Aurora Crusade

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental and/or used fictionally.

Copyright Notice Reminder

This story is copyright by the author and the author retains all rights. Expressly prohibited is the posting of the story to any sites not approved by the author or charging for the story in any manner. Single copies may be downloaded and printed for personal use provided the story remains unchanged.

Copyright 2007 by John Ellison

WARNING: This chapter contains graphic scenes that some readers might find disturbing. What is written in no way whatsoever represents the author's personal feelings and is written in the context of the overall series. Reader discretion is advised.

Reader comments -- except flames -- are always welcome. Please address your comments/opinions to paradegi@sympatico.ca

Aurora Crusade

Chapter 15 (Revised)

Ames Cale sat in his unmarked patrol car on Peter Street, one car length north of Adelaide Street. From the front seat of the car Ames had a clear view of the three-storey, arched entry to the latest addition to Toronto's burgeoning nightlife. From the flashing of the coloured strobe lights behind the draped windows of the second floor to the right of the arch, it seemed that things were hopping.

Squirming uncomfortably in his seat, Ames scowled. Sitting for hours in a closed car, on a hot summer evening, was not exactly his favourite thing. He was sweating like a pig. His shirt was soaked, his trousers were damp and he felt as if his boxers had shrunk and ridden up the crack of his butt! To make matters worse his partner, Detective Constable Leslie Soames, was at least two inches shorter and at least 50 pounds lighter than Ames, and always had the damned front seat as far forward as possible to accommodate his shorter legs. DC Soames, who loathed stakeouts, was snoozing comfortably in the passenger seat. Ames gave his partner a bleak look and continued his watching.

It might be near to 3:00 on a Sunday morning but Adelaide Street was jammed with clubbers, dark-windowed limos and taxis. People, all young it seemed, and all dressed in the latest fashions, came and went through the archway. Ames knew that some were drunk; some high on whatever the drug of choice was this week. Not that he cared. He wasn't here to bust the patrons of the hottest club in town.

A bellow of deep masculine laughter broke the relative silence of the street and Ames watched as a large, Caucasian male, with three dainty Chinese, or at least Oriental females, exited a long, white limousine and walked toward the archway. More and more, Ames observed, the "club" was attracting upscale, well-heeled whites, which probably explained why this section of Adelaide was more or less left alone by the police.

Chinatown was growing by leaps and bounds, spreading south and east, and more and more of the tall, red brick and stone buildings that lined the street were being taken over to house Chinese enterprises.

On the one hand life for the police constables of 51 Division would be easier. The Chinese were the most law-abiding of ethnic groups. There was never, really, any trouble and as Chinatown was a tourist draw of great magnitude. The men who controlled this part of town wanted no trouble and went to great pains to ensure that life was "tranquil".

They had no control over the area during the week. Almost every building held small garment manufacturers. The ground floor windows of almost every building held displays of the latest fashions, from day dresses to wedding gowns to expensive fur coats. The whole area from Spadina and Queen east to Yonge was considered the "Garment District".

During the week it was filled with trucks and vans loading and unloading material and ready made women's clothing, with strollers, packs of women it seemed, strolling and window shopping. As many of the garment workers and owners were Jewish, the area usually calmed down considerably at sundown on Friday, the workers who toiled in the sewing room lofts heading home for Shabbat. Saturday, which was a busy shopping day everywhere else in the city, was quiet, as was Sunday. The Lord's Day Act prevented any of the businesses from opening.

Everything had changed though, when the building across Adelaide from where Ames and Soames were parked had been sold and converted into a "club". It was actually two joined structures built around a large, inner square. The ground floor shops had been left more or less alone. The upper floors, however, were a different story.

As Ames understood it, the building had been purchased and renovated by a holding company, which just happened to be controlled by Sun Yat Wa, the Triad kingpin. As this was Circle K country, the gang also had a stake in the "Pekin Club", the name emblazoned in neon over the archway.

The involvement of Sun, and the Circle K boys, was of great interest to the Organized Crime Unit of the Metro Police Department. Later, as the club grew in popularity, the Vice Squad, and the investigative arms of the Liquor Control Board and the Ontario Gaming Commission expressed an interest. Not without cause according to the rumours.

Ames had never been inside the building. Nor had any of the inspectors from the LCBO or the OGC - the club was not licensed to serve alcohol, and gambling was forbidden. Not that it mattered, for the club was wide open and everybody, from the Mayor on down, knew that if a "guest" or "member" wanted a drink, a sniff of cocaine, or a svelte, lithe Chinese girl to pass away the evening, all could be, and was provided.

Access to the club was strictly controlled by a small cadre of Circle K thugs, each one of whom seemed to know every undercover cop and inspector in town. A patron wishing to avail himself of the club's amenities paid a membership fee on entry. The fee of 25.00 dollars was well worth the cost.

The club had many amenities, some quite open and above board. There was a Chinese restaurant, reputedly one of the best, and very popular. There was a "disco", which attracted the young people and played the latest hit tunes. Both venues were packed every night, filled with well-dressed, well-heeled patrons. Many were young Chinese who had no qualms at all about spending the money their fathers made on wine, women and dance music. They arrived late, usually after 10:00, sleek, well-dressed, and carrying fat wallets.

The club, however, offered much more than exquisitely prepared food and a dance floor. As a private club, it could stay open all night as there was officially no liquor served, just soft drinks. However, it was common knowledge that a word to one of the waiters, and a fistful of cash, would bring forth a bottle of whatever one chose to drink. If asked, the patron could, and did, explain that he or she had brought the booze with them.

There were other amenities. On one floor was a casino where high-stakes baccarat, roulette, and poker and craps tables drew those who thrilled at the games of chance. On another, quieter floor, young ladies of delightful beauty were introduced to gentlemen of substance - no rah, rah college boys allowed - and whatever happened, happened. On every floor young men stood to one side, or lounged in one of the banquettes. Each waited patiently and from time to time they were joined by knowing patrons. When this happened money was exchanged for small, glassine envelopes and everybody walked away smiling.

All in all, the club was an oasis of conspicuous, uncaring consumption, with something for everyone. The Circle K boys kept order, ensuring that the patrons were happy and the money rolled in.

As a cop, Ames felt frustrated and a little angry. While he was Homicide, he heard the other detectives from Vice and the OCU, complaining. They all knew what was going on but without hard evidence - and a warrant to enter the premises - there was little they could do. The Metro Police had exactly two Chinese constables. Both were well known to the community and both were universally shunned. White undercover officers had been spotted, or known, the minute they entered the club. Ames, and more than a few of his fellows, thought that there was a well-paid mole in the division who warned the club management who took precautions and nothing substantive was ever found.

For some reason the night had been quiet. Usually the heat and humidity brought out the worst in people and while the uniformed officers were busy breaking up fights and rousting drunks when the bars and taverns closed at midnight, the Detective Division had been as peaceful as a churchyard. Ames's latest case, the Grange Hotel murder, was on a back burner. Forensics, and the coroner, were still examining the evidence. There were no leads to speak of. No one, in or out of the hotel, had seen or heard anything. With nothing to do, Ames and Soames had decided to cruise the division. Shortly after 2:00 in the morning they called in a 10-7 - "Off Duty - Out Of Service" - and took a break. After purchasing some takeaway from one of the small Chinese restaurants that lined Dundas Street they parked on Peter, to enjoy their food. DC Soames, never one to say no to a short nap on company time, settled back and was soon asleep. Ames was awake and alert. He was exactly where he wanted to be. Very soon Terry Hsiang's little diversion would start, and Ames wanted a ringside seat.

When The Gunner first mentioned "friends" in the police, Terry had told him that he had several friends who would co-operate. He also told The Gunner that he was worried that a convoy of dark cars, each filled with armed men, might be noticed. Both men knew that they were under constant observation from the rabbis, and who knew what they would make of all the comings and goings? Then there was the "pucker factor". Although Terry's men were always careful, a burned out headlight, running a red light, or failing to stop at signed street corners might just attract attention from the patrolling police RPC's. The Gunner knew that "Murphy's Law" was always something to be feared and wondered if Terry had any ideas. The last thing they needed or wanted was police involvement. That might come later, after the boys had been rescued. But for now . . .

What The Gunner did not know was that Terry Hsiang had been mulling over a plan. He chafed at being limited to the west side of Spadina. The east side, Circle K territory, was growing by leaps and bounds. Terry heard of deals, of the Circle K expanding as business expanded. The Pekin Club was just one example. Terry was ambitious, and he had a lot of men to support. He wanted to move east, but the Circle K gang, under the protection of Sun Yat Wa, were entrenched and at first glance, impregnable.

