There were still a couple of hours until dusk, and the Hyena never struck by daylight, so there was time. "Come on, Drummond," I said. "It could be tonight. I hope it is, because we're fresher now than we will be in a couple of days of waiting. I want to check over this house—all the doors, windows, dumb waters, secret panels, other potential entrances. Chimneys, too. We'll lock everything and nail boards wherever we can. We'll do a thousand dollars' worth of damage to your furnishings, but I want to hear him coming."
"It won't work," he mumbled. "All that's been tried before. He's like a cunning wild animal; he gets in no matter what, and he doesn't make noise."
"Maybe—but let's encourage him to come in the way we want him to. If there's a fight, I want to know the terrain; maybe we can trap him in a cul-de-sac."
"I hope so," he said without much hope. "Look, Striker—I don't really expect to come out of this alive. But you may be able to get the Hyena while he's getting me, or to trap him before he gets away. That will stop his extortions, and that alone seems worthwhile... Take care of my daughter..."
He had courage, when it came to the crunch. But this would take more than courage. "She'll be with us, remember? We may all die."
"I hope not." He shrugged. "What I'm saying is, if you and she survive me, I want you to—well, if you'd just move in for a while, until she settles down—"
"I can't do that!" I said. "I've got a team to train!" That was only half my objection, of course. Drummond evidently wanted to marry his daughter off to someone who could control her, but I wasn't interested. Oh, the notion had its points... But Thera was only eighteen years old, and big money was not my bag.
"Guess you'll just have to see that I pull through, then," he said with a wan smile.
I nodded. "I intend to do that."
We checked out the house, making it as secure as possible. The structure was sound, but there was so much glass that the job was reasonably hopeless. Drummond had electronics devices galore, including closed-circuit TV coverage of every room, even the bathrooms. That made me pause a moment, for I had used a bathroom. But neither of us had much faith in this system. Electronics could be nullified by other electronics—or by a cut in a power line. And the other victims had had similar devices.
Dusk came. I was satisfied that no quick entry could be made without our knowledge, and I was now thoroughly familiar with the layout. Much of the glass was of the so-called unbreakable type, and it was in double sheets with a vacuum area sandwiched in between, for insulation and frost-free viewing. Hard as hell to break or cut through silently! I had also set up several little boobytraps for the potential intruder, mostly makeshift: a bucket of silverware perched atop a partly opened door; a spring device behind another door that would release a kitchen knife against whoever opened it; nails, and thumbtacks scattered in dark passages and near windows, several broken glass bottles outside the house; a concealed trap in the earth near the front door—with a knife standing inside, point up; old Christmas bells hung from the bushes, to make tintinnabulation when brushed against; ankle-high strings tied to noisy tin cans... A real pro would not be fazed, unless he laughed himself to death; but an amateur would be in trouble.
Again, there was a subtle design to it all: to bring the intruder to me, at the place of my choosing. Which was the tremendous family room. It was really a combination living room, den, and dining room, with a functional fireplace, soft sofas, and a huge black mahogany dinner table complete with ornate silver candleholders. These things were used, too; there was plenty of wood, and the candles had been burned part way down. Fancy cigarette lighters were all about.
It was not that Drummond could not afford separate rooms for these various functions; it was that he could afford to ignore convention and arrange his house for his private convenience. He, didn't even have a wife to say him nay, evidently. I did not know whether Thera's mother was dead or divorced—but judging from her lack of concern and Drummond's silence, it was probably divorce. She must have been some swinger, since he had kept the child.
There were floor-to-ceiling mirrors set in the walls, so that the room seemed three times as big as it was; in fact, it looked palatial. A huge crystal chandelier hung over the table. Bronze and marble sculptures were set artistically about, and there were a number of paintings. The entire floor was covered by a deep white carpet—hell on the cleaning woman, I was sure—and a plush pool table stood at one end.
