The Call of the Thunder Dragon (46 page)

Falstaff might have died if it
weren’t for the shaky footing below him. As he warded off the blow
with two hands holding his sword horizontally over his head, his
foot was placed on the skin of the fabric fuselage. He fell
screaming as Ono dropped on to Falstaff with all his weight.

The material beneath him ripped
and he fell through the side of the Caproni’s nose. The nose was
ripped apart with a hole through the fabric. The ply gave way,
causing one the small glass panel to fall as Falstaff to tumbled to
the ground.

“Oh, no! You’ve done it now! Look
at that hole you bastard!” Falstaff jumped to his feet to face his
attacker without thought. He took a step forward and realised he
held in his hand only half a scabbard; now cut cleanly in half by
the attacker’s sword. It was made of cast metal, finished to look
like traditional samurai saya.

Ono stumbled to his feet,
climbing onto the nose of the aircraft he prepared to jump again,
inverting the blade so it pointed downwards and out towards
Falstaff. Gripping it in his left hand, he set the heel of his
right palm against the end of the pommel, intending to jump and
thrust the blade downward to piece down vertically through
Falstaff’s head. Ono leapt to the edge of the bow, taking a final
nimble footed step off the edge, high into the air over Falstaff’s
head.

The Caproni rocked tipping
slightly. Taken completely by surprise Ono was tilted forward as he
jumped so he descended headlong into the ground instead of soaring
over Falstaff. His blade sank deep into the hard packed dry
turf.

Falstaff stepped back as Ono
crashed to the ground, then flicked out his leg to kick Ono under
the chin as he stood. He was glad of the hand-to-hand combat
training Sykes and Fairbairn had forced him to take when he had
flown as a spotter for the Shanghai police. He thought the kick
finish Ono off after the impact of the hard fall.

Ono’s hand flew up to ward off
the kick as if he was flicking away a fly.

Falstaff spun away and before
he’d stopped he found himself locked in an iron, crushing grip. Ono
wrapped his hands around Falstaff’s arms and locked them behind his
neck and squeezed. He wasn’t simply going to hold the lock, he
intended to inflict pain and break bones. It was happening so
quickly Falstaff couldn’t straighten his back to stand, he couldn’t
even move in response to the pain from his rib.

“How did you know my name?” Ono
hissed in Falstaff’s ear. “Did Goemon tell you? Did you torture him
before he died?”

“What? Who the hell are you?”
Falstaff snarled back. Clenching himself to resist the crushing
grip. He tried to stand, hoping to lift the assassin off the
ground. Rearing on his tip-toes, he still couldn’t lift the
assassin off the ground. He collapsed breathlessly to the ground.
Ono pushed Falstaff’s face down to the earth.

“How did you know my name?” Ono
insisted, “I will kill you quickly if you tell me or it will be
slow!”

Falstaff managed a groan through
gritted teeth. He didn’t even remember speaking let alone being
introduced. He opened his eyes a crack and saw the blade standing
up out of the ground. Initially, he feared its cutting edge then he
focused on it.

Ono felt Falstaff stirring and he
to noticed the ninjaken within arm’s reach. He felt Falstaff stir,
he knew the pilot had a reputation for being headstrong and guessed
he’d be ready to give his all to reach the sword. Again he felt
Falstaff thrash like an eel, Ono didn’t release his grip at
all.

When Falstaff moved again, it was
to lift him away from the ninjaken, not towards it. Caught by
surprise Ono rocked forward as Falstaff moved backwards. He took
Ono’s weight onto his back. Retreating towards the Caproni engine
behind them. He slammed Ono up onto the vertical propeller blade.
Falstaff fell tripping over the floats that obstructed his way. He
left the assassin tangled in the wires tensioning the undercarriage
from wing and nose.

Falstaff rolled away, gagging and
struggling for breath. It felt like his neck had been folded over
on itself. The pressure on the back of his neck and around his arms
had squeezed him up in a hunch and stopped the flow of blood to his
muscles. He struggled to straighten himself out until his neck
clicked into place and the blood flowed back into his shoulder
muscles.

Staggering Falstaff ducked,
hoping over the starboard float under the wing and around the back
of the tool shed.

