Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 44, No. 4, April 1980

“Not to worry,” she’d told him.

Shayne stood at parade-rest facing the bolted door, Stephanie was by the window, ostensibly admiring the view, Mary Su Lin was behind the corner screen that hid the sanitary facilities.

The dagger was clasped in Shayne’s right hand behind his back.

The bolt on the outside of the door was shot by a guard with a machine pistol dangling from a strap over his shoulder. Shayne heard the footsteps of the man bringing their food. He would have his hands full.

When that guard was framed in the doorway, Shayne stepped aside, ostensibly to let him pass. Unsuspecting, the Mongol stepped into the room.

Shayne brought his left fist around in a sharp arc, catching the guard carrying their food on the nape of his neck. As the man went down, Stephanie let out a piercing shriek. It was enough to confuse the guard in the hallway fumbling for the machine pistol he was carrying. Shayne had that weapon, slashed it loose with the knife, then drove the dagger into the Mongol’s throat, jerked it free as blood spurted, stabbed him a second time just below his rib cage to pierce the heart.

The guard he’d struck was on his hands and knees. The running feet of the other two guards shook the lodge floor as Shayne kicked the kneeling man over on his back and drove a foot into his exposed throat.

The other two were pounding toward the room from the front of the lodge.

“Out!” Shayne ordered Stephanie.

She scrambled through the window to crouch on the narrow ledge overlooking the cliff. She screamed again.

Shayne had the machine pistol cocked and ready. The first guard to arrive stumbled over the body in the hallway, slipped in the pool of blood widening around it. A burst from Shayne’s weapon slammed him back against the opposite wall. His machine pistol clattered to the floor as he crumpled at the knees, then pitched headlong into the doorway of the room.

Shayne stood back and stitched the thin hall partition, hoping a lucky shot would down their fourth captor now that he’d lost the element of surprise. He heard the Mongol yelp with surprise then the sound of his pounding feet as he retreated toward the front of the lodge.

“Damn it!” The machine pistol in his hand was empty. Dropping it, he went after the weapon of the man he’d dropped in the doorway. “Back in,” he ordered Stephanie. “The shooting is over here.”

She came squiming through the window to stare at the three Mongols Shayne had just killed. She paled and a hand jumped to her throat.

“You play for keeps, Shayne!” Stephanie said.

Mary Su Lin had ventured forth from behind the corner screen, hands held out in front of her. The room reeked with the smell of cordite and freshly spilled blood. The girl bent over, retching.

Shayne pushed Stephanie toward her. “Keep her down flat and you stay on the floor too,” he ordered. “These flimsy partitions wouldn’t stop a BB pellet.”

“What are you going to do?” Stephanie asked.

“Stalk Number Four, what else?” Shayne said, and in two quick strides was at the window. “You two stay low and quiet, understand?”

It was a close fit but Shayne squeezed out the window onto the narrow ledge. Back to the house wall, in the quickly gathering dusk, he sidestepped toward the back corner of the house, reasoning the surviving guard would circle around and come in that way

As Shayne sidled along, stones dropped off into space and once he almost slipped. Somehow he managed to keep his balance without dropping the machine pistol in his sweaty hand. There was a cold bite to the evening breeze at that altitude but Shayne’s shirt was soaked with sweat.

He was thankful the sheer drop in front of him was to a valley floor already flooded with inky darkness.

Shayne paused when he reached the corner, holding his breath and listening. The sound he was waiting for, when it came, was behind him, at the front of the house! It was the distinctive snick of another machine pistol being cocked.

Shayne swung himself around the corner a split second before the space he’s occupied was shredded with the scream of bullets.

Turning the corner, he’d dropped his weapon.

It lay out on the edge of the precipice. If he reached for it a burst of fire could cut off his arm. Now sweat was blinding him. Shayne wiped his eyes with his forearm, and the pounding of his heart was like a drum in his ears.

“Don’t panic now,” he told himself, taking a deep breath.

The guard he hoped would expect him to come around the house. Shayne waited in the gathering darkness. Finally he made his move. It was to reach for the fallen machine pistol. There was no burst of fire. Tucking it in his belt, Shayne started sidling back along the ledge, having removed his shoes. As he approached the front corner of the lodge he eased the pistol from his belt and made sure the safety was in the off position. It was already cocked.