Without You I Have Nothing Ch. 27

Joe was to organize taxis to collect the Tamil 'platoon' from Chinatown at 11.00 and to take their passengers to the Hunter's Hill Mansion. The meeting point for the Tamils would be the drop off point for coaches.

Early in the evening, the Tamils were to guarantee ready access to the laneway for the Ghurkha drivers and to run interference in Chinatown for their fellow conspirators. They were to be the smokescreen and gales of laughter from both the Chinese and Tamils met the RSM's words.

Peter was not impressed and glared at them but they ignored him.

The RSM gave a nod and two Ghurkhas escorted Bill, Susie, Joe and Andrew out of the building. Two others cleared the Motel of all staff.

When the Ghurkhas returned and signalled that the motel was secure the RSM continued.

"Peter, your wife could be there tonight and I know just how capable you are. It'll be your decision on whether we can free her safely. It'll be your choice of who shakes hands with the Angel of Death tonight. You'll not let us down but we won't stand idly by and let anything happen to you or Jennifer.

"Tonight, our Chinese 'platoon' will be the staff at the nightclub and I can assure you they will be most attentive to the patron's needs." He chortled in a strange, almost teenager way and his chortle was echoed by the other Ghurkhas.

Peter's straightened and he stood. With a straight back, he stared at his Ghurkha friends. That chortle, he knew from the past, was blood lust and the Ghurkhas were about to become sharks going into a feeding frenzy.

A weight lifted and he asked that everyone stay in the room. "Clean the white board and destroy all evidence of our little chat. I'll be back in about half an hour." Without awaiting a reply, he turned and hurriedly left.

In the accommodation above his workshop, he prepared for the evening.

First, he removed his wedding ring. He replaced it with an unusually heavy gold ring that worn one way, was a wedding ring with a very wide band. Turned around, it revealed ornate and intricate carvings.

It was a Cobra Ring.

Carefully he slid it around on his finger so that the carving of the coiled cobra was facing outwards. Flexing the muscles on that finger, he watched the ring open and two fangs pop into view. The poisonous mixture of the Fer-de-lance venom and Tubocurarine dripped from the twin fangs and Peter knew that tonight someone would die. The mixture was extremely toxic, exceptionally painful and would cause profuse internal bleeding accompanied by massive tissue destruction.

As he closed his ring he wondered just who would feel his wrath.

He placed the cigarette packet containing bamboo darts in his shirt pocket. Each dart was tipped with a poisonous mixture of Curare and the poison of the Taipan, - which Peter knew was a powerful neurotoxin, causing respiratory paralysis. His immediate prey would have little chance for recovery without prompt medical aid. None of the scum he pursued would get any medical aid.

The Little One was hunting and was well prepared.

On the table were four hypodermic syringes loaded with a toxic mixture. This was some of Dingo's drug haul, heroin, with a plentiful boost of cocaine. Whoever kissed the dragon tonight would be dead with a brain implosion within minutes.

Peter packed all this and the remainder of his paraphernalia into a plastic shopping bag from Woolworth's as if it were of no concern. Carefully he dressed and, at last, satisfied with his disguise, he took particular care to leave the workshop unobserved.

He shuffled into the BMW Dealership next door and knocked on the door of Bill's office.

Holding out one gnarled, wizened hand with its dirty cracked fingernails a stooped old Chinese begged for money to buy food and Susie was quick to hand him $5. She quietly ushered this nondescript, badly bent, shuffling, grey-headed Chinese with a straggly, wispy beard and dirty unkempt hair out of the office,

Carrying a plastic, non-descript grocery bag he returned to the Motel where he was halted by a Ghurkha guard. A second guard came across the car park to assist and Peter had to use his Nepali to inform them that this stooped old Chinese was really him.

One guard escorted the shuffling old man to the dining room where the RSM's bellowed order in Nepali did not need a translation.

The old Chinese didn't flinch and the guard didn't move

No one moved. In fact, it was a Mexican standoff.

The old Chinese interloper turned to one of the Chinese guests and painfully croaked a message in Mandarin, followed by the words 'waiguo guizi'- foreign devil.

Still no one moved. The Tamils were nonplussed and, other than the interloper's escort, each Ghurkha has his hand on the handle of his khukuri.

The RSM was so red in the face he looked as if he were about to explode. "What did he say? Translate please."

"Well, do you want it in English or Australian?" was the reply and for once, a Chinese faced cracked into a grin.

"Just tell me what he said," was the RSM's demand but then Realizing he was getting nowhere continued, "in Australian I guess."

