“Cheers,” he said absently, pulling note from his pocket.
“On the house friend,” she winked and threw the liquid back with one practiced swallow. “Just don’t tell the Lord and Master eh?”
“He won’t hear it from me,” Oscar smiled.
Oscar politely insisted that she take the hundred-dollar bill. “Thank you,” she replied, topping up her own glass.
“You see I’m going to need your help, because if what you say is right about that woman being David’s wife, it almost certainly means that your master, as you call him, is the same man who has kidnapped my friends!”
The barmaid looked horrified.
“Now you listen to me darling, if that is so, the only really smart thing to do is to get away from here and as quickly as possible, because if it’s my master you’ve upset, then your friends will have little chance. He’s an evil man and other people’s lives have no value to him. So if you and your friends are in his way, for even the most trivial reason, he will brush you all aside without any more thought than swatting a moth.” She swallowed her drink in one gulp.
“Just tell me where I would find him and let me be the judge,” Oscar pleaded.
The woman looked even more bedraggled now, her lipstick smudged from swigging the whisky.
“Well it’s your life darling, just so long as he doesn’t think I told you; he lives and works right here on the top two floors above the parlour.” She poured more whisky into her glass. “You’ll never get up there though — he has armed guards, it’s impossible. Sorry.” She raised the glass and was about to drink when the door opened, letting a flash of natural light into the parlour as another man entered.
Oscar patted the barmaid’s claw of a hand.
“Thank you anyway,” he said sincerely and moved away from the counter to the rear of the room, where he had noticed a faintly illuminated sign announcing the entrance to the “House of Pleasure”.
Down two steps was a small landing, to the left the stairs continued to the lower level but up two steps on the right, there was a door marked Private No Entry; he assumed the Chinese characters alongside meant the same thing.
Stepping up to the door, he tried the handle and to his surprise it opened. He moved cautiously into a corridor, which appeared to be exactly like any hotel landing with numbered doors on either side. He walked to the far end and found another staircase. He took the steps two at a time. It led to another identical landing and door also marked Private No Entry. This one, however, did not open for him. He tried the handle several times and rapped on the door with his signet ring but to no avail. He turned in despair and slumped on the step wondering what to do next. He was certain he had found the entrance to the offices and private quarters of the master, as the barmaid had described him. The adrenalin, which had fed his initial charge, no longer pumped through his veins. With his heart pounding furiously in his chest, his mind flipped from one thing to another, completely confusing him. He couldn’t get past the heavy locked door and if he could he would probably have to overpower the armed guards. Then who’s to say that Greg and Sophie are in there anyway? He thought. In fact, as he sat there he began to feel a bit foolish. Then suddenly he heard the sound of the door opening behind him and even as he turned he felt the cold touch of a gun barrel on his cheek.
Just how he did it or what hidden animal survival instinct reflexively emerged he never knew, but within a split second of that chilling touch of steel he reached back with his right hand, grabbed the man’s wrist, pushed up with his body and jerked the assailant over his shoulder in one fluid move. The man crashed into the edge of the half open fire door, smashing his jaw and nose in the process, to land unconscious in an undignified heap.
Oscar looked in disbelief at the man for a moment then reached across and recovered the Browning semi-automatic discarded by his would-be assailant. His hand, trembling from the sudden exertion of the attack, barely gripped the heavy weapon; for a few seconds as he considered what he should do he recalled a similar incident only a year ago, when some local thugs had attacked them. On that occasion he had also picked up a discarded gun, systematically released the safety and fired at one of the assailants, killing him instantly. In spite of the knowledge that the assailant would quite happily have killed him, had he not fired first the killing of that man had a profound effect on Oscar, leaving him to suffer frequent guilt-ridden nightmares. He was calmer now and his hand had stopped trembling. He weighed the gun in his hand; this time he knew that when he eventually found the people holding Greg and Sophie there would be no such remorse.
As he looked down at the unconscious man he saw the spare ammunition pouch clipped to his belt. It was as he bent to recover it that he discovered the bunch of security keys. Now, armed with gun and keys, he felt a new surge of confidence as he crept cautiously up the stairs and into the master’s lair.
The next door was ajar, probably left open by the unfortunate guard. As he pulled it open and listened he detected a sound before moving forward silently on the carpeted floor. About halfway along the corridor he stopped outside a door when he heard the sickening sound of someone being beaten interspersed with a woman’s anguished whimpering, which seemed to rise and fall in unison with the repeated lashes. Without any more thought he placed his hand on the door handle and turned slowly — it yielded to his touch and opened slightly. Then, taking a deep breath, he pushed it open and stepped into the room.
The nearest man, his arm raised holding a short piece of plastic hosepipe, froze like a statue; he stared in alarm at Oscar then down at the man he had been methodically beating. Oscar followed the man’s gaze and recognised the victim at once. Smoothly raising his gun hand, he deliberately flicked off the safety and dispassionately squeezed the trigger. The shot hit the man under his raised arm and shattered his shoulder before lodging in his spine. A second man holding a machine pistol was standing over the sobbing girl. Oscar turned towards him and fired but missed completely. His next rapidly released shot hit the man’s gun arm, sending the machine pistol clattering to the floor. Two other men stood up in alarm, one diving behind a settee, and the other reaching inside his jacket for his own gun. Oscar turned on him and paused — for some strange reason he wanted to give the man a chance to surrender but the man continued to draw his weapon. The fourth and fifth shots hit the man full in the chest; he was dead as he hit the floor.
Oscar moved over to the couch where the fourth man had dived for cover. He was kneeling face down with his hands covering his head, his body trembling in abject fear.
Oscar wanted to shoot him in the back of the head and probably would have if Sophie’s voice hadn’t penetrated his adrenalin infused brain.
“No Oscar!” she screamed.
Startled by the woman’s voice, Oscar looked up, ignoring the cowering man. He stood like a statue for a moment, gathering his wits, then moved across to the semi-conscious Greg. He’d been stripped to the waist and securely tied to the desk; his back was a mess of bruises and cuts where he had been brutally beaten with the plastic hose.
“Untie him,” Oscar ordered Sophie. He hardly recognised his own voice. Then he went back to the man cowering behind the sofa. “Get up you animal,” he commanded. The man looked around warily then very slowly turned and dragged himself to his feet.
Oscar recognised the man.
“You’re Annie’s brother?”
The man nodded slowly.
“You’re the bastard who turned his own sister into a junkie and prostitute?” Oscar’s voice was icy with anger.
“Don’t blame me for that!” the man retorted trying to recover some dignity.
“Oh, so who should we blame eh?” Oscar prodded him with the gun “Who gave her the drugs to start with and who pushed her into your boss’s bed eh?” he accused and prodded him again. “Your own sister you bastard!” He half turned away in disgust.