No one says a word in the cell. No one wants to voice the thought that this might be the police, that this might be rescue . . .
But nothing happens and, as the minutes drag out, their hopes gradually subside.
And then the door opens again. Ponytail and Jug Ears are back, along with some of the other gunmen. They urge Danny from the cabin, then indicate that Laura and Zamora should follow.
“What’s going on?” Laura demands. “He’s just a little kid. What do you want with him? Why make it worse for yourself when the police get here? Which they will. Believe me!”
But the men say nothing.
They look rather solemn—almost embarrassed—and any animosity displayed in the rumble on the Peak has been replaced with something more subdued. Ponytail keeps his eyes half shut as he pushes Danny in the back. And the grin is gone from Jug Ears’ flat face.
“I wish you’d get rid of that abominable shirt,” Zamora says, trying to rile the triad man. “It doesn’t do anything for you. Oi, you. Ugly—I’m talking to you.” The big man just shakes his head.
Danny’s heart is drumming in his ears now. There’s no denying the fear. Whatever is coming is close at hand, subduing even these two hardened gangsters into silence. What on earth can it be? Time to try and reach out.
He looks at Ponytail’s back.
“Tony. Tony? I want you to relax and listen to me.” The man just waves his hand in the air. “Don’t speak.” He glances back then and adds, “Save your strength.”
They all troop through the network of hot, fetid corridors, back up the companionway. And onto the deck, the fresh air coming as a relief after the hours of confinement below.
Evening is falling across the water, the sun splaying through the oncoming rush of clouds.
“Bad weather, I reckon,” Zamora says, but his eyes are scanning the men and their guns, waiting for a moment, waiting for the chance to take them down. Danny glances at the distant horizon. He tries to deepen his breathing. One breath at a time. Don’t allow the emotion and tension to take you where you don’t want to go.
“Move it,” Jug Ears grunts.
They’re shunted along the side of the main deck as the boat heaves on the gathering swell. Then up three flights of metal steps onto a broad helicopter pad behind the bridge.
Kwan is waiting for them, tapping a foot impatiently on the deck.
He waits for Danny to be brought to the middle of the large yellow H in its circle and clears his throat. “Roll up,” he shouts, “ROLL UP! Ladies and gentlemen. Roll up and see one of the greatest shows on earth!”
Danny looks around him. The last of the sun splinters through the camouflage netting onto the deck. The Black Dragon men are arrayed in that glow, waiting, watching. He’s the center of attention, clearly, in what looks like a horrible parody of the big top.
He checks his breathing again. It’s deep and steady now. And that in turn is steadying his pulse, taking it back down to just a shade faster than normal. Nothing like how it can thump when Jamie’s got it in for him. Weird. The school grounds seem light-years distant. But the world of the Mysterium somehow very close at hand.
“Attention here, please, Mister Woo,” Kwan barks, an irritable note creeping into his voice. “Now, don’t think this is my idea. It seems . . . somewhat excessive. We could just shoot you like that double-crosser Chow and send you floating down to the fishes . . . But something more fitting has been suggested to me.”
There’s a large packing crate standing on end next to Kwan. He snaps his fingers like a showman of old and two of the guards step forward to open it, revealing a tall freezer inside.
“Apparently you will be familiar with a version of this. I’m afraid it’s the best we could do given the timescale. We’ve drilled some holes so that it will sink quickly. It should all be over in a few minutes.”
“No!” Laura gasps, stepping forward. “That’s hideous. You can’t do it!”
Three triad members grab her, pinning her arms tight to her side, holding her head whilst they put tape across her mouth.
“. . . you . . . mmph . . . bas-mphhh . . . fu . . . mphhh . . .”
With attention diverted, Zamora takes his chance. He brings his elbow smartly back into the groin of the closest guard, who howls in pain, crumpling to the floor. The major spins and punches a cracking blow hard up into the jaw of the man beside him.
But a third strikes him hard over the back of the neck, and a fourth has a gun muzzle lodged against his head. He keeps struggling and it takes two more to pin him down to the hot metal of the deck. Kwan watches impassively. When calm is restored he signals to a guard on the door nearby.
“Bring on the volunteer from the audience, please.”
The bulkhead door is opened—and Sing Sing is escorted onto the helipad.
She sees Danny, sees Laura and Zamora, and takes in the whole situation in a second. She rolls her eyes. Scared and exasperated all at once.
“A friend of yours, I believe.”
Danny’s mouth opens, but he can’t find the words he needs. He’s glad to see Sing Sing is alive. Dismayed that she too is captive, while simultaneously glad that she is with him now. A real friend. Sing Sing isn’t like the others at school. She feels real. As real as life used to feel in the Mysterium. In the old days. And all too late!
“It’ll be OK, Danny,” Sing Sing shouts. “I’m so glad to know you.”
Danny smiles, fighting the emotion.
“Very touching, I’m sure,” Kwan says, cutting the air with his hand as if chopping the conversation short. “Let’s get this over with so I can report back.”
Danny’s breathing has lost its calm. Must get control back. Must be in the moment. Every bit of attention on the cutting edge of now.
Because it’s as clear as day what is coming. It’ll be a repeat of the water torture cell. He’s going to be put to the test that not even Dad could manage.
“Handcuffs for your wrists,” Kwan is saying. “A few chains for your arms and legs. Padlocks. And then we’ll tape the whole thing shut . . . and baai baai.”
“No!” Sing Sing snaps. She wrenches free of her captor, runs across the deck to Danny and throws her arms around him.
“Chinese proverb,” she says through a muffled sob. “‘Teachers open the door, but you enter by yourself.’ You can do it.”
She’s pulled roughly away, doing her best to kick the shins of anyone within striking distance, eyes firing menace at anyone who will meet them.
