GUN MOLL, Undercover Nemesis of Crime in-
TENTACLES OF EVIL
A complete book length novel by
RICHARD MAXXON

CHAPTER I
CLUTCHING HANDS

Donna Mae walked quickly along the dimly lit sidewalk, the click-click of her footsteps echoing off the brick walls that loomed overhead.  Shadows clustered on the pavement and gathered in darkened doorways like silent conspirators.  Occasionally the scratchy voice of a radio or the cry of a child was heard from within the safety of a warm and well-lit apartment, but outside, Donna Mae was alone in the night.
Donna Mae Nichols was a small town girl who had fled the bonds of home for life in the big city.  On the afternoon of her graduation from high school she had packed her bag and hitch hiked across the state with all her savings and a pretty head full of glittering dreams.  With her wholesome, prom queen beauty and the reviews of her starring role in the senior class play, she had hoped to find Broadway waiting for her with open arms.  But the theater was overwhelmed with ambitious and talented young girls, and the stock market crash had put an end to any dreams of easy riches.  Donna Mae had been lucky to land a job slinging hash at an all night diner.  Now worn out mentally and physically after her shift, she plodded home on aching feet.
Home was room in a grimy tenement she shared with two other working girls, a third floor walk-up with a bathroom down the hall.  The place was nothing to write home about, but it was cheap and best of all her roommates worked the dayshift, so Donna Mae had the luxury of sleeping alone in the creaking Murphy bed.  She hadn't lost her ambition though, was still auditioning in the smaller theaters and had even come close to getting a part.  She told herself that this situation was only temporary.
Donna Mae had walked home alone many nights over the six months of her stay in New York.  In the beginning she had felt fear of the night and the unfamiliar surroundings, but over time she had become almost complacent.  Her youth and energy had enabled her to forget the dangers of the nocturnal hours.  But tonight...
A shadow moved up ahead.  It was almost imperceptible, but enough to alert Donna Mae to a change in her surroundings.  Her footsteps slowed, then speeded up as she veered away from the building fronts with their darkened recesses and headed for the haven of the next streetlight.  There, she felt safer.  Bathed in the buttery light of the lamp, Donna Mae smiled to herself as she looked around, making a careful check of her surroundings.  Nothing to fear.  The distraction had been a stray cat, perhaps, or simply a paper blown about in the slight breeze.  Maybe it had been nothing more than fatigued eyes and an active imagination.  She walked on.
But now there was a sound, a scrape, barely audible, yet...  She looked back over her shoulder.  There in the pool of light that she had just vacated stood a figure.  It was a man.  There was nothing overtly threatening about him.  He was simply standing, lighting a cigarette, perhaps not even aware of her.  And yet ... he had not been there just a moment before.  Donna Mae pulled her jacket tighter against the autumn chill and hurried on, her footsteps clicking more rapidly on the concrete.  Two more blocks to go.  She crossed the next street and hurried on.  A car passed her, headlights gleaming against the blank shop windows.  She watched its red tail lights dwindle in the distance and then disappear.  Her glance happened to take in the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street and what she saw froze her heart.  There was a dark figure walking, not looking in her direction, but keeping pace with her.  She stopped, and the figure continued on ... but ... slower?  Donna Mae couldn't tell.  She picked up her pace once again and took a quick glance behind herself.  The man from the streetlight was gone.  Was he still there, walking in the shadows, or was he perhaps the figure now on the opposite side of the street?  Donna Mae hoped her imagination was playing tricks with her and she laughed softly at what she told herself was foolishness.  Her body tingling with tension, she forced herself to smile, to walk with a confident and measured gait, to put useless panic out of her mind.  She stepped along briskly through the darkness, until she reached the mouth of the alley midway down the block.  Donna Mae slowed, her heart thudded in her chest.
The alley looked like the black mouth of an open grave.  She saw nothing threatening in it, and yet, it was pregnant with imagined terrors.  Donna Mae realized she had stopped walking.  She was standing still, actually trembling.  She tried to move forward and felt almost a physical resistance, as if her body was taking control of her will and refusing to go any farther.  This was so foolish.  It was an empty space, merely an empty space.  The opening was dark, yes, but Donna Mae was eighteen years old, not a child to be frightened of a little darkness.  With a deliberate act of will, she placed one foot in front of the other.  It took another act of will to force her body to take the second step.  Then the third.  Now she was directly in front of the gaping black maw of the alley.  Every hair on Donna Mae's body stood straight up in terror despite her efforts to impose mental calm.  Hard as she tried to hold her gaze straight, she felt her head turn, felt her eyes strain to pierce the inky depths.  Perspiration started out on her forehead and her muscles quivered with effort as she forced herself to take the next step.
And then she looked into the alley, Donna Mae saw, materializing like a mask of evil from the void, the dim, shadowy form of a leering oriental face!  It swam up toward her like a diver emerging from watery depths into the light of day.  Donna Mae choked, unable to give vent to the scream that threatened to explode from within her.  She stood momentarily transfixed, like a bird mesmerized by the gaze of the serpent.
Suddenly she whirled, all thoughts of calm and confidence pushed out of her head by a tidal wave of absolute, shrieking terror.  Her legs flew in a white blur as she pelted down the sidewalk, across the street, and onto her own block.  Ahead was the doorway of her own building.  It was dark now, the light bulb over the door burned out or ... missing...
The door key jangled in Donna Mae's hands.  Her slender fingers, like clumsy sausages, refused to obey her commands to hold the tiny object firmly as she dragged it out of her purse, spilling the other contents - makeup, her tips from the night's work - heedlessly upon the sidewalk.  She looked across the street and there was the man she had seen earlier, now standing and watching silently.  Behind her she now saw the shadowy figure from the streetlamp, joined by his compatriot, emerging from the alley.  She dashed the last few yards at a dead run, bounded up the steps to her doorway, stabbed the key at the lock over and over until it finally slid in, turned.  She threw open the door and lurched inside the darkened foyer, hysterical with relief at gaining sanctuary, when suddenly out of the darkness, two hands emerged.
The fingers flexed, opening and closing with slow deliberation, and Donna Mae watched transfixed in an almost hypnotic stupor as the hands drew nearer ... nearer.  They were like the talons of a great predatory bird, wrinkled with age and yet still powerful, the fingers tipped with long, sharp nails.  The arms were thin, of a waxy yellow hue in the dim light that filtered in from the streetlamps outside.
Donna Mae whirled to flee from those clutching hands.  She leaped back out the door and down the steps, colliding with the two men who had followed her.  They rolled down the steps together in a tangle of flailing arms and legs.  She punched and kicked until she broke free and staggered to her feet.  Here came the man from across the street running toward her, his arms spread wide.  She turned and ran up the sidewalk, pursued now by all three men, and then she stopped short.  Up ahead she saw the tail lights of a car, the car that had passed her earlier.  But the lights were getting closer.  The car was reversing slowly toward her.  The doors were opening.  Other figures were emerging.
Like a cornered animal, Donna Mae spun again, only to find herself confronted once again with the clutching hands from her apartment building.  Now she saw the body they belonged to, tall and lean and clad in ornate, silk robes.  She looked up to behold the terrifying face of an ancient oriental, scarred by a mocking smile, with narrow eyes like twin portals to a room full of unspeakable evil.  His hands grasped her shoulders with an unbreakable grip.  Donna Mae flailed madly but the grip of those iron talons only tightened on her.  The other figures closed in.  A cloth was pressed against her face and a sweetish odor made her head whirl.
Her vision darkening, her legs buckling, Donna Mae now struggled to fight the effect of the powerful opiate that was taking her down into the twilight abyss of insensibility.  She felt her body go limp and be lifted like a sack of potatoes by what she now saw was a gang of chinamen.  Working silently, they gathered her up and effortlessly carried her to the waiting automobile.  The last thing Donna Mae knew was being bundled into the back seat, before she sank into blackness and merciful oblivion.

CHAPTER II
GANGLAND SUMMIT

Tendrils of blue cigar smoke hung low like a cloaking fog over the meeting table in Rocky Brannigan's conference room.  In that room sat a dozen of the underworld's most powerful mobsters.  Tony "Slitnose" Malone, "Applesauce" Donnelly, Ricardo "la[?] Culebra Loco" Santos, among others were in attendance.  In one corner, well away from the noise and smoke of the other gangsters sat Ling Duk, the seemingly inoffensive old man sent by the tongs of mysterious Chinatown, with his English-speaking son, Roy.  At the head of the table, presiding like a warlord over his band of chieftains, sat Rocky Brannigan.
Officially this was a meeting of equals, but everyone knew who ran the show here.  Brannigan's powerful bulk dominated the room the way a lion might dominate a pack of ravenous hyenas.  His gaze swept over them and assessed the strengths and weaknesses of each.  Over the years he had developed a special sense for accurately judging human character.  This was how he had attained power in the underworld and held it all these years, by seeing who was coiled to pounce and striking them down before they were ready to move against him.
Around the table, amid coarse jests and over raised glasses of bootleg scotch, the gangster chiefs looked back and surreptitiously assessed him.  They saw a large, blocky figure of a man, still handsome but beginning to show the signs of middle age.  A heavy jaw, suspicious eyes, these were the markings of a man who had lived a life of constant battle and intrigue.  And as ever, he breathed with the faint wheeze that came from the bullet he had taken in a police ambush - a terrible chest wound that would have claimed Rocky's life, if not for the timely appearance of the woman known as Gun Moll.  The beautiful stranger had swept in from nowhere just in the nick of time, snatched him from the jaws of death, and outrun the police to bring him back to his stronghold.
Now she sat behind Rocky, a hand resting on his shoulder.  Many of the men looked at her, some in open admiration of her diamond-draped, sinuous form, sheathed in a silken gown that enhanced, rather than concealed her charms.  Others tried to plumb the depths of those cold, glittering eyes, framed by a face as immobile and emotionless as a white, porcelain mask.  It was with a shared, but unspoken dread that the gangster chiefs regarded this woman.  She was too calm, too secure, almost contemptuous of them, almost challenging them.  She seemed like a woman who didn't care whether she lived or died.  The men feared that there was more to her than met the eye.
If only they had known!  Moll's gaze swept over them, its contempt hidden only by the coldness of her eyes and the immobility of her face.  Not one of the gangsters imagined her true motives.  None of them, including Rocky, realized that since her husband and child had been cut down in the deadly crossfire of inter-gang warfare, she had dedicated her life to destroying every one of them by working from within their ranks.  She sat behind Rocky, idly massaging his shoulder through his heavy wool suit, behaving like his slightly bored, beautiful good luck charm.
Rocky rose and thumped his shotglass on the table for silence.  Talking ceased and all eyes turned toward him, expectantly.
"Alright you guys," he growled.  "That's enough idle chit chat.  It sounds like an old ladies' knitting circle here."  Rocky's face stretched in a hard grin.  The others chuckled quietly.
"I think you all know," Rocky said, "that we got a problem here.  And we gotta solve it.  Someone," he looked pointedly at Ling Duk, "is muscling in on our territory.
Ling Duk blinked back impassively.
Rocky continued, "We've always left the Chinatown rackets alone, had a kind of an understanding.  We know they have their own ways and we haven't messed with them.  We've been respectful.  Let them bring in a little dope, run a few houses down in their part of town.  No one can begrudge them that."
The men around the table nodded in agreement.  Chinatown had always been an unfamiliar world to them and they had kept their hands off.  The arrangement had been mutual.
"Now though," Rocky glowered, "Look what's been going on.  We've got rumors of mysterious shipments coming in and out of the harbor.  There's women disappearing all over the city.  No bodies, no nothing.  Just gone.  We got opium showing up in every part of the city.  I don't mean a little here, a little there.  I mean big business.  Somebody's plundering our territories.  Getting rich.  And it ain't us."
Rocky gestured toward Ling Duk.  "I've invited our guest here tonight so we could talk this over.  Be civilized.  Work out an agreement so everybody wins.  Nobody wants a war, especially you, Mr. Duk, because it can only end one way."
With his arms spread to include all the men around the table, Rocky said, "We are the power in this town.  Us.  Here, in this room.  And I, Mr. Duk, control that power.  You people are concentrated in one very small area.  We surround you.  We will not permit you to trespass in our territories."
His face hard, Rocky said, "I say this out of respect, Mr. Duk.  We are willing to work with you in this city, but if you try to move out of your place we will put you right back again."
All this time Ling Duk's son had been whispering in his father's ear, translating the English into Chinese.  Ling Duk had been nodding sagely as his son spoke.  He understood the gangsters' language perfectly well, but seemed to feel that withholding this information might give him a slight advantage in this encounter.  As he listened to his son, he noticed the woman examining him with her icy cold eyes.
The two Orientals were quite a contrast, Ling Duk and his son.  The son was clad in a western suit and tie, his black hair brushed back.  He spoke fluent English that indicated a high level of education and familiarity with western culture.  Ling Duk, on the other hand, could have just stepped off the boat from China.  In his long robe, his pigtail hanging down his back, with his benignly smiling face, he seemed the very image of an old Chinese laborer completely out of place in a modern city.  In fact, Rocky and the other gangsters were not even certain that he understood the purpose of this meeting.
Ling Duk spoke for some time to his son, quietly, in their own sing-song language.  The son nodded over and over as the message continued.  At last he rose and bowed to the men at the table.  "My father wishes me to offer his most sincere greetings," Roy Ling began.  "And he begs your pardon and indulgence of our Chinese customs.  He wishes me to respectfully inform you that according to our system, the family name takes its place first, before the given name.  His name is not, as you have called him, Mr. Duk.  It is, rather, Mr. Ling."
Rocky shrugged.  "Okay Mr. Ling.  We do things differently here in America.  Sorry if I offended you.  But let's get on with the business at hand, shall we?"
Another whispered conference.  The old man and his son seemed to be at odds over something.  Then Roy Ling began to speak.  "The business, as you say, is of trespass.  It is a problem of an ... over extension from our territory into your own."
There was a general nod of agreement around the table and the son continued.  "Gentlemen, my father instructs me to inform you that this is not an action of our established merchants, who wish only to live in peace and harmony among the Americans.  In recent days there has risen among us a powerful man who may be at the root of these problems.  He is..." the son looked down at his father, who nodded up at him.  "His name is Doctor Sin Lo."
"Doctor?" blurted out Rocky.  "This guy's a doctor?  Like an MD?  What's he doing in the rackets then?"
The son smiled.  "Ah, you do not understand.  It is a title of respect.  Respect for his learning, his discipline.  In China, he was apprenticed as a child to a ... society.  A fraternal organization, you might say.  As the years went by and he grew in wisdom and strength he became the master of that society.  He has devoted his life to study and to the strength and perfection of his will.  He is said to be ... more than human."
Rocky snorted openly and the others smiled.  "What?  He's like a magician or something?" A genial chuckle ran around the table before Rocky's face hardened again.  "Look sonny, I'm going to tell you one thing real clear.  I don't care much about you secret clubs or any of that.  The poaching stops.  Now.  Because if it doesn't, you and your pop here, and all your other 'merchants', and this Doctor Sin Lo character are going to be swimming back to China the long way, dragging about an extra pound of lead each.  You got me?"
The son nodded calmly.  "Of course.  This is understood.  I was merely trying to help in some small way by informing you of the situation.  Please accept my apology and that of my honored father for any disharmonious influence we have brought here tonight."
Rocky just shrugged, but Moll, who had been watching the old celestial carefully through half closed eyes, thought she detected a slight twitch of the ancient face.  The old man, who had held quite still throughout the discussion, now flicked his eyes to his left.
From the corner of her eye Moll saw ... or thought she saw ... the faint passage of a shadow across the darkened window.  They were three floors up.  Nothing could be out there ... and yet...
Suddenly she threw herself on Rocky, knocking him to the floor.  "Down!" she yelled.  "Everybody down!  Now!"  Even as the gangsters fell to the floor they heard the crash and tinkle of shattered window glass and suddenly the room was shaken by the stuttering roar of a tommy gun.  Bullets smashed the bottles and glasses on the table, ripped into the fine, wood paneling on the walls.  Bodies hit the floor and rolled for cover.  Glass and splinters flew through the air, thrown up by the fusillade of hot lead.  The overhead light was shot out, and the room was plunged in blackness.
Suddenly it was over.  Silence fell and with that, the battle hardened gangsters pulled automatics and scrambled for the window, determined to return fire.  There was nothing to be seen on the empty, dark street.  Not even the sound of fleeing footsteps could be heard.  The men looked all around but could see no way a gunman could have reached this window, much less vanished into nothingness.
Matches scraped and lit the room with their flickering glow.  The gangsters surveyed the wreckage of the room and congratulated themselves on their narrow escape.  In the corner, Ling Duk's son struggled to help the frail old man to his feet.  "Father, are you all right?  Are you hurt?  Let me help you..."
But the old man swept his son's concerns aside and pointed, mouth open wide in a silent scream of terror.  On the center of the table, among the splinters and glittering shards, lay a sheet of fine paper.  And on that paper was printed in black ink, a single word.  "Silence."

