“Going up.” I pulled and growled. My one-rep max was only 236. No way I could do 313. One hand up over the other. Pull, man! We inched up, but every time my gloves slipped back down. “Help me?” I panted.
Mary’s cuffed hand and Grace’s free one joined mine on the ropes. Together we made progress. I felt my body leave the water. Once we were about two feet above the surface, I planted my feet again. Held us steady. I got a good grip on the upper ropes with my left hand and quickly slipped my right hand back down for the brake. Once I had us steady, I stepped to the right on the rock cliff, then the left. Then right, then left. I bounced from foot to foot until we were swinging.
We swung over the boat, and Grace snagged it with her free foot. When we swung back, the boat trailed after us a ways, then stopped, like there was a rope on the other side, tethering it to something. That stopped our swinging.
“There must be an anchor,” I said.
Another rope went slack in my left hand, then fell past me.
Mama. One left. “Grace?” I croaked. “Can you climb onto the boat?”
She looked down. “I think so, but I’m hooked to Mary. Just let go and we’ll swim to it.”
“How?” I said. “We’re all tangled together.”
“I don’t want you to drop us,” Mary said.
“Look, if you can get to the boat, you’ll pull us over.” I hoped. “On three, okay? One.” I gripped the upper rope tight again and released the brake. “Two.” I reached my right hand up to the main rope and let go with my left so my arm would be out of the way in case Grace pulled Mary with her. “Three.”
Grace let go of my neck. Mary’s head flew at mine, slipped past to my back, pulling my feet off the cliff and twisting me away from the boat. I couldn’t see what was going on under me, but Mary and I were suspended between the rope and the boat.
“I’m on,” Grace said, “but I can’t sit down.”
“Mary, climb to my back?”
Mary slid around to my back, which brought the rope up against my face and twisted me around so that my back was to the cliff. My handcuffed-to-Mary arm was now twisted over my rope arm. I stretched my arm across my front, toward her as far as I could. Mary got both feet in the boat. Grace was sitting on a little bench in the boat and holding Mary’s legs.
“Good. Now pull me over or row this way. Something.” I let myself slide down the rope, which heated my hand through the glove. I stretched my leg toward the boat. Not working. Gravity was stronger.
“Just let go,” Grace said. “You’re not that high over the water.”
But my weight might pull Mary overboard or hurt her arm. I swung a leg, trying to get a foot in the boat, but the third rope gave way.
I fell.
REPORT NUMBER: 27
REPORT TITLE: I Get Eighteen Stiches and a Reality Check
SUBMITTED BY: Agent-in-Training Spencer Garmond
LOCATION: Suicide Cliffs, Okinawa, Japan
DATE AND TIME: Sunday night/Monday morning, July 12/13, time unknown
I WENT STRAIGHT INTO THE WATER, feet first. I gripped the rope tight, for no other reason than to do something. My head didn’t go under, though. My left arm and side slapped against the rubber boat, my arm stretched up over the side where Mary and Grace were gripping my hand. Grace let go and reached over for my other hand, and the girls dragged me over the side of the inflatable dinghy.
I sat on the floor for a moment, lying against the rubber side, breathing, resting. Every bit of me hurt. And my chest stung. Rappelling down the cliff had killed any healing that had been going on with my cut.
A shot rang out, bringing a soft hiss from the rubber boat.
“Oh, no!” Mary said. “They shot a hole.”
“Find it! Put your finger in it, Mair!” I yelled, scrambling to sit. I found two oars on the floor and dipped them into the water. “But get down in case they shoot again.”
I rowed, first going the wrong way, then I stopped, remembering there was probably an anchor to pull up. Grace helped me with the anchor, and once we had it in the boat, I rowed away from the cliff. Yells echoed down from the top of the cliff, but no more bullets came. Maybe Anya had reprimanded the shooter since she wanted me alive. Or maybe they’d only been trying to slow us down.
When the dinghy rounded the cliff, I spotted the boat Mary had seen from the cliff top. The Defender sat about fifty yards out. With a name like that, it had to be on our side.