I shook my head, half in admiration, half in wonder. If I had a million dollars to spend; I would not have invested in such things as rugs and mahogany tables. But the room had a certain comfort and elegance, and I knew I could quickly become spoiled by such surroundings. Too bad it was about to be the scene of a death struggle.
Last, I gave Drummond himself some tips on self defense. It takes years to really master this subject as it does with any discipline, but a little common sense goes along way in a pinch.
Drummond was a stout, strong man, somewhat handicapped by rich living but still capable of striking with power. Certainly I did not expect him to sit passively in the face of murder threats.
"Don't try to use a knife," I cautioned. "The way you describe the Hyena, he would merely take it away from you and cut off your nose with it. Stick to things a trained fighter wouldn't use; that puts you on a more even basis if he tries to match weapons. Pick up one of those silver candlesticks and bash him in the face. Silver is heavy, and it'll really hurt! Or grab some of your ivory pool balls and start throwing. They're potentially lethal. Of course, your best bet is to get out of his way—I mean to run; like hell!—but in this instance I think you're safest right here with me. If he tries to finish you while I'm still functioning, I'll be on him in a hurry."
He nodded emphatically in agreement.
"But if I'm done, you run! If you do go outside, grab the lid from a metal garbage can. It makes a hell of a good defense against a knife. It's like a big shield."
"That's right!" he agreed, gaining confidence. "I can defend myself—without formal weapons. Especially if you have wounded him. That's the best way."
We were ready, except for one thing. "Where's Thera?" I asked. "She should be back with my nunchukus by now." I was also concerned lest she stray from the front walk in the dusk and step in to my pit trap.
Drummond looked nervously at his watch. "She might have had trouble getting into your building."
"My dojo is open. There's an evening karate class there. All she had to do was go in and ask for the weapon."
"Would they give it to her?"
"She knows where to phone for confirmation!"
"Yes..." he agreed "Perhaps we should phone there, just to be sure." He picked up the phone.
His face became set. "The line is dead." he said, his voice the same.
"Uh-oh." I felt a prickling at the nape of my neck. Had the Hyena been at work even while we prepared to repel him? "She couldn't call..."
Then I had a worse thought. "Could she have returned here—and been intercepted by the Hyena?"
Drummond set down the receiver and paced nervously, skuffing the rug. "I should never have let her go alone!"
"She can take care of herself," I said. "I taught her how to disable a man who tried to..." But right now I didn't believe it. A first-degree black belt cannot stand against a higher degree unless there are special circumstances. Everything favored the Hyena. We had been fools. I could have phoned the dojo and had a student deliver the nunchakus. Now—well, maybe she was just late. A routine disruption of the phone service could account for that, preventing her call, complicating things.
Suddenly the lights went out.
"I have an emergency generator that should cut in automatically," Drummond said nervously. "Unless that has been disabled..."
The lights stayed out. That was answer enough.
"Light the candles!" I said. "And make a fire in the fireplace."
"Yes!" he agreed as if clutching a life raft. In a moment he had an ornate candelabra
lit; it was a monstrous silver artifact with four arms. There was a candle in each, plus another in the center. The baroque whirls in the silver resembled waves of the ocean, and in the flickering light of the candles those waves seemed to move. There seemed to be waves across Drummond's face, too, and the mirrors made of the entire room a ghostly sea.
Then he touched a lighter to the logs lying stacked in the fireplace. The tinder ignited readily, and soon there was a blazing fire that threw its own brand of light all across the room and the ghost-rooms. It was one of the most impressive effects I had ever seen; the room must have been designed for this.
Drummond stopped suddenly, squatting by the flame. "I heard something!"
I listened intently. Was there a sound—or were we overreacting? The wood was crackling merrily.
Then I heard it: a gentle, hurried rapping on the distant front door. The acoustics of the house brought that faint sound to us as if it were a few feet away.