Having fallen from the tensioned
wires Ono gritted his teeth, looking around for Falstaff. His eyes
caught sight of Falstaff nipping around behind the shed. He ripped
off his now tattered robe. Underneath he wore only leggings, his
chest and stomach were bare showing tight hard rippling blocks of
muscle.

Ono Itchi took a deep breath,
calming himself despite the pain in his back where the propeller
blade jabbed him. It had left a jagged red mark. He would not allow
himself to become flustered again he told himself, taking a deep
breath.

“Falstaff! Answer my question? I
would not like to be forced to kill you before I know how you came
by my name!” At the back of Ono’s head, a thought festered, eating
anyway at his normally calm resolve, as did his awareness of the
time that was ticking away. He’d had fights before and enjoyed
them, dragging them out. However, this was supposed to be a kill.
He always achieved a kill within one minute of the first contact
without fail. It was his art at stake. Falstaff should be no match
for him.

Falstaff leaned on the back of
the shed, rubbing his neck, trying to ease the pain and get his
arms moving again. He was in deep water, this time, he saw no way
out. He sensed there was no use running, the athletic assassin
would catch him without trouble.

Where was Gibbs for that matter?
Falstaff tried not to picture Gibbs bumbling into the situation
while the crazy attacker was still about. This must be the assassin
Goemon a had warned him about.

“Alright, I’ll talk!” Falstaff
suddenly found himself saying, better keep him talking, he might
creep up on me again Falstaff thought. “Then we’ll fight!”

What am I saying, what I am
thinking? This was madness! He edged around the shed and darted out
towards the front of the aircraft.

“Come away from there, you are
not going to fly away!” Ono stepped out behind him.

Falstaff crouched by the port
engine, eyeing the killer over his shoulder. He couldn’t help
admiring the remarkable sculptured figure of the assassin. The
muscles were tight and hard, showing years of dedicated training.
Falstaff gulped, realizing he wasn’t facing some amateur
brawler.

Ono’s tattoos curled over the
left shoulder, a bony hand of death emerging from a wave, as the
assassin turned Falstaff could see a fanged demon’s skull amongst
the blue wave curling across the musclar back. Curled around and
over the white skull a serpentine dragon, its scales vivid purple,
its back running down Ono spine, head thrusting out of the skull’s
mouth.

“Your name is,” Falstaff started
pulling off his own shirt, stalling for time “Not important is
it?”

He couldn’t guess what his name
was or why he was so flustered about it, but Falstaff figured he
could tease it out of him.

“Nobody should know my name!
Unless I tell them!”

“I see... erm Oh – no, no I
don’t!” Falstaff said out loud.

Ono tensed.

Falstaff watched as the assassin
stepped closer. He dipped his hands into the oil below the engine,
deliberately dropping his shirt into the thick gloop in the drip
pan. He stood up facing the killer with shirt rolled up into a ball
behind his back.

“Tell me then, what this about
your name again? Then we’ll fight.”

“Did you kill Goemon? You stole
his blade!”

“Go-eh-mon?” Falstaff mumbled,
“Oh, was that his name? We’re not going to play guessing games all
day, someone else is sure to come along soon you know?”

Falstaff looked around scanning
the road for a sign of Gibbons. Right now, he really needed
help.

“What are you doing with your
shirt? Surely you are not washing it?” Ono started forward with a
laugh. “It will be for your own funeral!”

“I’m hot, - I just wanted a rub
down before we got started!” He whipped the shirt over his shoulder
and pulled it around his neck and under, across his back. The shirt
left thick streaks of black oil over his chest and back so he was
dripping with oil.

Ono sneered in disgust; it would
be a pleasure to kill such a sordid and depraved
Gaijin
⁵¹
.

Seeing how drops of oil had
flicked out from the shirt, Falstaff grinned, remembering the
effectiveness of a wet towel during fights at school. Without
hesitation, he whipped the shirt out towards Ono. Glad he hadn’t
lost the knack.

Ono anticipated the move, dancing
away, but not before he was a sprayed with oil.

Falstaff thought about running,
then thought about how angry he was. In fact, ever since he’d
bumped into the Japanese in China he’d been seething and now this
little upstart had put a hole in the side of his aircraft.

“You’ve asked for this, you
bastard!” Falstaff goaded flicking the shirt out again. He spun the
shirt whipping it at Ono, then ducked his head and charged.