I rowed hard, knowing that rest was coming. I turned around every once in a while to make sure I was rowing the straightest course. By the time the dinghy bounced against the hull of The Defender, our raft was almost completely deflated and it was nearly dawn. I was thrilled to see men in Mission League BDUs running on the deck, scrambling to get us aboard.
Two agents helped us onto the boat. One ran into the cabin and returned instantly with a pair of bolt wire cutters. He snapped the handcuffs at the chain. I collapsed on the cold deck and closed my eyes.
● ● ●
I awoke to the low murmurs of men’s voices. The sky was light grey, and I cringed at the brightness. I still had my night vision contacts in. I was lying on the deck, and there was a wool blanket on top of me. I wondered what time it was. My head told me it was still time to sleep.
I rolled onto my side and pried the contacts out of my eyes. I left them on the deck. They didn’t recycle well. I threw off the blanket and stood. The boat had docked. The men’s voices were coming from the cabin. My body was stiff, and I inched toward the voices, stretching with every step.
Inside the cabin of The Defender, Mr. Sloan was speaking with one of the men who’d rescued us. Grace and Mary sat huddled in wool blankets.
Mr. Sloan hurried to my side. “Good, you’re up. We need to go. You feel okay?”
“Sure,” I said. Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Mary walked over and hugged me, smiling, her teal braces muted in the dawn light. I smiled back, then gave Grace a smile too. Smiles for everyone. We were alive.
“Are Beth and Jun okay?” I asked.
“Yes. Jun drove her into Mubuni where he called Toda-san, who called an ambulance. She was taken to the Itomanseimei Hospital.”
Good. We followed Mr. Sloan off the boat and down a long pier that looked different than the one Keiko and I had found the Dragon Star docked at. The air smelled strongly of seaweed. A host of barnacles clung to the edges of the dock.
Mr. Sloan led us through a deserted parking lot to a single black van that sat idling. A Japanese man I didn’t recognize jumped out of the front and opened the side door. He was dressed all in black and had a scruffy face. Mr. Sloan waved us inside the van.
“Are you sure you can trust this guy?” I asked Mr. Sloan. “That Japanese agent back at the jungle house was working for Anya.
Mr. Sloan frowned. “Japanese agent at the jungle house? This is Agent Michito Itou. He’s been helping me track you since we arrived.”
Then Mr. S got out of the passenger’s side door. “You can trust Itou-san, Spencer.”
“Daddy!” Mary yelled, flying into her dad’s arms like she hadn’t seen him in three years.
“Get in the van, sweetheart,” Mr. S said. “I’ll join you in the back.”
So Mary and Mr. S climbed into the back row of the van. I avoided eye contact, feeling responsible for his daughter’s multiple near-death experiences tonight. I helped Grace in next, surprised that she let me. Maybe things would be different now that we’d cleared up the whole Desh-is-a-moron thing. I hoisted myself in, but I tripped and fell on my face between the front and middle seats. My left hand upended a box of bungee cords that was under the seat.
“Spencer!” Mary’s voice.
A hand grabbed my arm. Grace. “Spencer, are you okay?” “I’m fine,” I said, feeling stupid. I managed to get myself settled in the middle row in the seat behind the driver and beside Grace.
The driver got back in front, Mr. Sloan took the passenger’s seat, and the van lurched
away.
“Are you all right, Mair Bear?” Mr. S asked.
“I’m fine, Daddy,” Mary said.
“Garmond needs a doctor,” Mr. Sloan said, looking back at me. “I don’t feel good about taking him to the hospital this time. I’ve already called Maki-san. We’re picking him up on the way.”
Maki-who? And on the way to where?
“What’s wrong with Spencer?” Mr. S asked.
I looked down at my shirt, which now read more like, ‘I was murdered in Okinawa.’
“He’s cut,” Mr. Sloan said.
“Why can’t I go to the hospital?” I asked. “I should be on the frequent visitors plan by now.”
“They’ll be looking for you there,” Mr. Sloan said. “Kozue found you last time.”
Oh, right. “Wait. That was Kozue?”
“We’ve had a tracker on her for a few weeks now. That’s how we found you tonight.”
The necklace Jun had given Kozue for her birthday. I reached for my own necklace, then remembered that Anya had broken it. “I lost my necklace.”