"Thera!" I exclaimed, vastly relieved. "She must be trying to get in without arousing the Hyena!" She could not use her key; we had not only locked the door, we had barred it. It was made with a big iron bar in the back: old fashioned, but about as secure as it was possible to get. Impossible to pick this lock!
"Yes!" he agreed gratefully. "I shall let her in immediately, before..."
Before the Hyena caught her. Yes indeed! She was in deadly peril. But I held him back. "No—I'll do it"
I trotted to the door and cleared it.
It burst open in my face. A man charged in, slamming me back with his shoulder. Several others followed him, all masked. Half a dozen killers, at least.
I had a stunned moment of realization before my reflexes threw me into action. We had blocked every entrance—and then innocently opened the front door to the Hyena.
Because he had knocked.
Chapter 2
Hyena
I leaped at the first intruder, the one who had shouldered me back. He was wearing a ski mask: a brightly knitted stocking affair that covered his head and face down to the throat, with only two holes for the eyes, one for the nostrils, and a slit for the mouth. It made him completely anonymous and somewhat unearthly. He looked a little like a TV puppet, one of the Muppets.
But he had tiger's claws on his hands. Those claws were like brass knuckles, except that their business side was inside—razor-sharp projections passing over the fingers, making them true claws that could take the eye out of a victim or tear the flesh from his bone. Such a strike would give the impression that a wild animal had mutilated the victim.
He struck with those claws in a descending arc, trying to rip open my face. I countered with a seiken jodan-uke, an upper block with the forefist. As part of that motion I drew back my other hand, the gesture creating a counterforce that lent more power to my block. That is one of the distinctions between amateur and professional fighting; the novice commits himself wholly to one attack, however ill-advised, while the professional takes care that his entire body contributes. Thus he had no follow-up when his shot was parried, while I was balanced and ready for my own attack even before my defense was made. I delivered a powerful roundhouse kick, mawashi-geri, the ball of my foot ramming into his armpit.
The effect of that kick was electric. He uttered a stricken cry, his whole body convulsed, his arms shot stiffly to the sides and he crumpled to the floor. My foot had connected squarely with the big nerve complex in the armpit. He was dead from shock to his involuntary nervous system.
I whirled, batting aside the clutching claws of the second man as they went straight for my face. The trouble with tiger's claws is that you have to be a tiger; you can't vary your attack much. He followed up with a strike to the side of my head, that I parried with a fore-fist middle inside block, seiken chudan uchi-uke. I put a twist in my blocking arm for extra strength, keeping my withdrawn arm tightly tensed. Then I used my free hand to give him an oyayubi ipponken, a thumb one-finger fist: my hand was balled, but the thumb was bent with its tip pressed hard down on the second knuckle of the forefinger. Striking with the knuckle of that thumb just below his covered ear, I felt the bone of his jaw give way; the blow had terrible force. It is high on the proscribed list for karate matches, and not in common use. But I was not in any civilized tournament now!
I set up to kick him, but withdrew my foot before connecting. You do not kick dead meat.
I spun to face the rest, but they were gone. While I had been battling the first two in the hall, the others had gone right on into the house. Drummond could be dead by now!
I charged down the hall and into the living room. It had only been a few seconds.
I saw the pack rushing Drummond, who was behind the pool table. His arm moved. The first thug fell to the rug clutching his shoulder. It had been broken by a thrown billiard ball.
Drummond, spurred by a wholly realistic fear for his life, was really acting on my advice. He was a veritable windmill, filling the air with colored balls. Alas, I wished his aim had been as good as his intentions; he could have knocked them all out. Even so, massed as they were—another foolish amateur tactic—the attackers presented a good target. A second man was hit in the stomach and momentarily stopped.
The first man to reach Drummond was balked by the pool table; I could not have placed the millionaire in a better defensive position, considering the nature of the weapons. The thug's head leaned over the table as his body was brought up short, and Drummond hit him with so much force that his cue ball broke. The man fell to his knee, while Drummond grappled with another. I had made Drummond wear a heavy leather jacket as an afterthought, perhaps anticipating the tiger's claws, and this now protected his back from the raking metal. Both men fell, rolling on the floor behind the pool table, Drummond's powerful arms squeezing the man in a bear-like embrace.
