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no time to think.
    He watched in disbelief
as bullets thudded into the chests of his two corporals. For a second, it
didn't seem real.
    Fucking do
something, he thought.
    Nash knew if he
didn't react, he would die.
    He leapt onto
the barge, landing on his feet in a pile of vegetables. His ears were ringing;
the muscles in his legs sluggish. This was his first time in a real gun fight.
    Nash ran for his
life along the barges, but Amai had made them rock and he struggled to keep his
feet.
    I'm moving
like a slug.
    As he stumbled
forward, he expected to hear the shot that would end his life.
    * * *
    Afraid, Amai came to the last boat in the
line. Here the canal wall rose to over ten feet above her head.
    There's no
way out.
    The strapping
American came toward her, arms and feet spread wide, struggling to keep his
balance on the rocking boats. She looked past him and saw the Viet Cong man; he
was one of Triet's. The VC man raised his AK-47 and the shots crackled.
    Bullets hit the
deck, inches from the Intelligence Officer. He slewed sideways, his face etched
with fear.
    The next burst
hit the man's lower legs.
    Amai watched him
stumble, fall into the murky water, and disappear from view.
    Rooted-to-the-spot,
she locked eyes with Triet's man. Almost unbelievably, the front of his body
was churned into red paste as bullets ripped through his chest. Behind him,
Amai saw General Loan and knew that she was next.
    She looked up
the brick face of the canal wall, and halfway up saw the rim of a concrete
storm-water pipe. The storm-water flowed into the canal via large pipes in this
part of the city. This was one was about three feet in diameter and dribbled a
foul smelling discharge. Amai didn't hesitate. She knew what she had to do to
survive.  
    She jumped
vertically and caught the lip with both hands. It was slimy. Her hands slipped.
Then her fingertips found chips in the masonry. She gripped on for all she was
worth, hauled herself up, and slithered through the opening.
    Amai felt sure
that Loan had had a clear shot, and wondered why he hadn't fired.
    He wants to
follow me.
    The pipeline
reeked of gas. She held her breath and crawled through the sludge as fast as
she could. The fumes forced her to hold her breath and she feared she would
suffocate.
    An iron grill
appeared in the pipe wall. Amai pushed her mouth between the bars and took a
breath. The air was barely breathable. Looking out, she realized that she was
on the far side of the street, looking back at the stalled cyclo. General Loan
had the cyclo driver by the scruff of the neck. Amai took more air, held her
breath again, and then crawled further into the pipe. She found another vent,
and took more air. Ahead of her was a ladder with a ring of light above it. She
climbed to street level; then she ran.
    She felt like
kicking herself; but she'd done everything right - the MI soldiers had made the
mistake. They had ruined her plan.
    Where will I
go now? She thought. Panic set in. I can't go
back to the flat.
    A man stepped in
front of her; a Vietnamese man; the man from the Trung Hoa. She looked around.
There were more.
    They're Viet
Cong.
    The man from The
Trung Hoa shoved her into a doorway. Amai knew that they knew who she was.
    He said:
'Where're you going?'
    'None of your-'
    'Where?'
    There was
violence in the man's eyes, but Amai didn't think he would really hit her. 'To
Triet.'
    'Fool-'
    'I have
information.'
    The man
appraised her. 'What information.'
    'I deal with
Triet, not you.'
    He laughed.
'I'll take you to him.' His voice was harsh. 'Follow me.'
    Amai grimaced;
it couldn't have turned out any worse. What a spectacular failure.
    The Flashing
Tiger was only a block away. Amai disliked the strip-club almost as much as she
disliked The Trung Hoa. The sleazy atmosphere was a breading ground for
womanizing, drugs, and crime.
    Inside she
passed a sultry girl dressed in tatty lingerie. The girl flipped backwards onto
a pole, and started spinning upside down. The Trung