Escape from Shadow Island

by Paul Adam

  16

  MAX LOOKED AROUND THE ROOM. IT WAS ON the ground floor of the fortress, a big corner office with a desk the size of a table-tennis table, a leather sofa and armchairs at one end, and a lot of artwork on the walls.

  The soldiers had put him in a chair facing the desk and taken up positions beside him. When the man in the black suit entered the room, they stepped away from Max, but not far. Max was aware of them watching him, their submachine guns slung across their chests.

  The man in the black suit sat in a high-backed swivel chair behind the desk. He was a nondescript person in almost every respect. He was neither tall nor short, fat nor thin. His hair was a mixture of brown and gray, his complexion was pinkish, and he wore rectangular rimless spectacles over pale-blue eyes that had as much warmth in them as an arctic lake. He was the kind of person you could pass in the street and not notice, or meet and forget about five minutes later. Yet Max realized he must be Julius Clark, the owner of Shadow Island and one of the richest men on earth.

  “So you’re Max Cassidy,” Clark said. “You look like your father.”

  “You met my father?” asked Max.

  “I saw his act at Playa d’Oro. He was very good. I understand you’re quite an escape artist yourself.” He smiled coldly. “Well, you won’t escape from here. Do you know who I am?”

  “You’re a man who hurts defenseless women and tortures prisoners.”

  “So you saw our little experiment in the lab? You’re wrong—that wasn’t torture.”

  “It looked that way to me,” Max said. “Why’ve you brought Consuela here? What do you want with her?”

  “That doesn’t concern you.”

  “I think it does. What is this place? Who are all the prisoners you’re keeping here?”

  Clark ignored Max’s questions and asked one of his own. “How did you get onto the island?”

  “I flew,” Max replied.

  “You’re a bit of a smart aleck, aren’t you? It doesn’t matter. We’ll get the answer out of you soon enough.”

  “What, you’ll torture me too?”

  “You should’ve kept away from here, Max. You should’ve let them send you back to England. You’re just a kid.”

  “Maybe,” Max said. “But I’m old enough to recognize a psycho when I see one.”

  Clark’s mouth tightened. His icy blue eyes glared at Max. “You think I’m a psychopath?”

  “You do a pretty good impression of one.”

  “You’re a child, Max. A stupid, ignorant child. You have no idea what I am or what we’re doing here.” Clark nodded at the guards. “Search him. Thoroughly.”

  The soldiers hauled Max to his feet and went through his pockets. They found the screwdriver and held it up for Clark to see.

  “Take your clothes off,” Clark said.

  “Get lost,” Max retorted.

  “Take them off, or my men will take them off for you.”

  Max shot him a hostile look, but he removed his clothes, stripping down to his boxer shorts. He stood there almost naked, feeling exposed and humiliated, while the guards went through all his clothes, checking them for hidden tools.

  “You escaped from the police station in Rio Verde,” Clark said. “We’re not as careless here. When we lock someone up, they stay locked up. Check his feet and hair.”

  The soldiers examined Max’s toes and the soles of his feet, then combed through his hair.

  “He’s clean, Señor Clark,” one of the men said.

  “Take away his belt and wristwatch,” Clark ordered. Then, to Max, “Put your clothes back on.”

  “My father came here, didn’t he?” Max said. “What happened to him?”

  Clark didn’t answer. He waited until Max was fully dressed, then waved a hand at the guards. “Put him in a cell.”

  “What are you going to do with me?” Max asked.

  “You want to know what we do here,” Clark replied. “You’re going to find out.”

  The cell was on the third floor of the fortress. It was about the same size as the one in the police station, only the floor was stone flags and there was a proper bed, metal framed, bolted to the floor, with a thin mattress, blanket, and pillow on it. A rusty metal bucket in the corner must have served as a toilet.

  Max paced restlessly around the room, cursing himself for dropping his flashlight on the gallery. That had been stupid, unforgivably careless, and now he was paying the price.