CHAPTER III
IN THE LAIR OF SIN LO

Donna Mae trod a slow and tangled path back to consciousness.  She didn't know how long she had lain in a twilight stupor, neither fully awake nor truly asleep.  At last she realized she was reclining on some kind of rough cot, wooden boards poking through the thin mattress.  The place was dark and smoky, and smelt of human beings confined for long periods in close quarters.  As she gradually recovered her mental faculties she began to wonder just how long she had been in this room.  She was hungry and thirsty.  She remembered being taken at night.  Perhaps she had slept through the day?  Could the drug that had rendered her unconscious have been that powerful?  At last she gathered her will sufficiently to turn her head and gaze about her.
The room was lit only by a candle on a crooked table in the center.  Along the sides, crude bunks had been knocked together out of old lumber and lined the walls.  All around she heard rustling and sighing, and the occasional low sob.  As her vision cleared, she began to perceive people in the shadowy recesses of those bunks.  They seemed to be tiny and pathetic figures, huddled under thin blankets.  In one corner squatted an ancient being in a shapeless robe fiddling about with various long rods and other odds and ends.  Donna Mae felt a slight rustling beside her, and turning away from the room she saw now the pale, thin face of another woman on the pillow beside her.
This new vision, slack mouthed and bleary eyed, half hidden under a mass of tangled hair, shocked Donna Mae into wakefulness.  She sat up, startled, and clutched at the thin blanket that covered them both, grasping at any protection from this new vision of terror.  The face smiled, or made movements evidently intended to represent a smile, then the expression changed to one of utter despair.  Donna Mae looked in shocked disbelief.  She realized this was a girl about her own age.  Despite the young woman's haggard appearance, she was pretty, or had been.  Now though, she looked like a soulless, ragged scarecrow.
"Oh no," the girl moaned.  "Not another..."
Donna Mae found her voice well enough to whisper, "Another?  Where are we?  Who are you?"
The hoarse laugh that answered her chilled Donna Mae to the very marrow of her bones.  It was not an expression of mirth, but rather of despair, anguish, and shame.  Donna Mae reached out to touch the disheveled hair, but the girl cowered back.  "No," she cried.  "Don't touch me!  Not yet, anyway.  Not while ... you're still..."
The woman seemed to shrink inside herself, trying to create a space between herself and Donna Mae.  "You asked who I am ... I'm nobody!" she hissed.  "The girl I was is gone.  Dead to the world.  At least I hope that's what everyone thinks.  Better that, than for them to know of ... this."
"This?" answered Donna Mae.  "What is this?  Where are we?"
The girl glared at her with an expression of mingled outrage and pity.  "This is the second time you've asked me that question.  Are you really so eager to know the answer?  Isn't it enough for me simply to tell you that your life is over ... that you've entered the lowest pit of Hell!"
At the sound of voices, the ancient creature from the corner shuffled up and offered the girl one of the long rods.  Donna Mae realized now that it was no simple rod, but a pipe.  An opium pipe!  The pipe was offered to her too, but Donna Mae rejected it firmly.  The lotus held no charms for her.  The ancient being grinned like a yellow toothed gargoyle.  "Take it," said the girl in a dreamy, far off voice.  "Take it ... and forget..."  The voice trailed off.
Donna Mae spent the rest of the night, if night it truly was in this windowless cell, weathering a storm of thoughts and emotions.  So she had been kidnapped, drugged, and then brought to some sort of opium den.  She had read about such places in tattered magazines she had hidden from her mother's watchful eye.  Opium dens were dark and vile places where hopeless souls dreamed their lives away on the vapors of an alien blossom.  But why she would have been brought to this place in such a way, Donna Mae could not imagine.  She lay in the darkness listening to the scratchings, the breathing, the muffled, sudden cries of women in the depths of despair.  The sounds came at her from all directions, and Donna Mae knew that she was trapped in a room filled with the tortured and lost.
Hours passed on leaden feet.  At some point food was brought in.  It was a thin, tasteless gruel.  Most of the girls - for there appeared to be about twenty - rose from their bunks to eat a few mouthfuls.  Of plates and utensils there were none, and the food was eaten with fingers dipped directly into the serving bowl.  Donna Mae saw their thin, shadowy forms pass back and forth before the candle flame.  Most were clad in various combinations of underclothing or ragged shifts.  Modesty seemed no longer to be a consideration to these debased creatures.  Donna Mae rose and ate a few handfuls to keep up her strength.  She tried to feed the girl who shared her bunk, but to no avail.  That tormented soul had escaped deep into the world of dreams and had no wish to return.  From time to time one of the girls would be called out of the room.  Some cowered pitifully beneath their ragged blankets and had to be dragged out by their ancient, grinning guardian.  Others rose with a sigh of resignation and walked like one might walk to her own execution.  Regardless of how they left, all returned with the same glassy, detached look, like zombies who walked the earth after their natural life had fled.
At last the wizened crone shuffled over to Donna Mae's bunk and seized her shoulder.  That sticklike arm possessed an amazing strength and the misshapen fingers dug painfully into Donna Mae's flesh.  Reluctantly, Donna Mae swung her bare feet over the edge of the bunk and onto the floor.  It was only at this moment, knowing she was to leave the room for some unknown purpose, that she realized her own state of undress.  Clad only in her brassiere and silken half slip, she looked about desperately for something to cover herself with.  Her ancient guardian must have seen this reaction many times before, because for the first time, her eyes twinkled and she barked a hoarse laugh.
Donna Mae was half led, half dragged out of the room's single doorway and along a narrow hall so dark she could not even see the walls that brushed her shoulders.  She stumbled along, once banging her head on a low doorway, fearful of plunging headlong down a sudden, unseen flight of steps.  The corridor twisted and turned in labyrinthine coils.  In moments Donna Mae was hopelessly lost, her only guide being the cackling old creature who guided her remorselessly toward ... what?
A curtain was swept aside and a door pushed open.  Suddenly Donna Mae was shoved out into a large room lit by braziers and ornate lanterns.  Even this dim light was too much for her eyes, accustomed as they were to the half dusk of the opium den and the pitchy blackness of the convoluted hallway.  She blinked painfully, struggling to clear her vision of the exploding purple blossoms that clouded it.  By degrees she became aware of her surroundings.  Her bare feet sank into a deep carpet.  Rich tapestries covered the walls.  The room was filled with furniture and statuary carved in forms at once fantastic, alien, and terrifying.  High above her towered the statue of a gigantic dragon, wrought of gleaming bronze.  From its flaring nostrils rose ropy tendrils of incense, so thick as to be nearly choking.  But beneath the dragon's rearing head was the most startling sight of all.  Here, on some sort of elaborate throne, sat the powerful and fearsome vision of an aged celestial clad in heavy, silken robes.  His fingers, barely poking out of the voluminous sleeves, were heavy with jeweled rings.  His severe and cruel face was decorated with wispy moustaches and a thin, pointed beard.  And his head was topped by a close-fitting skullcap.
For a moment Donna Mae was moved to wonder at this amazing spectacle.  He looked like some storybook vision of a fantastic Chinese magician.  For one fleeting second a grin almost crossed her face.  Then, as if he had read her mind, his own face contorted in a terrifying, hideous smile.  No expression of friendly greeting was this, but a show of pure and unadulterated evil.
He rose and stepped toward her, an unholy light flickering in his slanted eyes.  Donna Mae stepped back and tried desperately to cover with her hands the generous expanses of gleaming flesh that showed through her scanty garb.  The mandarin had glided very close now.  She felt his breath hot upon her face.  She saw his powerful, clawlike hands emerge from their sleeves; the hands tipped with long, pointed nails; the hands she recognized as the clutching claws from her apartment building.  Terrified into paralysis, she watched dumbly as, with cruel deliberation, he slipped the straps of her brassiere off her shoulders, pulled the frail garment down until her young breasts quivered beneath his gaze.
"Yes," he said, in a heavily accented English.  "Yes, I will enjoy training this one before she makes her voyage to the orient!"
Suddenly Donna Mae understood the despair in the opium den, the far off looks of those girls who returned from their mysterious summons.  She was to be defiled by this fiend, subjected to his vile caresses and then to be sent to some far off port, there to live out her life in horror and degradation with only one release ... death!
His hands were on her now.  He bent toward her, his very breath reeking of unspeakable lust.  Donna Mae screamed.

CHAPTER IV
SATAN'S MAZE

As Sin Lo's grinning lips descended toward hers, Donna Mae opened wide her mouth and shrieked in abject terror.  From some unsuspected reservoir, her nubile young body found the strength to tear itself loose from Sin Lo's iron grasp.  With a desperate wrench, she was free, leaving only the flimsy material of her brassiere dangling from his withered claws.  Donna Mae crossed her hands protectively over her chest and backed away as Sin Lo laughed, flung her garment aside, and stepped toward her.
Once again the hands reached forth, nails almost scraping Donna Mae's alabaster skin.  And so in a slow, dance-like pursuit, they circled the room.  Donna Mae walked backwards, trying to maintain her balance amid the flickering shadows and the ornate furnishings as she focused her attention on her pursuer.  For his part, Sin Lo stalked her with the relentless ease of a great, jungle cat, gliding forward with a sinuous grace that seemed impossible for so aged a man.  Donna Mae burned with shame as she saw the old celestial's eyes devour her with naked hunger.  He was toying with her, playing cat and mouse.  From time to time he would spring forward, just far enough to make Donna Mae yelp and dodge away, stumbling over heavy draperies and furniture while Sin Lo stood and laughed.
Now the two circled a grotesquely carven mahogany table.  Donna Mae's fearful eyes were locked on the slanting black orbs of Sin Lo.  Round and round the table they circled.  At any moment, Sin Lo might feint and cause Donna Mae to jump to one side in an involuntary reaction which she would have to follow with a sudden leap away as Sin Lo lunged toward her from the other direction.  But Donna Mae knew that as much as Sin Lo might be enjoying this torment he would sooner or later tire of the game, and then...
She let her eyes pour forth their full measure of horror and despair.  He seemed to feed on it, to lean across the table and draw it from her in the same way a great, famished leech fastens itself upon a victim and draws forth its loathsome sustenance.  Donna Mae seemed to shrink, to wither as Sin Lo appeared to grow taller, more powerful, looming over her in fiendish triumph, awaiting the perfect moment to pluck his prize.
Then, with a sudden kick, Donna Mae overturned the table, slamming it against the body of Sin Lo.  The old chinaman stumbled backward, surprised and infuriated.  With a heathen curse he flung the heavy piece of furniture aside and sprang.  But Donna Mae's feet were already flying.  She ran madly for the door through which she had entered.  She grasped the doorknob and yanked open the barrier, experiencing a moment's giddy panic at the sight of the yawning black maw that faced her.  Then she heard the panting of Sin Lo behind her, felt sharp nails rake her back, and with the reminder of what was behind her, she hurled herself forward into the unknown.
Sin Lo stood for a moment, quivering with rage as he watched her fleeing white form swallowed by the darkness.  In a moment she was gone from sight and there was no sign of her but the diminishing sound of her bare feet slapping against the floorboards as she ran.  Then Sin Lo's lips contorted in a smile of unholy glee.  Without taking his eyes off the open doorway he reached out and took hold of a velvet rope that hung from the ceiling.  He gave it two sharp tugs, then folded his hands together within his voluminous sleeves and stood as still as a jade statue.
Somewhere deep in the bowels of the building a gong sounded.  In a large, underground room, black garbed men forgot their idle amusements.  Slanted black eyes sparkled.  Sinewy hands brandished knives and garrotes, silent weapons of the unseen assassin.  The room emptied without a sound.  No words were exchanged.  None were needed.  The signal was well known to all.  These men learned quickly the commands of Sin Lo, or else they paid for their ignorance with their own lives.  Such was the obedience demanded by the Master of Evil.
* * *
Donna Mae fled down the black corridor at a dead run until she collided face first with a wall where the corridor made a right angle turn.  She fell backward from the impact and wasted a precious moment on the floor, stunned and trying to shake the stars from her vision.  A second later though, she was up and making her way more carefully.  Her smarting nose was warning enough, and so she walked now and held her hands in front of her and to the sides, brushing the walls of the corridor.  With her fingertips, she could feel unseen doorways as she passed.  Using them as markers, she tried to make some rough guess of how far she was walking.  But in the total darkness her imagination took over and it was impossible to estimate.  The constant twists and turns of the corridor had prevented her from forming any sense of direction.  She might as well have been lost in some subterranean cave as to be here, in the center of the greatest city in America.  And yet, lost in a cave, she would have had nothing to fear but death.
Deprived of sight by the absolute blackness of her surroundings, Donna Mae's other senses sharpened to compensate.  As she passed the closed doors that lined the corridor she began to pick out faint noises from the other side.  Here and there she heard tantalizing snatches of alien music plucked on some stringed instrument, occasional laughter and once, weeping.  Donna Mae feared to open any of these doors, not knowing what dangers might greet her on the other side.  She moved on, carefully but with growing confidence in her ability to navigate, hoping to find a window or a door to the outside, or perhaps at least a light.  Her bare feet padded silently along the wooden floor until ... something...
Donna Mae couldn't name what unknown sixth sense warned her of danger.  But somehow she knew that ahead waited death.  Some person, or some thing, blocked her path and waited in silence for her to stumble into its path.  With a sudden twist of her body, she threw open the door she felt beside her and fell through.  And not a moment too soon, as she felt, rather than heard, the hiss of some unseen object flying past her through the air and then heard clearly the sound of metal striking the wall behind her.  Donna Mae knew that if she had waited one more second her life would have ended there in that unknown blackness.
In an instant she was on her feet and hurtling down yet another corridor, this one as dark as the first.  Yet there was no more time for caution and Donna Mae ran flat out, trusting her instincts to guide her along the twisting path.  Behind her she heard slamming doors, the stamp of running feet, and the panting of those who pursued her.  Once she felt a knotted rope settle delicately about her neck, but with a desperate twist she slipped free and continued her flight through another door, down yet another hallway.
Unexpectedly, she found herself climbing a set of stairs.  The steps were so narrow and steep she was almost forced to go upon all fours, like climbing a ladder.  Up and up the staircase wound, switching back and continuing skyward as she reached one landing after another.  A hand grasped her ankle.  She kicked out, and was rewarded with the sound of tumbling bodies and a scramble of flailing limbs on the landing below.  But this delayed her pursuers by mere seconds and she drove her aching limbs to carry her ever higher until at last she slammed against a closed, metal door.
The thudding on the steps below her grew louder and without a thought, Donna Mae tore open the door and stepped through.  Turning, she slammed it shut behind her and saw with relief a heavy bar that latched it securely from the outside.  She backed away from it as she fought to catch her breath, seeing the door tremble under the force of blows and kicks from the other side.
She continued backing away from the door.  She could see she was outside now, on the roof of the building.  It was night, and a blanket of stars stretched overhead.  Perhaps it was merely the sudden change as she stepped out from complete darkness, but here the stellar display seemed but little dimmed by the lights and bustle of the city.  Gazing upward, she took another step back, and then stopped.  Against her bare back she felt heavy silk.  Slowly she turned, her eyes widened and a scream welled up, then died in her throat.  She stared directly into the leering eyes of Sin Lo!
"Foolish child," the ancient celestial muttered.  "Much amusement have you afforded this one tonight.  Now though, time for games is ended."
Sin Lo took a step forward.  Donna Mae looked about herself wildly and ran to the edge of the roof.  Below, the ground was lost in dizzying black depths.  No ladder was to be seen, and no other building close enough for a leap to safety.
"There is no escape for you, little one."  Donna Mae whirled to see the advancing figure of Sin Lo, hands outstretched, ready to take possession of her.  "Now compose yourself and submit to the will of Sin Lo."
Donna Mae felt the wind whip her thin slip about her thighs.  She looked up to see the stars.  She was grateful she had made it out of that labyrinth, so that she could see them one more time.  She gazed back at Sin Lo wearing a calm smile.
She saw realization dawn on Sin Lo, saw his face twist into a mask of frustrated rage.  He lunged for her.  Too late!  Donna Mae stepped back off the roof.  For a long moment she seemed to hang in space like a white wraith bidding farewell to her tormenter.  The last thing she knew was a long, rushing plunge to oblivion.

