The Black Dragon (26 page)

If I can just get this one hand loose, before the drop
.

The cell swings crazily for a moment and then steadies itself. One more go at the left wrist. And his hand is free!

First problem solved.

Trying not to think how high he is over the water, he takes up a brace position, crouching down as best he can on the freezer floor, bending his knees for shock absorption. There's a wind getting up, and it sets the cell swaying crazily for a second, makes an eerie whistling as it plays through the holes drilled in the sides.
Come on, get it over with
. . .

And then he's falling, stomach lurching . . .

It seems to last ridiculously long, that downward rush, but then—more like an explosion than a splash—the cell hits the water, jarring his legs, compressing his back, forcing the wind out of him. It sounds like he's gone straight under, the frothing of the seawater all around. Then they're bobbing back up to the surface . . .

The freezer stands tall for a second, then falls on one side and floats there. Water spouts through the holes. He can feel it soaking his clothes. Taste the salt.
Are we sinking yet?

With his left wrist free there's enough slack in the chains to bring that arm around to the front. But try as he might he can't get his hand up to reach for the lock pick.
Should have palmed it.

Water is flooding the cell now. It's a quarter full very quickly. He works the chains like he watched Dad do countless times. Expand, contract, expand, contract, wriggle.

Now there's a little slack to work with. His back is soaking wet and his legs are under water. Definitely sinking.

Don't think about it.

Half full. It'll be time to take a deep breath very, very soon.

It'll never be possible to get the hand high enough to lift the lock pick over his head. Plan B then. Lift the T-shirt up. It rips a bit. Now get the pick to that first padlock. Need the right hand too. Running out of air.

The water is up to his neck. He takes a deep breath, blows that right out and then inhales again, as deeply as he possibly can. Time for brute strength. With every fiber of effort he wrenches his right arm around to the front, working it under the chains. It hurts like anything. Forget it.

The water closes over him, foaming in his ears. It's dark now and the freezer is rolling as it slowly descends.

But the lock pick is in his right hand. He fiddles out the saw rake by touch and then he's working it into the plug. No time to feel it carefully. Just rake the thing as hard as possible and try to bounce the pins to the shear line. Keep tension on the lock and work it quickly back and forward. Blot everything else out.

He feels something give. Yes! The first lock's open. That releases the top chains a bit more now.
Going to have to get every one of them off, otherwise I'll never make it to the surface. They'll pull me down . . .

It takes vital seconds to locate the second lock in the gloom, but then it goes quickly with the same jagging rake of the pick. He lets the air seep very slowly from his mouth. Almost one bubble at a time. The pressure's building and he's already desperate to take a clean lungful of air.

Got about a minute left.

Wish it wasn't so dark.

Hard to reach the modular lock. He contorts his body, trying to get both hands to it. There it is . . .

Work it with the rake tool again. Harder . . . Won't go. Won't go.

Not thinking straight.

Need to breathe. Lungs . . .

Ears hurt.

Calm. Be calm.

Wait a minute—last lock doesn't do anything. They missed the chain with the shackle! So work the chains, keep working . . .

They're off. Nothing left.

Door now. No idea how to do it.

Maybe thirty seconds.

He kicks frantically at the door, lungs burning, but the gaffer tape seals it rigidly tight. Just then his hand brushes against the object in his pocket. The one Tony slipped him with that slight nod of the head. Feeling in his soaked jeans he finds the thing. Its cold metal fits snugly into the palm of his hand. It must be! The folding pocketknife that Ponytail used to free their hands on the fishing boat.

He flicks it open by touch, gropes for the corner of the freezer and then jabs the blade into the seal between door and side.

It's through . . . is it?

Tired now . . .

Need to breathe . . . Running out . . . Lungs on fire . . .

He can see stars dancing. Oxygen debt? But the blade is doing its work. He runs it down the length of the door. Then, strength ebbing away, back up again. Hard work. Very hard . . .

Think I'm blacking out . . . And so close . . .

As if from a great distance he sees himself struggling, now upside down, spotlit, hair waving like seaweed.
So tired
. . . The skull and butterflies are dancing in the black water. Transient.

And the door's just about . . .

. . .
Can't
.

37

HOW TO SWEAR PROFUSELY

Sing Sing comes along the side of the deck, her head bowed, feeling as desperate as she has ever felt in her fourteen years. She coughs out every Cantonese swear word she can ever remember hearing as she grew up on the margins of the world of the triads. Then she empties off her English vocabulary too. Unspeakable acts, unpleasant things. Even Zamora raises his eyes in shock.

The gang members are silent, ill at ease, as they escort her, Zamora, and Laura back toward the crew quarters.

She lifts her head for a moment. Looks out at the water. The night is pooling across it and clouds roll in to block out the sky.

She comes to an abrupt stop. There's a lifebelt on the rail here—and she grabs it and, more as a gesture than anything else, hurls it as far as she can out over the side.

The man behind shakes his head and jabs her with his machine pistol in the back. Behind them, Tony watches the lifebelt as it floats away into the gloom. Thoughtful . . .

They sit dejectedly in the bulkhead storeroom.

When Zamora peels the tape from Laura's mouth she has nothing to say. Just puts her head in her hands and sets her shoulders heaving silently.

“Maybe there's still hope,” Zamora says.

“Come off it, Major . . .” she sobs.

“I managed to get a message to Ricard,” Sing Sing says. “At least, I hope I have. I had to bribe one of the triads on Cheung Chau to call Ricard . . . but I guess it's too late. Sorry, sorry, sorry.” She kicks at the ground.

