"Suddenly the door flew open
with a resounding crash and the bursting roar of a gunshot split the gloom. The
knife sparked, flew from the shopkeeper’s hand and a tall glass cylinder of –
something – shattered, disgorging its contents messily onto the floor. Chang
held his wrist, his face stretched wide in shock, then, with a babble of
Chinese, he rushed to rescue his ruined merchandise. Henshaw stared at the
door: standing there, shadowed in the dim outdoor light, was a rangy figure,
lean-muscled and wiry, in a singlet vest and suspender-hoisted trousers. A flat
cap was mashed down onto his crown, pulled well down over his eyes and hiding
his features, apart from a beaky nose and the grim, set mouth beneath it.
Henshaw’s initial impression was that he’d been rescued by a drowned vulture
with a handgun.
With practised nonchalance,
the intruder dropped the dripping pistol into his waistband and pointed at
Henshaw.
'You,” he growled, 'foller
me.' He turned, his hobnails tearing at the floorboards, and stamped out into
the rain once more. With no other options but bad ones, Henshaw chose to obey..."
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