Hands still tied behind me, still gripping Hugo, I kicked out for the surface with my remaining breath. I burst into the air of the surface just as my lungs were about to give way. The sparkling lights of the New York skyline glittered down at me in the deep darkness of the night and the river. I kicked out again, turned on my back and floated while I worked Hugo around in my hands and cut against the ropes still binding my wrist. It was slow and hard from such an awkward angle and I had to kick out and turn to stay afloat. The current was carrying me out, and I saw they'd dumped me into the river about a block from the bay. If I didn't get these damned wrist ropes off, a ferry boat might complete their job.
I saw the lights of a big one moving my way as I stabbed again and again at the slippery, wet ropes. Finally they gave way. I brought my arms around, held onto Hugo and swam back toward the place where I'd come up. The surface of the water was oil-slicked and dirty and I swam beneath it. I came up for air once, and then dived again. It was pitch black below but I got lucky. Because of some trapped air, the canvas bag had floated to the top of the water and I caught sight of it a dozen yards away. I struck out for it, grabbed it and found my jacket and trousers were still inside. More important, Wilhelmina was in the pocket of my jacket.
I held everything in one arm and swam for shore, finally catching onto the pilings of a rotted pier. Exhausted, I clung there against the powerful current of the river.
After a pause, I clambered up onto the wooden floor. Putting on my wet, dripping clothes, I carefully walked across the pitted, rotted pier. I'd fit the pieces together later. Right now I wanted to get back to one Lin Wang.
But my luck was running lousy. Or theirs was running good. I'd just come off the rotted old pier onto the cobbled stones of the waterfront when I saw the three men standing by the car a few feet back from the water's edge. They saw me just as I did them and with that extra sense that comes from someplace or other, I knew they were the ones who'd dumped me into the Hudson river. I knew it even before I heard the one gasp, saw his eyes widen in disbelief and his body stiffen. They had gone up the street to an all-night coffee house and had just returned to the car, one still holding a piece of cruller he was munching.
"Jesus Christ! I don't believe it!" one exclaimed, his voice hoarse. The other two swirled. All three stood transfixed for a moment and then started for me. These were not Sumo Sam's boys, I saw. They were hired goons, paid to do a dirty job and ask no questions. I knew the type and it stuck out all over them. I put my hand in my jacket and closed it around Wilhelmina. The gun was soaking wet from the river. I couldn't risk trying to use it. Better something else than a misfire at the crucial moment. The something else was to run, and I took off like a jackrabbit, a wet jackrabbit.
Their footsteps clattered behind me as I raced along the waterfront. A big, darkened closed cargo pier loomed ahead and I headed for it. The big main door was shut, a heavy overhead door of steel. But the little doorway to the side was loosely latched. I yanked hard on it and it flew open and I hurled myself into the cavernous darkness of the huge pier. Crates and barrels and boxes were piled high on both sides. I ran deeper and then turned, letting my eyes grow accustomed to the near-blackness of the place. I saw the three goons come in.
"You stay here," I heard one order. "By the door. If he tries to get out you nail him."
I faded back between a high stack of burlap bales. I saw something, a long-handled object leaning against the bales. I picked it up and smiled. It was a vicious-looking baling hook. The other two were beginning a careful row-by-row search among the crates and boxes. I reached up and felt along the sides of the burlap bales. Strong strips of galvanized tin were wrapped around each one, two strips to a bale. I wedged my fingers inside the first strip and pulled myself up along the side of the bales. Using the baling hook to hold on, I shifted my grip to the next bale and pulled myself up farther. When I was about seven feet from the ground, I hung there clinging to the side of the burlap-covered bale with one hand gripped around the tin strips, the other holding the baling hook imbedded into the bale. The contents were tightly packed soft goods of some kind.
I could hear the men below, working their way to the row where I clung. One of them came carefully around a corner of the bales, gun in hand, peering down the narrow corridor between the crates and bales. I could see the other one doing the same thing on the other side of the pier. The one on my side stepped a few feet farther into the passageway, within range. I took the baling hook out of the bale and swung down with it in a fast, clean sweep. The vicious hook caught him right under the chin. I heard the sound of tearing bone and cartilage and his head erupted with a red geyser. A guttural sound escaped him for a moment and then he hung limp, not unlike a side of skinned beef on a butcher's hook. The gun fell from his hand and hit the floor with a harsh thump. I let go of the baling hook and dropped to the floor. The other one was coming on the run from the far side.
Scooping up the gun I knelt and fired twice. Both shots caught him full on as he raced into the passageway. He sprawled on the floor in front of me and I stepped over him and out into the main portion of the pier. Moving with my back to the Crates, I edged toward the door. I couldn't see the third one in the deep blackness. He had moved against the steel door and it gave him perfect protection. Of course he'd heard the shots and with no sound from his friends he knew something had gone wrong. But he had the best position. If I wanted to get out of here I had to get to that little door and he'd see me as I tried for it I had to get a line on him and I paused at the last row of huge wooden crates. A fork-lift truck stood alongside them, and suddenly I had my way out.
Dropping to my hands and knees I crawled around to the side of the fork-lift truck, reached in and switched it on. I stomped on the gas pedal and yanked the wheel and it took off, rolling out at an angle. It worked perfectly. He figured I was in it and started blazing away as it rolled across the pier. It was simple to draw a line on the blue-silver flash of his gun as he fired. I placed three shots in a short line, about an inch and-a-half apart. He cried out in a gasping sound and collapsed on the ground. I'd heard that sound before and I knew he wasn't going anywhere. I tossed the gun away. There was only one shot left in it anyway. Slipping out the little door, I took up where I'd left off, heading for the house of Lin Wang.
I hailed a taxi and the driver, like a good New York cabbie, noted my soaked clothes but said nothing. He dropped me off a block away from 777 Doyer Street, per my instructions. I stayed close to the building line and reached the outside door. I dashed up the one flight of stairs and tried the door. It was locked. I rang the bell, and once more the door was answered by the blowsy Eurasian woman. I slammed into her, knocking her out of the way, and was racing down the hall, through the girls in the reception room and up the back stairs. I heard her screaming for her two goons, but I was on the next floor already. I hit the first door on the right, knocking it half off its hinges. A blonde with big breasts and a small, bald-headed man looked up from the bed, the man with fright in his eyes, the blonde with anger.
"What the hell is this?" the blonde said.
I ran from the room.
"Is it a raid?" I heard the man say, and the blonde muttered something I didn't catch. I hit the next door. A beefy naked man was on the bed with two Chinese girls. The girls fell off him as he sat bolt upright.