It should have been easy – pick up a drunk Italian in a fifth-rate Shanghai dive, and then deliver him unharmed to an Irish guy in Foochow Road.
A small simple job, just what Felice Sabatini needed to pay his way out of town.
Nice and smooth.
But this, of course, was before the guys in black pajamas, with their throwing stars.
Before the knife-fight in the back of a runaway rickshaw.
Before the gunfight on the bank of the Foochow Creek, and the dragon waiting in the depths of the river.
Before the Irish guy turned out to be a Chinese woman, and beautiful.
They said it would be easy.
Well, they lied.