This type of behavior would be dealt with severely. Although, from the looks of it, the attacking boat—a rickety junk, barely seaworthy—had already been sunk.
The perpetrators, however, hadn’t been caught. Lorelei had watched them transfer to a new junk in the midst of the melee, haul two bodies out of the water, and then set sail in a hurry. The pirates had been so busy exacting revenge on the empty ship, unloading cannon and small arms fire into the rotten planks that they hadn’t allowed the smoke to settle.
And Keene, Strike and that idiot kid had all escaped.
Even worse, her conscience had actively put three foils back into play. But then, that was how she had played this game all along—balancing on the thin blade of a straight razor.
Lorelei flicked the piece of jerky over the railing, watching it fall to the stone below. She retreated into the captain’s cabin of the rented craft, taking stock of everything she now possessed. Transporting herself here four weeks ago had been a gamble of the highest order.
A one-way ticket to the nineteenth century—a little fact that she hadn’t clued Reynolds in on. If Kip hadn’t shown up with the Pendulum, she’d have been stuck in this time forever. But now, instead of being stuck, she was free—controlled it.
Once she reached the Silver Songbird, at least.
She began to pack the Pendulum into two sturdy wooden cases—one for the black box, the other for its components. She paused when she got to the final item sitting on the colorful spread. What had started this cascade of events, really, when she had learned of its existence.
All for this. The lead domino.
A silver button, simple in its construction—chrome, shiny, like that on a high-end stereo—but holding a world of power. Streams of wires flooded out of the casing, from where Lorelei had jerry-rigged it to her neural implants.
Lorelei winced at the fear in Fox’s eyes right before the bullet spun out of the chamber.
She left the silver button on the bed and walked down the stairs.
It was time to go home—way out in the stars, all those years ago—and fix everything.
“I’ll see you soon Derek.”
Lorelei shut the cabin door and walked into the light of day.
26 | No Place to Go
Keene awoke to angry Chinese voices arguing with a nerdy American one. The two sides were having difficulty communicating. Then Keene felt rough hands grab hold of his billowy shirt, balling up the reams of fabric to haul him into the air.
He jerked slightly, finding that his muscles ached badly—a significant upgrade from the sensation of his entire body being inundated with fire ants. Still, he didn’t have much energy to fight off burly seaman.
So he took his ride in stride, only to find himself sailing into sacks of rice, all of which were much harder than he expected.
“Come on,” he said with a groan. “I would’ve gone quietly.”
His only answer was another body, this one slender and blonde, landing on the cargo next to him. Strike, sick in body but not in spirit, hurled strained insults and threats at the men. Keene watched through half-closed eyes as the boat pulled away from shore.
Linus walked up slowly and said, “I tried to get them to stay for a little longer.”
“How’d you talk to them in the first place?” Keene grimaced, but managed to sit up.
“Found a British merchant to translate. For a fee.” Linus rubbed his empty pockets with a sad look.
“At least you saved our asses.” He tried to give Linus a weak punch in the arm, but instead lost his balance and almost tumbled on to the dirty ground, straight into a pile of manure.
Sanitation was not a big concern in the nineteenth century. Keene would not be eating any of the foodstuffs from this particular dock.
“Whoa there, Keeney.” Linus held out his arm, allowing Keene to brace himself. “Swallowed a lot of water, buddy. Just uh,” Linus said, getting in closer to whisper, “don’t tell her I had to do mouth to mouth. She wasn’t breathing.”
“What?” Strike roared to life, hopping off the sacks like she’d been jolted with a cattle prod. She wagged a tired finger in Linus’ face. “I was dying and you made out with me?”
“You weren’t breathing.”
“What kind of sicko kisses a dead girl?”
“I—I was trying to—to—”
She broke into a wan smile. “Nah, I’m just screwing with you. Thanks for the save. I’ll get you laid, you just wait.”
She began walking away up the docks, half-limp, half-skip. Keene shrugged.
“I guess we should follow her.”
“Dude, I told you guys I’ve been laid before,” Linus said, his face glum. “Like, lots of times.”
“Sure you have,” Keene said. “I’m sure every one of those imaginary girls was incredible.”
He cracked a smile and went after Strike. The jokes were good after a harrowing day, but the facts remained quite grim. They were stranded in the nineteenth century, a pirate was on their ass and his sister was about to turn time upside down.
It all boiled down to the Gray Isle.
Keene closed his eyes as he walked, and began to work.
Somehow, his thoughts settled on whores.
The mysterious Gray Isle and the mythical ship it housed were Keene’s only leads. The nice thing about Hong Kong being a port town was that plenty of English speakers could be found about the streets. This meant a bedraggled and unamused Strike didn’t need to pull on his soggy blouse-shirt for clarification. British trade had picked up considerably with the coastal island, and cracks in China’s hold over the city was evident in the mixture of cultures.
Plus, Keene could use all the assistance and input possible. Linus had already proven himself to be quite resourceful—more than could be expected, if Keene was being honest—and Strike, while sometimes a loose cannon, possessed a fire and dedication that Keene himself seemed to sometimes lack.