The more he thought of it, the more Terry realized that he needed to drive a wedge between the Circle K and Sun. Sun was a naturally suspicious man and was sure that the Circle K boys were skimming the take - which they were. The Circle K boys wanted to expand their narcotics business, which they could not do. The Triads controlled the heroin trade and Sun held the reins closely. It did no good to point out that Regent Park, a huge, crumbling public housing complex filled with high-rise blocks of flats, smack in the middle of Circle K territory, and filling rapidly with low income immigrants from the islands in the Caribbean, and illegals from all over the place, was ripe for whoever wanted to pick the fruit. Add the Italians, who were slowly encroaching on the Triad's drug monopoly with something called "crack", and designer drugs, and one had a volatile, and exploitable situation, which suited Terry Hsiang well. That what he planned to do would help ease the pressure on The Gunner's crusade was icing on the cake.

After consultations with Michael Chan, Terry called his counterpart in New York. He wanted 20 young men, all Chinese, all home grown. He wanted no Rice Bowl Rickys who didn't know the lay of the land, or could not understand English. Terry would supply the necessary arms and accommodation for the men sent to Toronto. He would also be honoured if the New York Viceroy would accept 1,000 taels of gold for the service.

Terry had plotted carefully. Other than Michael Chan, he had told no one, not even his closest associates, of what he was planning. He had flown to New York, ostensibly to attend the "sealing" of a cousin's boy, and met with the New York Viceroy, and Ian Lee. Ian was the son of the New York man's Chief Advisor, born in New York, educated at Harvard, and so far as anyone knew a quiet young man who had no ties, other than of blood, to the Chinese underworld. The opposite was true. Ian Lee was a handsome, tall, vicious hit man, who kept to the shadows. Terry, who thought he knew every man and boy in the New York Viceroy's service was surprised and then realized that he was not the only one who had secrets.

Ian Lee was a sharp thinking man. He listened to Terry's proposal, nodded, and promised 20 men.

For three months Terry watched and listened carefully. For three months young Chinese-American males, sometimes singly, sometimes in pairs, checked into the Royal York Hotel and the Park Plaza, purporting to be legitimate up and coming young businessmen with money to invest in the growing Toronto financial market. They began to appear in all the right places, always impeccably dressed in expensive suits, always driving the latest upscale models produced by Detroit or Windsor. During the day they seemed interested in business opportunities only. At night, however, they partied quietly, sometimes alone, sometimes with beautiful escorts. They went to the small, discreet clubs, some owned by Terry Hsiang, some by Sun Yat Wa. They did not exactly throw money around, but in a very short time they were established as wealthy young men of good family. Only Terry knew that each man was a member of Ian Lee's "crew", and each had at least one figurative notch on the automatic pistol he carried in a shoulder holster.

The men, who seemed not to know each other, began to frequent the Pekin Club. It was the "in" place, and it was natural that they would want to party there. They caused no trouble, spent their money quietly and, being dumb civilians, seemed not to notice that they were being cheated royally every step of the way. The cards were marked, the roulette wheel weighted, and the dice loaded. Ian Lee had spotted the shill from the first moment he sat down to play poker.

The house, as with almost every casino anywhere, opened a new deck of cards for each round of play. The Pekin Club was no exception and while the faces of the cards were the usual design, the backs were intricately decorated with an entwined dragon and lion motif. To the uninitiated there was nothing wrong. Ian Lee, who had spent much of his formative years in a basement gaming room off of Mott Street, was anything but.

At first glance all the cards seemed to be the same. But what Ian noticed was that each had a barely perceptible difference. For instance, the scales of the dragon looked to be the exactly the same pattern, except one, or two were slightly smaller or larger than the rest and the black and gold line edging each scale was just a tad thinner. He also noticed that the shading of the Pearl of Wisdom the lion held in one paw also was just a touch paler, or heavier. The decks of cards were really quite good, and only a well trained eye could spot the marking.

Ian Lee pretended ignorance of such things, and lost a substantial amount of money to the house - actually Terry Hsiang's money - and accepted his losses with Oriental grace and dignity. His demeanour and easy manner were such that the house allowed him to win a hand every now and then, just to keep him interested. Ian smiled. He was waiting for his time to come.

Tonight was the time.

Ian arrived with his coterie, Billy Chung and three dainty girls wearing expensive knock-offs - probably crafted in the loft of the building next door - of the latest Paris fashions. He bought a stack of $50.00 chips and settled at the poker table. He lost, as he expected to, and replenished his pile of chips. The other men of his crew drifted in and settled themselves in various rooms, waiting patiently.

Shortly before 3:00 Ian had been dealt a very good hand - three cards to an inside straight. His hole card was three, with a five and a two showing. He nodded to the dealer who dealt the card from the shoe. Ian knew it was a four. The dealer's hand flashed and the other two players received their cards. Both grunted in disappointment. Ian regarded the next card in the shoe, which would be his. It was a nine of hearts. As the dealer moved to deal the card, Ian's hand stopped him.

"You are cheating," he said menacingly, as planned.

The dealer, an overweight Chinese man, started. "No, no," he protested. "The game is honest!"

Ian smiled coldly. "If that is so, explain to me why the next card is a nine of hearts?" he growled. He reached out and turned over the card: a nine of hearts.

The dealer held up his hands defensively. This was a signal to one of the bouncers, who rushed across the room. Ian Lee reached into the jacket of his tuxedo and pulled out a small calibre pistol. The sound of the shot reverberated around the room. Women screamed and men ducked. The bouncer, struck in the thigh, tried to draw his own pistol, fumbled, and in the doing managed to shoot a hole in the expensive carpet.

In the dining room one of Ian's men objected loudly to the quality of the food served to him, becoming so irate that he threw the bowl of offending food at the waiter, who ducked and scuttled into the kitchen. Ian's man, filled with anger, shouted that the food was tainted, not worthy of the lowest greasy spoon in town, and to emphasize his point threw the chair he'd been sitting in through one of the windows that overlooked Adelaide Street. The bouncer on duty, not knowing what was going on, moved forward, only to be shot in the shoulder. The other diners, with screams and shouted oaths, rose as one and stampeded for the stairs leading to the streets.

In the disco Larry "Long Dick" Feng stared down the muzzle of a Browning 9-mil. The pistol was held by a customer who claimed that the little envelope contained not cocaine, but lactose powder. The customer was a very irate, very large Chinese, who emphasized his point by firing a round into the wall beside the dealer's head. Bouncers appeared from the crowd and more shots were fired. The disco ball, a huge silver orb, shattered in a thousand and more pieces. The etched mirrored wall behind the DJ disappeared into countless fragments of deadly sharp glass. The DJ nosedived under his turntable and the blaring music came to an abrupt halt. Pandemonium reigned as more patrons joined the exodus to get away from the flying bullets.

There was even more pandemonium on the "comfort floor". The quiet of the rooms was broken with one of Ian's men, the front of his white boxers - all he was wearing at the time - stained crimson. The man was screaming as if in excruciating pain, one hand clutching his crotch, the other waving a compact and very deadly Uzi.

"She bit me!" the man shouted, his face seemingly contorted with pain. "The slut bit me!"

The slut had not bitten the man, and the blood was not his own at all. They had had a simple, short, up and down, and the girl had gone into the bathroom to clean herself. The Chinese man had then pulled on his boxers and squeezed a small plastic bag sewn into them. The white of his underpants was stained with the blood of a chicken and he went into action.

In the reception area the Chinese screamed again and began firing his weapon into the ceiling, sending waiting johns scrambling for the door. The Circle K thug, not terribly anxious to end up spending three days in the Chian Seng Funeral Parlour stuffed into an overlarge coffin, crab-walked behind a sofa and held his hands over his head.

As the crowd stampeded down the stairs more of Ian's men went to work. In apparent panic as more and more gunshots ripped through the building, they pushed women to one side, and elbowed men in feigned panic as the sharp cracks of weapons firing seemed to explode from every room in the building. Tempers were lost and blows exchanged.

Across Adelaide Street, Ames could not believe his eyes. The shattering of glass and a chair landing on the hood of a parked taxi, coupled with the rat-tat-tat of automatic and semi-automatic weapons, the screams of terrified men and women, and at least six fist fights breaking out gave promise of a wonderful, diversionary riot!

"Holy Christ!" bellowed Soames, jolted awake by the shattering glass. Both officers watched, wide-eyed, as the riot started. Ames reached for his radio mike and yelled, "11-99, 11-99, Officer Needs Help!" Another ripple of gunfire rent the air. "Control, Unit David 5211, 11-99, 11-99."

"David 5-2-1-1," came the dispatcher's calm voice. "What is your location?"

Seemingly unnerved, Ames yelled, "Adelaide and Peter. We have shots fired. Christ, their beating the shit out of each other!"