“That makes three of us,” Zamora says.

38

HOW TO COME TO THE SURFACE

. . . As if he's watching himself in super-slow motion.

As if—because time is up—he suddenly has all the time in the world. Serenity embracing him in the blue-black depths.

Which way's up? Doesn't really matter. Let go . . .

A school of red fish ghost across his eyes. Very close.

The cell falls away, a pale shadow fading to nothing. That must be down then. Or is it up?

The last of the air escaping.

Another choking mouthful of water. Swallowing . . .

This is drowning then.

And then it comes to him in one crystalline, pure memory.

That day when Dad failed to escape from the water torture cell, there was something wrong. They'd painted the equipment the evening before and left it sitting in the wings near the processional door. That bright-red paint looked so nice . . .

. . . And the next day it was bone dry.

But when one of the Klowns came rushing to help Dad, leering in his skull mask, there was a red smear on the knee of his pants. Not big. But exactly the same red.

The Klowns hadn't helped paint the thing. So this one must have been near it that night . . .

It must have been sabotage.

A pulse of energy from somewhere.
I'll get out of this—I'll surface. Find the trail. Find out what happened.

It feels like his lungs are pressed flat, useless, as he tumbles in the sea's grip—but now he steadies himself and then kicks toward what he hopes is up.

Toward life.

Not just because he wants to live, but because now he knows he has a hope of finding the truth.

Another mouthful of black water forces its way to his stomach. He pulls loose the ragged tour T-shirt and leaves it to the depths. The fateful tour itinerary on its back—pale butterflies and empty-eyed skull—disappearing into emptiness.

Another kick from his exhausted legs . . . pushing up, up.

Where is it? Where's the surface? How long has he been under . . . ?
Come on. Come on!

. . . And Danny breaks the skin of the waves, spluttering, choking, shaking, drowning, not drowning. Treading water.

The heavy bulk of the carrier stands some three hundred feet away, the island silhouetted beyond that. There's a dim glow of light from the boat but otherwise not much else. Maybe—maybe—far off to the northeast, a light on the water. But it could be a low star where the air's still clear. It's swamped by the waves running before the oncoming storm.

Mustn't go under now. So tired, though.

Then something nudges the back of his head and he freezes, imagining sharks or a boat from the ship. It nudges him again and he reaches around—and has his arm through the orange and white lifebelt.

The sea is getting choppier.

Bring it on
, thinks Danny.
Bring it on
.

He floats there for a while. Coughs up some water and lets his head clear.

And then a broad smile cracks across his face—and he feels like yelling at the top of his voice:
I did it! I did the Water Torture Escape! Me. Danny Woo
. . .

He slaps at a wave joyously and shakes his head.

And then starts to kick determinedly toward the ship as the first of the rain peppers the water.

39

HOW TO EXHIBIT DECENCY

No one sees or hears him coming.

The decks have cleared as the rain squalls hit the boat. Two guards duck for shelter under the lee of a lifeboat—and so don't see Danny reaching the anchor chain.

They don't see him climb it, as easy as you like despite the weather. After all, it's only like going up a rope at the Mysterium, and he could do that before he could walk.

Struggling to light their cigarettes, the guards don't see him make the deck of the ship and glide into the rain-lashed shadows.

The plan of the crew quarters is clear in his head. Tony's pocketknife is open in his right hand, blade jagged and broken from his desperate escape from the freezer. Eyes blazing, senses alert.

No one's looking for him. So no one sees him . . .

He crosses beneath the boom of the crane, ducks under an awning as a triad sprints toward shelter, flip-flops splashing on the deck.

Through the door and into the first corridor. There's not a soul in sight, but a tangle of voices not far off. He lets the door close noiselessly, then drops down the companionway in one smooth jump, hands gliding on the rails.

Left here, past the galley. A cacophony inside. Dinnertime, presumably.

Think of nothing and nobody can see you
, Dad used to say, so that's what he does. He shoves every thought away and becomes nothing but silent movement . . .

Another stairway, sinking into the heart of the ship, and then down the corridor to the room which is acting as a brig. No lock—just the ring handle on the outside of the watertight door.

He grips the rough metal and heaves.

It's surprisingly stiff and almost takes the last drop of his strength.

Laura is the first to look up and see him. Her face is a picture, jaw dropping slack—and then she reaches to shake Zamora by the shoulder. Sing Sing leaps to her feet in one acrobatic flip, hands flying to her face to suppress a scream of relief. The rain and wind dashing at the ship, affording them some cover, but they all have the sense to keep their voices down . . .

Soaked, bare-chested, Danny slips into the brig and closes the door behind him. His arms and chest are lacerated, the cuffs still dangling from his right wrist, and he must look close to exhaustion. But still he smiles—the sense of triumph still pumping in his body.

The major staggers to his feet: “I knew it!
Caramba
, I knew you could do it.”

Laura shakes her head and hugs Danny just as hard as the day of the explosion.

“Blast Houdini,” she says. “You're the greatest. Of all time!”

And Zamora beams, wiping a tear from his eye. “You've joined the greats, Danny. If your dad could see you now!”

“We've still got to get out of here,” Danny says. “All of us together. In one piece.”

“We need more help,” Laura says, checking the corridor. “I think I know where we can find it. Laundry. This way.”

The corridor stretches ahead, voices echoing over the weather outside.

“Let's take it steady—” Laura starts to say.