As a result, standing in the doorway now, he had a stiff neck, and had to roll his head like a circus clown.

It was then he heard heavy, hurried footsteps drawing close from the village entrance. Not one or two men. A large group of them.

Startled, he looked out. There were a dozen men coming in his direction, each of them masked with black cloth, carrying something that shone in the sunlight-axes. At the sight of him, they broke into a charge, swinging their axes, yelling over the sound of the chickens screeching and dogs barking.

“The Flying Axes!” he shouted to the two women who were just emerging from the house. “Get back inside. Quick!”

He whipped out his revolver, aimed in haste, and pulled the trigger. One of the masked men spun like a broken robot, tried in vain to raise his ax, and crumpled to his knees. The others seemed to be stunned.

“He has a gun!”

“He’s killed the Old Third.”

The gangsters did not run away. Instead, they broke into two groups, several taking cover behind the house across the lane, and the others dashing into the barn. As he took a step toward them, a small ax was hurled at him. It missed, but he had to retreat.

Each of them had several axes, large and small, tucked into the front and backs of their belts in addition to those they held in their hands. They threw the small ones like darts.

To his surprise, none of the gangsters seemed to have a gun, even though weapon smuggling was not unheard of in a coastal province like Fujian. This was not the moment for him to find fault with his luck.

What did he have? A revolver with five bullets left. If he did not miss a single shot, he might be able to cut down five of them. Once he fired his last shot, there was nothing else he could do.

The Flying Axes would have surrounded the house. Once they began to attack from all directions, they would overwhelm it. Nor could he hope for timely rescue by the local police. Only the local police had known of their arrival in Fujian.

“Fujian Police, Fujian Police…”

He heard Inspector Rohn shouting into her cellular phone.

Another ax came flying through the air. Before he could react, it stuck trembling in the door frame, missing Catherine by only two or three inches.

If anything happened to her-

He felt the blood rushing to his face. He had made a huge mistake in coming here with the two women. There was no professional justification for it-he had followed a hunch, but he had been wrong to take such a risk.

Cringing besides Catherine, Wen clutched the poetry anthology like a shield.

Poetry makes nothing happen.

It was a line he had read years ago. However, he had hoped that poetry could make some things happen. Here he was, ironically, because of that poetry anthology. It was absurd that he should be thinking of such things in the midst of a desperate fight.

“Do you have any gasoline here, Wen?” Catherine said.

“No.”

“Why do you ask, Inspector Rohn?” he said.

“The bottles-Molotov cocktails.”

“The abrasive! The chemicals are flammable, aren’t they?”

“Yes. They must be as good as gasoline!”

“You know how to make them-Molotov cocktails?”

“Oh yes.” She was already running to the bucket of chemicals in the house.

Several gangsters were moving out of hiding. He raised his revolver as one of them charged, chanting loudly as if under a spell, “Flying Axes kill all the evil,” like someone out of the Boxer Uprising. Chen fired twice. One bullet slammed into the man’s chest, but the momentum carried him sprawling across a few more yards, to fall, still clutching his ax. Sheer luck. Chen remembered how poorly he had scored at the firing range. He had only three bullets left.

Four or five axes came whirring through the air. Aware of Catherine returning with the bottles, Chen instinctively flung up the rattan chair in front of him. The axes crashed into it so heavily he took a step back, involuntarily.

Behind him, Catherine squatted, filling bottles with chemicals, Wen stuffing the bottle tops with rags.

“Have you a light, Catherine?” he asked.

She searched her pockets. “The hotel matchbook-a souvenir of Suzhou.” She struck a match.

Grabbing the bottle from her, he hurled it toward the house where the gangsters had taken shelter. There was a blast. Flames shot up with dazzling colors. She lit the second bottle for him. He tossed it toward the barn. It exploded more loudly, and the acrid smell of the burning chemicals filled his nostrils.

It was a moment Chen could not afford to waste. In the confusion brought on by the explosions, they might stand a chance.

He turned to Wen, “Is there a shortcut out of the village across the creek?”

“Yes, there’s hardly any water in the creek now.”

“There’s a door to the backyard, Catherine. Break it down, run out with Wen, and cut across the creek to the car.” He handed the gun to her. “Take the gun. There are only three bullets left. I’ll cover you.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“With Molotov cocktails. I’ll throw out several bottles.” He plucked the ax out of the door frame. Soon, perhaps, he would have to use it. A kung fu miracle was possible only on the screen. “I will catch up with you.”

“No. I can’t leave you here like this. The local police must have heard about the fighting. They should arrive any minute.”

“Listen, Catherine,” Chen said, his throat dry. “We cannot hold out for long. If they start attacking us from both front and back, it will be too late. You have to go now.”

So saying, he started to throw the bottles, one after another, in quick succession. The path was engulfed in smoke and flames. Amidst the explosions, he heard Catherine and Wen pounding at the back door. He had no time to look over his shoulder. A gangster was rushing at him, axes flashing through the smoke. Chen hurled a bottle at him, and then the ax.

Nobody came through the fading smoke.

Great, he thought, clutching one of the remaining bottles, when he heard a loud gun shot at the back of the house. There was a thud.

Spinning around, he saw Catherine pulling Wen back into the house. A masked face was rising over the backyard wall, then two hands, and then shoulders. She shot again. The Flying Ax toppled backward.

“The bitch has a gun!” someone shouted outside.

With Chen in front, and Catherine in back, the gangsters were temporarily stopped, but it would only be a few minutes before they resumed their attack.

There was only one bullet left in the gun.

That couple of minutes proved, however, to be more crucial than he had imagined.

He heard a siren coming from a distance, then a car screeching into the village. Hurried footsteps. Blurred shouting. Frantic barking.

He charged out, clutching the last two Molotov cocktails amidst an outburst of gunfire. A volley of bullets was directed at the gangsters sheltered by the house across the lane. Another fusillade of bullets rained onto the barn, which at once burst into new flames. The triad men scrambled out and fled.

“Cops!”

In a matter of a few seconds, only bodies scattered on the ground remained. Armed policemen were chasing the running men, guns held high.

To his amazement, Chen saw Yu coming toward them, waving a pistol.

The battle was over.