I was not idle, of course, while this was happening. I charged toward the action, barely pausing as I passed the thug with the broken shoulder to crush the back of his knee with my heel as he tried to get up. He was on his hands and knees, one leg extended to the rear; it was that knee I struck. Only a second, and his knee cartilage gave way, putting him out of action for good. That kind of injury is extremely painful, and never heals completely.
Now I came to the one who had been hit in the stomach. He was not in top form, as he was still gasping for breath; spittle flew from the mouth-slit in his gaudy ski mask. But he tried to stop me, grasping for my legs as he rose from the floor. With my fingers tensed, I gave him a blow with the heel of my palm, a shotei to the upraised chin and combined it with an o-soto-gari half-leg sweep to his right leg. The combination snapped his neck and sent him tumbling on his back to the floor.
Drummond and his bandit were still embraced, neither able to obtain a clear-cut advantage. They had now rolled over before the blazing fire, scattering the ornate fire tongs, ash-shovel and black broom across the hearth.
Another killer leaned over the pair of them, trying to get the schaining body of his companion out of the way so as to finish Drummond with some clawing to the face. I leaped high in the air while uttering a terrible battle cry—TAO!—and landed with both feet solidly on the assassin's back, breaking his spine. But the last man was already on me, the metal of his hand-claw raking the top and side of my head. The pain was terrible, and blood streamed down and into my right eye. Half blinded, I threw him off and staggered back.
My rear crashed into the mahogany table. The silver candelabra toppled and started to fall. Automatically I caught it, afraid the burning candles would set the house on fire.
The man who had raked my face regained his feet. Now he hurdled the tangle on the floor and came at me. The blood was running over my eye, filling the socket and making the tissues burn and sting so awfully I could hardly see.
I threw the candelabra at his head. His ski mask caught fire. The thing blazed up hideously, yet it was anchored at his neck so that he could not take it off quickly. He screamed and clutched at it—and in doing so tore
his face with his tiger's claws so that the bright red of his blood mixed with the decorative colors of the mask. He had no further interest in combat.
I took advantage of the respite to grab the tablecloth and mop my own face with it. The beautiful white cloth was ruined, of course, but my sight was a matter of life and death at the moment. Drummond was on his feet again, clutching a huge heavy chair. He had a nasty rip on his scalp—these were endemic in this fight!—right across the bald dome. Evidently that was the price he had paid for wrenching himself from the assassin. Then he dropped the chair on his assailant. That piece of furniture must have weighed two hundred pounds, and the oaken edge of it landed across the man's neck. He didn't even groan; he was out.
It seemed we had weathered the onslaught of the Hyena. Just a bunch of cheap hoods after all. Seven bodies strewn about the stained rug.
"That smell..." Drummond said, looking about. I sniffed. He was right; there was a peculiar odor, some kind of animal scent, cloying and nauseous. The carrion aroma of an ill-kept tiger cage, perhaps. I hadn't noticed it before, because I had been rather busy, but it had to be associated with these hyenas.
Then a shape appeared in the hall, and the odor intensified. Dumbly I looked, allowing the blood to drip once more into my face.
It was a man-form with a grotesquely powerful body: short legs, small hips, but a torso rising into a barrel-like chest, a mighty back, huge muscular shoulders and a thick neck. But the figure was hunchbacked-and it had the head of some predatory animal. Doglike, but not a dog or wolf.
This was the Hyena. The real one, not an underling. He wore a rubber mask over his head, of course. The effect was striking, but I was not superstitious. I had fought his minions; now at last I had come to grips with the master.
I was barehanded, but so was he. I saw that he needed no metal tiger's claws; his own nails were long and sharp. His feet were bare, the toenails, like the fingernails, shaped into deadly claws.