Between him and the Jap was a trap-door leading to the desert below, providing you had a parachute. And the Jap had one, strapped to his back.
“Ready to go,” Sparky told himself. “He would have gone before this, but he was afraid. Now he will never jump.”
As if reading his thoughts, the Jap sprang forward. He was too late. Sparky was solidly settled on the door.
Hissing like a snake, the little man snatched a knife from his belt. One moment it hung in air, the next it rattled against the wing’s floor. A heavy wrench had crushed against the Jap’s arm, all but breaking it.
Between Him and the Jap Was a Trap-Door
Then they came to grips. It was muscle and brawn against ju-jitsu, and all manner of oriental tricks. Now an arm, like the tail of a boa-constrictor, was about Sparky’s neck, choking, choking him to death. And now Sparky’s steel-like fingers were gripping the Jap’s arm, twisting it until bones cracked.
It was a tooth-and-nail battle. Now the Jap was clawing at Sparky’s eyes. And now Sparky had those claws between his teeth.