“No, I have it,” Mary said. “I put it in my pocket before we snuck off the boat.” She reached over the seat between me and Grace, my cross necklace hanging from her fist.
I took it from her. “Thanks, Mair.” I wanted to say more but didn’t know what.
“You’re welcome,” she said. “Thanks for saving my life.”
“Yeah, but if it hadn’t been for me, it wouldn’t have been
necessary.”
“That horrible Anya did it!” Mary said. “She had a knife, like the kind you gave me to take fishing, Daddy, remember? I thought Spencer was gonna die, but I knew he wasn’t because of my visions and everything, but he was bleeding, like, everywhere, but then Bushi didn’t come back down … and then Anya and Kozue went up … or Keiko. I’m still confused about which one is which and—”
So was I.
“—then I got the knife from the counter and cut myself free, didn’t I, Spencer? And then I cut Spencer free.”
“She was amazing, Mr. Sloan,” I said. “A total spy ninja warlord.”
Mary giggled like I’d embarrassed her. “Well, one of the twins tried to stop us. So I tried to stall her or whatever while Spencer rested. He was in shock.”
She kept on talking, but I tuned her out. Living through it once had been bad enough. I slouched down and watched the city pass by as we drove, shivering with the air conditioning in the van. My clothes were still damp.
“Mary, did you say Anya was trying to make a scar on Spencer?” Mr. S asked.
“Uh-huh. She said … Well, I didn’t really understand what she said, but it was something about Spencer not having a scar, so she was going to give him one. Something about forcing a prophecy, which I told her wasn’t possible. Is that right, Spencer?”
I opened my mouth to try and explain, and settled on: “Yeah, that sounds right, Mair.”
The van stopped. Mr. Sloan jumped out and opened the side door.
A short, pudgy elderly Japanese man climbed in beside me. He was wearing a sweater that looked too tight, and he was holding a black briefcase. “Arigato,” the man said.
We rode in silence for a while. Mr. Sloan spoke Japanese to the man with the briefcase, and I studied the mass of bungee cords on the floor by my feet, wondering who the pudgy stranger was. It must have been about twenty minutes before the van stopped again. Mr. Sloan got out and opened the side door.
“Mary, this is your stop, Mr. S said, climbing out of the van.
Mary followed her dad, then turned and grinned at me through the open door. “Well, see ya, Spencer. Bye, Grace.”
“Bye,” Grace said.
I looked back to the pile of bungee cords. “Bye, Mair.”
Mr. S and Mary walked away. Mr. Sloan rested his arm on the top of the van and leaned in the open side door. “Take off your shirt, Spencer, and let’s have the doctor take a look, all right?” Mr. Sloan said.
“Seriously?” I stared at the Japanese man. “We can’t go to a clinic or something?”
“The League doesn’t have a field office in Naha,” Mr. Sloan said. “Maki-san helps out when needed.”
I pulled off the Okinawa shirt, careful not to let the fabric rub against my cut. My whole chest seemed pink next to the duct tape. Had the cut swelled, or was it dried blood? I couldn’t tell.
Maki-san pulled off the duct tape, which smarted like crazy. The cut looked awesomely gross. The duct tape had left a clean rectangle of skin in the dried blood on my chest. The skin around the slash had swollen a bit, leaving a dark red gash that looked deeper on one end than it was on the other. It wasn’t bleeding anymore. Maki-san mumbled something in Japanese. Mr. Sloan answered. I couldn’t understand a word.
“Was the knife new?” Mr. Sloan asked.
“I don’t know. It was silver … Not rusty or anything like that.” See? Words like knife, silver, rusty, stabbed, bleeding—these were words they didn’t bother teaching us when we were learning a new language.
Mr. Sloan translated this to Maki-san, who pulled out a bottle of pills from his bag and handed me three, along with a bottle of water.
“What are they?” I asked.
“Painkillers,” Mr. Sloan said. “They should kick in by the time he’s ready to sew you up.”
Wait. This guy was going to sew me? The idea both thrilled and terrified me.
Mr. S returned to the van and took his seat in the back. Mr. Sloan shut the side door and got back in the passenger’s seat. The van pulled away. I opened the water and swallowed the pills. The water tasted so good that I downed the whole thing.