Not that he wasn’t motivated to get out of this mess. Just not smoke himself into an opium stupor motivated. Then again, he had jumped into twenty foot water with iron weights clamped to his legs.
Motivation hadn’t actually been the issue. Twelve whorehouses had produced zero pieces of actionable intel. Keene pushed the doors open to the Iron Kitty, emerging into the afternoon sun.
“Why do you figure the whores know, anyway?” Strike said. Her voice sounded like it’d been run through a gravel crusher. “They just keep batting their eyelids and saying no.”
“Gossip conduits,” Keene said. “If someone spilled on the Gray Isle, they’ll know.”
Strike brushed her arm. “I think a flea just bit me.”
“There’s plenty more to visit.”
“Well, I bet we’re making Linus happy, at least.”
Linus glowered, but had nothing clever to say in his defense. With no further time to waste on dissent, Keene led the group on their continued quest for directions to Ching Shih’s secret hideout.
Four fruitless attempts later, the trio found themselves in a not altogether seedy brothel tucked on a side street. Keene surmised—from his now extensive knowledge of nineteenth century Hong Kong sex establishments—that this particular place of business was, in fact, upscale. A surprisingly well-drawn picture of an attractive woman clearly denoted to all what type of service industry operated here.
The Crimson Kitten.
Nice name.
It looked too nice to be frequented by pirates, but then, almost every other option in the city had been exhausted. By this time, it was well past four. Keene pushed the doors open and stepped into the opening room, where a single woman stood behind a lectern.
“It’s like a five star restaurant,” Strike said.
Keene shrugged, having never been to a five star restaurant. But he noticed that the atmosphere was inviting, coz
y. The air was scented with jasmine and lavender, and the floor—unlike many of the sidewalks and roads—was clean.
“How can I help you?” The hostess said with a fake smile that looked genuine. She was dressed primly in a well-fitting black dress. Rouge dusted her fair cheeks and set off her black hair. Her English was perfect. “Do you want to see the girls?”
Keene’s eyes were drawn to the door behind her, from which muted cries of pleasure and passion wafted towards his ears. He was sick of recon and polite smiles and playing games. The Gray Isle was out there, and Lorelei was assuredly already on its shores.
Etiquette was far down on his list of concerns.
Keene brushed past the hostess, elbowing his way through the door to the back rooms.
“Hey! You cannot go back there!”
Her cries were drowned out by the sounds of people working off a lot of steam. The long hallway was wide, lit by lanterns hanging from the ceiling. The warm orange glow suffused the proceedings with a hint of romance overridden by the lustful and aggressive noises coming from beyond the thin doors.
Strike and Linus hurried up behind him.
“So, uh, I guess we’re not going to play it cool,” Linus said. “That’s fine, dude.”
“Start searching the rooms and asking questions,” Keene said.
“Don’t know if we’re up for that,” Strike said with a pained look. “Little under the weather.”
“They’re naked,” Keene said, and began walking towards the first bedroom, “take their guns and make them a good offer. Like keeping their brains inside their skulls.”
This seemed like as good a plan as any, so the trio split up, each taking a nearby room. Even with the division of labor, a full sweep and interrogation would take at least fifteen minutes—if they got that far. Whoever owned this establishment was probably being alerted to their presence by the hostess in the front.
Keene kicked down the first door and charged in, the rickety wood exploding like it got hit by a cannon. A single candle lit the bare walls and bed. Unlike the rest of the brothel, in the bedroom there were no airs about the place’s purpose. It was Spartan in its utility.
A hairy ass stared back at Keene, thrusting with particularly irritating grunts. Keene shielded his eyes and surveyed the room. He noticed a flintlock pistol sitting on a corner table, atop a well-pressed uniform of unidentified origin. Not British army—probably for an imperialist trading company.
Keene grabbed the pistol and cleared his throat.
The man and woman had been so locked into their activities that they hadn’t even stopped when the door had come down. Maybe unexpected menage-a-trois were a staple of the Crimson Kitten. Although if this were the case, they’d surely be disappointed with the kind of action Keene would be offering.
“Whaddya want?” The man said, not turning over. “I’m busy, Smith, and you gotta stop bothering me.”
“Smith is indisposed,” Keene said, not knowing if that was the case, but deciding it sounded more threatening, being cool like that, “so you get me.”
The chubby man flopped off the girl and wrapped himself hastily in the sheet. “The hell are you?” His body language became less aggressive when he saw Keene had his pistol.
“Don’t worry about that.”
“Just take it easy, I gotta a couple coins, you can have ‘em. Even got a pocket watch I stole off one of these yellow-skinned—”
“I didn’t come to rob a poor man,” Keene said, coming closer, but not too close, as the stench of sweat and other nasty particulars hung in the damp, humid air, “I came for information.”
“I’m not poor.”
Keene came over and pressed the tip of the pistol into the man’s gut. “You were saying?”
The man’s eyes narrowed and he said, “Information. What of it?”
“I need to know about the Gray Isle.”