The dispatcher immediately went into action. "All units in the 5-2, 11-99, David 5-2-1-1 at Adelaide and Peter. Units responding?"

Ames knew that nothing sent a tremor of fear through a police department like an 11-99. Units in the far reaches of the division or precinct would stop whatever it was they were doing to respond. Ames's call for help drew responses not only from the 5-2, but also from the neighbouring 5-1 to the east, 14 Division to the west, and 53 Division to the north. Terry Hsiang could not have planned his diversion better!

As more and more police units responded, so did the fire department and the EMS. Within minutes the area began to fill with RPC's, pumpers and ambulances. In the Regent Park Station the Riot Squad, a dozen burly cops crowded into the oversize van they used for transport, helmets and batons at the ready. Down by the lakefront, in Exhibition Park, the Mounted Unit began assembling, saddling horses and checking equipment.

Soames turned on the siren, and Ames put the revolving police light on the dash of the car. This brought an immediate barrage of beer bottles descending on the hood and the windshield. Both men ducked below the dash. "Nice move, dick wad!" snapped Ames.

In the darkness Soames could not see the smile on Ames's face. Perhaps it was the August heat; perhaps it was pent-up, raging testosterone. Whatever it was, fists and feet were flying, as were beer bottles and waste bins. The riot, the diversion, was on.

The sounds of wailing sirens assaulted The Gunner as he and Terry Hsiang exited the Hospital. Opening the back door of the car waiting for them, The Gunner turned to Terry. "Sounds like something is going on. Something big."

Terry's eyes sparkled. "So it would seem," he replied dryly.

Terry's words, and tone, told The Gunner that the slim Chinese knew exactly what was going on. As he sat beside Terry he asked, "Do I want to know?"

Shaking his head, Terry replied. "It's better you don't."

As the car pulled away, The Gunner did not press the point, thinking, as Chef had once observed, what you don't know you can't testify about at the trial!

The Buttery Street house was quiet, the silence broken only by the ticking of the long case clock. Jergen, with Zander snuggled against him, slept restlessly. He heard the clock strike the half hour, and stirred grumpily. He did not hear the footsteps in the hall, nor did he hear the door to his bedroom being opened. The first he knew that there were intruders was a hand being placed across his mouth to keep him from shouting out.

Jergen's eyes flew open. He pulled Zander closer, trying to protect the little boy. A light snapped on and Jergen looked into the greenest eyes he had ever seen. He drew back, frightened, but clutching Zander close.

"What . . .?"

The figure above him was wearing a black balaclava, with only his eyes and mouth visible. "Don't be afraid," the green-eyed figure whispered fiercely. "We've come to take you out of this."

For some reason, Jergen instinctively used his free hand to cover his crotch. He was not aroused, not in the least, and he was wearing tightys, but for some reason he felt the need to protect himself. Beside him Zander began to wake and opened his eyes. He saw the strange, dark figure and yelped.

"Jergen . . . Jergen . . ." Zander wailed. The boy began to weep and between gasps he cried, "It is them! They have come for us. Please, Jergen don't let them take me!"

The boy was begging in German, which the green-eyed figure did not understand. He did know what the boy was on about and said, "Don't worry, we won't hurt you." He withdrew his hand. "Tell the little one that he's going to be safe."

Another figure entered. He was almost as tall as the green-eyed figure, but stockier, with deep, brown, soulful eyes. "We must hurry," the brown-eyed figure said.

The Phantom nodded and looked at the handsome boys lying on the bed. He could see the fear in their eyes, could smell the terror they held. "We have come to take you away. You won't have to . . ." His voice trailed away, unable to continue.

Jergen sat up slowly. "Who are you?" he asked. "Please, take me. Do not hurt Zander."

"No one is going to hurt you," Jérémie Cher said firmly. "We have come to rescue you!"

The Phantom nodded. "You must dress. Please hurry."

From the open door came the sound of bellowing followed by what could only be a solid punch. Zander, his eyes still filled with terror, whispered, "Uncle Bill . . ."

"Will never hurt you again," said The Phantom. He gestured around the room. "Where are your clothes?"

Jergen, still wary, slowly got off the bed. He pointed to the dresser. He still held Zander protectively, prepared to protect the boy.

"What about the little one?" asked The Phantom as Jérémie Cher rummaged in the drawers of the dresser.

"He has none," said Jergen. His eyes glanced downward, taking in the slim little boy's figure. Zander, like Jergen, was wearing tighty whiteys. "Uncle Bob wouldn't buy him any clothes. All he has is pants."

"Uncle Bob?" asked Jérémie Cher as he handed Jergen a dark grey pair of sweat pants and matching top.

Jergen took the clothes and began to pull them on. "He is the man who owns us." There was another loud slap from down the corridor outside. "He . . . hurt Zander."

The Phantom looked at the little boy. Impulsively he knelt down and reached out to gently touch the boy's tear-stained cheek. He regarded Jergen a moment. "He does not speak English?"

Jergen shook his head. "He is too little. Uncle Bob said he was not here to learn English. Uncle Bob said that Zander was here to learn how to . . ." Jergen began to cry. "He said we were here to learn how to please him."

Impulsively Jérémie Cher reached out to hold the weeping boy. He said nothing, just held Jergen close.

The Phantom continued to look deep into Zander's eyes and stroked the boy's face. "You will not have to please him or anyone ever again," he said, his voice low and filled with the compassion he felt. He looked up and saw Jergen being held close and smiled. "Are you, or the boy hurt?"

Drawing back, stunned at the first sign of affection he had ever had from anyone, Jergen shook his head. "I am fine." He looked down at Zander. "I think Zander is okay. Uncle Bob took him tonight. I did not see any blood when I cleaned him."

The Phantom willed himself not to shudder. "Tell him that he will be looked after. We have a doctor waiting." His green eyes flashed. "If . . ."

Jergen knew what strange, green-eyed man was inferring. He knelt down and took Zander into his arms again. "You are not here to take us away, to another . . . place?"

"We are taking you to a special place where you will be looked after. If either of you have been injured from what the man did to you, you will be looked after. We are taking you away from all this - to safety." The Phantom swung his arm around the room. "We will not harm you, and you will never again have to worry about `Uncle Bob' or any man."

Turning to Jérémie Cher, The Phantom said, "Take the top sheet for the boy. Take them down to the car."

Jérémie nodded, pulled the sheet from the bed and gently draped it over Zander's shoulders. Zander drew back, frightened. "Tell him not to be afraid," whispered Jérémie Cher.

Jergen held out his hand and Zander clutched it. His eyes continued to dart around the room, looking for a means of escape if these black-clad, hooded figures were lying.

The Phantom gestured toward Jérémie Cher. "Go with him. We have a car waiting."

Holding each other, Jergen and Zander allowed themselves to be led from the bedroom. The Phantom followed and as they passed a closed door he noticed Zander clutch Jergen closer and heard the boy whimper loudly. "What's behind the door?" The Phantom asked.

Jergen swallowed. "The room," he whispered and moved on. "It is where he . . . where he made us . . ."

The Phantom understood. He held up his hand. "He will never take another boy in there again," he growled.

Jergen stopped and stared, his eyes wide. "You will kill him?" he asked. "You will kill Uncle Bob?"

The Phantom shook his head. "No. He'll be a little the worse for wear when we leave, but we are not murderers." He glanced back toward the room where the slapping sounds had come from. "He will be punished, but he will not die."

Jergen nodded brusquely. "Good."

"Go now," The Phantom ordered gently. "We will be leaving shortly." He nodded his chin at Jérémie Cher. "Take them to the car. Stay with them."

Nodding, Jérémie Cher led the two German boys down the stairs. The Phantom turned and walked down the corridor.

The Phantom stood in the doorway of what had to be the master bedroom. It was well furnished with solid furniture. To one side of the doorway Harry stood, his arms crossed over his chest. For reasons best known to Harry he was wearing a watch cap on his head and a large, checked bandanna covered his lower face. On the other side of the doorway one of Terry Hsiang's men, his face covered with a balaclava, stood. He was holding what The Phantom saw was a Browning 9mm semi-automatic pistol. The Phantom knew that at close range the pistol was deadly. It fired copper-jacketed bullets, which left a very neat entry wound, and a very large, very nasty, cratered exit wound.

On the double bed, the bedding tossed onto the carpeted floor, a large man lay spread-eagled. The man was naked. His lip was split and a small trickle of blood oozed from the wound. Over him Shane Kingscote loomed, his fists bruised and cut.