"Tell this loud bastard, he doesn't frighten me one little bit"

The RSM was almost apoplectic but then the stranger's wild cackle broke into the deathly silence.

The stranger at last sniggered in English. "See RSM! We still have some cards up our sleeves. You didn't recognize me, none of you recognized me."

Still Peter played the part of the old Chinese man. "Will I be acceptable at tonight's little party?"

His allies gathered around to inspect him very closely. Refusing to speak English Peter stood patiently waiting. Gone were his blue eyes. Instead, this creature had bloodshot brown eyes and no matter how closely they inspected, his disguise stood the test of the intense scrutiny.

The noise and confusion that followed his entrance eventually died and Peter shuffled to the white board where he tried to draw a plan of Dingo's mansion at Hunter's Hill from memory. "When our meeting at the nightclub is over we shall return here and change. Then we shall make our way to Hunters Hill just to remind Dingo nothing of his is safe. The details will be in the hands of the RSM, as we will leave nothing standing to remind Dingo of his home.

"We sank his boat. Now we bury his home.

"He will have nowhere to hide. I will leave now and will be in the alley at the rear door of the nightclub when you are all in place. Goodbye everyone and make certain you are all here for breakfast tomorrow."

None of the passengers took any notice of the nondescript, grey-headed Chinese with the wispy beard, carrying a grocery bag as he climbed aboard the bus.

Later, like a street person, Peter crouched in the gutter outside the rear of the nightclub, waiting. He took no notice of the occasional Tamil who walked past him and stared into his face.

As he waited, Peter remembered that he must repay Susie that $5 and tease her for not knowing him.

He knew there was no need to knock on the door. It would open when everything was in place. The Little One was back and was not nervous. This cold-blooded killer was not worried.

The rear door to the nightclub opening slowly interrupted his thoughts. A hand beckoned him inside. No words were spoken as he hobbled to the storeroom where, trussed against the wall, were the waiters, the cooks and the chef.

Peter knew instantly the men who were his, as they all wore white gloves. There would be no fingerprints left behind and nothing to link any of them with what was about to unfold. All communication was in Cantonese.

Everything was prepared and all they could do was wait for the Silver Limousines carrying Dingo his guests and entourage.

Peter almost lost his self-control when Jennifer walked into the nightclub wearing a blouse that barely covered her nipples and a skirt so short that her sex plainly showed when she sat.

He was sure it was her sex he saw when she swung her legs into place, but there was no dark shadow of her sparse pubic hair so he was uncertain.

Like the other girls, she was wearing one of those control collars and Peter knew that tonight there would be no rescue.

Her hair was short and she looked both cheap and worn-out. Her eyes were dull and she took no part in the dinner table conversation as she stared ahead with unseeing eyes. Flanked by the two Arabs, she seemed deaf as Pretty Boy and Dingo on the opposite side of the table openly discussed her sexual abilities.

Burly guards stood at the door and Peter noticed that the party included some Asian girls, all with the same collar as if it were a distinctive brand.

The men seated at the table included two prominent politicians, some businessmen and two senior police officers.

No one noticed when the old, stooped Chinese standing beside the kitchen doors, directing the waiters, shuffled across the room to the bodyguards. In extremely poor, heavily accented English, he told them their food was on a table in the kitchen.

No one considered anything was strange when six waiters followed the guards through the swinging doors into the kitchen. Each of the male guests seated at the table was too busy eating and fondling the girls to be aware of their absence.

Shuffling back to his position the old Chinese resumed his position beside the kitchen doors. He again checked that the waiters paid close attention to the essential demands of the guests.

So successful was Peter's disguise that he was able to move around the room without drawing any suspicion on himself. To the guests he was an Old Chinese stooped and frail - to his own men he was The Little One assisting the Angel of Death.

It was a normal dinner party, as hosted by Dingo - wine women and song - although Peter knew that tonight the tunes would be of his choosing.

When one of the Arabs dipped his hand into Jennifer's blouse to fondle her breasts and tweak her nipples, Peter had to strive to maintain that look of the inscrutable east in order to prevent himself from rushing forward and putting an immediate end to the man's life.

Jennifer rebelled, grasping the hand and trying to drag it from her neckline. With Peter watching she suddenly lifted her hands to the collar, trying to wrench it free so she could breathe. Then, her head dropped as she concentrated on not losing consciousness.

Beaten, she made no response to the Arab's hand that had gone under the table to snake it way under her skirt. She seemed almost oblivious of the fingers clawing at her groin.

Peter knew her torment. The critical moment had come.