The Serpent would know of me in hours. My hope was to push him to some ill-considered move out of fear for himself. As it happened, my plan worked better than I could have guessed.

Laos returned with a worried look. “I hardly know what to say,” he began. “But the hotel has double booked the room I reserved, and the other gentleman is already here. We will have to go to another sector of the city.”

I grunted my approval. The doctor was already proving a good bet, but the gamble paid off handsomely when I saw an old building come into view a half hour later. It had all the marks of a disreputable locale, one of those swanky skyrises that flame out after too many police visits. With those balconies and open air doorways, it would be easy to take advantage of an unsuspecting resident.

Laos returned. 

“They have accommodations here. Not the best, but it is one of my most trusted safe houses.” 

That was so obviously false that I wondered if Laos was pulling my leg or if he really imagined I was such a dullard. 

“I agree,” I barked. “It’ll do. Tonight I rest. Tomorrow we hunt.”

Laos smiled and I followed him into the hotel. The yellow lights and red furnishings glared. I flashed a wad of cash, tipped the doorman too well, and ordered a hot meal for my room. Once inside I quickly scouted my surroundings.

y balcony was on the third floor. Outside the city hummed, its veins running heavily with traffic. I turned on the shower, locked the bathroom door from without, and changed into dark clothes. Then, taking out one of my explosives and some wiring, I quickly configured a small detonator—one that would go off either when the door to the bedroom was forced open, or alternatively, at 4 in the morning. Whichever came first.

In twenty minutes time, the bellhop would knock, enter my room, and leave the meal in the sitting area, thinking me in the shower. He would have to turn on the lights in order to arrange the silverware. No doubt he’d think me eccentric, but the delay would serve a twofold purpose. First, I would be given precious minutes to make my escape from Laos’ trap. Second, the lights would be my signal that the food was present and Laos might make his move whenever he chose. Finishing the bomb to my satisfaction, I checked the time: ten minutes gone. The only difficulty was leaving unseen. The balcony would be watched as would the hallways - what to do? I looked up. The ceiling consisted of cheap tiles, and it was the work of a minute to lift a few in a corner of the dark bedroom and climb upward. 

The crawl space was riddled with wiring and ventilation, but it extended through the whole length of the third floor. I found a metal beam and kept to the intersections that would carry my weight. My pack nearly fell off my back, but I managed to crawl a sufficient distance where I could be sure that the room beneath me was nowhere near my own.

I stopped and listened for any sounds. Nothing came, and I decided to chance it. Using the butt of my rifle, I broke through the tiles of the room under me and leapt through the hole. I was in a bedroom much like the one I’d left. The balcony window was open, curtains adrift in the breeze, and upon the bed… no one. I sighed in relief until I heard a pistol cock. 

A woman in a blue dress stood with both hands gripping the gun handle. I couldn’t see her face in the shadows, but the gun gleamed. 

“Get on your knees,” she said.

I raised my hands and began to speak. “I don’t mean you any harm…”

“On the ground!” she shouted and I obeyed. She began to move toward the telephone when I said, almost spasmodically, the one thing that came to mind.

“I beg you not to do that.”

She stopped, hand halfway to the receiver. “Why not?”

“Because I work for the British government.”

There was silence except for the ticking of the grandfather clock. “Go on,” she said, a bemused smile on her lips. 

“I’m here on assignment. Men in this hotel are trying to kill me. I’ve laid a trap for them, but I’ve got to get away.”

“Throw your rifle on the ground.”

I complied. My bag came next, and she told me to produce a pair of handcuffs. At first I pretended not to have them, but I realized that my only chance lay in prompt honesty. A minute later, I was cuffed to the bedpost like a criminal. 

“You have to believe me.” I sounded like an actor in a Hollywood picture.

“What’s your room number?”

“322.”

She slipped the pistol into a pocket of her dress (strange detail that) and departed. I glanced at the clock—the servant had almost certainly left the dinner by now. I’d missed my signal. At this moment I should have been watching my own balcony from a dark street corner, spotting any tails. Now the game was almost up—Laos’s thugs would find me.