The Phantom could not help but notice that the man on the bed was huge! The large, plum- shaped head under the sheath of thick foreskin that half covered it was a light purple. His testicles, as big as oranges, or so it seemed, were drawn upward in the hairy scrotal sac. The Phantom thought of Zander, so small, so delicate, and shuddered involuntarily. He could only imagine how big the man's flaccid penis, as big around as a baby's arm, became when it was erect, or how much pain it had inflicted on the little boy.

As The Phantom watched, Shane raised his fist again. The Phantom stopped him. This was no time for personal vengeance. "Enough," he said firmly.

Shane shot The Phantom a black look. "It is never enough," he snarled. He was breathing in deep, desperate gasps. "This bastard . . ."

The Phantom moved quickly covered Shane's fist with his hand. "There are better ways," he said calmly.

For the first time, the man on the bed spoke. "When I find out who you cocksuckers are I swear . . ."

The Phantom's gorge rose. "You will do nothing, scumbag," he snarled low. He lowered his head and spat in the man's face. "We are going to destroy you. When we are finished death will be a welcome relief."

The man snarled, whether from natural braggadocio or false courage The Phantom could not tell. "Bullshit!" he snapped. He snarled angrily. "You don't know who you're fucking with!"

The Phantom remained calm. "Bullshit?" He forced a laugh. "All it takes is a whisper, a whisper in the ear of the right man, a reporter say." He gave a dismissive wave. "We know who you are, what you are. We know where you bank, we know everything there is to know about you. We know you buy boys, abuse them, and then send them off to worse horrors! We know the man who sold you the boys." He leaned closer. "We have Jergen and Zander . . . `Uncle Bob'," he growled sarcastically. "Soon they will tell us everything." Again The Phantom laughed caustically. "All it takes is a whisper, a question, perhaps an anonymous allegation. It doesn't take much to get people to wondering, to thinking . . ." He stopped abruptly and straightened. He looked daggers at "Uncle Bob".

"Uncle Bob" was not in the least intimidated. He had got over his shock and the terror of being rudely awakened by a madman who rained blows on him. "I have friends!"

From beside the doorway came a loud snort. Harry walked smoothly forward. He stopped and stood beside the bed and stared down at the naked man.

The Phantom had seen Harry angry only once before, when Paul Greene had reported the denizens of the Gunroom to The Gunner for performing a Zulu Warrior. Harry had rampaged across the Spit, in a killing rage. Looking into Harry's eyes, The Phantom saw the same look of rage. And then, before The Phantom or Shane could stop him, Harry raised one ham-sized fist.

Harry's fist arced down and slammed into "Uncle Bob's" large testicles. Harry had put all his strength, all his force into the blow. The force of the blow was titanic as "Uncle Bob's" testicles were driven upward into his scrotal vault. The pain of the blow was so intense that "Uncle Bob's" eyes rolled back and his body bent forward. He began to vomit as an indescribable howl spewed forth with contents of the man's stomach.

Colin, who had been downstairs, methodically searching "Uncle Bob's" office and desk, came up to see what was going on. He heard the unearthly scream and rushed into the bedroom. He saw a naked man on the bed, covered in puke and writhing. He also saw The Phantom staring wide-eyed at a hulking figure that could only be Harry Hohenberg.

Moved to action, Colin walked to Harry's side and ordered him to go downstairs. "You better turn that thing on its side," Colin said with a slight wave to "Uncle Bob".

"Why?" The Phantom asked with uncharacteristic coldness.

"He might choke on his own barf," said Colin. He reached down and flipped the man on his side. Colin regarded both The Phantom and Shane. "Let's go," Colin ordered.

In the car, Zander, sitting on Jergen's lap, made little whining sounds. Jergen stroked the little boy's head tenderly. They were in the back seat, with The Phantom. In the front, Shane drove carefully, his eyes darting from the road to Harry, and then back to the road. It was a tight fit and Colin and Jérémie Cher had been relegated to the backup car, with the Chinese men, and a large box of loose papers and document folders.

The Phantom leaned forward a bit and looked at Jergen. "How is the boy," he asked.

"He is fine, now," responded Jergen. He smiled. "Thank you."

The Phantom returned the smiled. "We'll take good care of him, you and me."

"Ya?"

"Yes," replied The Phantom. Then, his curiosity no longer containable, he asked Harry, "What was that punch all about?"

Harry, who had been looking out of the passenger side window shrugged. "Worked on a bull once. He was pestering a heifer I was grooming for the 4H."

"Did the bull live?" asked Shane, also curious.

"Yeah," replied Harry with a shrug. "'Cept I think it turned queer 'cause it never bothered a cow again!" His low, smut-tinged laughter filled the car.

"You're lying!" accused The Phantom.

"God's truth," retorted Harry.

"Well, I just hope I'm never around the next time you groom a cow for the 4H," muttered Shane as he pulled the car to a stop at a red light.

For the first time since entering the car, Jergen spoke. "You don't have to worry . . . unless you're the bull!"

It had been ridiculously easy to enter the Victoria Square house. There was no need to fumble with a lock pick, or smash one of the panes in the sidelight that flanked the black painted door, which was unlocked. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges.

The raiders, led by Jeff MacDuff, crept deeper into the house. The place was dark and very quiet, not even the ticking of a clock to break the silence. There were a few strategically placed night lights, and Jeff switched on his flashlight. "Remember," he whispered to the small group behind him. "This guy isn't a knight, so we can't hurt him if it can be avoided." As his flashlight probed the darkness, Jeff continued, "There are three boys here," Jeff whispered. "I want you guys . . ." he nodded to Nicholas Rodney and Kevin Berkeley, ". . . to take care of the two younger ones. They're about ten, maybe 11 years old. One is Stanislaus, the other Albert. The third is 12, maybe older. His name is Petrus. I will look after him."

"Okay," replied Kevin, nodding.

"Now remember, they're all going to be afraid, so play it calm and cool," instructed Jeff. He then turned to the silent, sharp-eyed Chinese man, one of Terry Hsiang's best. "Do a thorough search" Jeff instructed. "Take anything that remotely links this guy to the German."

As Jeff and the others slowly began to climb the narrow stairs leading to the second floor, and the bedrooms, the Chinese turned and opened a door leading to a small office.

Moving slowly through the dark rooms of the house, Nicholas moved his flashlight around in slow arcs, the rays of light catching a picture here, a piece of porcelain there. The experience of actually being in a strange house, seeing in effect a different life style, seemed surreal to him.

Slightly behind Nicholas, Kevin moved slowly as well. At first Kevin had been miffed - more than miffed, really, at being separated from Ray Cornwallis. This was the first time that they had been apart since becoming lovers back in Aurora. Now, however, the fear of the unknown, the curiosity of what they would discover, had replaced his worries for Ray. Ray was in good hands, and Kevin, as he followed Nicholas, realized that the assignments had been made for a purpose. Being with Ray would have caused Kevin to pay more attention to protecting him than to the reason they were all in this house. Partnering with Nicholas was also reassuring. While Kevin was a street scrapper, Nicholas was more experienced, or so it seemed, and Kevin felt comfortable with the big signalman. They would watch each other's backs without any emotional entanglements, and concentrate on what they were supposed to be doing: rescuing boys from a life of slavery.

The main floor of the house was empty of people so they slowly climbed the stairs, avoiding the wall, which was hung with gold-framed oil portraits. They stopped at the top of the stairs and Jeff moved slowly forward, their flashlights illuminating a long, door-lined corridor. Jeff opened the first door he came to and shone the flashlight around the room. He saw twin beds, piled high with stuffed animals. There was a slightly musky smell to the chamber, which told Jeff that boys lived here. The light caught a flash of colour on the floor and Jeff looked down to see a pair of abandoned underpants.

"Some things never change," Jeff thought as his light continued to probe the darkness. The light found a pair of chairs, a large dresser, and a clothes press. It was obvious that the room was slept in, at the moment it was empty.

Cursing quietly, Jeff left the room and opened the door across the hall. It was smaller than the other bedroom, but neat and there were no stray briefs or socks littering the floor. Jeff's light picked out the standard posters beloved by a growing boy: his favourite hockey player, the latest rock-star phenom. Jeff noticed that there were no oversized posters of semi-naked, big-busted mini-star bimbos.

As the light moved slowly around the room, Jeff saw the bed, a metal-framed single in the corner. Curled up, sleeping soundly, was a boy. Jeff could just make out a head of black, curly hair. He moved quietly forward and reached out his hand to shake the sleeping boy.

Petrus opened his eyes, saw the hooded apparition looming over him, and tried to scream. He was terrified, convinced that Vati Frank had sold him, and that the German had come for him. He tried to scream, but his throat seemed to slam shut. Shaking and clawing at the hand that had shaken him awake, Petrus squirmed backward, seemingly trying to burrow into the wall beside his bed.