  At least he hadn’t been put in one of those tiny black holes in the cellars. That was something to be thankful for. His cell had a window of sorts, a small square opening with no glass and three thick steel bars cemented into the stonework around it. If he stood on the bed, he was just tall enough to see through. He was on the outside of the east wing of the fortress, with a view over the sea. He gripped hold of the bars and shook them. They were fixed firmly into the walls. Not that this made any difference. Even if there’d been no bars over the window, it wouldn’t have provided an escape route. There was nothing outside except a sheer hundred-thirty-foot drop to the rocks below.

  Max had other ideas about how he was going to get out. And he had every intention of doing so. He wasn’t going to wait for those men in white coats to strap him into that chair and pump him full of chemicals. Julius Clark had sneered at him, called him a stupid, ignorant child. Well, he’d show them what a “child” could do.

  He went to the middle of the cell and stretched out his arms and shoulders, standing up as straight as he could. Then he closed his eyes and concentrated on working the muscles of his abdomen and alimentary canal. The ring of wire would still be down there in his stomach. It shouldn’t be too hard to bring it back up. He felt a slight flutter just below his rib cage and knew that the valve at the top of his stomach was opening, the muscles around it expelling the circle of wire. Slowly, the wire came up past his tonsils and into his mouth.

  He pulled it out and unrolled it. It was a crude implement, but he’d studied the door lock carefully when the guards had brought him in. It was old, probably dating back to the 1970s. The piece of wire should be enough to pick it.

  But not yet. He had to make himself wait. There might still be guards outside. He’d let things settle down before he went to work on the door.

  He lay on the bed and tried to relax a little, but it wasn’t easy. He was impatient to get going on the lock. Give it five or ten minutes, he said to himself. He attempted to distract himself by thinking about the other people who had been kept prisoner here before him. What terrible hardships did they suffer? he wondered. He thought about the pirates who’d lived on the island four hundred years earlier, and then the political prisoners who’d been locked away by the generals—men like Angel Romero and Luis Lopez-Vega. How many of those prisoners had died on Shadow Island? Did their ghosts still haunt the stairs and passages of the fortress?

  “Is there somebody there?”

  Max stiffened. Had he imagined the voice?

  It came again. “Hello?”

  A man’s voice with an English accent, calling faintly from somewhere.

  Max sat up and looked around. The cell was in darkness. There was a bulb high up in the ceiling, but the guards had switched it off from outside after they’d locked Max in. “Who’s that?” he called.

  Was the voice outside in the corridor? Max got off the bed and crouched by the door, peering through the keyhole. “Where are you?”

  “Over here,” the man said.

  Max spun around. “Where?”

  “In the corner.”

  Max went to the far corner of the cell.

  “Low down,” the voice said.

  Max felt the wall with his hands. At the very bottom was a crack where the mortar had broken away from between the stones. He knelt down beside it. He could feel a slight draft coming through the gap, but he couldn’t see anything.

  “Are you next door? In a cell too?” the voice asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Where are we?”


  “Shadow Island.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s off the coast of Santo Domingo.”

  “Santo Domingo? In Central America?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sound like a boy.”

  “I am, I’m fourteen,” Max said.

  “Fourteen! Jesus, they’ve got kids here too? What’s your name?”

  “Max Cassidy.”

  “Nice to meet you, Max. I’m Chris Moncrieffe. I’d shake hands, only it’s not exactly possible at the moment. You English?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me too. How long’ve you been here?”

  “Just a few hours.”

  “I only got here today as well.”

  “Are you the man in the blue shirt and handcuffs I saw arriving by boat?” Max asked.

  “Yeah, that was me. They’ve taken the handcuffs off now, thank God.”

  Max leaned back against the wall. Talking to this stranger in the adjoining cell made him feel better, gave him something to focus his attention on while he waited for the right moment to tackle the door. He liked the sound of Chris Moncrieffe’s voice. There was something reassuring about it.