A tremor suddenly shook the hotel. The telephone dangled free and my knees caught my weight as I staggered. Seconds later the woman returned. Her face, white as a sheet, told me all I needed to know.

“They’ve come for you,” she whispered. “There’s five of them outside your room.”

“Is there a steely-eyed Asian among them? A doctor?”

She expressed surprise. “I know who you mean. Yes, a man like that was there. But if he is a doctor he will have his hands full for the next hour or so.”

“He’s not that kind of doctor,” I said.

She brought out the keys to my cuffs and kneeled down next to me. Her eyes were serious. 

“I’m choosing to believe you—first because your story is so ridiculous it may be true. But secondly, because whatever you’ve done, I can’t imagine that it would be right to give you over to that group of thugs down the hall. And knowing what I know of the police, that is more than likely unless I help you. So that’s what I’m doing.”

With those words, my cuffs clicked open and I took her hands fervently. 

“Thank you,” I said.

She smiled, almost blushing.

“My name is Alison.” 

“Jim,” I said, using my Christian name. 

“Well, Jim,” she said, “let’s get out of here.”

The emergency stairwell was five doors down from Alison’s room, and by a stroke of luck, turned out empty. The bottom of the stairs came to the backside of the building. Alison went first through the door, looking around for the sentry I was sure would be there. A few seconds later, she returned. 

“Quick!” she whispered, and I followed her—even then I knew Alison was sharp. She told me that there had been a man smoking at the corner of the hotel, but that he’d been called away a moment before. Apparently the explosion had stirred the hornet’s nest.

We crossed the dark asphalt and escaped into a neighboring street through a gap in the hedge. Alison was about to head away from the hotel when I gripped her hand. 

“Hold on,” I said. “We have to go back.”

She had pulled away in fear at my touch, but now her eyes grew incredulous. 

“Go back? What are you thinking?”

“This was my plan from the beginning. I’m going to follow Laos and his men back to their hideaway. With all the attention they’re getting and with a dangerous assassin like me on the loose, they will do what everyone does when they don't know what’s going on—they’ll retreat. That’s what I want. Once you find the lion’s den, killing the lion is simple.”

Alison’s face, which I was beginning to find quite striking, set in sharp-eyed concentration for a minute. 

“I’ll come with you,” she said finally, and this so surprised me that I decided to let her.

While Alison retrieved a set of wheels, I came ‘round the corner of the street where I could see the entrance to the hotel. I guessed that there would be a car idling, the backup. Sure enough, some yards away I spotted a gray Ford fuming in the midnight air. A couple of minutes passed, and there was Laos pushing a man with a bleeding face in front of him, looking like a ferret in every direction. A henchman got out of the car to help him, but he angrily motioned him back inside. Once Laos and the wounded man were in the cab, it shot away southward.

I could have kissed her when I saw Alison pull up a moment later in a dark Cadillac. “Follow that Ford,” I said, getting in, but Alison had already seen it and was a few car lengths behind them a minute later.

Alison was an extraordinary driver. The trail twisted and turned through every corner of Hong Kong. Being a bush-man with little experience behind the wheel myself, I would have lost them in short order. But Alison not only followed them—she performed little short cuts, knowing exactly where they would emerge a moment later.

Before long we entered the seediest dregs of the rain-washed city. Vapors drifted on the night wind like the fumes of an unsettled volcano. I felt the coming bloodshed by the gooseflesh on my arm—a sixth sense I’d gained in the veldt. 

Our car slowed to a stop before a long warehouse fenced by barbed wire. Here at the deadest hour of the night not a soul was visible—we only knew there were men inside because we’d watched Laos pull in.

“I need you to stay here,” I said. 

Alison’s face betrayed her misgivings. “They’ll shoot you..”

“Not if I shoot first. This isn’t my first circus.”

“Be careful,” she said, and just for a moment I believed she cared for me. 

“I need you to do something for me,” I said. “You won’t like it.”

“Try me.”

“I’m going to open the gate. Give the car a little gas with the lights off and let it coast until it’s under the shadow of the warehouse. Gently brake when you’re a stone’s throw from the main doors.”

“What if someone sees me?”