"Don't be afraid," the figure said. "We are not going to . . ."

Petrus's throat opened. "Don't hurt me," he wailed. "Please, I'll be good! I'm a good boy!" he wailed. Unfortunately he wailed in Polish, which no one in the room could understand.

Jeff straightened and withdrew his hand. "We can't understand you," he said softly. "Don't worry; we haven't come to hurt you."

"Or take me away?" blurted Petrus in English through his tears.

Jeff did not know what to say. He was here to take the boys away, but not in the way this dark-haired boy thought.

Kevin spoke for them all. Impulsively, he pulled off the balaclava he was wearing, revealing his face. He sat on the bed and looked at the boy. "My name is Kevin." He smiled a little. "You speak English."

Petrus nodded. "Yes. Vati Frank sends us to school. We must speak English in school."

Kevin turned his head and pointed with his chin at Nicholas. "My friend - his name is Nicholas - and I, we came to help you get away," Kevin said as calmly as he could. His heart was beating rapidly. Saving "lost boys" was new to him, and very wearing on the nerves.

Nicholas removed his mask and grinned. "Hi, I'm Nicholas," he said.

Petrus could not help but return the smile. This new boy, this Kevin, was very good looking. "I am Petrus," he whispered. He lowered his eyes.

"Don't be afraid," said Kevin. He reached out to gently stroke Petrus's hand. "We have come to help you, not hurt you."

Nicholas joined Kevin in sitting on the bed. "Would you like to come with us?"

Petrus began to sob again. "Please, tell me . . . Vati Frank . . . he sold me to you!"

Nicholas looked at Kevin and together they drew Petrus to them, hugging him. "No, no, you . . ." began Kevin.

"No one has sold you," said Nicholas firmly. "We are Knights, and we have come to take you to a safe place. No one will ever hurt you, or sell you, again."

Petrus drew back. "Knights? I do not understand! The German, he did not send you? Vati Frank, he did not sell me because I too old?" he asked, trying to keep the panic from his voice.

Jeff stepped forward and knelt down. He looked directly at Petrus. "We are here to take you to a safe place. The German did not send us."

The softness of Jeff's voice and the closeness of the two "knights" was comforting to Petrus. He returned Jeff's look and saw the truth in the man's eyes. "You mean it? I can go away? I do not have to . . ." His voiced trailed off. He did not want to tell what he had been forced to do with Vati Frank.

"No one will force you to do anything you don't want to do," Jeff assured the boy. He recalled The Gunner's warning that some of the boys might not want to be rescued. "Petrus . . ." He saw the boy start, obviously surprised that he knew his name. "Yes, I know your name, and the names of the other boys." Jeff smiled. "You do not have to come with us, but . . ."

Petrus sat up abruptly. "But I want to!" he growled. "I do not like it here! Vati Frank, he makes me . . . and Stanislaus and Albert, he makes us do things."

"Has he hurt you?" asked Nicholas, concerned that Petrus had been injured.

Petrus told the truth. He shook his head as he said, "He did not hurt us. Vati Frank never hurt us." The Polish boy frowned. "He was kind to us, and bought us presents. He also buys us clothes, nice clothes, and never makes us go hungry."

"But . . ." prompted Kevin.

Petrus grimaced. "He makes us do things with him."

"Everything has a price," opined Kevin to no one in particular.

Petrus nodded. He was not about to go into detail. "When I first came here, he made me . . ." He stopped abruptly. "He was going to sell me back to the German." He looked sharply at Jeff. "You know . . ." Petrus's voice dropped to a whisper. "You know him?"

"We know of him," replied Jeff. He regarded Petrus a moment. "Why would . . . why would this `Vati Frank' sell you back to him?" he asked.

In the darkness, the others could not see the stricken look on Petrus's face, or his blushing. Petrus sobbed. "I became too old. Vati Frank, he . . ." Petrus's eyes dropped to his briefs covered crotch. "He does not like boys who squirt!"

Jeff understood. So did Kevin. "You, um, you've started?" he asked tentatively.

Petrus nodded. "Tonight, when he, when he . . ." Petrus hugged his stocky body. "He bathed us, like he always does, and he . . . he made me . . . and I squirted!" He looked desperately at Kevin. "I did not mean to do it! It just happened."

Kevin could only imagine what Vati Frank had done to make Petrus "squirt". "Well, it happens to every boy, sooner or later," he said to Petrus.

"Vati Frank, he only likes boys who do not squirt," returned Petrus.

Jeff, knowing that time was of the essence, asked, "Where are the other two?"

"They are with Vati Frank," whispered Petrus. "Sometimes, sometimes he does that."

Jeff decided to hurry things along. "Where is his bedroom . . . they're in there with him?"

"Yes."

"Okay, Nicholas, Kevin, help Petrus find some clothes, and whatever he wants to take away with him." He turned to Petrus. "Where is the bedroom?"

Petrus told Jeff and got out of bed. Seeing that Kevin and Nicholas were helping the boy, Jeff left the bedroom. He walked down the long hall and stopped before a closed door. Behind him Terry Hsiang's man drew a pistol from its holster. Jeff did not hesitate as he turned the doorknob and slowly pushed the door open.

The bedroom was lushly furnished and dominated by what appeared to be a very old, huge four-poster. At the foot of the bed was a tapestry-covered chaise. Between the windows was a dressing table covered with what looked to be unguents and over the counter cold medicines. The walls, which were covered in wine-red figured silk, were hung with expensive, well-executed paintings. On a small, bedside table a weak-bulbed, shade-covered lamp provided light. Jeff wondered if the light was for the two little boys, or the old man they were snuggled against.

Jeff's nose wrinkled slightly. Petrus's room had the smell of a boy. This room smelled like an old man, an undercurrent of liniment and age. His eyes took in the scene on the bed.

The boys, obviously young, were naked. The old man was wearing a night shirt, slightly soiled, Jeff could see. Jeff's eyes fell on a large, open jar of Vaseline that stood on the second flanking bedside table. He shuddered and started to move forward.

Vati Frank sensed, rather than saw a movement in his room. He was an old man, and sleep eluded him more often than not. He opened his eyes and saw the dark figure approaching. His first impulse was to reach under the pillow for the gun he always kept there. Then his rheumy eyes saw another figure, and what this new figure was holding in its hand. Vati Frank decided that discretion was the better part of valour, deciding not to give the masked intruders any reason to shoot him.

Jeff regarded the old man, who had not moved a muscle, and snarled, "We're taking the boys. We don't want trouble but . . ." Jeff abruptly jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the armed Chinese.

Vati Frank nodded. Why anyone would want to take away his boys was beyond him. It was not that boys were a scarce commodity, after all. One telephone call to Stennes and the supply would be replenished. Besides, it was time for a change anyway. Petrus was in puberty, and the other two were becoming greedy little sluts! Always looking for new clothes, new toys, new expensive presents!

Vati Frank shrugged . . . and smirked. "You fool!" He actually giggled and then said, "When my friend finds out about this you'll regret ever hearing the name of `Stennes'!"

Jeff did not know if the old man was trying to threaten him, or impress him by mentioning the German's name. He was much too angry and it took all of Jeff's self-control not to lash out and strike the old man. He gave Vati Frank a thunderous look. "Don't even think about it!" Jeff growled. "Stennes is out of business." He leaned forward. "Your days of diddling little boys are over." Jeff gestured and a new figure entered the room. It was Neil Prentice, Kevin's minder. In his hands he held a camera.

Before Vati Frank could react, a flash of light filled the room. Neil lowered the camera. "Got it," he said.

Jeff smiled at the stricken look on Vati Frank's face. "What will your friends, your business partners, think when they see a photo of you in bed with two naked little boys?" Jeff laughed gruffly. "And they will see it."

Vati Frank cringed. He had kept his private vice, his lust for boys, secret for many years. If it came out that he kept boys he would be ruined! All his money, all his prestige, all his powerful friendships would mean nothing! "You wouldn't dare!" gasped Vati Frank, recovering his voice. "Stennes will . . ."

Jeff waved aside "Stennes" as so much dog droppings. "I told you, Edmund Stennes is out of business." He turned to Neil. "Collect the boys," he ordered.

Nodding, Neil picked up the smallest boy, who had not stirred at all. He passed the camera to Jeff and gently lifted the sleeping boy's head. "This kid has been drugged!" Neil spat out.

Before Jeff could reply, a remasked Kevin appeared in the doorway. "The kid is down in the car," he reported.

Not taking his eyes from Vati Frank, Jeff indicated the second sleeping boy. "Take him. Don't worry about clothing." He scowled. "He won't wake up because this son of a bitch drugged him!"

