A sudden loud snore from Red Pennington drowned out Hammond’s voice. The chunky lieutenant had done his full share of the piloting since leaving Haiti, and was letting weary Nature have her way now.
“We’ll let him sleep,” chuckled Don, “until we get to your office, Hammond. We can discuss everything then.”
Red’s slumber, however, was due to be rudely interrupted. After skirting the edges of San Francisco’s old Chinatown, the car turned up a steep hill at the top of which stood the great stone-walled house of Cho-San.
“I wanted to show you this place just in passing, Commander,” Hammond was saying. “Cho-San lives here like an Oriental prince, yet his only visible income is from his curio shop down the hill. We know he’s a big shot in the criminal organization of Scorpia, but we can’t pin it on him. That job will be up to you, if you live to finish it! Cho-San’s thugs will stop at nothing—”
BANG!
At the loud report, the car lurched sidewise, swayed another twenty yards, and stopped. Red Pennington awoke with a yell. Guns out, the three men in the back seat peered through the bulletproof windows.
They were just opposite the dark stone edifice, which was the only building within a hundred yards. Could a single shot from behind those misty walls have ripped through one of the rear tires?
It was Don Winslow who answered the question in all their minds.
“Just an accidental blowout, I think,” he stated, putting away his automatic. “There’s not enough light to fire a shot with any accuracy.”
“You’re right, sir!” muttered Hammond, following Don through the door. “I guess I’m jittery just because it happened right across from Cho-San’s stone fort. Probably just an accident—”