On the taxi ride to the safe house, we passed a Chinese walk-up near the roundabout at the end of Croxteth Road. The half mile walk might help clear my head. I could almost smell the hot and sour soup as I stepped onto the porch landing. Checking both ways down the quiet street, I thought for a minute about turning back inside but hunger blocked any further discussion.

The night brought a cool breeze off the sea. I pulled my light jacket close around my neck and zipped it a little tighter. Shoving my fists into the pockets, I toyed with my knife as I walked. Even though I passed no one, an uneasiness accompanied me along the pavement.

An old Chinese man was cleaning the window as I reached the hole-in-the-wall restaurant. He didn’t notice me. The over-wet cloth slopped the tiny counter and ran down the front wall. I watched until he finally acknowledged me.

“We close,” he said.

“Please, I’m starving.”

“What you want? Hurry it up.”

“Uh…”

I noticed the remains of kung pao chicken in a pan behind him so I ordered that with a liter of hot and sour soup. He angrily reached through the window and slapped a wet hand against the menu board to the right.

 “You order from here. We no serve off menu.” His voice was slightly raised.

“Okay, okay,” I said. I scanned the menu, fully expecting to see chili dogs and sour kraut. “I’ll have number seventeen.”

“We no have. We close,” he said. I stared at him confused as he continued. “See,” he said as half his body came through the opening. “Number twenty-three is beef broccoli. You get that.”

“Fine, number twenty-three then.”

He scratched a few characters on a ticket pad.

“You want soup?”

“Do you have it?”

“We have wonton.”

“Right, then wonton it is.”

“Number please?”

The man stood ready to write. I rescanned the menu and found soups near the bottom left. The number was smudged. Taking a chance, I made what I thought was a good guess.

 “Forty-eight.”

“That no wonton. You get number forty-three. You like, you tell friends.”

Exhausted from the encounter, I walked away with a sack of food that was going to be one hell of a surprise. It was heavy, I hoped it was edible. I was already imagining myself eating in the dark with my eyes closed.

A cat’s curiosity forced me to open the bag. As I rummaged inside, I didn’t hear the car coming down Croxteth Road too fast and too close to the sidewalk. Brakes screeched. An arm came out of the window holding a sleek black revolver.

I dropped the food and flew over a two foot stone fence, hitting the grass hard as a bullet zinged over my head. Another cracked off rock. Shards rained down. I searched behind me for an easy escape but there was none. The meadow beyond was sparsely wooded for fifty meters. But it was dark and the landscape fell into shadow quickly.

I was about to jump and run when I heard what sounded like bees bouncing off metal. Three times. Zip tap. Zip tap. Zip tap. I was trying to determine what it was when another bullet came my way, glancing off the top of the fence. I have to go now, I thought.

The bees came again. Two this time. Using their zapping as a distraction, I began running on all fours and was fully upright by the time I hit the shadows. Tires squealed as the car sped away. They were going to cut me off before I could make it to Prince’s Park. ​

​London Bridge is Falling Down Excerpt 5

​The Hollow Man     |     The Hollow Man Series, International Espionage​

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