CHAPTER V
GUN MOLL INVESTIGATES

That same, star-frosted night, a gleaming limousine prowled along the dimly lit streets of Chinatown.  The dim streetlights reflected off its polished surface and threw fantastic shadows against the building facades.  The streets were deserted and the entire neighborhood seemed to lie rapt in silent, oriental dreams.  Slowly the big car rolled down the street as its occupants searched the blank, empty windows of the storefronts.  Some signal from the passenger in the rear compartment brought the great automobile to a halt in front of a Chinese apothecary shop in the middle of a block of small shops.  The buttery glow of an oil lamp was barely visible behind the shuttered window.
The driver emerged and walked around the front of the car, back to the passenger door.  He was a huge, ungainly specimen.  Even with his bulky form packed into a straining wool suit he appeared to be more ape than man.  Yet he opened the door and offered his hand with the utmost gentility.
A slender, velvet gloved hand was placed in his and Gun Moll rose from the shadowy depths of the limousine.
"Thank you, Jingles," she said.  "You may wait here."
The simian driver rolled his eyes toward the shop, and then looked back at Moll.  "But ma'am," he stammered, "Rocky said I gotta look after you.  If anything was to happen to you, well Rocky, he'd be awful mad."
The hint of a thin smile played at Gun Moll's lips and quickly vanished.  She knew that Jingles' concern for her had little to do with anything Rocky might do or say.  She appreciated his simple devotion to her, used it on occasion, but did not encourage it.
Her mask-like face expressionless in the half light, she answered, "You needn't worry about me, Jingles.  I shall be right inside and this errand will take only a few minutes.  If I need you I can call."
Jingles opened his mouth to protest but it was too late.  Gun Moll had already walked away from him and was opening the door.
Little chimes tinkled as she stepped inside and closed the door behind her.  The air was thick with the mingled aromas of strange herbs and potions.  The light from the single lamp was barely sufficient to illuminate the ledger book over which a bent, old shopkeeper labored at columns of figures.  The rest of the room was barely visible, lost in shadows.
"Good evening, Mr. Ling."
Ling Duk blinked at the vision which had entered his shop.  Never in all the years he had sat behind this counter had such a woman visited him.  Gun Moll was tall for a woman, and clad in a black velvet sheath that fell to the floor and accented the long, sinuous lines of her figure.  Masses of glittering diamonds clustered at her wrists and throat.  A luxurious fur wrap was thrown over her graceful shoulders, and a veiled, black velvet hat covered her platinum hair and hid her eyes from view.  In one hand she carried a tiny clutch purse, and with the other she crushed out a burning cigarette in an ashtray on the counter.
"Ah, Rocky's woman.  I was afraid you come here.  You go.  Be safe."
Gun Moll's impassive face betrayed none of the whirling emotions that were stirred by the words "Rocky's woman."  Instead, she simply said, "Call me Moll.  Everybody does."
"And yes," she continued.  "I did come.  You knew I would after what happened the other night."
At the look of concern that crossed the old chinaman's features, Moll reassured him, "Don't worry, I'm not here to kill you.  I don't think you were part of the attempt on Rocky's life.  After all, you warned me, but you knew something was up."
"Aaiiieee!" moaned Ling Duk.  "I try to help you.  Try to do good.  Why you come here now to make trouble for me?  Yes, I knew, I knew.  I knew something could happen.  But please, no more talk about this.  The ears of Sin Lo hear everything and his hand reaches everywhere."
But he saw no reprieve in Moll's face, expressionless as a white, porcelain mask.  Instead he heard her say, "Listen to me.  I think you're a nice old man.  I think you'd like to stay here in this shop, healthy and happy, and play with the grandchildren that son of yours will give you someday.  So here's the deal.  You tell me what I want to know, right here, and I leave and you never see me again.  Everybody's happy."
Moll leaned toward him.  "Or we do it the hard way.  I call my associate who's waiting for me outside.  He and I ... escort you to a place of our choosing where you and I can discuss this at length.  And then when we're through with you, maybe this Dr. Sin Lo will want to have a little talk with you about how you spent your time with us."
Moll straightened and turned slightly toward the door.  "Your choice."
The emotions of a cornered rat played upon Ling Duk's face, deceit, cunning, calculation, terror, and finally resignation to the inevitable.
The old man broke.  "No, no.  No need for your friend.  I talk."
Gun Moll faced him and demanded, "Who is this Sin Lo?  Where did he come from?  What does he want?  And what is this mysterious society you mentioned at the meeting?"
Ling Duk looked around, as if to be sure they were alone.  He motioned for Moll to approach, and the two leaned close together.  The aged celestial spoke in a fearful whisper which even Moll could barely hear.
"Two thousand years ago," began Ling Duk, "The first Chin emperor fight all other warlords to rule China.  Fight many battles.  Kill many men."
Gun Moll shrugged.  "That was a long time ago.  I'm interested in the here and now."
"Listen!" hissed Ling Duk.  "You hear and learn.  Emperor Chin was wise.  Not wish to devastate country with war when objectives can be achieved by other means.  Emperor search all through China.  Gather most skillful assassins to serve him, eliminate enemies by murder, blackmail, by all means dishonorable but expedient.  This then, is origin of society I mentioned.  Emperor named them Servants of Evil."
"A band of hired killers?" said Gun Moll.
"Yes, yes," answered Ling Duk, "but more.  You listen and grow wise."
Ling Duk continued, "Powerful me[?] rise to lead Servants of Evil.  In each generation one man grow through strength and wisdom to become master ... Master of Evil!  Under these leaders, Servants society grow powerful.  Last long, longer than Chin Dynasty.  Support new dynasties.  Sweep away old when emperors grow weak.  Gain wealth, power.  Over centuries amass much wealth, knowledge of science, arts, philosophies."
"So they became a kind of a power behind the throne, huh?" mused Gun Moll.  "That's all well and good, but where does this Sin Lo character fit in?  And what's he up to?"
Ling Duk looked around again, his terror clearly building with every passing moment, "In the last century Western powers overran China.  Prostrated her.  Took her wealth.  Brought in poison of opium.  Emperors were weak.  Servants society must go underground, protect itself.
"Well I appreciate the history lesson, Mr. Ling," said Gun Moll.  "But let's stick to Sin Lo and what he's up to."
"Yes, we are coming to that," assured Ling Duk.  "Sin Lo was member of Servants from childhood.  Learn all knowledge of Society.  Grow in power and cunning.  Become Master!  I say before that Sin Lo is more than human.  This is true!  Sin Lo is master of life, master of wisdom, Master of Evil!  Sin Lo sees that power of emperors is finished in China.  Sees that foreigners hold power and that China will be poor and weak for many years to come."
"But Sin Lo is ambitious, ever wishes to grow.  Cannot be satisfied hiding in a poor country, living on scraps.  So he comes here, to richest country on earth.  Seeks to build new empire of his own.  And yet, Sin Lo is now foreigner in this country.  Just another chinaman in America.  He cannot wield power here as Society did in China many years ago.  Here he must be small and secret.  Must make a place in what you call Underworld.  Drugs, white slavery, assassination.  These are the tools of Sin Lo!  Many years has he been in this country.  Now he is strong, strong enough to challenge American gangsters.  One day, strong enough to rule America itself!"
Now Gun Moll realized what she faced.  This was no mere hoodlum, but the heir to two thousand years of accumulated evil.  A mastermind of super crime.  The ancient fiend had devoted his life to the mastery of an organization that had wielded supreme, secret power for generations.  She knew he must be destroyed.  And yet, she feared that even if the Master himself died, his organization could live on, growing ever more powerful over the generations until the day might come when the entire world would writhe under the cruel lash of the Eagle-Dragon Society.
Even as Gun Moll pondered, she felt the prompting of that special sense of danger that had often served her so well.  Yet she ignored it, for there was one more question she must ask.
"Where can I find this Sin Lo?  Tell me now.  And I warn you, if you lie to me..." she left the threat implied.
Ling Duk turned pale.  "This would mean my death!
The lamplight flickered, making the shadows dance about the room.  The darkness seemed to close in, leaving only their two pallid faces illuminated.
"I tell you this, Ling Duk," whispered Gun Moll.  "If you don't tell me what I need to know, it will mean your death."  She reached into the little purse she carried and produced an automatic pistol.
At the sight of that black muzzle pointed like the eye of Destiny straight at his forehead, Ling Duk sobbed in terror.  He clasped his hands as if to beg, but there was no mercy in Gun Moll's cold eyes.  Her finger tightened on the trigger.  "Last chance," she said.
Ling Duk's mouth opened.  He began to stutter, to form words, to speak.  And then...
A barely audible hiss.  Ling Duk jerked.  His eyes bulged and his face blackened.  His fingers clawed at his throat and he struggled to draw in at least one rattling breath as his body twisted in uncontrollable spasms.  He fell to the floor.  A thin line of spittle trickled from the corner of his mouth and then, in seconds, death brought a merciful end to his agonies.  He lay still, his eyes glazing, a thin, steel needle protruding from his neck.
But Gun Moll had already hit the floor and was crouching in the shelter of the counter.  A faint scrape came to her ears and reflexively she fired two quick shots into a darkened corner.  There was a clatter as a shelf of goods fell to the floor and Moll felt a heavy body rush past her.  She fired again.  At the same time there was a louder crash as the front door was kicked in and Jingles smashed his way into the shop, his tommy gun cradled in his arms.
"Miss Moll!" he cried.
And Moll called back, "Over here, don't shoot!  I'm coming over to you!"
Gun Moll felt Jingles' beefy arm encircle her waist and sweep her outside to the safety of the car.  He tossed her into the front seat and climbed in after her, slamming the door.  The engine roared to life and they were already halfway down the block before Jingles asked, "Are you alright?"
"Yes, I'm fine, said Moll.  "You were just in time."
"I was just about to walk in the shop and get you anyway when I heard the shots.  There was something going on out here and I thought you might want to know about it."
Gun Moll looked over at Jingles with new interest.  "What was it?"
"I don't know," said Jingles.  "Shouting, a crash.  Sounded like it wasn't too far off.  You think it means anything?"
"I think that's a good question," said Moll.  "I think we should go find out."

CHAPTER VI
SNATCHED FROM DEATH

For a long time the girl was in a fog of white, cottony light, and it took some time before her mind functioned well enough even to wonder how long she had been aware of it.  In time, the light differentiated itself into colors and shades.  After a long while vague, looming shapes began to appear and it was at this point that Donna Mae finally realized she was alive and awakening.  She lay, gathering her mental resources.  Having no idea where she was, she had no wish to betray her newly conscious state.  And so she observed what she could through slitted eyelids.  At least the bedding on which she lay was of a better quality than the thin pallet she had shared in the opium den.  And while there was a faint, medicinal tang in the air it was nothing like the miasma of opium, incense, and human overcrowding that had assaulted her senses in that cesspool of despair.  Somewhere, feminine voices carried on a quiet conversation.
"I believe she's coming around," said one lowered voice.
"I think she's been awake for awhile now," said another.  This too, was a woman's voice, yet cold and distant.  Donna Mae wondered just whose clutches she had fallen into now.  "You take a break now.  I need to talk with her."
"You mustn't tire her," said the first voice again.  "She's had a terrible shock and needs her rest right now."
"Sister," said the cold voice, "You don't need to tell me.  I'm the one who brought her in.  Now I know there have got to be other patients who need your attention, so let me have a few minutes alone with this one."
"Just a few minutes," agreed the first voice, with an undertone of steely emphasis.  "When I come back everyone leaves, including that ... that ... gentleman you have out in the hall."
There was no answer to that.  Donna Mae heard the staccato of quickly receding footsteps, then heard a door click shut, cutting off the sound.  Her heart raced as she realized she was now alone with the woman who claimed to have rescued her.  Even in her semi-drugged state she felt a sudden rush of excitement.
"You're one lucky girl," said the cold voice.  "I don't know which window you jumped out of, but from the way you looked when we found you, there must have been a pretty good reason for you to take a chance like that."  The voice paused.  "Still, if you hadn't landed on a pile of garbage that broke your fall, they'd have had to sweep you up with a broom and a dustpan.  I wouldn't advise trying that little trick again.  Next time you might not be so lucky."
Donna Mae opened her eyes.  For a moment she blinked painfully as her vision adjusted to the dim light of the room.  Then she looked about.  She was lying in a bed, in a well-lit room.  A vase of flowers stood on a nightstand nearby.  Not much else to see until she focused on the framework with its weights and cords that supported her legs.  Both her lower limbs were encased in heavy plaster.  Her left arm, too, was in a cast.
"Your legs are broken, badly, I might add," the voice informed her.  "Also one arm; some ribs.  Some real nasty bruises and a few cuts.  But you'll live.  Like I said, don't get yourself in situations where you've got to try that window jumping stunt again."
Donna Mae looked toward the sound of the voice and was stunned.  Into her morphine-fogged brain filtered the vision of a strikingly beautiful woman seated on a chair.  Diamonds dripped from her wrists and throat.  A thick, luxurious white fur was draped carelessly across her shoulders.  She was a platinum haired vision of glamour that looked across the room at Donna Mae, idly smoking a cigarette in a long, onyx holder.
Donna Mae had never seen a real live movie star before, but in the magazines this was how they looked.  She stared at the woman's face for some time, trying to recognize her, but to no avail.  The face was beautiful in a disturbing way, for it was as disinterested and expressionless as a white, porcelain mask.
Donna Mae groped for something to say and croaked the word, "Roof."
The beautiful woman leaned forward.  "What's that?" she asked.
"Roof," stammered Donna Mae.  "I jumped off the ... roof."
The cold blue eyes widened for a moment in what Donna Mae sensed was an unusual display of surprise.  "If you're telling the truth you ARE a lucky girl, then.  That was a five story building."
Donna Mae closed her eyes, remembering the fateful moment of decision when she had taken the final step, preferring death to the fate promised in that lecherous chinaman's eyes.  Then had come the giddy fall through space.  There had been a moment when Donna Mae had imagined that it might go on forever, that by some miracle her life would be spared.  But at almost the same instant she had felt the shattering impact as her body struck the ground ... and then, nothing.
"Don't pass out on me now, hon," said the mysterious, diamond laden woman.  "I need to talk to you and I don't have much time before that nurse comes back.  I want to keep things nice and friendly and I don't think I can do that if she tries to kick me out before I'm ready to leave.  First off, call me Moll.  Some people call me Gun Moll."
Donna Mae looked at her visitor with a new interest.  She had read newspaper accounts of the glamourous Gun Moll, the beautiful consort of Rocky Brannigan.  Gun Moll was wanted by the police not just as an accomplice to the mobster king's career of crime, but as the mastermind behind some of the Brannigan gang's most daring jobs.  And yet despite the sensational newspaper stories of this mobster queen, there were rumours of another side to Gun Moll's personality...
It seemed as if Moll was able to read Donna Mae's mind, for just at that moment she said, "Don't look at me like that, kid.  I didn't bring you here out of the goodness of my heart.  I'm buying information.  Finding you like this in Chinatown was just too much of a coincidence to pass up."
Gun Moll stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray and leaned closer.  "I'm on the trail of a Chinese gangster named Dr. Sin Lo.  I'm thinking maybe you could tell me something about him."
It required only the look on Donna Mae's face to tell Gun Moll she had guessed right.  The poor girl had gone pale with fright.
"Calm down, honey," Gun Moll said as soothingly as she was able, and patted the girl's good hand.  "He can't get you here."
Gun Moll's icy, blue eyes bored into Donna Mae's.  "I said I need information," she repeated.  "You're the only person I've met so far who's actually spent time with this Sin Lo character and lived to tell the tale.  So I need you to give me the dope on him.  Tell me everything you can remember about this guy, about his gang, the layout of his stronghold, how they caught you, everything."  Gun Moll paused, and then said, "I know you're scared, hon.  God knows what happened to you in there, and then the fall, and waking up here.  I know it's a lot to deal with, but right now I really need your help."
The anaesthetic was wearing off fast now, and Donna Mae searched her mind for every relevant detail, trying as best she could to fashion them into a coherent story.  Gun Moll listened impassively, smoking again, as Donna Mae relived her terrifying kidnap; told of the pitiful, lost souls trapped in the opium den; the mad chase through nighted corridors; and the final confrontation on the rooftop under the stars.  Gun Moll nodded as she pictured the scenes.
Donna Mae heaved a sigh as her tale wound down.  "And then I woke up here," she said.  She looked down at her broken body and a tear trickled down her cheek.  "And now what will I do?"
Gun Moll gently brushed the tear away and murmured, "Don't worry about anything, you hear?  The doctors say in a few months you'll be up and cutting a rug again just like nothing every happened.  And as for the hospital bill, it's taken care of.  Whatever you need.  Just call it a payback for the information, okay?"
"And don't you worry about Sin Lo either.  I don't think he'll try anything, even if he does find out you're alive.  I'm leaving my bodyguard here tonight.  He'll stay in the hall right by your door, whether that nurse likes it or not.  And in the morning a friend of mine will stop by.  His name is Flynn.  He's a cop.  He'll see that you're protected."
"Okay," Donna Mae nodded.
"Okay then," Gun Moll rose and arranged her fur about her shoulders.  "Look kid," she said, "whatever you went through in there, it's over now.  Don't waste your time dwelling on it.  You just get yourself well.  Get yourself healed up.  Then ... you can decide what you want to do after that."
Donna Mae nodded again.  "Moll?" she said.  "Thank you."
But her only answer was the click of the door as Gun Moll strode out of her life.