Kevin, confused, quickly picked up the second boy. Why, he asked himself, why would this bastard drug a kid?

Vati Frank could have answered Kevin's question. Both Stanislaus and Albert did not mind having their little penises suckled, but they did have tendency to squirm and scream when penetrated. "It was only half a Valium," Vati Frank blurted. "They . . ."

Jeff waved away the old man's attempt to explain. "You're some piece of work," he snarled, his voice low and menacing. He would have loved to do the man some serious damage, but remembered The Gunner's warning. Shaking his head, Jeff silently left the room.

Vati Frank stared at the open doorway, not quite believing that the apparitions were gone. But they were, and so were his boys. At first he tried to disbelieve what the leader had told him, had threatened. Vati Frank could not quite believe that Stennes was "out of business". He couldn't be. Vati Frank needed his boys! Then there was the photo! Vati Frank could not allow it to see the light of day, let alone the front page of a major scandal sheet! He could not! Then he thought, Stennes, Stennes would know what to do.

Staggering from his bed, Vati Frank reached for the telephone that stood on the table next to the door. He dialled the number Stennes had given him. It was an emergency number, Stennes had stressed, and to be used only when exposure threatened.

Vati Frank held the receiver to his ear and listened to the ring tone. No one picked up at the other end and Vati Frank's breathing grew harsh. "Answer, dammit," he whispered under his breath. "Answer!"

But there was no answer.

Lowering the receiver, Vati Frank looked around the room. In his mind's eye he could see the room becoming a small, six by six cell with a barred window, and a barred door. He knew the fate of paedophiles. He would not last long if his predilections came out.

He returned to his bed and sat, staring at nothing. Then his eyes fell on the pill bottles that all but filled the small dressing table. There was a small vial containing his heart medication, and a larger vial of the Valium he used to keep the boys quiet. He could not face the future. He could not face the opprobrium, the shame. He was surprised when his hand only trembled a little as he reached for the bottles of pills.

Sophie Nicholson's ancient, deep maroon Daimler rolled sedately along the Queen Elizabeth Way toward Oakville. Traffic was light, just a few long haul truckers and the inevitable cars driven, Sophie maintained, by those who could not sleep, were up to no good, or were too drunk to drive home!

Aaron Mark I was driving. Sophie had no desire to involve her domestic staff in what she was about to do, and had given her regular man the night off. Beside Aaron sat Charlie Tew, one of Ned's men, and a last minute substitution for Harry, who had gone off with The Phantom.

The substitution had been made at Ned Hadfield's insistence. His men, sent by Michael Chan to ensure that no harm came to the young knights, had to be involved. Ned had no doubt that Sophie could take care of herself, and she would have the Edgars, father and son, with her in any event. Nor were Mike Sunderland or Phillip Adean, always called "The Assistant", shrinking violets. They were tall, muscled, had spent their time in the Sea Cadets as Physical Training Instructors and their obvious strength would give pause to the most determined of muggers, or perverts, as the case might be.

However, Ned was the Acting Chief of Security. He was responsible for the well-being of every knight, every companion. Alex Grinchsten had been adamant: the minders were to be with their principals at all times. Ned, like any good commander, had been willing to bend the rules when circumstances dictated their bending, but he could not, and would not, let two knights, no matter how large, go off into the night alone. That they would be with the Command Chief Gunnery Instructor of the RCN, and a Lieutenant (N), was not the point.

Ned had argued strenuously with The Gunner that he, and his men, had been charged to guard the knights. Ned was not prepared to abdicate his responsibilities and The Gunner, seeing Ned's point, had acquiesced. Ned was only doing his job, after all, and The Gunner could understand that. The Gunner had even agreed that Jake Guildenhall and Rusty Smith, the Travelling Yeomen, could go as well. They had both been mumbling and grumbling and chafing at the bit about being nothing more than glorified baggage handlers (which they were) and no warrior wanted to be left behind with the camp followers if he could help it. Jake and Rusty were in the chase car, along with Teddy Vian, and a Chinese driver.

The driver, silent and taciturn, was important to the mission. Their destination, a large house on the Gold Coast of Oakville, stood in wide grounds surrounded on three sides by a high, stone wall. The only entry, double metal gates, were opened and closed electronically. Casual visitors had to speak into an intercom with someone in the house, who would open the gate. Others, the tradesmen and groundskeepers, needing access at odd times, used a four digit code. The Chinese driver knew not only the code, but how to bypass the security system.

When The Gunner, Ace and Terry Hsiang had read the list of names given to them by Troubridge, Percy Simpson's butler, The Gunner gave orders that as much information as possible was to be gathered. The Rangers, and Terry Hsiang's men, went into action. The man driving the car behind Sophie's Daimler had discovered that the Oakville house had recently undergone extensive renovation. He knew that everything had to be authorized by a Building Permit, and every change had to be filed with the Oakville City Hall. He had discovered the schematics to the new security system being installed in the house. The system was not all that difficult to figure out.

As the cars approached the turnoff from the QEW that would take them into the town, the chase car pulled ahead. This car, once the Chinese driver had opened the gates, would lead. Teddy, Jake and Rusty would be the first ones to enter the house.

Sophie Nicholson had been trained, almost from the moment she could understand, never to show emotion in public, or in front of strangers. The only sign that she was under tremendous stress was the death-like grip her hand held on Chief Edgar's arm.

Sophie felt violated, and degraded. The man who owned the house had been a friend, had been a guest in her home, made welcome! She knew that her blood should be boiling with anger. Yet, while Sophie had the means to utterly destroy C. Ross McLennden, her uppermost thoughts were not with what was to come. She was more concerned with a young boy lying in a hospital bed. Eugen was dying. The doctors had said it. Jim Edgar, his head shaking disconsolately, had said it. Sophie, for all her bravado, felt it. Sophie had no fear of death for herself. She was much too old to think that she could live forever. She did fear for Eugen. Death was terrifying for one so young, or so Sophie thought, and Eugen would need someone with him to help him begin his last journey.

Sophie had made up her mind. She would be with Eugen when the end came. She was anxious that he might die alone. Sophie knew that a priest would be with Eugen, and praying nuns would plead with God to take the boy to His bosom. In Sophie's mind, that was not enough. She would be there. There was no other possibility.

When the Daimler eased to a stop in front of the darkened house, Sophie allowed Chief Edgar to help her emerge. She watched as Teddy Vian, Jake Guildenhall and Rusty Smith waited for the Chinese driver to manipulate the door lock with pick. She saw the door being opened, and the men entering. She saw, from the corner of her eyes, as Mike, Phillip and Charlie Tew moved behind her and the Chief.

Rusty turned and motioned for the others to proceed and for the first time since leaving Toronto, Sophie spoke. "Let us get this thing done!"

C. Ross was luxuriating in a hot bath when the strangers entered the bathroom. Conditioning the little Russian boy had been exhausting . . . satisfying, but exhausting. C. Ross had roughly entered the little boy three times to teach him his place in life - the most ejaculations he'd had since he was teenager, since he'd been with that little scamp Emmanuale so many years ago. It had been necessary, however, to show the boy who was boss! The brat was quiet now, sleeping C. Ross assumed.

As he passed a sponge over his body, C. Ross wondered if the bleeding had stopped. The boy, his screams echoing throughout the bedroom, had struggled against the assault, and it would seem that something deep within the boy's rectum had torn. C. Ross, his engorged penis covered with the boy's blood, continued to thrust until slaked. Only then did he withdraw and pack the boy's behind with a small hand towel. As he washed, C. Ross thought that he would have to clean the brat, and change the sheets on the bed. He hoped that the mattress was not too badly soiled. It was almost new, after all . . .

C. Ross was thinking that he would contact the German, and complain. It was all well and good that the Russian had been a virgin, but really, some sort of training should have been given the boy! It was really too much. He did not hear the bathroom door open, and only reacted when a dark shadow appeared over him.

"Get up, you piece of shit!" snarled the masked figured looming over C. Ross.

"What the . . .? Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?" C. Ross snarled back. He was about to get out of the tub when he noticed the gun. His eyes grew wise and he raised his hands. "What . . . is this a robbery?" he asked weakly.

Teddy motioned with the pistol he held in his hand. "Get up, prick!" he ordered. Then he demanded, "Where's the boy?"

Slowly, carefully, C. Ross stood in the tub. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said. He stood beside the tub. "What boy?"

Teddy had no patience with such a man. He saw a robe lying on the toilet. "Cover yourself. You have someone to meet." Once again Teddy motioned with his pistol.

As Teddy pushed him from the bathroom, C. Ross decided to assert himself. "I don't know what you want," he snapped. "But you don't know who you're fucking with!"

