Nick slung the Tommy gun over his shoulder and, cursing his useless right hand, let himself gently over the edge of the roof. His fingers clutched the gutter. It began to sag and tear away. His toes touched the oil drums. Nick let out a breath of relief — then the gutter tore away in his hand and his full weight came down on the drums. The stack swayed perilously, sagged, gave way in the middle and came crashing down with the sound of a boiler factory in full production.
The AXE agent was lucky he wasn't killed then and there. As it was he lost a lot of skin before he managed to scramble free and start running for the jeep. Nothing else for it now. It was the only game in town. He ran awkwardly, limping because a half full drum-had bruised his ankle. He carried the Tommy gun half on its side, the butt against his belly and the muzzle trained on the loading dock near the office door. He wondered how many bullets he had left in the clip.
The man in the office was no coward. He ran out of the office, spotted Nick zigzagging across the yard and let go with his pistol. Dirt kicked up around Nick's feet and a slug kissed his. cheek as it passed. He ran on, not firing back, really worrying about the clip now. He should have checked it.
The gunner left the loading dock and ran toward the jeep, trying, to cut Nick off. He kept sniping at Nick as he ran, but his fire was erratic and way off.
Nick still did not shoot back, not until they nearly met at the jeep. The range was point blank. The man whirled and took aim this time, holding his pistol with two hands to steady it. Nick dropped to one knee, balanced the Tommy gun over his knee and let the clip go.
The machine gun raved in the night. Most of the slugs took the man in the belly and blew him backward to drape him over the jeep's hood. His pistol clattered to the ground.
Nick dropped the Tommy gun and ran to the jeep. The man was dead, his guts shot out. Nick pulled him off the jeep and went through his pockets. He found three spare clips and a hunting knife with a four-inch blade. His smile was cold. This was more like it. A Tommy gun wasn't the weapon to cart around Tokyo.
He picked up the dead man's pistol. An old Browning .380 — these Chicoms had a weird assortment of weapons. Collected in China and smuggled into various countries. Ammo would be the real problem — but they seemed to solve that somehow.
He slipped the Browning into his belt, the hunting knife into a jacket pocket and legged into the jeep. The keys were in the ignition. He twisted, jammed the starter and the old vehicle came to life with a shattering roar of exhaust. No muffler!
The gate was open. He shoved his foot down and the old rat-
tletrap went banging and skidding over the oily concrete. He headed for the causeway. Tokyo glowed in the misty night like a huge iridescent bauble. No blackout yet. What in hell time was it?
He reached the end of the causeway and found the answer. A clock in a window said: 9.33. Beyond the clock was a phone kiosk. Killmaster hesitated, then jammed on the brakes, leaped out of the jeep and ran to the kiosk. He really didn't want to do it — he wanted to follow through and clean this thing up himself. But he'd better not. Too risky. Things had gone too far. He would have to call the American Embassy and ask for help. For a moment he racked his brain, trying to remember the recognition code of the week, got it and went into the booth.
He didn't have a coin to his name.
Nick stared at the phone in rage and frustration. Goddamnit! By the time he could explain to a Japanese operator, coax her into putting him through to the Embassy, it would be too late. It was probably too late now.
At that moment the light in the kiosk went out. All around him, up and down the street, in the shops and stores and houses and taverns, the lights went out.
Nick picked up the phone and listened for a second. Dead. Too late. He was right back on his own. He ran back to the jeep.
The great city lay in darkness except for a central smudge of light near Tokyo Station. Nick switched on the jeep lights and drove as fast as he could toward that solitary swatch of brilliance in the gloom. Tokyo Station must have its own power. Something to do with the electric trains that ran in and out.
As he drove, leaning on the jeep's harshly croaking horn — for people were beginning to come into the streets now — he saw that the blackout was not as total as he supposed. Central Tokyo was out, except for the Station, but around the perimeter of the city there were still patches of light. It was a matter of individual transformers and sub-stations and Johnny Chow's people couldn't knock them all out at once. It would take time.
One of the patches on the horizon flickered and went out. They were getting around to it!
He got into a boil of traffic and had to slow down. Many drivers had pulled over and were waiting to see what would happen. A stalled electric tram blocked an intersection. Nick steered around it and kept inching the jeep through the crowd.
Candles and lamps were flickering like big fireflies in the houses. He passed a group of laughing kids on a corner. To them it was a real ball.
At Ginza dori he swung left. He could make a right at Sotobori dori, go a couple of blocks, then turn north on a street that would take him straight into the Palace grounds. He knew a postern there that led to a bridge over the moat. The place would be crawling with cops and the military, of course, but that was all right. He just had to find someone with enough authority, make them listen to him and get the Emperor into hiding and safety.
He wheeled into Sotobori. Just ahead, beyond where he intended to swing north, were the spacious grounds of the American Embassy. Killmaster was sorely tempted. He needed help! This thing was getting too big for him. But it was a matter of-seconds, precious seconds, and he couldn't afford the loss of even one second. As he pushed the jeep, tires screaming around the corner the lights in the Embassy came on again. Emergency generator. It occurred to him then that the Palace would also have emergency generators, would use them, and Philston must have known this. Nick shrugged his big shoulders and stamped hard on the gas, trying to push it down through the floorboards. Just get there. In time.
He could hear the sullen murmur of the crowd now. Nasty. He had heard mobs before and they always scared him a little, as much as anything ever frightened him. A mob was unpredictable, a crazed beast that might do anything.
He heard shooting. A ragged scatter of shots in the dark, just ahead. Fire, raw and savage, stained the blackness. He came to an intersection. The Palace grounds were only three blocks ahead now. A burning police car lay on its side. It exploded and the blazing fragments trailed up and out like miniature rockets. The mob surged back, screaming and running for cover. Farther down the street three more police cars were blocking the way, their moving spotlights playing over the packed throng. Behind them a fire truck was moving into place beside a hydrant and Nick caught a glimpse of a water cannon.
A thin line of police came down the street. They wore riot helmets and carried batons and pistols. Behind them more police were firing tear gas over the line and into the crowd. Nick heard the gas shells break and diffuse with the typical damp thuuckk — thuuckk. The stink of the lacriminators wafted through the crowd. Men and women gasped and coughed as the gas took hold. The retreat began to turn into a rout. Nick, helpless, swung the jeep to the curb and waited. The throng broke on the jeep, like sea on a headland, and flowed around it.
Nick stood up in the jeep. Looking over the mob, beyond the pursuing police and the high wall, he could see lights here and there in the Palace and grounds. They were using the generators. That was going to make Philston's job tougher. Or was it? Uneasiness plagued the AXEman. Philston would have known about the generators and discounted them. How did he expect to get to the Emperor?