CHAPTER VII
PREPARATIONS

There was a sharp knock, and the door to Gun Moll's boudoir opened.  Rocky Brannigan, looking impatient and worried, stepped in.
The mobster queen was seated at her dressing table with her back to the door, idly smoking a cigarette while her maid attended her.  She watched him with narrowed eyes in the big, lighted mirror.  "You big gazebo, don't you know enough to respect a lady's privacy?" she asked.
Rocky frowned and cut a look at Moll's negro maid, Calpurnia.  The stout woman glared back at him defiantly, and continued to brush Moll's hair with loving attention.  Moll let the moment drag on a bit, secretly enjoying the tension between the two.  At last she said, "It's alright Calpurnia.  Why don't you take a break?"
Calpurnia set down the brush with palpable dissatisfaction.  She made a beeline for the door, forcing Rocky to step back and allow her to bustle by.  As she passed him she uttered a very pointed "Hmmph!" straight at Rocky.
Rocky closed the door with genuine relief.  He wasn't afraid to admit that the big woman made him a little uncomfortable.  He walked over to where his good luck charm still sat facing the mirror and placed his hands gently on her shoulders.  For a moment he paused, uncertain of the right words, and then blurted out, "Moll, what did you do to your hair?"
"Like it?" she answered.  She gazed into the mirror.  No longer its customary shimmering platinum, her hair was now a plain, mousy brown.
Rocky cleared his throat.  "Well," he said, "It's ... different."
Moll indulged in a rare laugh and looked up at his reflection above hers in the mirror.  "I'll be gone for a few days, Rocky," she said into the glass.
"What?" Rocky retorted.
"I have to go out of town," she said.  "It's an old friend of mine.  She's ... gotten herself into a tough spot."
"Hm," answered Rocky.  "Seems like you have a lot of old friends in tough spots, is all I've got to say."
Gun Moll didn't rise to the bait.  "I'm going, Rocky.  I'll be leaving tomorrow afternoon.  I'll call you if I need you."
Rocky instinctively opposed allowing the woman he loved to disappear on some nebulous errand for an indefinite period of time.  He wanted to forbid her, but he knew attempting that could only bring a storm of trouble and inevitable failure.  He simply said, "I don't like it."
"I didn't think you would," Moll said in a cold voice, "But I didn't ask your permission.  I've got to do this, Rocky.  It's really," she emphasized the word, "important.  I'll be back soon."
Rocky sighed.  The fearless gangster leader was reduced to helplessness by this brilliant and glamourous beauty who had more than once snatched him from the jaws of death.  He knew if she was determined to go there was no stopping her.
"You keep in touch," he said.  It was more a request than an order.
"Actually," said Moll, "There are no telephones where I'm going, so I'll most likely be out of touch for awhile."  She took a drag at her cigarette and looked up at Rocky, her cold eyes slightly softened with a hint of promise.  "But if I really needed you, would you come for me?"
"You know I'd do anything for you, Moll," the crime lord said.  "I'm crazy about you."  He tried clumsily to put his arms around her but she held him off.
"Ah-ah," she warned.  "You'll wrinkle the merchandise."
Rocky grunted in exasperation and his arms dropped to his sides.
"That's better," purred Moll.  "Now you be a good boy and run along.  Send Calpurnia back in.  In need her to turn down the bed for me.  I have a big day tomorrow."
And with that, Rocky was dismissed.  He turned to leave, feeling indeed like a boy.  Outside the door he found Calpurnia waiting, her foot tapping with her growing impatience.  Before he could speak she bustled by him, almost, but not quite, brushing him aside.  Another pointed "Hmmph!" was tossed his way as she passed.  He winced as the door slammed behind him.
Behind the once more closed door, Calpurnia began fussing with the bedclothes while Moll took a last puff of her cigarette.  The stalwart, ebony woman worked with a perturbed intensity.
"Miss Moll," she finally blurted out.  "That man gone kill you dead if he ever finds out what you up to."
A thin whisper of a smile played at Moll's lips as she crushed out the remains of her smoke.  "Rocky?" she said.  "He's a harmless teddy bear."  She slipped off her robe and stood in a shimmering, silk nightgown.
"Hmmph!" sniffed Calpurnia, with hardly less contempt than she had aimed at Rocky.  "And this business of running off like you're fixing to.  What's that about, that you can't even tell Calpurnia?  Sounds like monkey business to me!"
Moll slid between the cool, crisp sheets and allowed Calpurnia to tuck her in.  Calpurnia looked down at her with tears of genuine concern welling up in her eyes.  "Miss Moll, don't you go letting something bad happen to you.  There's mighty bad men out there, and I know you're going out looking for trouble.  Don't you give me that look, I know you!  You be mighty careful.  You know I'd just never forgive myself if something bad ever happened to you."
Moll raised herself up to kiss the dusky cheek.  Then she pulled her pillow aside to reveal the loaded automatic she kept there.  "Don't worry about me, Calpurnia," she said.  "You know I never go out without protection."
* * *
Finnegan's Speak was a grimy establishment on a grimy street, frequented by many of New York's finest - mostly off duty.  The whiskey was passable, and as the owner was a retired cop it was a favorite place to unwind and rest feet weary from walking a beat.  Fortunately, by special arrangement, Finnegan's Speak never seemed to face the danger of police raids.  The lights were dim, and on the afternoon after Gun Moll had taken her leave of Rocky Brannigan's stronghold, one particularly shadowy booth sheltered two patrons from prying eyes.
"Mollie, my girl, 'tis trouble you're courting.  Nothing but trouble, I tell you."
The speaker was a florid Irishman clad in the dark blue garments of a police uniform.  By day he was one of the toughest, most incorruptible cops in the city.  In fact, it was his very unwillingness to play the game of taking bribes from mobsters that had caused him to be left behind, walking a beat, while so many of his comrades had moved up to far easier and more lucrative posts.  He had been on the beat longer than most of the other officers on the force had been alive, yet the gray of his close-cropped hair, the stiffness of his gait, and the erosion of his lined face could not hide the resolute sternness of his jaw and the determined fire in his eyes.  For now though, after several whiskies and a long talk with Moll, he seemed on the verge of tears.
"You're probably right, Flynn," allowed Gun Moll.  "But I'm going to do this.  I've figured it all out.  Got a little room to stay in for the time being ... I hope not too long.  I've mapped out where most of the girls' disappearances took place and I'll be spending most of my time on those streets trying to look vulnerable.  Hopefully Sin Lo will take the bait.  Somehow I've got to get into his stronghold, find out what's really going on, and put a stop to it."
The mobster queen had arranged this meeting with her old friend to inform him of her plans and enlist his aid.  Far from her usual, glamourous appearance, she now wore the plain, cloth coat and rundown shoes of a common shop girl.  Yet even her dull, brown hair and worn clothing could not disguise the icy determination that flashed from her eyes.
"Mollie girl," said Flynn.  "It's too much for a wee thing like yourself..."
But Gun Moll cut him off.  "I swear, Flynn, a couple of drinks and you dust off that phoney Irish brogue and sound just like an old lady.  Now I told you my plan.  And I need you to guard the girl at the hospital.  How is she, anyway?"
Flynn straightened up as the talk turned around to business at hand.  He had dedicated his life to being a cop, with all that represented to him of protecting the innocent.  He never let anything stand in the way of his pursuit of that ideal.  He slid his shot glass aside and looked into the cold, blue eyes.
"I've got a man outside her door twenty-four hours a day.  Nothing official, of course, but good men.  She seems to be recovering all right.  She's in good spirits.  She asks for you, you know."  Flynn smiled.  "You're a bit of a hero to her."
As Moll let this pass without a reaction he continued.
"Once she's well enough to leave the hospital we'll move her out to stay with some friends of mine.  She'll be safe there until she's back on her feet."
"Okay," said Moll.  "Good.  You make sure she's safe.  Don't worry about the expense.  I'll pay for the men.  And there'll be something for your friends if she stays with them."
"Don't worry about a thing," said Flynn.  "She's in good hands."
He reached into his pocket and laid some coins out on the table.  "I've had enough for tonight.  I think I'll be staying sober for the next few days, anyway."  He grinned at his own humor and then grew serious.  "Mollie," he said, "be careful.  What you're going into ... no one's ever come out."
"Don't I know it," said Gun Moll.
"Anyway, I'll light a candle for you," said Flynn.  "And I'll keep that girl safe for you until you come back to us."
Flynn got up and straightened his jacket.  "Got work to do."  He waved at a few of the other patrons and walked out into the sunshine.
Gun Moll was alone with her thoughts.  Her plan, as she called it, which had looked fairly plausible last night, now seemed fantastic.  Assuming she would even be captured by Sin Lo's gang, the probability of getting into his stronghold, finding his weaknesses, and getting out again with the information seemed very low now that she was faced with the reality of trying to accomplish it.  And if she failed to escape, the only choice was between death and the degrading slavery of Sin Lo.  Faced with this thought, even the normally impassive Gun Moll could hardly repress a shudder.  It was time to set fear aside.  Tonight she would begin her hunt for the Master of Evil.

CHAPTER VIII
THE MIND OF SIN LO

The young, oriental man bowed low in humble supplication.  On the throne beneath the great bronze dragon, an ancient face regarded him with thoughtful intensity.  Sin Lo had recruited the son of Ling Duk when the young man was but a child.  He had spent years grooming this youth to one day take a position of power in his expanding underworld empire.  Just two nights ago Roy Ling had passed his most important test, killing his own father out of loyalty to Sin Lo.  Yet at the same time he had also failed, by allowing the woman and her companion to escape.  It was a curious paradox.  Yet for now, plans were afoot and Sin Lo could not afford time to weigh the merits of reward and punishment.
In a week's time a ship would leave from New York harbor.  To all outward appearances it would be nothing more than a rusty old freighter, no different from many that plowed the seas doing the grubby errands that kept trade and industry moving around the world.  It would take on some sort of legitimate cargo, of course, and yet its true wealth would lie hidden in a secret hold deep in the bowels of the ship.  Even now, the sailors were preparing quarters for the two dozen American women languishing in the opium den of Sin Lo.
And yet, the mood was not right.  Ever since the escape of the girl he had been certain of a hint, an undercurrent of hope in his victims' eyes.  He had told his captives that the girl had been killed in a particularly horrific manner, as a lesson to the rest.  Yet even as they endured the most degrading conditions he had become more and more sure of a defiant spirit emerging among his slaves.
He had been furious with his guards and had taken a terrible revenge for their failure to capture the woman in the hallways.  There could be no excuse, and those who were selected to serve as examples made the walls ring with their fruitless screams for mercy.  The others had returned to their quarters pale and ghostlike after witnessing the scene, and Sin Lo was certain they would gladly die before displeasing their master again.  Yet now, it was important to impose submission upon the women, and to reassure himself of his young protege's competence.
"Come," he said as he rose.  And the young man at once fell into step behind him.
They walked wordlessly through the black hallways until they reached the door to the opium den.  There was no need for Sin Lo to announce himself.  Some change in the aura of the room had alerted the wizened guardian to his arrival.  The key rattled and the door opened on oiled hinges.
Those women who were not deep in the dreams of the lotus cowered back as they recognized the horrifying figure of the fiendish celestial revealed in the smoky light.  While Sin Lo had detected a new mood of defiance among his prisoners, any other observer would have seen nothing but terror written on their faces, so tiny was that new flame of hope.  Yet even this was unacceptable to Sin Lo.  Such was the totality of submission demanded by the Master of Evil.
At an order from the ragged old matron, the captives left their bunks.  Those who were too deeply stupefied to move were dragged forth and supported by their fellows.  The girls assembled in the center of the room, awaiting the pleasure of Sin Lo.
His arm rose.  The index finger extended, the long, clawlike nail pointing like an arrow of doom.  The finger slowly swept across the room.  The women stood stock still.  No matter that every fiber in their being cried out for them to run, to hide, to do anything to avoid that awful selection.  Yet greater still was the fear of moving, of doing anything that would draw attention to oneself.  The women scarcely dared breathe, standing with lowered eyes, trying to blend into the shadows.
At last the finger stopped.  No one moved.  The girl at whom the finger pointed swayed a bit on her feet.  For a wild moment she imagined herself dissolving painlessly into thin air, simply ceasing to exist, and letting the punishment fall upon some other pitiful soul.
Roy Ling stepped forward and roughly seized her arm.  At this moment, the inevitability of her fate imposed itself on the young girl's mind.  Her mouth opened and a long, hideous wail emerged.  It filled the room.  The women looked at one another nervously, wishing she would be silent and spare them.  Even the muscles beneath the face of Sin Lo's young assistant began to twitch slightly.  The scream went on and on.  Sin Lo stood expressionless, his eyes locked on those of the young woman, allowing her to see in them the fate which he had planned for her.  The ancient guardian of the room giggled.
The young man walked her over to the single space in the room that was clear of bunks and yanked her arms up cruelly.  He bound her wrists with a strap to an iron ring stapled securely into the wall.  Then he seized her ragged, skimpy shift and brutally tore it from her, exposing her naked back to quiver before the eyes of all.  She sobbed uncontrollably in her terror.
Slowly and deliberately, Sin Lo drew forth from his voluminous sleeve a thin and finely braided leather whip.  With an effortless ease he cracked it next to the woman's head.  He just missed her face but the end of the lash snipped off a lock of hair that floated lazily toward the floor.  The stunned eyes of the women followed it downward until with another expert flick he lashed it back up into the air before it had come to rest.  Over and over he allowed the lock of hair to drift down almost to the floor before tossing it back up again by his cunning use of the whip, until at last the lock dissolved into its individual strands and he allowed it to drift away.
Then he faced the bound girl and drew his arm back.  The whip hung down over his shoulder like a cobra, poised to strike.  The women had stopped breathing, looking on with a horrible fascination, almost wishing him to strike so as to break the tension.  Sin Lo savored the moment, eyes intent upon the girl's unblemished back.
Then, wordlessly, he turned and extended the whip to the woman standing nearest to him.
She blinked in stupefaction.  Her mouth worked noiselessly but her arms hung limp at her sides.
"If you prefer," Sin Lo told her, "that one may be released."
At the look of mingled hope and bafflement on the woman's face he grinned.  "And you will be bound to the wall for her to administer the punishment."
Tearfully, the young woman watched her arm rise.  Her hand opened to take the carven handle of the whip from Sin Lo's hand.  She felt it warm from the vile touch of her captor.  She faced the sniffling, bound girl.  Like the component of some unfeeling machine, her hand rose into the air.  For a moment, the two women looked into each others' eyes.
And snap!  The lash fell.  A red stripe opened on the girl's back.  Her bloodcurdling scream seemed to compress the air in the room.  Suddenly the whip-wielding young woman felt all of her rage and indignation well up inside her and the twisting, howling girl became the symbol of the shame they had all endured.  The lash rose and fell, driven by a brutal, angry arm.  All the women leaned forward, breathing as one, caught up in the expression of their own anger and hatred.  Another stripe and another appeared on the once-snowy back.  Blood spattered the frenzied onlookers, who took in the scene with wide and maddened eyes.
The room rang to the woman's screams.  The ancient guardian cackled wildly.  Sin Lo observed with amused approval.
Back and forth, the whip sang through the air, but the once powerful strokes were slowing.  The woman's strength was fading.  Breathing hard, she brought the whip down again, and yet again, and then her arm hung, exhausted.  The whip slipped from her nerveless fingers and clattered to the floor.  The girl at the wall had long since gone silent.  With a horrified wonder, the lash-wielding woman slowly turned to look upon the Sin Lo's grinning, fiendish face.  When she saw his sparkling eyes her mouth opened.  Her gaze fell upon her own bloodstained hands.  And suddenly a boiling thunderhead of self-loathing burst over her and she fell to the floor, bawling like a baby.
The spell was broken.  The women turned from the torn body of their companion and looked upon one another and saw the horror within themselves that lay just beneath the surface and they knew that their souls were lost and their lives were not worth either living or losing.  One by one their legs gave way and they fell to the floor, their howls mingling like a symphony in Hell.
Sin Lo looked at the young man.  "This is how we hold power.  Remember this night well."
Roy Ling looked into Sin Lo's eyes without expression, only nodding resolutely.  "It is regrettable," he observed, "to sacrifice a part of our merchandise in this way."
"It is of no consequence," Sin Lo answered.  "These creatures are easily obtained.  I think of it as an investment in your future."
Sin Lo walked out, followed by the young man.  The door closed.  The key turned in the lock.  And the cackling, ancient crone was left alone with a roomful of souls who had lost all hope.

CHAPTER IX
TRAPPED IN THE MASTER'S STRONGHOLD

Gun Moll forced herself to lie still, feigning unconsciousness as her oriental kidnappers stripped her down to her underclothes.  Although outwardly insensate, inside she was seething with apprehension lest the hoodlums take advantage of her state to violate her as she lay helpless ... and find the pistol she had strapped to her inner thigh.  However, whether from fear of their master or some inner reticence, they let the opportunity slip by.  They simply removed her outer clothing and then carried her, one taking her legs and the other her shoulders, out of the room and into a twisting, darkened hallway.
It had taken nearly a week of strolling alone and apparently vulnerable before Sin Lo's henchmen had taken the bait she offered.  She had spent her nights strolling along the night-time streets of New York, frequenting the areas where mysterious disappearances were said to have taken place.  Her days she spent sleeping in a cheap room such as a shop girl might rent.  By the time her kidnapping had taken place it was almost a relief to her aching feet.  The capture had occurred in much the same way as had the ordeal Donna Mae described, except that Gun Moll was ready when they clapped the laudanum-soaked rag over her face.  She had held her breath as long as she could and then breathed as shallowly as possible, in order to avoid taking in any more of the drug than was absolutely necessary.  Since she immediately went limp instead of struggling, the kidnappers were careless enough to assume the powerful fumes had done their work and they had not bothered to hold the cloth over her face once they got her in the car.
During the ride she had listened carefully to the conversations of the men, but since she spoke no Chinese she could learn nothing.  The trip was not a long one, and on arrival they had bundled her quickly out of the car and into a building where the men walked with calm efficiency, despite the fact that no light shone to illuminate their steps.  She had been deposited on a table and left alone for some time, until the men returned with one who was apparently their superior.  She felt the touch of withered hands and sharp fingernails that prodded her.  There was more unintelligible chatter, and her captors had been once again left alone to take her outer clothing.[?]
Now the trip through the hallway stopped and Gun Moll heard a door opening.  She risked opening her eyes just enough to peer through the slits.  Her first impression was of smoke and incense covering up a foul stench, before her eyes made out a bent and shapeless figure standing in the dim light of the opened doorway.  Moll closed her eyes again as she was carried into the lighted room.  A few words were exchanged, and Moll was deposited on a hard, wooden bunk.  She heard the door close and footsteps as the strange inhabitant of the room shuffled close.  Suddenly she felt calloused fingers on her face, none too gently prying her eyelid open.  Moll made no move as she was subjected to the scrutiny of what she guessed must be an ancient, asiatic woman.  Then the hand released Moll's eyelid and allowed it to slip back in place.
Moll again remained still as the footsteps receded.  She lay, gathering in what information she could about her surroundings using only the senses left to her when her eye once again closed.  As she had noted before, the bunk was rough.  There was some sort of thin mattress beneath her but it did little to soften the crude piece of furniture, seeming to serve more as a home to innumerable bedbugs than as a source of comfort for its human inhabitants.  And there was another human inhabitant.  Moll felt a body lying next to her.  She listened.  There was the sound of soft breathing coming from all sides of the room.  Occasionally she would hear a soft whimper.  Obviously several other women shared this room with her.
As time passed, she finally decided to open her eyes and look about her.  She stirred slightly and fluttered her eyelids a bit, as if she was awakening from a deep sleep.  Finally, she opened them half way and turned her head enough to see rows of bunks lining the wall on the opposite side of the room, each occupied by one or two women.  It had been quiet for a long time and Moll wondered if they were all asleep or stupefied by the opium smoke that permeated the close atmosphere.  She prodded the body beside her and whispered a quiet greeting.
There was no response.
Moll prodded again, a little more forcefully, and feeling a slight movement, prodded once more.  At last her companion rolled over to face her.  Moll recoiled at the sight of the woman's face.  It was drained of caring, of hope, of the love of life itself.  The mouth hung slack and the eyes were hidden behind a tangle of rank hair.  It was the face of one mired hopelessly in a morass of drug addiction and self-loathing.  The woman stared at Moll wordlessly.
"Where are we?" Moll finally stammered.
The woman merely stared back at her.
"Can you hear me?" asked Moll.  She noticed the dreamy-eyed expression on the woman's face and wondered if the woman even realized someone was talking to her.
The woman's mouth opened and closed a few times, as if she was trying to remember how to make it function.  Her face screwed up as she tried to force her bleary eyes to focus.  "So they got another," she finally said.
"Yes," said Moll.  "They brought me in just a little while ago.  You were asleep, I guess, when they put me in with you."
The woman shook her head.  "Not asleep."
Moll decided to accept this without comment.  "How long have you been here?"
But the woman already seemed to have forgotten her.  She had rolled away again and was staring at her hands and shaking her head as if she could wipe out some vision.
But Moll couldn't let it rest at that.  She pulled the woman back to face her.  "What's going to happen to us?" she demanded.
At that, the woman began to laugh softly.  It went on and on and she kept laughing as she rolled away again.
The old woman shuffled over.  She jabbered something at Moll and pointed emphatically at a bowl of gruel that steamed on the low table in the center of the room.  Gun Moll joined the few girls who had clustered about it.  The noodles were no more appetizing than anything else in the room, but Moll scooped some up with her hand and ate them, knowing she would need her strength.  As she did, she looked around at her surroundings from this new perspective.  She saw several women drawing smoke from long pipes and even more who were lying unconscious, or at least motionless, on their beds.  None of them were dressed in anything more than the tatters of their former undergarments.  Moll examined the room as closely as she could without being obvious to her guardian, looking for exits or at least some means of escape.  But there was only one door and no windows that she could see, unless they were boarded over.  She noticed on one wall a huge, hideous stain, dark and colorless in the dim light.  With nothing better to do she walked over to examine it more carefully.
The moment she touched it her skin crawled and she jerked back.  She was certain now that this was a massive bloodstain.  She fought to keep her meager dinner down as she wondered what horror had been perpetrated here, and if that could be the reason for the women's despondency.  If there had been a punishment here for some infraction of whatever rules might govern this place it had been a terrible one.  The dark stain had run down the wall and gathered in pools where it had congealed in thick mats.  Moll doubted whether the victim could have lived after losing so much blood.  Certainly none of the prisoners here seemed to be severely injured.  Moll turned around again to find her bunkmate sitting up and staring at her.
"You stay away from there!" the woman screeched.
At that the rest of the room turned toward Moll with angry glares.  The another took up the cry and another and another until the room shook with the angry screams of the prisoners.  Moll didn't know which way to turn.  She looked toward their jailer but that old harridan was laughing uproariously at the scene.
But Gun Moll was not one to be intimidated easily.  With no other course of action open, she strode back to her bunk and lay back down.  Her bunkmate stared at her but made no threatening move.
As the room quieted, they heard footsteps outside and a knock at the door.  All the women immediately grew very still and seemed to shrink inside themselves.  None of them would look at the door.  The ancient crone, after a quick glance to see that the room was not disrupted by the shouting incident, opened the door.  With horror, Moll saw that the visitor was none other than Ling Duk's son.  Moll could only hope that her dyed hair and the dim lighting would be enough to prevent him from recognizing her.  She was revolted to think that this educated and charming young man could be working for the mob lord who had ordered the murder of his father.  She wondered if he knew how his father had died.  Then, with horror, she wondered if it had been he who had blown the fatal dart at the old man.  If so, she wished she had taken his life with her shots that night.
Roy Ling pointed and the crone shuffled over to Moll, grabbed her roughly by the arm and dragged her toward the door.  Moll kept her head down so the young man could not get a good look at her face.  Without a word, he seized her and guided her into the pitch black hallway.  Moll heard the door lock securely behind her as she marched into the black unknown.