Teddy pushed C. Ross toward the stairs. "I know what I'm fucking with!" He saw Mike Sunderland, holding a small, blanket-covered figure close, emerge into the corridor. Mike's eyes were blazing. Behind him Phillip's hands turned into large, dangerous fists.

Teddy did not need an explanation. He pushed C. Ross roughly down the stairs. In the wide, square lobby Teddy turned to Mike. "Take the boy to the car."

As Mike left the house, Teddy pushed C. Ross into the drawing room.

Sophie stood silent, her eyes alive with contempt. She saw C. Ross's startled look. Her eyes were icy as she took a step forward. Her hand flashed and the slap resounded in the room.

Looking directly at C. Ross, Sophie whispered harshly, "I shall destroy you!" Then she walked around C. Ross and left the room.

C. Ross, stunned at what had just happened, managed to pour a drink. His mind raced as he tried to decide what to do next.

"I shall destroy you!"

Once again Sophie Nicholson's words filled C. Ross's mind. As a lawyer, he knew he could beat the wrap. He had friends, fair-weather to be sure, but he had his files, secret dossiers that nobody knew about, not even his partners in the firm. Some of the files he had inherited from T. Walter Addiscombe, his mentor and inadequate lover. As an incorrigible, incurable gossip, T. Walter had recorded every bit of dirt he heard, some of it true, C. Ross suspected, and all of it invaluable in the right circumstances. There were notes and documents detailing the activities of a large number of men, or their wives or mistresses. Collected over the years, the notes contained some very interesting information, which the men, some politicians, some lawyers, and more than one judge, would not care to see on the front page of a newspaper. To avoid seeing the inside of the Don Jail, C. Ross would use whatever it took.

"I will destroy you!"

Again the phrase echoed. C. Ross heard it and paled. Sophie Nicholson! He sat down abruptly on the sofa. That old bitch! She wouldn't be crass, or overt. Sophie did not work that way. She knew that a direct, uncorroborated confrontation would never work. She would never openly accuse him of being a paedophile and a sodomite. No, Sophie would work in the shadows. That was her style, and she had had years to perfect it.

First would come the whispers; and the sly looks whenever he was in a room full of people. Then would come the sudden, thunderous silences whenever he appeared. So-called friends would back away, and suspecting smirks would be exchanged for stony, icy glares. Next would come the withdrawal of clients and C. Ross would find himself moving ever lower down the Firm's list of litigators. The high-paying, high profile clients would be replaced by the dregs, desperate men who knew one of their own when they saw him. Eventually, depending on the depth and breadth of the whispering campaign, would come the interview with the Senior Partner, a kindly old duffer who would be embarrassed and shocked that any member of the Firm could possibly be involved in such . . . things!

Faced with the end of everything he had worked for, C. Ross decided on a pre-emptive strike. Sophie would wait a little for just the right moment. C. Ross would not wait!

The lawyer hurried from the drawing room and into his study. What he saw caused his heart to all but stop beating. The drawers of his desk were open. The twin file cabinets gaped emptily.

"Noooooo!" C. Ross wailed as he rampaged through his study. He began to curse loudly. Gone, everything was gone! His files, his dossiers, his cryptic notes! Gone!

He hurried to the floor safe hidden in the corner of the room. The carpet had been thrown back and the heavy lid was open. Looking down, C. Ross saw the safe, where he had kept many of the most sensitive documents, was all but empty. There were the small boxes containing the battered old watch, and links that T. Walter had wanted to be buried with, but C. Ross had decided would be better off above ground. A yellowed document - the deed to the house - was still there, but everything else was . . . gone!

Stepping back, C. Ross's struck a metal object. The slight "clunk" of sound caused him to look down. His cash box! His cash box was open and empty. Normally C.R. kept very little cash about the house, but when Stennes had delivered the virgin Russian boy, he had also paid C.R. the resale price of his last boy, a crude German boy who had been nothing but trouble, and slightly older than C.R. cared for. Stennes always did business this way, he would take away the old boy and several weeks later, sometimes as long as a month, deliver the new boy and pay out whatever cash he had got for the old boy when he delivered the new boy.

C.R. was not too pleased with the arrangement, but Stennes never varied, as C.R. had cause to know. He had resold six boys, always replacing them with new, tender lads. Staring into the empty cash box, C.R. swore and cursed. It was bad enough that Stennes short-changed him on every resale, now the money, 40 grand in large bills, was gone! His passport was likewise missing.

A long low moan escaped C. Ross's lips. Everything was gone! He was as doomed as any felon he had tried to defend! Sophie Nicholson's wrath would indeed destroy him!

C. Ross, his mind racing, hurried from the study. He ran upstairs and into his bedroom. He knew what he would do. Sophie's reach did not extend beyond the borders of Ontario. He would start over. Not in Canada though. C. Ross was too smart to even think of staying in the country. He would find money - he knew a loan shark, several actually - who would advance him money on his word alone. Then there was the house and grounds. He'd be screwed royally, he knew that, but the deed would gain him the cash he needed.

Throwing clothes around the bedroom, C. Ross dressed hurriedly and packed a bag. He would take only the bare essentials. There was no need to burden himself with inconsequential, useless baggage.

Dressed, C. Ross hurried downstairs. He snatched up the deed to the house, and T. Walter's pitiful legacy. He would have to hurry. Slick Willy, the loan shark, never closed but like many men tended to be grumpy in the early hours. Grumpiness seemed to increase Slick Willy's curiosity and suspicions about loans in the dark hours of the day. C. Ross didn't worry too much, though. He had once defended Slick Willy on a morals charge - the man liked his girls young, and treasured what he called "a gifted mouth". The loan shark would come across.

C. Ross left the house and entered the garage. His car was there, thank God! With luck, and no traffic he would be on the road in an hour, maybe two. Fort Erie was only what, 70 miles? Not that it mattered. He would be across the border and well into the United States when the sun came up.

"He'll do a runner," Chief Edgar observed mildly as the Daimler sped toward the bright lights of the sprawling city.

Sophie's expression did not change. "I am aware of that," she said presently. She turned her head slightly and smiled slightly. "There is an old saying, which says that one can run, but not hide." She straightened her shoulders slightly. "In due course Mr. McLennden will discover the truth in that saying."

Chief Edgar sat back in his seat and stared into the nothingness that sped by the closed window of the car. "Michael Chan?" he thought. "Could he . . .?"

As the dimly lit bulk of St. Joseph's Hospital grew large, Chief Edgar allowed a small nod of his head. "Yes," he decided silently, "Michael Chan could!"

When he first began his research for the coming crusade, The Gunner had relied heavily on the notes in the diaries and ledgers that Troubridge had sold him. The documents that Percy Simpson had kept in his safe were a bonus, and together with what Troubridge had provided, gave The Gunner a very good idea of just how moribund, how decadent and immoral the Order had become.

The documents hidden in Noel's case had reinforced the idea that a monstrous carbuncle had formed on the body of the Order, filled with poison that The Gunner was determined to lance. He had read, with rising horror, what Noel Aubery had written, and for a time, The Gunner despaired. The rot, the poison ran deep, and only his refusal to give up in defeat, and his oath to Michael Chan, prevented the man from descending into the abyss of despair.

The Gunner had read the carefully compiled list of names and while he was determined to bring down Stennes, and the ring of paedophiles the German supplied, he was compelled to remember that his primary purpose was the cleansing, and rebuilding of the Order. What surprised The Gunner was that there was not all that much to cleanse.

Using the Roll of Knights, The Gunner saw that there had not been a new knight created in years, particularly in the Priories of Upper and Lower Canada. There had been more than a few "Candidate Knights", all of them young men and all proposed by old knights with the money to pay for their companionship. What intrigued The Gunner was that while names were put forward, they all seemed to disappear from any of the written records before Induction, and before the Proctor could interview them.

The lack of candidates for knighthood meant the slow death of any priory. In Quebec the Priory of Lower Canada had been reduced to Hunter and his two so-called "Secretaries". Hunter was dead, one of the secretaries was on his way back to Europe, and the other too far lost in lust and liquor to worry about.

At the time of the Conclave, where The Gunner had been elected Chancellor, and Michael Chan the Grand Master, the Priory of Upper Canada had consisted of Willoughby, Percy Simpson, The Gunner, and four others.

Using the resources available through the Rangers and their family connections, Terry Hsiang, and Lester's diligent searching of public records it was quickly determined that two of the old knights were dead, and one was confined to a posh nursing home with senile dementia. The last was a near enigma. He was not prominent in the business world, nor was he known in the social circles that the wealthier knights seemed to travel in. Sophie Nicholson, who knew everyone who was anyone, past and present, recalled the man's name, but could not recall anything substantive about him. That he was old, Sophie had no doubt, for she seemed to recall a christening when she was but a snip of a girl. Sophie was reticent about the exact date, but she did recall the name, and the family. She recalled also that he lived in a house in Cawthra Square, which wasn't a square at all, but a long, narrow street running west off of Jarvis, above Wellesley.