Shortly thereafter we stopped in front of an apartment building. We all got out, and Mr. Sloan led the way up a concrete staircase that split the building in two. It seemed to me like the driver and Maki-san had been here before, as they chattered on in Japanese, hardly looking where they were going.
I walked behind them with Grace and Mr. S, carrying my I ♥ Okinawa shirt. I might need stitches, but I had a guess why Grace was still here. If this safe house was the closest thing to the Mission League’s field office in Naha, they were probably going to question us. I just hoped Goliath wouldn’t be here this time. That guy made me want to suck my thumb.
We entered a tiny apartment. The main room had a round table with five chairs, three sofas, and a TV. Three doors led off the main room, two were open. One led to a bedroom, the second was a bathroom. I wondered what lay behind door number three.
“Spencer, with me,” Mr. Sloan said. “Grace, you stay with
Mr. Stopplecamp and Itou-san.”
I glanced at Grace as we parted ways, her sitting down at the table with Mr. S and the driver, me headed toward door number three, which turned out to be a medical room. There was a cot, a sink, some shelves packed with medical stuff, and a couple chairs.
“Lie down,” Mr. Sloan said.
I obeyed, surprised to find the cot so stiff. The thick canvas scratched my back.
Maki-san pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, then dragged a chair over to the cot and examined my cut. He said something to Mr. Sloan in Japanese, and Mr. Sloan started rummaging through the shelves. The two men continued to talk to each other in Japanese. I was too tired to try and understand what they were saying. Mr. Sloan brought the doctor a couple of bottles of who-knew-what and several medical packets that looked like they had sterile wipes in them. Then he sat on the second chair and folded his arms to watch.
Maki-san washed my cut with one of the bottles, squirting the liquid into the wound. I braced myself for the sting, but it never came. Yet every time his gloved fingers touched me, it felt like he was reaching inside my chest.
He opened one of the little packets. I could smell the alcohol and braced myself as he swiped the cut. Yeah, it stung, but it wasn’t as bad as the salt water had been. Then he used an eyedropper thingy to squeeze globs of liquid Benadryl into the gash. This stung at first but quickly numbed the area. Now that wa
s a neat trick.
After that, Maki-san opened another little packet and pulled out a curved needle that looked like a fishhook that was already threaded with black thread.
“So, it really needs stitches?” I tried and failed to ask in a smooth voice.
“Absolutely.” Mr. Sloan reached back to the shelf and grabbed a pack of chopsticks. He ripped them open and handed them to me without breaking them apart. “Maki-san did his best to numb the wound but you might want to bite down on these.”
Mama. I took the chopsticks and shoved them in my mouth.
“Junbi dekitayo,” the doctor said.
“He’s beginning, Spencer,” Mr. Sloan said.
I tensed. I felt the needle prick my chest and sucked a sharp breath up my nose. It felt like … like someone had stuck a needle in my chest. It wasn’t so bad, actually. The skin was pretty numb. But then Dr. Maki pulled the thread through. That was the weirdest feeling, that thread pulling through my skin. I quivered and bit down on the chopsticks to distract myself, but the pain really wasn’t as horrible as I’d feared. The salt water in the fresh wound had hurt ten times more.
“Atta boy, Garmond,” Mr. Sloan said. “You’re a tough one, you are.”
That’s right, I am. Seconds after that cocky thought passed through my mind, one of the stitches surprised me with a sharper pain than the rest, and my whole body jerked in response.
“Easy, now,” Mr. Sloan said. “Almost done.”
I decided to start watching, in case I ever needed to sew someone else up—or to sew myself up. I caught Maki-san tying off a stitch. He was doing them one at a time. When he stuck the needle in me to make another one, I wimped out and looked away. So gross.
Finally, the doctor sat back and patted my shoulder. “Jyuuhachi.”
“Eighteen stitches?” I asked. Sweet!
The doc nodded, then rattled off a sentence to Mr. Sloan.
“He says it will probably leave a scar,” Mr. Sloan said. “Hard not to, though, with a gash like that.”
A scar … Just what Anya had wanted. But it wasn’t a cross. So there, Anya.
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