CHAPTER X
FACE TO FACE WITH SIN LO

Gun Moll was shoved through a curtained doorway.  The push was hard enough to make her stumble forward a few steps before she tripped in the thick carpeting and fell to her knees.  Looking up, she saw that she knelt before the seated form of an ancient and yet powerful oriental despot.  This still figure, observing her impassively, she knew must be Sin Lo.  Moll rose and stood proudly, regretting that her scanty garb revealed expanses of her ivory flesh to the hungry eyes of this chinaman, yet unwilling to remain in a position of supplication.  She tried to hold his eyes with hers, but he ignored her efforts, openly leering at her and making her skin crawl as he did so.
Gun Moll, seeking to assert herself and gain some control of the situation said, "Nice place you've got here.  Real comfy."
The oriental face remained immobile, yet a tiny flicker played briefly in the slanted eyes before it was snuffed out.  Whether this was and expression of amusement or annoyance, Moll could not tell.  Receiving no other acknowledgement from her captor, she began to stroll about the room, examining the rich furnishings.  Obviously this was the lair of a man of great wealth, a man who wished to impress those who were admitted into his presence.  The gangster queen was impressed, but not intimidated.  She had seen wealth, and knew that it was but one manifestation of power.  In fact, she found the very profusion, not to mention the great, bronze dragon that belched clouds of incense smoke under which Sin Lo sat enthroned to be rather stagey.  However, she knew that at this moment the aged celestial held her life and the lives of his other captives in his hands.
Gun Moll turned back to her captor as she heard him address her at last.
"I see," Sin Lo purred, "that you have an appreciation for our Chinese art and esthetics."
She shrugged.  "Some of it's nice, yes."
Sin Lo ignored the flippant tone of her response.  "This is good.  Very good.  Since you are destined to spend the remainder of your unworthy life serving the aims of a reborn Chinese empire, an appreciation of the oriental culture may help you to perform your duties with honor."
"Serve?" said Moll.  "I'm afraid you've got me wrong.  I'm not the slave-girl type."
The chinaman frowned.  "You are quite beautiful, for a western woman, and the traders of the east will pay well for a white-skinned woman such as yourself." Sin Lo's eyes glowed with avarice.  "Yet you must learn to conduct yourself humbly before your betters.  For that, the hand of Sin Lo is needed.  Tonight you receive your first lesson in humility."
Gun Moll tensed.  The mandarin rose from his throne and stepped off the dais toward her, hands outstretched.  "Learn now the virtue of submission, little one, and you will find this to be quite a ... pleasant ... experience." Sin Lo grinned with malice.  "However, if you choose to resist I shall enjoy this evening's exertions all the more."
Sin Lo stepped forward, clawed fingers flexing.  Gun Moll glanced about herself.  No use to try for the door.  If it wasn't locked and bolted she thought it would certainly be guarded on the outside.  And even so, she had come here not to run from the threat of evil, but to destroy it.  As Sin Lo closed in on her she kicked out and felt her foot make satisfying contact with the celestial's midsection.  Sin Lo doubled up and Moll spun away to the other side of the room, seeking to put space between herself and her oriental attacker.  But before Moll could reach for her gun, he was up again, a look of black fury disfiguring his face.  With one sinuous, catlike movement Sin Lo dragged forth a thin, leather whip from his sleeve and for a moment it floated in hypnotically beautiful, shimmering coils before him.
Sin Lo's face had changed from an expression of fury to one of cold and malicious glee.  His eyes fixed with a ruthless determination upon the slender, feminine form before him.  With a seemingly effortless flick of his wrist he sent the lash curling across space at Moll, to snap within inches of her.  Moll leaped aside to avoid the snakelike coil, only to place herself directly in the path of the next stroke.  A hiss escaped her clenched teeth as the lash caressed her thigh.  A red welt opened up on the white flesh and blood began its slow trickle down her leg.
Ignoring the pain, Moll danced away, her eye never failing to note the strike and coil of the lash as it slithered across space at her.  Sin Lo moved with fiendish confidence, herding Moll this way and that, making her leap and tumble.  And yet despite her efforts, now and again the twisting lash would touch, with an almost loving gentleness, and come away spraying crimson drops.  Although Moll's natural agility kept her out of Sin Lo's range, every missed step cost her dearly in pain and injury.
Moll was tiring.  She no longer bore the kiss of the lash with icy stoicism, but gasped audibly at each new contact.  Her efforts had become heavy and strained.  Her legs burned with exhaustion and her breath rattled in her chest.  She knew she would not be able to continue this devilish tarantella for much longer before she would stumble for the final time and then she knew she could expect no mercy from the Master of Evil.
The lash hissed through space again and Gun Moll leaped aside, smashing into the wall and bouncing away just as the whip cracked against the plaster where her body had been.  Moll knew that she must make a move now or fall for the final time under Sin Lo's lash.  Gathering her strength, she sprang from a crouch, flying across the room toward the great, carven throne.  The whip reached her in mid leap, sliced through her thin slip to sear her flesh.  But Moll's body continued in its arc through the air.  She hit the floor on the dais, somersaulted, and took quick refuge behind the throne.
It cost Sin Lo mere seconds to gather the whip in hand and race around behind the throne and yet in the space of that precious moment, Moll had torn the seam of her slip up her leg and yanked loose the Beretta she had held strapped against her thigh.  When the chinaman came racing around the chair the cry of triumph died on his lips as he found himself facing the black muzzle of an unwavering automatic, backed by icy blue eyes that bore into his own.
"Up with your hands," ordered Gun Moll in a hard voice that promised no tolerance of disobedience.  Sin Lo choked in disbelief, scarcely crediting the sight that presented itself to him.  This was no cat and mouse game, played out for amusement before his talons closed on a terrified girl.  This was the sure promise of death, staring him directly between the eyes.  The whip dropped from a suddenly nerveless hand.  No longer the hunter, Sin Lo had been trapped for the first time by his own prey and now stood unsure of how to react.  He stepped back, his hands rising.
Moll rose slowly.  "I'm putting an end to your little game of kidnapping and slavery, Sin Lo," she said.  She motioned with the gun and the two of them stepped off the dais into the center of the room.
"First you're going to call your men," said Moll.  "You'll order them to disarm.  Then we'll free those poor, wretched girls you've got trapped in your opium den." She looked hard at Sin Lo.  "Then," she said, "we're all going to march out of this hell hole and shut down your little racket for good."
Sin Lo's face twisted into an ugly snarl.  His hands, raised as they were above his head, curled like the claws of a predatory bird.  Held at gunpoint, he had adopted the demeanor of a cornered rat.
"Summon your men," ordered Moll.  "And no funny stuff, hear?  They may get me, but not before you go to join your honorable ancestors."
Had Moll not been exhausted from pain and exertion she might have noticed the slight change on the oriental's inscrutable face; the ghost of a smile that played briefly over his lips; the telltale sparkle of the night black eyes; or the faint click as his foot stepped down on a certain design woven into the carpet.  But Moll did not notice these clues to disaster.  She faced Sin Lo, confident in her command of the situation, until she saw a slight movement from the corner of her vision.  In the tricky lighting of the lamps it was difficult to be sure, but a vague shadow seemed to move off to her right.  By the time Moll's eyes had flicked from Sin Lo to this new distraction it was too late!
A hand seized her gun arm in a steely grip.  Another hand wrenched the pistol from her grasp.  Instantly Sin Lo seemed to glide forward in his long, silken robe.  One powerful claw fastened on her throat, choking.  The other fished deep inside the lining of his robe.
"I have tired of this game, little one," said Sin Lo.  "This interference has come to an end.  Had you merely submitted to inevitable destiny, you might have lived long in service to the Servants of Evil.  Now, you are useful to me only as example to those who seek to challenge will of Sin Lo!"
Fighting hopelessly for breath, Moll's darkened face twitched in torment.  Sin Lo brought forth his hand and held it open, palm up, before his grotesquely smiling face.  At the moment he relaxed his cruel grip upon Moll's throat, he blew into his hand and a thick, yellow mist of powder swirled about her face.  Moll gasped reflexively, inhaling a great lungful of the choking stuff.  She looked up at the spinning room, saw the laughing face of Sin Lo, turned her head and saw the cold glare of Roy Ling bearing down on her.  For a moment the faces turned into the sneering countenances of triumphant demons.  Then Gun Moll's head sagged forward and she knew no more.

CHAPTER XI
CLOCKWORK OF HORROR

When Gun Moll regained her senses she at first imagined herself to be back on the rough bunk she had occupied earlier in the opium den.  Yet as she shook off the last shreds of fog from her brain, her eyes began to focus on her surroundings.  It took a moment for her to realize that her limbs were constrained in some fashion, not to the point of discomfort, yet still the discovery alarmed her.  Her senses began to clear rapidly and she became aware of some sort of intricate, metal framework that surrounded her and to which she was fastened by clasps of iron around her wrists and ankles.  Lying on her back in this frame, she could look up to see above her a complex mechanism of gears and levers that reminded her of the inside of a watch.  Slowly her ears tuned to the sound of a slow but steady ticking, which added to the image of herself trapped within the workings of an enormous clock.
She heard a thin chuckle and looked over her left shoulder to see Sin Lo and his youthful minion standing next to her.
"And so you join us at last," the old chinaman sneered.  "So rude for guest of honor to sleep through her own party.  I had thought to have my assistant awaken you, but you have saved him the trouble."
Gun Moll's cold eyes cast a withering gaze toward the son of Ling Duk.  She could feel nothing but the purest contempt for this boy who had murdered his own father to gain favor with black-hearted fiend.  She did not bother to speak, but her look made her thoughts plain.
"I trust you will forgive us for taking liberty of completing your disrobement.  Due to your unpardonable indiscretion of bringing firearm into my household, it was imperative to search you completely."  Sin Lo's face curdled into a fiendish leer.  "A necessary duty, yes, but not an unpleasant one."  A thin, white sheet which reached from mid thigh to her shoulders now formed the mob queen's only covering.
Moll's face, impassive as a mask of white porcelain, showed no emotion at the revelation that her body had been subject to the foul touch of this monster.  Instead, she began to look about her and take in her surroundings.  The first thing she saw was the group of women from the den, standing at the foot of her "bed."  Some of them still looked dazed from the effects of opium, and all of them still bore the mark of emotional numbness that had gripped them as their only mental defense during their captivity, yet still some sense of uneasiness played across their features.
"Ah, you see your friends," said Sin Lo.  "They have come to bid you farewell."
Gun Moll's eyes narrowed and Sin Lo laughed.  "At last a reaction!  Yours must be concern for these humbled women.  Would you now submit to Sin Lo?  Beg for their lives, and your own?  Perhaps offer to exchange yourself for them?"
Again came the chilling laugh.  "Too late!  Far too late, little one.  Their fate is sealed, as is yours."
"What are you planning to do with them, you sick old man?" spat Gun Moll.  "Keep them in the dark here like mushrooms till they dream their miserable lives away on your dope?"
Sin Lo looked toward the group of huddled wretches and smiled.  "The western mind," he mused, as if to himself, "so unimaginative."
"Perhaps," he nodded to Roy Ling, "you can explain in a way that this barbarian woman will comprehend.  I wish for her to understand exactly what position she holds in my plan."
Ling Duk's son stepped forward and cleared his throat.  His face, schooled in the west, betrayed brief discomfort as he looked down upon the bound woman, but no further trace of pity was evident in his demeanor.  His voice was steady as he spoke.
"The merchandise you see here," he began, "is but one of many shipments we have sent to the orient over the past year."
He gestured toward the captives.  "These women," he said, "are showing the effects of several weeks of training at the hands of our master."  He indicated Sin Lo.
"During their stay with us they have been schooled," he continued, "in the virtues of submission proper to the station which they will occupy, and also have become ... acclimatized ... to a steady and measured ingestion of opium, which will help to ensure their docility and active cooperation as they begin their new lives."
Gun Moll glared at the young man.  "You filthy creep," she spat, "you've got them addicted to opium.  You know they'll do anything now to get it."
"Yes," the young Chinese answered dryly.  "I see your quick, western mind has grasped our tactic, if not our strategy."
"Well," said Moll, "you won't get much for this lot.  The way you've treated them they look like a gang of scarecrows."
Roy Ling snorted contemptuously.  "You needn't fear on that account.  These girls will have a long sea voyage to recover their bloom.  From New York they will travel south through the Panama Canal, then east across the Pacific to their final destination.  Once there, the ports of the east will provide them with the opportunity to reap a generous profit for their buyers over their years of service."
"Buying and selling human beings like cattle," Moll hissed.
"In a sense, yes," came the answer.  "Beasts of burden.  I don't believe though, that actual butchery for consumption is in store for them."  Both the assistant and Sin Lo laughed at the joke.
"But there is a purpose to all of this beyond simple money-making," said the young man.  Our organization, the Servants of Evil, is now ripe to take control of certain segments of the underworld here in New York.  To do that, of course, requires money.  Once we have established an impregnable position as overlords of crime, we can begin to extend our control over commerce, industry, eventually taking control of the government of the nation itself."
Now Sin Lo began to speak.  "You may wonder what part you are to play in grand strategy."  He looked questioningly at Moll.  "No?" He shrugged.  "Then I shall enlighten these women, for it concerns them far more than even you."
The chinaman turned a fearsome look upon the women.  They cowered, fearing what new terror was to come.
"You see apparatus here.  This I had imported from China as means of amusement."  Sin Lo's eyes crinkled with pleasure.  "Many pleasant hours have I spent here listening to cries for relief from inevitable doom."
Once again, Gun Moll became aware of the steady ticking sound.  A slight catch in the rhythm made Sin Lo's eyes light up.  "Ah, please to observe operation."
There came a sudden shifting and clacking and the big gears ratcheted forward a notch.  Bolts of pain shot through Moll's body as her limbs, trapped in the iron grip of the machine, were twisted and pulled into a new position, there to be held immobile as the devilish device resumed its steady ticking.
"Ah!" exclaimed the Master of Evil.  "Dawn of comprehension!"
He turned to the women, standing dumbfounded at the sight of this new terror.  He addressed them, "As you see, machine is powered by spring, drives gears.  Each quarter hour mechanism reaches critical point, like clock which sets off chimes.  Only..." he gestured dramatically toward Moll's helpless form, "no chime.  Gears drive mechanical apparatus which bends and twists limbs of unfortunate victim."
Sin Lo's malicious glare seemed to scourge the terrorized women into a helpless, trembling mass.  He snarled at them, "Too many times in recent days rebellious slaves have brought disharmony to the stronghold of the Sin Lo.  In two days' time ship leaves for orient.  Your ship to take you to life of servitude for new masters.  All rebellion ends now.  Final warning.  Let this," he indicated Moll, "be example for all to see."
The women looked past their gloating master to see Gun Moll writhing upon the platform, her arms and legs twisted into positions that, though uncomfortable, were a mere whisper of the torments to come.  The machine ticked on while the captives' attention shifted between Sin Lo and the twisting woman caught in the toils of perverted oriental ingenuity.
"Now you see," hissed the fiend, "fate of all who stand between Sin Lo and his rise to power; fate of all who try to impede mission of Servants of Evil in our rise to restore China and form super-government to rule all world."
As if to underscore Sin Lo's pronouncement, the gears once again began to whir and clash.  A gasp escaped Moll's lips as her limbs were once again twisted in the unfeeling, mechanical grip.  She swallowed hard and gritted her teeth to keep from crying out.  Her eyes bored hard into Sin Lo's back.
As if feeling the intensity of the gaze, the evil oriental turned toward her, smug satisfaction written plainly on his face.  His voice dripped mockery.  "Enjoying the fruits of your rebellion?"  Moll's wordless snarl formed an eloquent reply.  Sin Lo caressed her cheek absently with his clawed fingers, then turned away as if his victim no longer held a place in his attention.
"And now," he said to Roy Ling, "We have much to prepare.  Even now, ship lies anchored in harbor, awaiting," he grinned at the women, "passengers.  Please to escort slaves back to opium den.  I believe unseen screams of agony will fire imaginations and provide effective deterrent to future disobedience."
Ling Duk's son ushered the horrified women to the door of the chamber where they were met by the guards who would escort them back through blackened halls to the den.  Sin Lo followed them to the door.  In his malice he did not give Moll even the satisfaction of one last backward glance.  He left her alone and forgotten, closing the door tightly behind him.  A key rattled in the lock.  Footsteps receded and died away.  With inexorable monotony, the machine continued to tick away the seconds of Gun Moll's life.