Lester knew the area as well as anyone. In what he called his "salad days", he had visited a certain house on Wellesley Street. He informed The Gunner that Cawthra Square was lined with old mansions, as was that part of Jarvis Street above Carlton. Once the home of the elite of Toronto, Jarvis Street, and the streets off of it, had been lined with huge mansions, most of which had either been torn down, or deeded over to various charitable organizations and were now homes to a student pub, an esoteric branch of the U of T Department of Psychology, or broken up into flats for students. As for the knight, who was named Reilly Raymond James, Lester knew nothing, and could find nothing, except that the tax records showed that the city taxes were paid on time, and in full.

Terry Hsiang, knowing of the historical background of the neighbourhood, had sent one of his men, together with three of the man's friends, their wives, and far too many children to count, to pose as tourists. Chattering, the small group strolled north on Jarvis, snapping pictures of the mansions gone to seed, clucking ostentatiously at the state of the former homes of the Masseys, Gooderhams, Wortses and various and sundry mid- to late 19th century movers and shakers. They were particularly intrigued that the old Massey house, built in 1867, was undergoing renovation, converting it into a restaurant.

The group strolled down Cawthra Square. Terry's man knew which house he was to look over. He was shocked at the state of the place. The mid-Victorian Gothic looked derelict. The front gardens were overgrown and choked with weeds. The paint of the massive main doors, and window frames, was peeling, and the windows on the third floor were boarded over. The other windows were filthy with grime and Terry's man doubted they had been opened in his generation.

Above the porte-cochere was a glass conservatory, the windows closed and the internal shutters closed. As the others in the group gesticulated, pointing out to each other the sad state of affairs, and the houses gone to seed, Terry's man had taken a few snaps of the James house. Given the state of the house and grounds, Terry's man had seen no reason to hurry the development of the photos. The place was a dump and from the look of it, deserted. He had thought the whole little mission a farce, and a failure, until his youngest son, who was looking at the photos, shouted out that the house was haunted.

Terry's man assumed that his son was once again demonstrating his natural stupidity, shouting about "haunts" and ghosts. He was about to thump the boy when he noticed where his son's finger was pointing. Looking closer, Terry's man saw . . . a face, or half a face to be more accurate a pale, white face. Terry's man could not tell if the face belonged to a male, or a female.

Both The Gunner and Lester examined the photograph. The Gunner did not believe in ghosts, while Lester did, sort of, influenced as he was by schoolboy stories of haunted houses. Lester was also of the opinion that if there were a haunted house in Toronto, it would be the James Place. The Gunner was unimpressed with tales of ghosts, goblins, ghouls and sheng fui. Reilly James was a knight, and no matter how fuzzy the image, there seemed to be a boy in James's house.

Absent any definitive information on Reilly James, The Gunner assigned Max Hainey to investigate. Feeling figurative daggers pricking the back of his neck, The Gunner then agreed that the Twins would accompany him. A loud, irritated cough led him to also assign Sean Anders. All of which meant that in addition to Max and the three knights, there would be three minders: Pat Ives, Dave Edge and Sean's man, Walt Galloway. Knowing that the Max and the three minders would be armed, The Gunner could not think of any way the Twins could possibly get into trouble. Not with all that firepower behind them.

"Jeezus," exclaimed Dave Edge as he surveyed the derelict house and jungle-like garden. "I hope that little brat Arden Chan isn't hiding there!"

Cory, who was squished against Todd and trying to peer through the car window, giggled. This was the first time that any of the minders had mentioned their less than illustrious campaign in the forest surrounding Michael Chan's house back in Vancouver.

"If he was, you'd know it," grumbled Pat Ives, managing to suppress a shudder as he remembered the blood-curdling screams that had echoed through the pine trees. How such a primordial shriek - something between a gorilla being castrated and a cockatoo being de-feathered - could come out of a small, slim, Chinese boy, Pat could hardly fathom.

Walt Galloway, who had not been a part of the ill-fated expedition, nodded sympathetically. He'd heard the stories from the others as they sat around the barracks, drinking beer. From what he had heard he never wanted to be in the woods with Arden Chan!

Max had no idea what the three minders were talking about. His eyes took in the crumbling mansion, lit only by the light of the moon overhead. Then, as if on cue, a cloud moved across and hid what little moonlight there was. "Fuck," Max whispered. Then he opened the car door. "Let's get it done," he ordered softly. He did not have a very good feeling about what they were about to do.

Exiting the car, Max turned to Dave and Walt. "Take the back." He saw that the small alleyway between the house and the building next door was choked with weeds, boxes and God knew what else. "Be careful," Max warned.

Nodding, Dave and Walt started to creep up the alley while the others approached the main door of the house.

Sean, who thought the whole scene seemed to be something out of a dreadful Hollywood horror film, followed the others under the porte-cochere. There was no light at all, the overhanging conservatory blocking out any light, from the street or from the moon. At Max's direction, Sean aimed the beam of the flashlight he was carrying on the high, wooden, stout looking main door.

Max looked at the peeling, battered-looking door and wondered how in the hell they were going to get inside the house. Without thinking, Max reached out and turned the huge, verdigris-covered brass door knob. Much to his surprise there was a muffled crack. Part of the door jamb crumbled into dust and the door knob fell away.

"Well, that was easy," muttered Max as he pushed open the door and entered the house. Once inside, his sense of foreboding, if anything, increased.

If the outside of the house was a disaster, the inside was a ruin. They stood in large foyer, bare of furniture. On the walls, which were hung with rotting plum-coloured silk, were empty picture frames still holding crumbling, insect eaten shards of paintings. As the beams of light from the flashlights probed the foyer they saw directly ahead a broad staircase. A beam of light rested briefly on the face of an English tallcase clock that stood on the first landing. The paint had flaked from age and the hands had fallen away.

Max walked forward, and a small eddy of dust spiralled upward, revealing a parquet floor. On either side of the foyer was an arched, floor-to-ceiling doorway. Cory shone his flashlight into the room on the right. It was filled with what looked to be piles upon piles of yellowed newspapers and cardboard boxes. One of the boxes had split and a cascade of pocket books, the lurid covers begrimed with dust and rat droppings, had spilled across the floor, which was covered with a dull, filthy carpet. On top of one of the boxes was what looked to be the desiccated carcase of a cat!

The room to the left was as overflowing as the one on the right, this time with furniture. Chairs and tables were piled onto sofas willy-nilly. The wood of the chairs and sofas was grimy and the upholstery had long since rotted away, revealing the under padding, which looked as if mice were nesting in the straw and reed bases.

The house stank of age and mould and mildew, the miasma almost visible. There was an undertone of something, dead flesh? Todd shuddered and crinkled his nose. There were other smells, smells that seemed to indicate that the main diet of whoever lived here survived on old cabbages and rotting onions.

Above the small group hung a huge, multi-tiered chandelier, the light sockets empty, and missing prisms. Cory, stifling a gag, exclaimed, "What a dump!" He looked around the foyer and asked, "What is this place - a nursing home for retired vampires?"

Sean, ever the pedant, was about to reply that so far as he knew vampires did not retire when a bulky figure emerged through a door at the base of the staircase.

The man, for it was a man, was dressed in a sagging dressing gown. He was tall, heavy set and bald except for a fringe around his ears and bespectacled. He was very old and he was holding a double-barrelled shotgun.

"This is my house! Get out," the old man ordered. "Get out, get out, get out!"

Max stepped forward, his hands raised. "Just hold on. Don't do anything stupid."

"Stupid?" snarled the man. "If you don't get out I'll do something . . ." He raised the barrels of the shotgun menacingly.

Absorbed with the strangers in his foyer, Reilly James did not see or hear the soft footsteps behind him as a darker shadow emerged from under the stair case, to be joined by another. He did feel the cold metal pressed against the back of his neck.

"Put the gun down, old man," ordered Dave Edge. He and Pat Ives had managed to get into the back garden of the house and had entered through the kitchen doorway.

Startled, Reilly made to turn. As he did so the barrels of the shotgun rose and he pulled the triggers.

Birdshot hurtled through the air, shattering what was once a very decorative mirror on one wall. The other barrel discharged and Max felt intense pain in his right shoulder. "Oh, shit," he mumbled.

Behind to one side of Max, Cory's flashlight seemed to fly away by itself. He looked down and saw the blood on his hand. "Uh, Toddy," he said quietly. "Toddy?"