  “You know anything about this place?” Chris asked.

  “It’s an old Spanish fortress,” Max replied. “Owned by a businessman named Julius Clark. Why’ve they brought you here?”

  “That’s a good question. I have no idea.”

  “Really? You must have done something.”

  “I guess I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “What do you mean? What place, what time?”

  “The Amazon rainforest. That’s where I was when I was abducted.”

  “You were kidnapped?” Max said.

  “I can’t see any other way of putting it.”

  “Who by?”

  “A company named Rescomin International. You heard of them?”

  “No.”

  “They’re a multinational corporation, very big, fingers in all sorts of pies—minerals, commodities, timber. That’s why I was in the Amazon. I was working for an environmental charity named Rainforest Watch. They needed a researcher with jungle experience. I was in the army for ten years, spent plenty of time in the jungle—Borneo, Central America, Brazil. Rainforest Watch wanted someone who knew how to survive out there for long periods. And that’s where I’ve been for most of the past year, surveying the forest, keeping tabs on Rescomin. Rainforest Watch suspected they were illegally chopping down trees and selling the hardwood on the international market.”

  “And were they?” Max asked.

  “That’s exactly what they were doing. Clearing huge areas of forest and shipping out the timber. I watched them for weeks, living undercover in the jungle, taking photographs, making notes about their operations. Then I got careless. I went too close to one of their logging camps. A company security guard caught me. They confiscated my reports and camera and locked me up in a shed for a couple of days. Next thing I know, they handcuff and blindfold me, put me on a plane, and fly me out of the Amazon. I was kept in a cellar somewhere for a few days, then flown somewhere else, transferred to a boat, and here I am—on ‘Shadow Island,’ apparently.”

  Max was silent for a few seconds. He was taking in everything Chris had told him. “I can’t believe a multinational corporation could do that kind of thing to someone.”

  “Well, they did. Crazy, isn’t it? They’re stripping the Amazon rainforest of trees, probably paying the authorities to turn a blind eye to what they’re up to. They’re destroying the environment and making a lot of money out of it. And I’m the one who ends up locked in a cell. What makes me even more angry is that I had photos, notes, a ton of evidence to prove they were logging illegally, and now that’s all gone.” Chris gave a long sigh. “But that’s enough about me. How about you? What’s a fourteen-year-old boy doing here?”

  Max told him. Chris listened to his story, mostly in silence, though he laughed when Max described escaping from the police station in the back of the car.

  When Max had finished, Chris said, “You’re one gutsy kid, aren’t you? You reckon your dad did come here? That he was kept a prisoner like us?”

  “I don’t know,” said Max. “But I’m going to find out.”

  “Have you seen much of the island? You think we have any chance of escaping?”

  “It won’t be easy. There are a lot of guards—Julius Clark seems to have some kind of private army—and they’re all carrying guns.”

  “Could we swim for it—if we can get out of the fortress?”

  “The currents are supposed to be dangerous. But I’d be willing to give it a go.”

  “Count me in too,” Chris said. “Of course, we have to get out of these cells first. You have any ideas about that?”

  “Give me a minute,” Max said.

  “What?”

  “We’ll talk again in a minute.”

  Max went to his cell door and listened. He’d waited long enough now. He could hear no sounds of a guard outside. Inserting his piece of wire into the keyhole, he went to work on the lock. One by one the tumblers clicked back. Max pulled open the door and looked out. The corridor was deserted.

  In two strides, he was at the door of the adjoining cell, picking the lock. He threw back the door and stepped inside. Chris Moncrieffe was still sitting on the floor in the corner of the cell, his knees drawn up to his chest.

  “I’m sorry,” Max said. “It took me a bit longer than a minute.”

  Chris gaped at him. “What the…? How in God’s name did you do that?”

  Max held up the wire. “It’s easy when you know how.”