CHAPTER XII
AT THE LIMIT OF ENDURANCE

After the watchers departed and the door was locked behind them, Gun Moll examined more closely the room in which she was held.  By craning her neck, she was able to gain a view of her surroundings.  It was a sparsely finished chamber holding nothing more than a chair, where presumably Sin Lo sat to be amused by the writhings of his victims, and a couple of movable, wooden screens.  Moll supposed that these must conceal even more implements of cruel torture which the evil celestial might wish to use on those unlucky enough to fall into his clutches.  The walls were strongly built of brick, from which the rotten plaster had long ago crumbled.  One bare light bulb cast a yellow illumination over the scene.
By looking straight up, Moll was able to view the workings of the devilish machine which ticked away the minutes of her life.  Gears and flywheels turned, driven by a great spring that was hand wound by a crank nearby.  The iron cuffs which bound her were connected by a system of levers and chains to the workings.  She could see that the gears, turning in their measured circuits, drove a rotating cam that, upon reaching the critical position, set off a chain reaction within the machinery and caused a complex set of movements which twisted and pulled the cuffs into new positions.
Gun Moll struggled but the device was soundly constructed and there was no give at all.  Moll wondered how many helpless prisoners Sin Lo had gleefully watched as they thrashed about, striving fruitlessly for release before they were slowly torn limb from limb.  After a moment, she wondered if Sin Lo might be hiding behind one of the screens, watching her.  But that seemed unlike the fiend, who would surely relish the idea of looking his victim in the eye during her agonies.  He had said that he had work to do in preparation for the embarkation of his captives on their long voyage to the east.  Gun Moll believed this must be true, although she had no idea how long the work would take.  His familiarity with the torture device would surely allow him to return in time to see her final torments.  The machine must be set to inflict several hours of horror before death's merciful hand put an end to the victim's sufferings.
The ticking went on, steadily and unstoppably.  Moll could see the cam as it neared completion of its current rotation.  She tensed her muscles, steeling herself to fight as well as she could when the time came.  The cam turned inexorably, finally reaching the top of its rotation.  As it turned, it lifted a lever which in turn tripped several more levers and switches within the device.  There was the now-familiar rattling and ratcheting, the tremor which ran through the entire frame, and Moll felt the cuffs begin to move.
It was but a moment before she realized that her efforts to resist had no more effect than might the fluttering of a pinned butterfly.  Though her wrists bled from the struggle, the machine continued its awful pulling and twisting.  At last it reached the end of its cycle and ceased, as the cam rotated on, releasing the lever.  Moll's left leg had been turned in toward her body and pulled to the side.  Her right had been lifted up and drawn tight.  Her arms had been similarly contorted.  The position was uncomfortable, even painful, but bearable.  Still, Gun Moll realized that every cycle of the machine caused her limbs to be pulled farther, increasing the tension on her joints until she would eventually be yanked apart like a roast chicken on a serving platter.
Her breathing steadied and she began to look about her again, desperate for any means of escape.  The limited movement of her hands allowed her fingers to close on nothing but empty air.  The workings of the machine were held above her on a frame of iron supports.  Close as they were, she could no more touch them than she could the face of the moon.  She could shift herself about somewhat on the wooden plank where she lay, but that was of no use in her present situation.  Though she rocked and thrashed as well as she was able, Gun Moll could discover no weakness in her iron bonds.
The ticking went on and on.  Moll found herself horribly fascinated by the rotation of the cam.  In some strange way, her helplessness and the sheer tedium of lying motionless was creating a strange frame of mind in which she actually looked forward to the completion of the rotation as a relief of the emotional tension that built up inside her, and of the dull but growing pain in her limbs as they remained immobilized in unnatural positions.
Again the cam made its slow round and again she saw the lever lift, setting off the chain reaction that pulled her limbs tighter, wrenched the joints yet more cruelly.  An involuntary gasp escaped Moll's lips as fiery bolts of pain burned a path straight to her brain.
The machine halted again, its cycle finished.  The muscles on Gun Moll's tortured limbs stood out like quivering cords.  She could not decide which was greater, the torment that seized her when the machine carried out its rending motions, or the agony that grew in a body held immobile in a position of terrible stress.  Moll tried to divide her attention between the two sensations, not allowing either one to overpower her.  She was now drawn so tightly that she was unable to scoot her body around at all, and every little bump in the plank dug into her back.  Able to move only her head, she thrashed it wildly in an effort to distract herself.
Again and again the machine pulled tighter, increasing the tension.  Her nerveless, blood starved fingers and toes hung unmoving from the iron cuffs.  Her frenzied mind searched frantically for the sweet peace of unconsciousness.
As her mind fought off yet another cycle of torment, Gun Moll saw a human form bending over her.  When she first grasped the sight her pain-glazed eyes presented to her she wondered, with what was left of her crumbling sanity, if it could be Sin Lo come back to gloat in her last moments.  And yet, she could see it was no male figure that bent over her.  A woman looked down on her, and she speaking, although Moll had to struggle to understand words.  Moll focused her sight and perceived through red mists the face of the woman who had shared her bunk back in the opium den.
At that moment the machine began another cycle and Moll nearly fainted as she felt her joints begin to give way.  For the first time, she gave vent to her pain in a wild scream that echoed off the walls until the mechanism finally ceased its actions.
As she panted deliriously, the woman took Molls' face between her two hands and tried to make her focus.  After several minutes, Gun Moll regained the ability to recognize the woman again.
"You've got to get me out of here," she gasped.
"I'm trying," said the woman.  Indeed, she was struggling with the ingenious clasp that held the cuff closed on Gun Moll's wrist.  The seconds ticked away as her fingers fumbled with the unfamiliar design.  At last the restraint fell open, and the woman lowered Moll's limp arm to the floor.  Seconds later she was working on the other wrist.  The complicated fastening was difficult for her unpracticed hands to manipulate and the cam continued its heedless progress.
This cuff fell loose and Moll's rescuer began working on one of the ankle restraints, nervously dividing her attention between the turning cam, the fastening, and the door through which Sin Lo might appear at any moment.  The cam had neared the top of its rotation and Moll could see the lever begin to stir as the mechanism neared the crucial point in its cycle.  Her eyes flicked back to the woman's fingers and their seemingly hopeless, fumbling movements.  She heard the click of the lever's release and the sudden, terrible commencement of the machine's clockwork movements.  She felt the gathering tension and the twisting, wrenching agony as the machine began to pull her legs apart, past the point of human endurance.  She closed her weeping eyes and shrieked a long and heartbreaking scream of desperation.
But the scream was an act!  For in the last instant before the mechanism had begun its terrible and destructive action, the cuff had fallen away from Moll's ankle and the savage pull on her other leg, still imprisoned, served only to drag her across the bench on which she lay.  In the merest second of her release, the cool wit of Gun Moll had reasserted itself.  Her scream of pain had been merely a ruse to fool the listening ears of Sin Lo.
As the machine clacked and whirred, the woman finished the work of release and dragged Gun Moll's helpless body off the bench.  Together, they watched the workings of the terrible device and Moll imagined for herself the tearing of her joints as the empty cuffs moved on without her.
Though still unable to move, feeling began to return to Gun Moll's hands.  The woman was briskly rubbing Moll's limbs, trying to restore life and mobility.  She gritted her teeth at the new, but hopeful, agony of blood once again flowing freely through her hands and feet.
"He could be back any second now," said the woman.  "You've got to get back on your feet."
Moll tentatively flexed her limbs.  "I can move a little now," she said.  The feeling's coming back."
The woman worked nervously.  "He'll do even worse than this to us both if he finds me here with you."
"I don't know what to say," began Moll.  "Thank you for coming for me."
The woman shook her head.  "After what I've seen," she said, "and done..."  The woman closed her eyes as she fought back a painful memory.  "I couldn't stand by and let another one die."
Gun Moll nodded, understanding that there was some terrible tragedy here that deserved her sympathy, but the icy light was returning to her blue eyes and her calculating mind was at work.
"All right," said Gun Moll.  "What's next?"

CHAPTER XIII
TERROR IN THE TUNNELS

As life began to flow back into Gun Moll's tortured limbs she asked, "How did you get in here?  Isn't there a guard outside the door?"  The question made sense in light of the fact that during the worst of her torture in Sin Lo's clockwork device Moll had lost all awareness of anything other than her own agonies.
Moll's rescuer shook her head.  "I've never set foot in the hallways without one of those goons as an escort," she answered.  "I found another way not long ago."
The woman rose and walked over to one of the wooden screens Moll had noticed earlier.  Taking hold of it, she moved the light panel aside.  Doing this revealed a small, rectangular opening in the wall, just a foot above the floor.  A metal grill lay nearby.
"It's an air shaft," said the woman.  "For heat, or ventilation, I suppose.  There's one in the opium den too, in the wall right by my bunk."
"So you've been able to get out of there all along," said Moll.  "Does anyone else know about this?"
"We all know about it," answered the woman.  "It's what that devil meant when he said we'd hear your screams.  The shafts carry the sounds from this room straight to the opium den.  Probably to his throne room too, so we'd better be quiet."
Gun Moll nodded to show her understanding.
"He's kept us all so doped up and intimidated," continued the woman, "that none of us even thought about using the shaft as an escape route, not even me, and I've been lying right beside it for days now."
Well did Moll remember the atmosphere in that dungeon of despair.  Those poor women, addicted to opium and forced to endure one degradation after another with no hope of release, had become spiritless husks.  Moll was not surprised at this.  The condition had been willfully inflicted upon them by a master of psychological torture.  It was a manipulation designed to make them docile, even willing slaves to do the vile bidding of their masters for whatever time on earth remained to them.
"Lucky for me you snapped out of it when you did," said Gun Moll.
The bedraggled woman shook her head again and her eyes hardened.  "It was him," she said.  "He did it.  There's no way to judge time in there for sure, but it was the other night, I'm guessing.  Something happened.  A woman ... was whipped to death..."
"That was the stain on the wall?" Moll asked.
A nod.  "Yes," the captive girl admitted.  "I did it.  He made me."  She looked down.  "These hands ... these hands did something so terrible...  Anyway, that night I decided my life meant nothing.  Whenever that horrible old woman was looking away I worked on the screws holding the grille in place until I could get it loose.  After he locked us up again tonight I decided that was it.  I was either going to kill him or die myself.  So took off the cover and crawled through the hole.  I was going to look for his room, but then I heard your screams and I had to do something ... try to make up for what I'd done."  The woman buried her face in her hands.
"It wasn't your fault," said Gun Moll.  "You were all under his spell.  Any one of you might have done it."
"He's already killed one of us," the woman whimpered.  "He told us all about it.  His gang caught her in the halls ... and when they were done ... he threw her off the roof as an example to the rest of us."
Gun Moll could barely suppress a grin.  So the old villain had lied to cover up his own failure.  Apparently he had some weaknesses after all.
At that moment the cam completed another circuit and the machine began the clattering motions that would have torn Moll's joints asunder had she still been trapped in its grip.  Moll uttered a long and piercing scream which she held for the duration of the mechanism's cycle.
"Okay," said Moll, tentatively flexing her arms and legs, "at least he knows I'm still alive.  If he thinks he still has time to see the show, then maybe he won't be in too big a hurry to come down here.  Hopefully I've bought us another fifteen minutes.  We'd better put it to good use."
Wincing painfully, she crawled over to the opening in the wall.  "You know the tunnel," she said.  "You first."
Gun Moll waited as the woman squeezed into the hole, she then followed.  The shaft was scarcely wide enough to admit their shoulders, barely high enough to raise their head enough to look forward.  They were forced to slide themselves forward, snakelike.  Their progress was slow and with no light, Moll was soon unable to guess just how far they had gone.  Even Moll began to feel a claustrophobic horror of being swallowed forever in the bowels of this building.  At last they stopped and she heard her rescuer's thin whisper coming back at her.
"This is where I turn to go back to the den.  I have to go back.  If he finds me gone I'm afraid he'll kill them all."
"You're probably right," said Gun Moll.  "I'm going to look for a way out of here.  If I find it, I won't forget you.  I'll be back to get you out of this place."
There was no response.  The woman began to haul her body around the corner.
"Wait," said Moll.  "That woman, the one he told you he killed..."
"What about her?" came the response.
"He didn't," hissed Moll.  "He lied to you.  She's in the hospital now.  She's going to be okay.  You all will be."
The woman stopped her movements.  "Thanks," came the whispered reply.  "I'll try to remember that."
And in moments, the woman had disappeared around the turn, leaving Moll alone.
* * *
Back in the torture chamber, the sound of keys rattling and the creak of the opening door broke the silence.  Sin Lo strode triumphantly into the room to witness the final death throes of his victim.  But when he entered, his evil grin melted away and was replaced by an expression of towering rage.  It took but a moment for the baffled celestial to storm through the room and tear aside the wooden screen to find the means of Gun Moll's escape.  He leaned over the hole but could hear nothing, see nothing but impenetrable blackness.
He whirled to face one of the men who accompanied him into the room.  "You guarded door.  Heard nothing?  You pay with your worthless life for negligence!"
The guard went pale as he was immediately seized and forced down onto the plank where Moll had recently endured torture.  Sin Lo would not go without a victim tonight.
But for now, Master of Evil centered his attention upon the opening into which his prey had escaped.  Still he peered inside, deep in thought.  "Shafts run all through building," he mused to himself.  "Woman may become hopelessly lost ... die without ever again seeing light.  Or," he muttered, "fortune may smile upon that one.  Given time, may escape."
He turned to his guards, mentally measuring them, but he could see they were all too large to fit into the tiny opening.  He thought for a moment, and then the lines on his brow smoothed.  His lips began to curl upward into an expression that on another human being might have been considered a smile, but on his evil countenance resembled more the snarl of a predatory demon.  His narrow, black eyes glowed with an unholy light.
A gloating laugh echoed off the walls of the room, and then Sin Lo's voice was heard to say, "Yes, these men too big to follow through shaft ... but I know others...  Yes ... others who can fit very well..."
His men trembled as Sin Lo's laugh of triumph filled the room.
* * *
Moll continued to pull herself forward, sliding her body over the cold, metal surface of the tunnel.  Her arms and legs, newly released from Sin Lo's torture device, were still weak and movement was painful.  She could progress only slowly in the cramped space and could form no clear idea of whether she was nearing freedom or tunneling even more deeply into the clutches of the mad chinaman.
As she crawled she thought she heard a noise behind her, but since it didn't sound like a man pulling himself along after her she ignored it.  The age of the building or the pressure of her body on the metal walls of the air shaft could account for any strange noises she heard.  Besides, as she moved forward she began to detect her first sign of encouragement.  Moll had noticed a slight freshening of the air.  The sensation was so faint that she feared it might be no more than a hallucination brought on by fear and her powerful desire to find safety.
Again she heard the noise.  It was a faint skittering sound, far behind her but growing in volume.  There was no denying it now, and she had to force her mind to concentrate on the path ahead.  Her imagination began to conjure up terrifying fantasies that required every effort of her iron will to suppress.
As she slid forward the noise grew, becoming nearer and more constant, and accompanied now by an intermittent, high pitched squeaking.  And suddenly Moll realized what that sound was.  It was the noise created by scores of tiny little claws clicking on the metal floor of the air shaft.  Rats!  That oriental mind had conceived an idea that was as monstrous as it was deadly.  In the narrow space there would be no escape.  Her mind now had something real on which to base its fantasies and she felt she could almost see the glowing, red eyes and pointed teeth.  She lunged forward, scrabbling for traction on the smooth metal.  In her panic, her movements lost their discipline and turned for a moment into a wild thrashing that slowed her progress rather than speeding it.  Her arms and legs banged against the sides of the shaft as she abandoned stealth for whatever speed she could muster.  Knowing how the shafts conducted sound, she felt sure that somewhere behind her Sin Lo was peering greedily into the opening and laughing at her distress.  She nearly screamed as she felt a tiny body scamper across her ankle.  Adrenaline coursed through her as she felt the sharp bite of incisors sinking into her flesh.

CHAPTER XIV
ABANDON THEM?  NEVER!