As oil sprayed across his face,
Ono blinked, through sheer force of will he opened his eyes despite
the oil and kept them open regardless of the stinging pain.

My eyes, he wondered, my
beautiful sharp eyes? He couldn’t spot his target through the brown
mire stinging his eyes, all he wanted to do was wipe them. The next
thing he knew Falstaff was on him.

The air rushed from Ono’s lungs
as Falstaff hit him head first, smashing into his chest. Ono went
down on one knee shaking his head and dabbing at his eyes.

Momentarily off balance, Falstaff
fell onto the killer. Ono grabbed instinctively. They thrashed,
punching and wrestling, trying to get a grip on each other; or land
a square blow. Always the other slipped away from their grasp.
Ono’s skill, speed and strength were mitigated by the oil covering
his skin, just as Falstaff intended.

Falstaff’s stubbornness and guile
compensated for his lack of acquaintance with Ono’s vast fighting
knowledge. However, Ono finally pinned Falstaff to the ground. One
arm locked around his throat, the other pulled his wrist around his
back, one heel digging into the red line of stitches along the
pilot’s ribs.

Ono tensed, gulping for breath,
he doubted he could snap Falstaff neck quickly due all the oil
covering their bodies, he’d have to strangle him slowly. Somehow it
wasn’t the decent, neat kill he’d imagined. Strangling was the
un-calculated move of an uninitiated thug and Ono was an artist.
Ono tensed his arm muscles ready to wring the pilot’s last breath
from his neck then suddenly everything went black.

Zam had not had a minute’s peace
all afternoon. It had taken nearly an hour to get rid of Mrs.
Anderson. Whom she found to be a frightful bore intent on getting
as much fresh gossip as she could. Having pumped Zam for details
about Falstaff and their remarkable journey from China. Mrs.
Anderson talked of nothing more than her own puerile activities
pursued simply to avoid her own husband, whom she openly
detested.

“Zam, darling, you don’t mind if
I call you Zam, you can call me Penny if you like, all the boys
did! Bad Penny they called me, but they were always picking me up!”
She laughed shrilly at her joke and her own wanton
carelessness.

“Go on tell me about you and
John? What’s he like in the sack dear, does he pummel you like a
bull or his one of those dreadful men who’re just like syphons? One
pump and it’s all over!”

Zam was struggling to keep up the
chatter; let alone find the language to answer the questions. “The
sack? What is the sack?”

“Come on darling! The bed where
else did you do it!”

Zam inadvertently rolled her eyes
down towards the Chaise longue with a blush.

“Here! Where I’m sitting? God
lord! Tell me more!”

Thankfully they were interrupted
by the hotel manager himself knocking at the door. However, he was
carrying bad news.

A young skinny Assam boy waited
in the foyer along with a tall, barrel-chested gentlemen with white
hair and neatly trimmed moustache.

The manager led Zam and the pair
through to the back office. Mrs. Anderson hung on hoping to catch
some gossip. She was to be disappointed, finding herself left out
in the foyer.

In his office, the manager sat
down at his desk. “I’m afraid there’s been a murder.”

Zam retreated into her chair,
tucking her legs up, hugging them close. “Not John-di-di, not
John?”

The Manager coughed. “No, not… a
John; a Mister Randhir Singh, proprietor of the Sports and Shooting
Equipment boutique in Jorhat.”

Zam looked around fumbling for
something to wipe her face.

“I’m sorry if we shocked you,
Miss.” The old gentleman offered his handkerchief. “Do you know a
John then? I’m Doctor John Levinstone, at your service.”

“Thank you, you are kind.” Zam
sniffed.

“If I may?” The Doctor asked the
manager who relinquished his duty to the doctor willingly.

“I’ll get some tea ordered and
see if the police are here yet.” The manager slipped out
quietly.

“The boy here, you won’t
recognise him, he was sent out by Randhir this morning to enquire
if I had a quality Sextant that I might be interested in selling.
He was good man Randhir, quality is always what he asked for, that
got my ire up I can tell you! I bought the blasted thing from him
fifteen years ago. I don’t travel much now, so he sent the boy to
me to buy it back.” He placed his hand gently on Zam’s
shoulders.