  Chris scrambled to his feet. He was a tall, muscular man with a tanned face, short black hair, and dark stubble along his jaw line. He held out a hand. His grip was firm and unyielding.

  “Not bad, Max, not bad at all,” he said dryly. “What now?”

  “We rescue Consuela, find out anything we can about my dad, then get the hell out of here,” Max told him.

  17

  “DO YOU KNOW WHERE SHE’S BEING KEPT?” Chris asked, pausing for a second as they went out into the corridor.

  “No,” Max replied. “I just know she’s somewhere in the fortress.”

  “We’ll have to check all the cells then.”

  Chris moved off along the wall. He stopped by the first door he came to and flipped down the small metal hatch that was used for delivering food and water to any prisoner held inside. It was too dark to see whether the cell was occupied. “You see a light switch anywhere?”

  “Here,” Max said. His fingers found a switch on the wall and clicked it on.

  “Empty,” Chris said, peering around the interior of the cell. “You check the next one. We’d better move fast. Someone may notice the lights going on and off.”

  Max went to the adjoining cell and snapped open the hatch with one hand while his other went to the light switch. That cell was empty too.

  Chris had moved farther down the corridor and was squinting through another hatch. “What does Consuela look like?” he said.

  “Dark, slim, beautiful,” Max replied.

  Chris flashed a grin at him. “Just my type.”

  They checked all the cells along the corridor. None of them was occupied.

  “You know where the other rooms are?” asked Chris.

  “The floor below, I think,” Max said. “But there may be guards.”

  “Leave them to me,” Chris said.

  His self-assurance boosted Max’s own confidence. He was no longer entirely on his own. Chris was a soldier, a man who seemed to know how to take care of himself.

  They padded down the stairs to the third floor, Chris leading the way. He moved softly and dangerously, like a stalking leopard. On the landing at the bottom of the stairs, he stopped and put out a hand, warning Max to keep back.

  “There’s someone there,” Chris whispered in Max’s ear.

  They pressed their
bodies to the wall. Max could hear the faint scuff of boots around the corner. The sound drew nearer, louder. A guard emerged on the landing. He wore khaki fatigues and a peaked cap; a submachine gun dangled from one shoulder.

  Chris moved swiftly. He stepped out behind the man and hooked an arm around his neck. The guard gave a low choking cough and collapsed to the floor, unconscious. His weapon hit the stone tiles with a clatter.

  “Damn,” Chris breathed. “Let’s hope no one heard that.”

  He picked up the submachine gun and Max followed him along the corridor, pulling open the hatches in the doors.

  In one cell Max saw a man lying on a bed—the Arabic-looking man he’d watched being strapped into the dentist’s chair and given the injection. The man sat bolt upright, as if he were having a nightmare, and started to scream, his eyes bulging in terror, saliva foaming at the corners of his mouth.

  “They’ll hear that, though,” Max said. “Quick, check the other cells.”

  They sprinted along the corridor, taking alternate doors. Every cell was empty.

  “What now?” Chris said. “Where else do we look?”

  “I don’t know,” Max said. “Consuela could be anywhere in the building.”

  The man was still screaming. Max knew it would only be a matter of minutes before a guard came to see what was going on.

  “We can’t hang around here,” Chris said. “Which way do we go?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Max said.

  Two soldiers appeared at the far end of the corridor. They shouted out in Spanish and fumbled for their guns.

  “Well, that narrows our choices a little,” Chris said.

  He turned and ran for the nearest stairwell. “Up or down?” he said.

  “Up,” Max decided.

  They raced up the stairs. There were footsteps above them, loud, urgent footsteps that echoed about the stairwell. A figure came around the corner and almost collided with Max. It was another guard. He stopped, a cry of shock bursting from his mouth. Chris took full advantage of his surprise. He grabbed hold of the man and threw him down the stairs.

  More guards came into view below them. Chris fired a burst from the submachine gun. The men dived back out of sight.