“Drive away. But if my gut is right, you’ll have ten minutes before anyone realizes you’re there. Wait for gunshots. Something will burst out of a window above you. Slam your car door like you just got in and floor it.”

“They’ll think you’re with me?”

“That’s right. They’ll chase you, but I’m betting you’ll get away.”

“Once I leave you won’t have any escape. Why not run now?”

“It’s hard to explain. But if you help me, I have a shot.”

She paused and I think would have said no if the energy of the moment hadn’t carried her away.

“All right.”

I squeezed her hand and slipped out of the car door. By some providence all went as I said it would. In a minute the drifting car, silent and dark, came to a slow stop under the right side of the warehouse in the shadow of moonlight. Alison nodded to me, and I climbed the metal stairs that crisscrossed the brick wall.

It was slow work without shoes, but it was the only way to keep quiet. I’d learned in Africa that killing big game took precision and preparation. I’d sat for hours in the hot sun waiting for an opportunity. Now I used the same skill to find the right corner for my one shot. Here was an open window. Some saliva and gun grease and the hinges swung silently. Inside was darkness except for the bright lights dangling over the bottom floor.

Below, Laos interrogated three prisoners with ten men surrounding him. An eleventh man stood by the main door, machine gun at the ready, but—thank God—his eyes were on the bloodied men tied to chairs, and not on the gate outside.

“Tell me about the assassin!” said Laos, his voice shaking with a surprising fear.

The men had been tortured over a period of hours. The leader turned a swollen eye on the doctor. “I should have known you were a coward as well as a traitor, Laos.” The accent was British; it reminded me of Roy.

“Coward?” spat Laos. “The real coward is your dimwitted leader who left all of you to die. Don’t you think he realized the game was up? In a few days my country will have this city by the throat. But you have avoided my question! I will not ask a second time: where is the American?”

I lodged myself in a dark corner and placed the rifle tip on the metal railing. My sights drifted to Laos’ skull. But just as my finger touched the trigger, I thought of the three men below. If I killed him, what if the gunmen went rogue and killed everyone? As long as Laos was alive, there was a chance they would stall, waiting for orders that wouldn’t come. So I decided to make sure they wouldn’t. 

I aimed for his femur and fired.

never heard such a scream. I didn’t even see Laos fall as I bolted for the open window. Outside, instead of descending the stairs, I ran to the opposite end of the building along the walkway and broke a window, just above the hood of the idling car. Alison, bless her, was as good as her word. On the instant she slammed her door, floored the accelerator and pulled away as men poured like flies out the front door. She flew like a rocket out of the gate. A minute later, four of the ten men had piled into Laos’ car, their fumes swept up by the night wind. 

While the men below chased what they thought was my getaway car, I re-entered through another window. Only two men had run upstairs to where I’d made the first shot. I kept quiet in the shadow of an old machine. There were shouts—I had fled in a waiting car, they said. The two men retreated to the floor below. I almost thought my little trick had worked when the seething Laos shouted that the building must be searched. The man was no fool, I’ll give him that.

I had just enough time to screw on my silencer. As the men began ascending the stairs again, I aimed, this time to kill. 

Pfft!

The foremost man tumbled forward against the steps, blocking the path up. I snapped the bolt of the rifle, aimed, fired again. The second man turned like a puppet and fell from the landing.

Just three seconds gone—but with them went the element of surprise. The four survivors turned in my direction and opened fire. 

When a man has bullets coming at him, you learn what sort of man he is. Those who go crazy get killed even if they do some killing. Those who hide may survive but they lose their manhood. Good warriors keep calm and keep moving.

I dove away from the balcony and crawled to a metal beam, one large enough to take a beating from the hail of bullets. One had grazed my left side though I didn’t know it till I saw the blood. Everything was adrenaline. In a minute the gunfire stopped, and my grenade was ready. The clink of the pin echoed as I tossed it lightly over the railing. Then I ran the length of the warehouse, but the blast still threw me off my feet. I rose in the confusion to a kneeling position and swung the rifle to my shoulder. Back to the wall, I aimed over the balcony for the first shadow I saw through the smoke. 

Crack! 