“Nonsense. Children’s stories to scare ‘em into sleeping.”
“I see,” Keene said. “You know anyone who doesn’t think that way?”
“What way?”
“Like a moron.” Keene wagged the flintlock pistol at the man, like he’d been naughty.
The guy sighed and said, “I don’t know, chap. You gotta believe me, I wouldn’t lie.”
“I doubt that,” Keene said, and got up and walked to the door. “Continue on. I’m keeping the pistol, though.”
He walked through the ruined frame and tried again, up and down the hall. Similar luck. Even amongst the best-travelled sailors and most gossipy soldiers, it seemed that Ching Shih’s mysterious pirate island was nothing more than a myth.
Keene would have believed the same, had he not seen the blueprint himself with the instructions from the pirate queen’s husband scrawled on the back. But no one had a location. Even the aggressive act wasn’t helping.
Keene got to the last door, this one at the end of the hall, a little larger and more prominent than the others. Strike and Linus fell in behind him, shrugging their shoulders. Their pockets jangled with munition and coins and various pistols they’d borrowed.
“I got like four of these things,” Linus said, pointing to the guns in his bulging pockets and waistband, “just so none of them can come back and shoot me.”
“Better than what we started with,” Strike said. “Worst comes to worst, we can become highwaymen. Always wanted to be Jesse James.”
“Wouldn’t you be Bonnie or something,” Linus said.
“Screw Bonnie,” Strike said. “I’m the ringleader.”
Keene put his shoulder through the last door. He tumbled into a pleasantly arranged room carrying none of the foul aromas produced by constant coitus. Instead, there was a well-made bed—with pillows, even—and a woman sitting at a desk, reading.
She adjusted the glasses perched on the tip of her nose, staring out the single window absent-mindedly.
“So you’re the one who’s been making so much trouble,” she said with a strong British accent. “And so we meet.”
“Trouble?” Keene walked into the room and did a quick scan for weapons. He didn’t want any surprises. Gunshot wounds, even of the smallest variety, would probably be highly fatal. Gangrene wasn’t his style. Amputation and cauterization didn’t suit him much either.
“Rumors about a group of strange Americans, looking for fabled isles,” she said, still not bothering to look at her guests. “Americans, roaming the streets of Hong Kong. Fairy tales.”
“I’m not American,” Keene said.
“If you say so.” The woman stood up and finally turned. She was older than the rest of the girls, the madam of this enterprise. Not old enough to be unattractive, but enough to have a certain world-weariness to her graceful steps. She had a narrow frame and a long face with light wrinkles hidden at the edges of her eyes. “I presume your luck has been dire?”
She gave the group a curtsy, then sat on the bed.
“No one knows anything.”
“Everyone knows something,” she replied, “but not everyone will tell a stranger.”
“Maybe we should’ve asked her first,” Linus said. “Would’ve saved us a bunch of time.”
“And things that can’t be unseen,” Strike said.
The woman gave a wry, knowing smile. “Yes, the clientele can be somewhat…rough.”
“That’s generous, lady,” Strike said. “We need to know something about a ship.”
“It’s at the Gray Isle,” Keene said. “A location, an idea of a location, whatever.”
“As I’ve said, your reputation precedes you. I understand what you seek.”
“But?”
“Information is never free.” She rose with practiced grace and glided towards Keene, as if suspended on air. “Even for a handsome gentleman such as yourself.”
“You see the guns, right? I mean, she
has to see the guns,” Strike said. “There’s like sixty of these shitty things.”
“Death doesn’t frighten me,” the madam said with an easy smile. “It is the nature of life.”
“Poetic,” Keene said, “but not helpful.”
There was a commotion towards the entrance to the brothel, the sound carrying down the lengthy hall now that all the sex had been interrupted and halted. Keene threw a look over his shoulder but could see nothing.
“We got company,” Strike said. She fiddled with one of the old-time pistols. “The lady doesn’t know anything.”
“I understand a certain deal has been brokered for a ship,” the woman said. “And that the pirate queen does not find the terms and conditions favorable.”
“You tell her that?” Strike said. “You must’ve.”
“Didn’t say a word,” Keene said. More shouting, the sound of men preparing for an imminent assault. “Tell us what you want.”
“To go with you,” the woman said.
“What? Look, lady, we don’t take in strays,” Strike said, waving her pistol in the air. “Forget it.”
“No choice,” Keene said. “What’s the trade?”
“I’ll take you to the Gray Isle,” the woman replied.
Keene almost laughed, so surprised was he by the sudden turn of fortune. Part of him was convinced that it was a hallucination, mere wishful thinking. He wondered, briefly, how the negotiation had gone so easily, but then the woman’s head turned sharply as the door at the far end of the hallway came splintering off its hinges.
Behind her long, shiny black hair, there was a long scar, from cheek bone to temple, along the right side of her face. This wasn’t a business with retirement benefits. Or much protection.
“The window,” she said. “Break it.”
“It doesn’t open?”
“Open?” The woman said, like the idea was impossible.
The Kip Keene Box Set: Books 1, 2 & 3 Page 44