“My own volunteers will do the rest,” Kwan says. “Let’s finish it.”
The cuffs are going on. Get a grip of the breathing first. Steady, two, three, four . . .
Jug Ears has his arms pinned, while Tony, keeping his eyes away from Danny’s searching gaze, sees to the restraints. Kwan stands close by, watching intently.
Danny contracts his muscles hard and, when the cuffs swing shut and click, he knows he’s probably got slack in at least one of them. Is it enough, though?
He makes it look as though they’re tight fast. Keep the illusion up, Dad would say. Make it look like they’ve got you trussed like the proverbial chicken.
Tony’s putting a long chain around him now and Danny plants his legs very slightly apart, expanding his quads and hamstrings. Again, you couldn’t tell if you weren’t looking for it. And now take a deep breath, opening the torso, as big as possible. Probably best to lay it on a bit thick as well. They’d expect that.
“Please . . . I don’t know anything. Just let me go. Please.” Struggle a bit.
Ponytail is looking agitated. He runs a hand over his battered face and grimaces. He turns to say something in Cantonese to Kwan, but Kwan just shakes his head. A few of the other triads are shuffling uneasily, some looking away.
Danny forces his eyes to gaze out to sea. Keep Tony distracted from what I’m doing with my hands.
Hammerhead clouds are building on the horizon, dark and mean, and he stares toward them, bringing his concent
ration deeper, his breathing firmer. But it feels like—at any moment—he might lose that control and go to bits and then . . . ?
It always happens, Dad used to say. So you just take another breath and let the thought melt. Thoughts have no substance, Danny. They come, they go, just like that.
So full focus now. The chain winds around and around. Padlocks clap shut after every other pass. Three of them. Danny eyes them carefully. Two are integrated-type locks. Easy-ish. The third is more heavy-duty, modular. It’ll have a locking dog. Harder. Much harder. But just about doable, given twenty minutes or so. How long will I have? A minute or two at most . . .
The guards open the freezer door. The shelves have been removed to make a space just big enough for him. Danny puts up a token struggle as they force him inside, but he knows full well that the only hope lies ahead. Save energy for that. Follow the trick to its conclusion. At the last minute Jug Ears runs his hands over the cuffs and locks, checking the chains. Tony leans in, looks straight at Danny and shoves him against the back wall of the freezer. But as he does so, he slips something into Danny’s jeans pocket. It’s heavy, slim. He gives Danny the tiniest of nods.
“Good luck, boy.”
Then the door is slammed shut with a thump. Danny can see the holes in the floor. In the walls. Tiny pinpricks of light shine on him. It’s hard to stand straight, and the chains feel very heavy. Distinctly he can feel the weight of whatever Tony sleight-of-handed into his jeans pocket. Odd, that.
The screech of gaffer tape being wound round and round the freezer interrupts his thoughts.
Sealing me in. Just take it one lock at a time, he repeats to himself. One lock at a time. He closes his eyes.
Zamora half sits, half slumps against the wall, covered by two machine guns, tears slipping from his eyes. He tries to speak but the words are knotted in his throat.
Laura bites at the tape over her mouth, gagging, eyes wide open in horror as another chain is put under the freezer and brought to a loop on top.
The camouflage net is dragged away from the deck.
Overhead a crane splutters into life, coughing black smoke into the evening sky. Its arm swings out over the yellow circle of the helipad. The loop is attached to it and then, without any further ceremony, it lifts the freezer—the improvised water torture cell—high up over the ship. It jerks out and over the water, dancing on the chain.
“Do it for me, Danny!” Sing Sing shouts.
“Quiet!” Kwan barks. “There is no escape.”
The freezer, criss-crossed with black tape, hangs for a moment against the evening. Then Kwan drops his hand, and the whole thing plunges to the sea below.
Ploooomphhhh. It hits the surface, sending up a waterspout that mushrooms over the cell and then sighs back . . .
Not a sound from the freezer.
Laura shuts her eyes tight. He’s probably out cold already, stunned by the fall, she thinks. Hope he is. Hope he doesn’t know what’s happening . . .
The freezer bobs uncertainly on the water for a half-minute or so, and then—quite rapidly—starts to sink. As it does so it drifts slowly from the cargo boat, sliding into the gathering waves.
Half submerged. Three quarters . . .
Within the minute it is gone from sight, trailing a string of bubbles on the water. And the evening gathers under the lowering sky.
Behind the tape Laura is sobbing. And in Zamora’s eyes there is a rage such as Sing Sing has never seen.
“I’ll deal with you lot in minute,” Kwan says, and stomps away toward the bridge.
36
HOW TO DO THE WATER TORTURE ESCAPE
As soon as Danny is sure that the door’s not going to be opened again, he gets to work.
Before the hoist is even connected, he’s flexing his wrists against the handcuffs, squeezing the bones in his hand, jamming the thumb painfully toward his little finger. You have to be careful because if you manage to get some slack, and then knock the cuffs, you can end up worse off than before. The ratchet will bite tighter and cut off your blood supply. Then comes neuropathy and your hands are useless.
Not going to be as easy as some. His heart is picking up an insistent beat, blood pulsing faster. Keep calm. Keep calm or it all goes wrong. He stops and breathes up through his feet, Qigong-style, like Blanco showed him on those distant, dewy mornings.
He hears the crane starting and works his left wrist harder against the cuff. Normally the best place to start. Being right-handed, he has marginally less muscle on the other side. And it was the second hand to be cuffed, so often just a bit looser.
The chains binding his arms to his sides feel very tight, though.
No. The other problems can wait their turn. No reality but the thing you’re doing now. Suddenly he loses his balance and slips against the side of the freezer. Feels the whole thing lift and start to sway.
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.
&n
bsp; 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 Black Dragon Page 18