A Loyal Character Dancer

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