Gun Moll squirmed forward in a frenzy, her natural unease at being trapped in this cramped and dark space now multiplied by a flood of terror at the thought of being devoured alive by Sin Lo's hungry rats.  Her movements, which at the beginning of her journey had been rational and productive, now lost their coherence as she clawed her way along, trying to distance herself from the swift-moving rats.  Her legs, occupied now with kicking at the furry, little bodies, no longer aided her forward progress.  It was her arms now that hauled her weight through the narrow ductwork of the air shaft.  They burned with exhaustion now, not only from the work demanded of them, but from the necessity of performing that work in a space so constricted that it allowed almost no freedom of movement.
Yet there was no rest.  The rats, emboldened by the apparent helplessness of their prey grew ever more aggressive.  Moll was spurred on by their savage nips on her bare legs.  Kicking and rolling, banging her head countless times as she wriggled along, she kept her head in a situation that might have driven a lesser mind to the brink of madness.  Her only encouragement was the illusive hint of a fresh breeze on her cheeks - a fresh breeze that came to her from somewhere up ahead.
As she crawled, the breeze seemed to become stronger on her face.  Wishful thinking or not, it prodded her to greater efforts and provided a focus for her mind.  With an iron determination, Gun Moll wrapped herself in a cloak of icy calm, forced her arms to move in a productive rhythm, and pressed on.  And yet, as the fresh air on her face increased, so did the assault of the rats on her legs.  Though she had no way to see it, she knew her lower limbs were bleeding from a score of bites and scrapes.  There was no longer any discouraging of the rodents that plagued her.  The best Moll could hope for was to kick them off as they hung on and chewed.
Suddenly her fingers touched a metal barrier.  For a moment she succumbed to panic, comprehending only that her forward movement was halted.  Then her mind grasped that this was a metal grate.  The air was fresh and cool on her face.  She had reached the end of the shaft.  Beyond that grate lay freedom!
Gun Moll yanked desperately at the bars but there was no movement there.  The cover was securely bolted into the stone wall outside.  The rats, realizing now that she was no longer moving away from them, grew ever more savage in their attacks.  Moll was pulling and scratching at the grate.  Her legs thrashed frantically at the unstoppable horde that assailed her.  Before she realized it, her gasps had turned into uncontrollable screams.  Words and unintelligible shrieks pealed forth from her lips - pleadings for help and wild curses.  The rats were swarming over her body now, biting through the thin material of her slip, tearing at her skin to get at the warm blood that coursed beneath.
It was only Gun Moll's extraordinary presence of mind, even under the most stressful conditions, that enabled her to understand the words that reached her from the other side of the barrier.
"Get back!  Get back!"
Gun Moll shoved her body back into the boiling mass of hungry rodents just as a metal bar poked through the grate.  Manipulated by an unseen deliverer, the bar twisted and pried until the grate finally tore free and clattered on the concrete walk below.  Strong hands reached into the shaft, grasped Moll's arms, and drew her forth.
Moll's savior fell back with her in his arms, stunned by the sight of a mass of rats pouring from the opening like a black, liquid stream.  As the rats hit the sidewalk, their sudden awareness of freedom overcame their ravenous hunger and they scattered.  In seconds they had melted away into the darkness.
Gun Moll's head fell back.  She gazed upward, but could scarcely comprehend that her staring eyes beheld the face of Flynn.  In turn, it took Flynn some time to recognize this torn and filthy girl as his Mollie.  It was only when he brushed back the tangled hair and saw those icy blue eyes that he knew the identity of the woman he had drawn forth.  Without further delay, he picked her up and carried her to his car.
* * *
Gun Moll awoke to the scent of coffee and eggs.  She tried to stretch luxuriously on the soft mattress where she lay, but was stopped by the pain that shot through her limbs.  Flynn saw her stir and came to stand over her.
"I brought you to my apartment when I realized it was you, Mollie," he said.  "I had a doctor come look at you.  How are you feeling?"
She groaned.  "Probably even worse than I look.  So will I live?"
"You'll live," said Flynn.  He tried to grin but the look in his eyes belied it.  "Though it may be some time before you consider that a blessing.  I don't believe there's an inch of your body that isn't bruised, bitten, scraped...  You've no broken bones, but the doctor said your joints looked like you'd been stretched on a rack."  The old cop shook his head.  "What happened to you in there, Mollie?"
Gun Moll winced at the memory.  "You can tell that sawbones for me," she said, "that I'm glad he paid attention in med school when they taught the class on torture chambers."
"Ha, ha."  Flynn shook his head.  "I don't know what there is to joke about."
"Not much else is there to do about it now," said Moll.  Her eyes suddenly brightened.  "Say Flynn, how long have I been out, anyway?
"About ten hours," said Flynn.  "And it's pure luck I found you when I did.  I'd been waiting out there for you like you told me to - me or one of my men when I couldn't be there myself.  I was down the block trying to look inconspicuous when I heard the screams."
"An old Irishman like you trying to look inconspicuous in the middle of Chinatown, I bet that was a sight."  Moll smiled up into the older man's eyes.  "Thanks, Flynn.  If you hadn't been there for me..."
Flynn shrugged.  "Aw, it's just been part of the job for as long as I've known you, Mollie."
They both fell silent for a moment, but Gun Moll's mind was working.
"It was night when you pulled me out of there.  It must be late afternoon now, at least," she said.
"It's about 4:30 now," answered Flynn.  "But that doesn't matter to you, young lady.  The doctor said you wouldn't be walking again for at least a couple of weeks."
But Gun Moll was already struggling up to a sitting position.  She groaned, her face twisted in pain.  "Get me some aspirins, Flynn."
"Mollie, you lie down now!"  Flynn used his no-nonsense police voice.  "You're going nowhere."
"Thanks for giving me this old shirt to wear, but I need a slip like the one I was had on when you found me.  You got anything around here?"
Flynn looked scandalized.
Gun Moll laughed at his distressed expression.  "No, I guess not," she said.  "How about Mrs. Monahan, next door?  Does she still leave her wash hanging out on the line?"
"I'm telling you, Mollie," spluttered Flynn, "The doctor said you're in no condition to move..."
Gun Moll turned her icy blue eyes upon his.  Her face, normally as impassive as a porcelain mask, now blazed with passion.  "Those girls," she spat, "have been alone with that devil for ten hours now.  Heaven only knows what he's done to them since he found out I escaped."
"There's only one thing they've got going for them now.  That's the fact that he's got to keep them alive so he can ship them out tomorrow night.  That's the deadline, Flynn.  There's a ship in the harbor now, waiting to take them to the orient, to a life that ... that I won't condemn them to if I can help it."
Flynn knew it was useless to try and reason with her, yet still he tried.  "Mollie," he said, "let me explain all this to the chief.  I can raid the place with a squad of men..."
But Gun Moll cut him off.  "You go busting in there with an army and he will kill them all out of sheer spite.  He's probably got a dozen escape routes too.  He'll get away and you'll never find him.  I've seen him in action, Flynn.  I know what I'm talking about."
Gun Moll was already pulling the bandages off her arms and legs.  She moved stiffly, but with growing determination.  "I need some of that coffee, Flynn," she said.  "Are there any of those eggs left?"
Flynn resigned himself to serving her.  As he poured a steaming cup and dished up her food he could see the wheels turning in her head.  By the time he returned with the plate and mug, Gun Moll was ready to give her orders.
Between mouthfuls she said, "I need one of Mrs. Monahan's slips.  Go next door and get it for me."
Noticing Flynn's expression, she spread her arms and added, "Would you rather that I go, myself?"
Flynn surrendered to her logic.  If his neighbor opened her door to a terribly beaten young woman in one of Flynn's shirts asking for clothing it would certainly earn him some unwelcome attention in the building.
Gun Moll continued, "I'll need makeup, too.  Bring me..." she stopped.  He would have no idea what she was asking for.  "Just bring it all.  Offer her as much money as she wants.  You know I'm good for it."
As Flynn moved toward the door, she added, "Tell her you've got a cousin visiting.  I don't know.  Make something up."
"And when you get back," Gun Moll said, "I'll explain my plan to you."

CHAPTER XV
PLANS ARE SET

Inside Sin Lo's stronghold, all was pandemonium.  Whatever momentary pleasure he had derived from loosing the rats on Gun Moll had evaporated as he strode out of the torture room, followed by his guards.
Locked within the opium den, the girls wondered fearfully at the sudden sounds of shouting and crashing that came through the walls.  Only Gun Moll's rescuer, cowering on her bunk knew the cause of the uproar.  She did her best to replace the grate over the air vent next to her bunk.  The cover had been put up on the wall again and the screws pushed back into place, but she knew her work would pass only the most casual examination.  She hoped that would suffice.
Moments later her hopes were dashed as the door opened and Sin Lo entered the room.  Even the most heavily drugged of the girls shrank back from the fiendish celestial, his breathing heavy, his face purple with towering rage.  His poisonous glare swept the room.  Then he moved forward and began tearing the room apart.  Bunks crashed to the floor, bedding sailed through space.  Girls tumbled to the floor and ran back and forth, screaming in terror at the sight.
As the furious chinaman approached, Barbara rolled out of her bunk and scrambled across the floor in a crouch, trying to lose herself in the chaos.  Her double-decker bunk was torn away from the wall and Sin Lo kicked the splintered fragments aside.  A yellow claw reached out and ripped the vent cover loose.  It came away with unexpected ease.
Sin Lo slowly turned.  Silence fell over the room.  In Sin Lo's tightening grip the metal grate began to bend.  The girls stared in horror.  His free hand slowly stole toward his sleeve, where the dreaded lash was kept coiled.  In moments, blood would spill.
Roy Ling stepped up behind his master and spoke, his voice hushed and respectful.  "Doctor, we must have this merchandise ready for shipment tomorrow night.  It would be a pity to lose profit by damaging it."
Sin Lo's hand was as swift as a striking cobra.  In one blurred movement he plucked from his sleeve, not the leather whip, but a knife.  There was a sudden flash, which ended as the blade was buried in the young man's chest.  For the space of a few heartbeats, the youthful assistant stood blinking in disbelief at the dark stain which spread over his white shirtfront.  Then his knees buckled and he slumped down with a groan.  Sin Lo bent to wrench free his dagger.  He cleaned it carefully on the dying man's jacket.  He rose, and the weapon disappeared once again in the depths of his robes.  Roy Ling's final breath rattled quietly from his throat.
And so died the young patricide who would have stood by the throne of the world's ruler.  Instead, he choked out the remaining seconds of his life on a filthy plank floor, at the feet of a frustrated kidnapper and his wretched slaves.
The master of evil looked down into those glazing eyes.  "Thank you," he said, "for reminding me of priorities.  You have rendered valuable service to your master."  The unhearing corpse made no reply.
He turned to the old crone, who cringed in a corner behind the slaves.  There was no doubt that she would be called to account for what had happened in that room.  But he merely said, "Have them ready."  The words hissed through the air and struck her like red hot coals.
He swept from the room in a whirl of silken robes.  The door slammed shut with a wall-rattling crash.
* * *
In the torture chamber from which Gun Moll had escaped, a man screamed as his broken limbs were finally torn from his body by an unfeeling machine.  Deep in the bowels of the building, the guard quarters were the scene of a grisly massacre.  One in ten men was selected by lot to be killed by his fellows, in atonement for this latest failure.  All this went on without Sin Lo's supervision or orders.  His minions knew what was expected of them, and they carried it out with uncomplaining efficiency.
The Master of Evil sat in his office, reviewing final preparations for the shipment.  Abacus at the ready, he jotted down figures in his own hand.  He was unaccustomed to this sort of menial work.  Normally he merely dictated his words and delegated to another the tedious labor of writing.  However, he now had no choice in the matter.  His assistant lay stiffening in a black pool on the floor of the opium den.
The captain of the ship had been summoned.  He had given his report, received his orders, and left as quickly as possible.  He could sense the unseen turmoil hidden beneath the quiet atmosphere of the place, and had no wish to linger.  He would make certain that all was in readiness on board his ship, for he knew the price to be paid for failure.
Sin Lo set down his pen and walked across the room to a huge globe.  Scattered across its surface, gold dots here and there marked the locations where cells of the Servants of Evil had been established throughout the world.  A gold star marked New York, where Sin Lo had chosen to establish his major headquarters.  It was the hub from which tentacles of evil snaked forth to clasp the world in a vile embrace.  Sin Lo spun the globe and mused upon it with idle interest, allowing his clawlike nails to trace lines across its surface.
For the first time, failure had stalked his plans.  First was the rebellious young girl who had leaped from the roof rather than accept the will of destiny.  Then came the miraculous escape of another from the very jaws of death, aided by one of those whom he had thought safely in his power, bound by chains of terror and drug addiction.  Sin Lo felt a tremor in the web of harmony he had constructed so painstakingly over the years.  Anger welled up within him.  This was but a tiny pinprick, easily repaired and of no particular importance.  And yet, the crafty celestial knew that such pinpricks could be seen as a sign of weakness by his subordinates.  In an organization ruled by terror, strength was what kept the plots of his underlings from blossoming into rebellion.  Thinking of what he knew was happening on the floors below him, he smiled.  He was confident that no word of his recent setbacks would reach the ears of those who might seek to advance themselves at his expense.
Sin Lo thought back to the early years when he had first arrived at this city, penniless but armed with the respect that came from being the leader of one of China's oldest and most feared societies.  Over time he had gathered followers.  By virtue of his wisdom, and the judicious use of terror, he had established himself as the power behind the scenes in the oriental community here, with his influence extending over activities both legal and criminal.  With his successes had come the need for further growth, and he had sent forth emissaries around the world to help him seize control of the global trade in opium and vice.
As his wealth and business activities had grown, so had his need for influence over banking and political institutions worldwide.  Where legitimate acquisitions and relationships failed, bribery and blackmail succeeded.  Money had changed hands, threats had been made, so that influential leaders in government and business now bowed to his whispered commands.  Over time, Sin Lo had built a worldwide secret empire, at the center of which he sat like some hideous spider, spinning webs of intrigue.
And yet even this was not enough to satisfy the wild ambitions of the Master of Evil.  Each new advance merely whetted his appetite for power.  He had set as his goal nothing less than the creation of a new dynasty that would rule a revived and world-spanning Chinese empire.  Sin Lo would reign as the Son of Heaven, maintaining a new balance of harmony around the globe.  Possessing the wisdom and subtlety of the east; with the dynamism of the barbarian west at his disposal, he would create an everlasting regime that would forever increase its glory as the world groveled in abject slavery.  His name would be carved in letters of gold on monuments where generation after generation would worship him as a god.  Immortality would be his as the father of a new world order.
All of these golden visions danced in the mind of Sin Lo.  His entire life had been dedicated to the project of making them a reality.  And yet he realized he was no longer a young man.  If he was to accomplish his goal he must move rapidly forward, tolerating no failure, crushing all opposition with ruthless efficiency.
And yet little did Sin Lo realize that deep within his very stronghold there now crept another.  His foe was no warlord, set to battle him for control of his organization.  It was instead, a woman, one of those whom he had thought to enslave to his profit, who had focused her icy determination to bring downfall and destruction of the Master of Evil within his own lair!

CHAPTER XVI
BACK INTO DANGER

Gun Moll peered through the vent opening and into the opium den.  The metal cover was gone, but that scarcely mattered now.  The room looked as if a bomb had gone off inside it.  Pieces of smashed bunks lay strewn about and what looked like the dead body of a man sprawled in the middle of the floor.  The girls were all huddled against the far wall, well away from the air vent.  That spoiled Moll's original idea, which had been to crawl, unseen, directly into her rescuer's bunk and take her place.  Now she had to come up with a new plan, fast.
After leaving Flynn outside the building, Gun Moll had made her return to the opium den by crawling back through the ductwork.  Every foot of the way, she had listened for the sound of tiny feet pattering toward her on the metal floor of the passage.  Still, her rational mind knew that Sin Lo would have no reason to suspect that she would return alone in the same way that she had escaped.  If anything, he would have prepared for the police raid that Flynn had wanted to mount.
Her trip back through the dusty shaft had smeared both Moll and Mrs. Monahan's clean, white slip with grime.  She hoped that would help her not to look too out of place among the women who had lived for weeks under the most primitive and degrading conditions.  She pushed the little bag of makeup along in front of her, having brought it along in case a few touches to her face might help her to look more like her rescuer, whom she intended to impersonate.  In the half light of the opium den she had thought it might be just enough to carry off the ruse if she was careful not to bring attention to herself.
Now, as she peered into the room, she could see she would have to rethink her strategy.  Looking back, she felt she should have foreseen this, but there was nothing to do now but press on and improvise.  Silently, Gun Moll edged forward, pausing as she gained a wider view of the room.  She still saw nothing more than the girls and the broken furniture.  As far as she could see, there were no guards in the room but Moll wanted to know the location of the old crone who had supervised the room and prepared the opium pipes.  If she moved further toward the opening she risked being spotted by the inhabitants of the room and she didn't want the old lady to shout an alarm.
There was no choice now but to move ahead.  As Gun Moll crawled forward, she saw a few pairs of eyes flick up toward her.  Apparently her face had emerged from the gloom and was now visible in the opening.  Moll gestured for silence and looked about again.  There was nothing more to be seen, but from her new position she could now stretch forward and peer downward over the edge.  There, as she had imagined, the ancient woman sat on the floor just below her.  Obviously the old bundle of rags had stationed herself there to prevent any further escape attempts.
Gun Moll would have liked to have had a few minutes to plan, but it was not to be.  Whether because of the muted stir among the wretched women or for some other cause, the room's guardian began to rise.  Moll tensed in response.  If the crone should turn and spot her, Moll would be trapped, unable to move fast enough to get away before guards were summoned to drag her forth from her hiding place.  Evidently, some sense of her plight communicated itself to the women across the room.  There was movement among the mass of bodies and one pale form rose to her knees.  Even though the old woman's rise to a standing position did not halt, her attention was arrested by the motion among her charges.  Her eyes remained fixed upon them as she rose.  Gun Moll's arms extended slowly, noiselessly.
Suddenly the old crone's body slammed back against the wall as Gun Moll sprang the trap.  Like twin, steel springs, her arms snapped shut around the scrawny neck, cutting off the air.  Withered hands and feet drummed against the wall as Moll's slender but powerful arms slowly strangled the woman.  There was no doubt of the outcome, yet Moll cast a worried glance toward the girl who had saved her.  Even though Moll's grip could not be broken, yet surely the noise of the ragged creature's thrashing would be enough to bring the guards storming into the room.  The girl seemed to understand, for she raced across the room to throw herself upon the flailing body, pinning it motionless to the wall until the process of death could be completed.  Only when both women were sure that no life remained did Gun Moll loosen her grip upon the crushed windpipe and allow the body to collapse limply to the floor.
With the girl's help, Gun Moll slid from the opening to stand once again in the opium den with the other women.  They clustered around her with mixed emotions.  While none were sorry to see their ancient guardian dead, they rightly feared what might result once Sin Lo learned of his minion's demise.  Knowing that time was not on her side, Moll swiftly assessed the new situation.
She looked at the girl who had just aided her and spoke in a rapid undertone.  "My original plan was to sneak back in here, take your place and send you out of here.  Sorry, but I can't do that now.  He'll notice instantly if the old lady isn't at her post."
As Gun Moll spoke, she and the girl had each taken hold of an arm and were dragging the body back to a shadowy corner where they could conceal it underneath the broken furniture.  When they let it drop, Moll stooped to begin stripping off the filthy, ragged clothing.  As she quickly dressed herself, she spoke to the girl again.  "I brought a bag with makeup in it.  I need you to do what you can to make me look like that old hag."
The girl worked deftly, using a little grime from the floor to darken Moll's fair complexion.  Then with items from the makeup kit she penciled in suggestions of lines about the mouth and did her best to give the eyes a slanted, oriental look.  When she finished she stepped back and looked at her work critically.
"It's okay," said Gun Moll.  "It doesn't have to be perfect.  She always kept her head down and covered with that shawl, anyway.  Mostly it will be my acting that will make this work or not."
With that said, Gun Moll drew the shawl over her own head, obscuring her features in shadow.  Her body twisted into a crippled hunch.  She shuffled back to her station under the vent opening, muttering to herself between raspy breaths.  She squatted in her place and resumed the old woman's occupation of fiddling with the opium pipes, occasionally allowing a low cackle to escape her lips.  The other women sank back into their own places on the opposite side of the room, amazed at the transformation of the beautiful young woman into the harridan who now watched over them.
Hours passed.  At rare intervals, bowls of tasteless gruel were brought in.  The disguised Gun Moll accepted the food from the guards and set it before the girls, just as the old woman had.  None of them gave her a glance.  The deception was perfect.  She encouraged the girls to eat, for they would need their strength.
When it came to the opium, however, Gun Moll doled out only what she thought would be the barest minimum doses that would ease their craving.  She couldn't cut them off entirely, as she would have liked to have done, for that would be to risk madness as the hunger for the drug overcame their reason.  And yet she must do her best to keep them alert, for when the climactic moment arrived, their own sense of self-preservation might be all that stood between them and death at the hands of Sin Lo's vengeful mobsters.  And so Gun Moll encouraged them to be strong and to take only what they needed of the poppy's insidious smoke as she scuttled among them, ministering to their needs.
And thus the hours passed in the twilit room where captive women waited for the moment that would bring them deliverance, death, or the beginning of a new life that would make death seem a blessing.  The women rested as best they could, gathering their strength for the trial ahead, until at long last the door slammed open and a bright light assaulted their eyes.
"Up!  Up!  The Master commands!"
The women scrambled to their feet as guards with sticks flailed at their stiffly moving forms.  Gun Moll too, was up and lashing at the terrified women with a strip of cloth torn from her rags.
"Go!  Go!  Now!  No talking!"
The order was followed by the instant dousing of the light.  The women's eyes, cruelly exposed to the bright light after weeks of darkness, were now completely blinded.  Gun Moll had shielded her own under a fold of the shawl and so was not quite so badly affected.  The guards herded the women along, thrashing those who stumbled.  Moll followed, trying to stay with the group and hoping she would not be separated from the women.
The group was driven up a flight of stairs into another lighted room.  As their eyes adjusted painfully, once again, to the change, they saw the hazy form of Sin Lo standing before them.  The evil celestial counted his captives and barked an order to the guards.
"Into trucks, now!" he directed.  "Ship waits at dock.  Must sail before dawn!  Tonight, these worthless ones begin voyage to final destination in Far East!"