Someone staggered and fell. I reloaded, fumbling. Strangely no bullets were coming my way. I aimed again and waited for another shadow. The seconds ticked by like centuries. Any moment I expected a death blow, standing there for all to see, but none came. I heard two gunshots, then silence. I must have stood there with my eye to the rifle for a full three minutes. Then slow as a leopard, I walked in long strides, rifle high, and descended the stairs. 

There in the center of the smoke-filled warehouse were two dead men, the squirming Laos, and the three hostages. I lowered my rifle and cut their bonds. Two were not completely conscious, but the man Laos had been questioning was still sharp.

“Are you the assassin?” he asked.

“I prefer hunter,” I replied.

“You’re an American.”

“Roy is an old friend.”

“I knew he wouldn’t forget us.”

“I don’t think he knew you’d been kidnapped.”

“The Japanese will attack any day now, but Washington won’t believe us.” The Brit clutched his side and spasmed.

“Help me get your friends out of here,” I said.

I heard a footfall behind me. One of the thugs must have returned. I whirled, aiming my gun at the dark shape. Then, to my unending dismay, I heard a familiar voice.

“Don’t shoot, old chap, it’s me!”

“Roy?” I was incredulous. How could this thug in front of me be my old roommate from South Africa?

“It’s as you say,” he replied, lowering his hands and lighting a cigarette from his pocket. “Don’t worry. I finished off those two and chased away the third. I’m afraid Alison and I were both a bit surprised by your approach. But it seems we had the same idea.” 

Roy pulled a drag and let loose a cloud of smoke while his left hand hooked on his back pocket. A cry from the bleeding Laos caught our attention. The doctor was blank with pain, slowly breathing as he held his shattered leg. 

Roy continued. “I had guessed when I gave you this job that Laos might be The Serpent. But he was too good an operator for me to catch him in the act. I needed a way to distract him so I could observe his methods incognito. So I made it clear I was leaving Hong Kong and then sent you in—someone who would occupy his full attention. Strangely enough, you decided to do something similar by giving him the slip at the hotel and following him here.”

“So I was bait?” I felt more than a little angry. It’s one thing to offer yourself to the cat, another to have someone offer you on a stick. “And what if Laos had killed me?”

Roy’s eyebrows lifted. “I admit it was a risk, but you knew the risks too. There was no danger you weren’t aware of except Laos himself. If I’d warned you about him, I worried that the game would be up. Besides, I intended to be there when they attacked you. It was easier than I expected to infiltrate their ranks. Laos liked using local muscle to conceal his Japanese connections.”

“If you hadn’t planted that explosive at the hotel, I’d have intervened and Alison would have whisked us away. Yes, she’s working for me. Isn’t she a gem? I told her to listen to you, and it seems she did. As it happened, you very nearly killed me at the hotel with that damnable bomb. I still have a bit of shrapnel in my shoulder.” 

Roy grimaced. “But all’s well that ends well as Shakes would say.” He turned to Laos. “You’ve given us a rum old time, Doctor. But now we’ll learn what you really know.”

Roy turned to all of us, a bright smile flashing against his dark brown skin. “Let’s go home shall we?”

At that instant I saw the hand of Laos flick something out of his boot and stab upward. Roy staggered, blood soaking his knee. 

Roy fell on top of his enemy as I ran to help him. Both men gasped, locked in a death grapple and when I finally pulled Roy away, I saw that Laos was transfixed with his own dagger.

“You did for him...” I said, but my words trailed off as I saw the rib wound soaking through Roy’s shirt. 

“Damn,” he said. “I should have known it would be knives. They like to look you in the eye, you know.”

Then he fell a second time. I caught him as he sank to the floor. It didn’t take him long to die; I imagine the angels were eager for his company. His eyes grew brighter right before the end.

“Remember that elephant you almost shot the day we met, Jack? That sight—the majesty—it’s always stayed with me. I wanted to die like that elephant in a quiet corner of the world, not here on some black business.” 

“I didn’t almost shoot him,” I said, tears in my eyes. “You don’t kill kings.” 

“Just my luck,” he said with a weakening smile. “Did you know I’m part Plantagenet?”