CHAPTER XVII
TO THE SMUGGLER'S SHIP

A large panel truck waited in the alley behind Sin Lo's stronghold.  The girls were bundled in blankets and marched the few steps from the steel-reinforced back door to their waiting conveyance.  Once aboard the cargo area they huddled on the floor, shivering with fear and the unaccustomed chill of the night.  A number of Sin Lo's guards climbed aboard to ride along with them.  As Gun Moll left the building, still disguised as the wizened matron of the opium den, she saw an expensive limousine parked in front of the truck.  Sin Lo was already seated within.  No one objected as Moll scrambled into the back of the van to sit among the girls.  
Gun Moll did not know whether her acceptance within the truck meant that the old woman normally took this last ride with her charges, or if the mobsters had even thought her worthy of notice.  She did not concern herself overly with their reasoning for her thoughts were devoted to the events which lay ahead.  Riding along in the truck had been a convenience which had spared her the need to follow by other means.
The truck swayed and jostled its inhabitants as it made its way through the city streets down toward the harbor.  Since the interior of the cargo compartment was lit by the guards' electric torches, Gun Moll took stock of the men who watched over the group of captives.  Most of them were armed with revolvers, although there were some tommy guns to be seen.  More than twenty of hard faced young orientals had been assigned to this detail; one for each captive woman.  Obviously, Sin Lo intended to take no chances with this group as they took their last drive through the streets of an American city.  There could be no attempt at escape while under the watchful eyes of these murderous thugs.
At last the brakes squealed for the final time and the truck came to a halt.  This was followed by a seemingly interminable wait.  The air inside the unventilated truck, already grown stale during the ride, slowly became nearly unbreathable.  The girls lay gasping around Gun Moll, who risked a glance up at the guards.  Although the sweat trickled down their faces, they sat as impassively as ever.  They knew very well that their lives depended upon their vigilance, and did not indulge in any behavior which might give even the slightest encouragement to rebellion among the captives.  Gun Moll did the same as the slow minutes passed.
At last there was heard the clatter of chains outside the compartment, and the door swung wide to admit an almost painfully refreshing blast of cool air.  The women and even the guards greedily drank in great lungfuls.  Tainted as it was with the mingled reeks of the waterfront, at this moment it seemed like the sweetest of breezes.
Beams from electric torches probed the interior of the truck.
"Out!  Out!" came the whispered commands.  "No talking!"
Guards began dragging the still-weak girls to their feet and handing them down to the arms of others who waited outside the truck.  As the girls were lined up, a final count was made and then the lights were snapped out, to leave the group in darkness, surrounded by an impenetrable cordon of Sin Lo's guards.  Gun Moll, beneath notice in her disguise, was left to stand off to the side.  From her vantage point she had seen, before the lights were doused, other groups of women waiting under guard on the pier.  She could not count the number in the gloom, but in her mind she imagined scores of wretched young women, all believing this to be their last glimpse of home before they were shipped off to a foreign land to be sold off like cattle.
Prods from the guards started the women marching.  In the darkness they could do little more than allow themselves to be herded along by their captors.  This walk was a short one.  It ended at the foot of a gangplank that stretched away to be lost in shadow.  As Gun Moll's eyes traced its path her field of vision was overwhelmed by the sight of a great, black hulk rearing against the starry sky.  This then, was the freighter whose rusty iron hold would carry these women half way across the world.  Dark figures moved, half seen, on the deck above her.  Now and then, muffled voices could be heard, and the clatter of equipment being hauled about.  Quiet footsteps passed by Moll and she now saw the silk clad form of Sin Lo glide forward to meet a slouching man who emerged from the shadows on the gangplank.  Words were exchanged, and an order given.  Gun Moll's group began to move forward.
Now came the moment of decision.  Once those women crossed the gangplank and entered that black hold they would be forever lost.  Sin Lo's power over his captives was about to become complete.  Secreted within the ship's hidden chambers, transported to a far-off bondage, what remained of their lives would be passed in darkness and despair.
The disguised Gun Moll seemed to stumble.  The guards scarcely noticed as the old bundle of rags went to the ground.  They did not see her hands disappear within her clumsy robes.  Only Sin Lo's head jerked, as if his attention had suddenly been caught by something amiss.
The bundle of rags stood again, becoming taller than ever, straighter.  Its arm rose, stretching upward.  The bulky sleeve fell away to reveal not a withered claw, but the strong, white limb of a vibrant, young woman!  Sin Lo's mouth opened.  He began to croak a warning ... a warning that was drowned by the report of the flare pistol held in Moll's hand.  A fiery trail leaped skyward, ending in a blinding, green burst that illuminated the ship and the groups of people on the pier.  The flare's harsh light revealed the ramshackle smugglers' freighter in high relief it burned.  It hung in the air for a long moment, mercilessly revealing the scene to any who cared to see, then fell to a hissing extinction in the waters of the harbor.
Everyone froze.
Nothing happened.
Seconds passed.
Gun Moll watched in horror as Sin Lo's mouth began to curl in a mirthful grin.  With a sudden flash of inspiration she leveled the flare gun directly at the mocking chinaman.
"Drop your weapons!" she shouted at the guards.  "Put up your hands or I'll let him have it!"
The mobsters hesitated nervously.
"Idiots!" screamed Sin Lo.  "Flare gun is empty!  Kill her!"
Clubs were raised.  There was a chorus of clicks as guns were cocked in the darkness.  Gun Moll, feeling very much alone, prepared herself for swift death.
Suddenly, blinding white lights stabbed through the gloom, fixing their aim on the group that stood on the pier.  The lights were accompanied by the roar of powerful engines and the bark of a bullhorn.
"Police!  Drop your weapons and raise your hands.  You are all under arrest."
Gun Moll was forgotten as snarling mobsters turned at bay and fired at the oncoming police motorboats.  Some of them ran for the truck, only to be halted by the shrill blast of whistles and the thunder of running feet.  Out of the inky blackness charged Flynn, backed by a squad of bluecoats, revolver gripped in one hand and his Billy club swinging in the other.  Flynn's little army hurled itself upon the startled Chinese, who fought back with maddened ferocity.  In moments the pier was a wild chaos of scrambling bodies and flying lead.  Shots cracked down from the rail of the black freighter, only to be quickly silenced by the chatter of machine guns from the police boats.  Heavy slugs kicked sparks from the iron hull before they found their mark in howling snipers.  The gangplank trembled as police charged the ship, pouring a withering barrage into the darkness of the gaping hatch that yawned before them.  Sailors up on deck desperately cast off lines in the vain hope of escape over the high seas, not realizing that grim battle was already being waged within the ship below them.
Flynn, wreaking a path of destruction through the swirling madness, flashed Gun Moll a tigerish grin.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Mollie," he shouted over the din.  "We got moving soon as we saw your flare."
Gun Moll, who had snatched a revolver from a dying mobster, spared Flynn a look from her icy blue eyes, and turned back just in time to fire point blank into a demonic face.  It disappeared in a flash and a cloud of powder smoke.  Having earned a momentary breathing space, she swept her gaze over the pier, searching among the battling figures for the author of this night's horrors.
Sin Lo's silk robed form was not to be found among the struggling knots of fighters.  Dodging bullets and swinging fists, Gun Moll fought her way across the pier like a pale battlefield wraith whose aim brought death to those who rose against her.  Tearing herself loose from the fray, she cast her eyes about, searching.
In a moment she was rewarded by a glimpse of movement in the gloom.  A dark figure was fleeing the scene of action, losing itself in the night.  It could have been any of the gangsters running from a hopeless fight, yet Gun Moll felt sure this fugitive must be the oriental Master of Evil, leaving his minions to face police bullets alone while he sought safety for himself.
Gripping her smoking revolver, Gun Moll sprang forward in hot pursuit.

CHAPTER XVIII
THE FINAL STRUGGLE

Even at night over an unfamiliar surface, Gun Moll's determination drove her forward at a dead run.  She sped after the fleeing figure of Sin Lo, not allowing herself to lose sight of her quarry in the darkness.
Sin Lo ran quickly for an old man.  His silk robes fluttered about him like great, flapping wings.  He seemed to skim over the ground like a monstrous bat.  It was a mixture of fear and fury that drove him forward so.  After decades of rising from one plateau of mastery to another, he had suddenly been slapped down by a gaggle of wretched slaves.  The indignity of the situation galled him.  In his mind, each whistling breath that passed his lips was a curse he spat upon those who had failed him.
His underlings had all proven themselves incompetent to carry out his orders.  Better if they died now under a hail of police bullets.  Should any of them live to be taken into custody it would be yet another task for him to find a way to silence them within the security of prison walls.  The final service they could render him now would be to fight savagely and die, providing him with the opportunity to make good his escape.  All others were expendable, but Sin Lo must live to spin his webs of power another day.
In the weak moonlight he saw the end of the pier just ahead of him.  He halted his flight at the edge and looked down toward the lapping water.  Yes, he saw it.  There, bobbing upon the sparkling waves was the speedboat he had ordered to be left in place for just such an emergency.  Let lesser men allow themselves to be trapped.  Sin Lo was never without resources.  He stepped toward the ladder that would take him safely down to the boat.
"Just like a rat!" came the shrill voice behind him.  "Always got a back way out, don't you?"
Sin Lo whirled.  He saw, pounding up the pier behind him, a slim white figure that he recognized as the woman who had impersonated the old matron of the opium den.  He bared his teeth in a wordless snarl.  This creature had invaded his sanctum and destroyed his plans.  It would be his special pleasure to leave her bleeding corpse sprawled upon the concrete as an example to others who might think to thwart his plans in the future.
With a lightning movement he drew forth the whip from his sleeve and cracked it savagely.  In the hands of Sin Lo the braided leather danced like a living thing.  The woman had allowed her passions to overrule her judgment.  Instead of standing off and shooting him in the back she had foolishly challenged him to single combat.  Gun Moll too, realized the mistake.  Having permitted her momentum to bring her within range of the whip, she had given away her greatest advantage.  Dodging, twisting, she nimbly avoided the snapping lash as she tried to work her way forward, inside the effective reach of the snaking cord.  Almost caressingly, the black coils wrapped about Gun Moll's outstretched arm.  Sin Lo yanked fiercely and she stumbled forward, within reach of his strangling fingers.  A clawed hand reached for her throat.  But Gun Moll spun, using her momentum to tear the whip handle from Sin Lo's grasp.  With a flick of her arm the lash sailed out into the night.  A faint splash marked where it was lost in the waters of the harbor.
Still, the Master of Evil was far from helpless.  A thunderous slap rocked Gun Moll's head back and for a brief moment stars filled her vision.  It took but a second for her eyes to clear, but in that brief time Sin Lo had produced yet another surprise.
Even in the tricky light Gun Moll recognized the dark object that Sin Lo held up before his snarling face.  The clever chinaman cradled a hand grenade in one clutching talon.
Gun Moll sneered, "What, no more whips?  No daggers?  Pretty mundane weapon for a fancy character like you."
Sin Lo calmly plucked the safety ring from the grenade and tossed it off the pier.  Only his grip now held the handle in place, staving off the explosion that would kill them both.
"Yes," he agreed, "a crude, western device.  But effective tonight, I think."
The celestial stepped once again toward the ladder.  "Please to note," he said, "should I drop bomb, results will be ... tragic ... for both of us.  Consider and be wise.  Do not permit gun in hand to give you foolish ideas."
The fiend radiated supreme confidence.  He obviously believed himself to be in command of the situation.  The woman had shown bravery, even strength, but the final outcome of the night's struggle would be determined by the crafty brain of Sin Lo.
Police boats filled the waters now, drawn by the gunfire on the pier.  It might have been the wisest course for Gun Moll to allow Sin Lo his chance, not risking death in a storm of red hot shrapnel.  Yet she and others had suffered terribly at his hands, and she knew without a doubt that should the fiend slip free he would continue to work evil throughout the world for the rest of his days.  Without hesitation, Gun Moll raised her revolver and fired point blank into his chest.
Sin Lo's narrow eyes widened in utter shock.  He was so stunned it did not even occur to him to open his hand and release the grenade.  He stumbled backward and balanced precariously, heels hanging over the edge of the pier.
Moll pressed the trigger again, firing her last round.  She saw the impact as the bullet smacked into the silk-clad chest.  Sin Lo's arms pinwheeled madly as he tottered, overbalanced, and tumbled off the pier.  His hand opened and the grenade tumbled through the air.  As he went over the edge he had time to cast one final look of fury at Gun Moll before he fell into the harbor and disappeared beneath the dark, swirling waters.
Hearing a hissing noise, Gun Moll looked down and saw the grenade lying at her feet.  With a casual effort, she kicked the hissing orb of destruction into the water where Sin Lo had sunk.  She stepped back.  A moment later the bomb went off and a plume of white spray was cast up by the force of the explosion.  She stepped to the edge and looked down for several minutes but there was no sign of the dead chinaman.
Gun Moll sighed and let her shoulders droop with the weariness she had not been able to indulge until now.  A light breeze brought noises of the waning melee to her ears.  The few, final gunshots died away.  With the fighting over, the pier would soon be swarming with investigators searching for the Master of Evil once they discovered he was not among the dead or captured.
The weary mobster queen began to walk back along the pier toward land.  She knew that in the darkness she would be able to slip past the police as they focused their attention on the results of the fray.  A telephone call to Flynn would tell them where to search for the body of Sin Lo.  For now, Gun Moll wished only to get away unseen.  She knew where Jingles would have her car waiting.
* * *
Months later a train was preparing to leave Grand Central Station.  It was headed for cities in the Midwest, far away from New York.  A man and a young woman stood on the platform saying their goodbyes.  Anyone who cared to notice them might have thought it was a father bidding farewell to his daughter as she embarked on a long trip west.  A burly man, he did his best to shield her from the bustling crowd, for she was on crutches and could easily be knocked over in the press.
The teary-eyed girl looked up at the man and gulped, "I don't know what to say, Officer Flynn.  I don't know how to thank you for all you've done."
Flynn gruffly wiped Donna Mae's cheek with his handkerchief.  Her hands were busy with the crutches and she was unable to do it herself.
"You get on home now," he said.  "Find yourself a nice young man and settle down.  If you want to thank me, you just live a good life and stay out of trouble."
As if by impulse, Donna Mae leaned forward and kissed Flynn's rough cheek.  The old cop looked away and mumbled something under his breath, but Donna Mae caught the twinkle in his eye.
The conductor called the All Aboard and offered to help Donna Mae up the steps into the carriage.  Flynn stood on the platform and waited while the final passengers boarded.  At last the train jerked, and with a slow chuffing of the locomotive, made its deliberate way out of the station as it began its long journey.
The gruff Irishman turned and left the station, a little sad to see the girl leave, for he had grown fond of her during the weeks he had cared for her.  Yet he smiled to himself that she had been granted this second chance at happiness after being drawn so close to disaster.  He had a warm feeling as he walked away.
Some minutes later another watcher rose from her seat and walked through the great lobby toward the front doors.  Another had come to see Donna Mae off, although she had done it in secret.  She was a tall, slender woman who kept her face and platinum blond hair hidden beneath a veiled hat.  Furred, jeweled, and elegant, she made her graceful way through the swirling crowds to the street where her car awaited her.  All around, happy couples were reunited and happy families greeted long lost loved-ones.
Gun Moll, as always, walked alone.

THE END

Tentacles of Evil (c) 2003 by Stephen Adams
Nemesis Magazine, Anvil Periodicals are fictitious creations of Stephen Adams and do not represent any real publication or publishing company, past or present.  Richard Maxxon & Yasmine King are pseudonyms for Stephen Adams and do not represent any writer or artist, living or dead.  Gun Moll, Rachel Rocket are creations of Stephen Adams and (c) Stephen Adams.  No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from Stephen Adams, 307 S.  Montgomery St., Spencer, IN 47460.  Email: solitary_bird@yahoo.com <mailto:solitary_bird@yahoo.com>