by Nova McBee
He sighed, staring at the waves crawling up the sand. Dad had met Mom in China. They’d both worked there in their youth. Dad said he stuck out like a sore thumb while Mom had nearly blended in. Dad had a strict Northern European background, but Mom was a mix of everything. I took after her. My hair was dark, a shade of brown that matched neither of my parents. My eyes were an undecided hazel. And I had one of those faces where, at the right angle, I could be from anywhere. It was the chameleon effect, which I quite liked.
A cold drip fell on my leg. I paused to inhale a mouthful of ice cream and secure the edges of the cone. Brain freeze ensued for the next fifteen seconds before I said, “There’s another reason I want to do this. Mara. She needs a break from me...even if it’s just for a little while.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “Will you two ever act like sisters again? It’s hard on Lily and on me. Your mom would’ve hated this division.”
Mentioning mom was like pouring vinegar on an already open wound. But of course, he was right.
“So let’s look at this trip as my way to keep this family together. You get alone time with Mara and Lily. Mara gets space and, you get to handle all the stress of the office by yourself. Seriously, Dad, bad business move firing me like that.” I bumped him with my shoulder.
He let out a small, nervous laugh. “Fine. Go to China. But no matter what, don’t tell anyone what else you can do.”
“Deal.”
He grew quiet and found my free hand. “I love you, Jo. You’re worth more than millions of dollars. Remember that, ok?”
My heart melted just like the ice cream we were not eating. “Thanks, Dad,” I said. “Now, can you tell me why you fired me?”
He crunched a bite of his cone. “It’s complicated, sweetie.”
“Dad, I am considered a genius.” A sly grin plastered to my face. “Maybe I could help?”
He frowned. “I don’t want you to worry about it, Jo. Everything will be fine,” he said, an anxious look in his eyes. “How about this—after you return from China, we’ll sail up the coast, as family, then I’ll tell you everything.”
He’s lying, like many people do to cover up concerns, but I trusted him. He’d tell me soon enough. “You got it, Dad.”
He looked at me with a strange smile, the one he gives Lily when she’d soon grow out of something, like playing with dolls.
“You’re growing up so fast, Jo. In just a few days, you’ll walk away with a PhD. I can’t hold on to you forever.” His eyes welled up with tears.
My chest swelled. This was the most emotion I’d seen from him in months. “Dad, don’t worry about me. I’m going to be fine. I know it.”
2
Present: Double-Eight
THE PRATT, SHANGHAI, CHINA
In one week, there will be a kidnapping. Yours.
Red’s last words pool in my mind. That was twenty-one days ago. When he promised the word “freedom” to me, he had never sounded so sure. And now Red—the light in my dark world—is gone. Dead. Zero odds of him returning, no matter what I factor into the equation.
My cabbage soup is cold, and the strong vinegar smell is making me sick, but I swallow the last few bites. In the Pratt, only fools turn down food. I push the empty bowl and chopsticks away just as Guard San’s gravelly voice calls my name, an urgency in his voice not usually present.
“Double-Eight! Quick!”
What does Guard San want now? King’s dirty investments, which he needs me to manipulate, have been finished for the day.
My body jolts towards the door of my cell, where the digits “88” are etched on the wall among a barrage of other mathematical notations.
I take a piece of chalk and strike a diagonal line across four straight ones and sigh. It’s been 700 days since I’ve seen my ocean. Measured its waves. Calculated the tide. Smelled its salt.
700 days of betrayal.
Right now, that number means nothing compared to the abyss multiplying in my heart. Red deserved to die in peace, in his own home, with his own family. Not with me, on a worthless metal-framed bed in the Pratt.
I move mechanically as my mind drowns in a world where the name Double-Eight no longer exists.
Before Red died, he gave me a new name. Just once, I’d like to hear it spoken out loud. Maybe then I’d believe, like Red did, that I really could start over. Where I’d use my gift for something great, rather than ruining people’s lives.
But as long as I’m imprisoned in these ancient rat-infested barracks, that will never happen.
A small chess piece rests in my jacket pocket. I take it out and rub my thumb over it. The pawn is small, the wooden carvings completely rubbed smooth. I put it back and button my pocket, wondering why it’s so important. Something, call it a gut feeling, tells me my fate is tied to this old pawn.
“Double-Eight!” Guard San comes down the darkened hall just as I’m swinging open the iron bars. He’s one of the main guards who supervise the Pratt. On the outside, Guard San is big, rough, and tiny scars mark his face. He is like a pit bull in a dogfight, but he’s really not the hardened criminal people think he is. I gained his trust a year ago when I found him melted in a corner, babbling uncontrollably about a gambling debt, and losing his family. That one word—family—compelled me to help him.
He knew I’d been taken because of some gift with numbers, but he never knew how it worked and he still doesn’t. It’d be like trying to explain Newton’s Law of Universal Gravitation to a five-year-old. So, without explanation, I told him what he should do to save his family. Apparently, my advice worked, because after that, my cell was never locked, he started slipping fattier chunks of meat into my soup and the harassment from other inmates stopped.
Now, the lines in his ever-present scowl are deeper, like he’s frowning, nervous. Did King, the boss of this clandestine operation, return in a bad mood and start wreaking havoc on everyone in his path?
“This way. Quick, before they—” His head snaps around at the sound of running feet. Two large men, judging by the heavy footfalls pounding down the tunnels.
“Who? What’s going on?” I ask.
“Quiet,” he says.
It doesn’t take a genius to realize something’s wrong. But I trust Guard San. He’s kept his promise to protect me under King’s order that I not be hurt. I’m far too valuable to King to be damaged.
Guard San’s large hand holds my arm and leads me down a corridor where burning incense tries unsuccessfully to cover the scent of the latrine.
My chest constricts as I pass the room Red once occupied. The simple bed is still covered with his raw wool mattress and thin cotton blanket. The cement walls are still marked with Chinese characters written in white chalk. His first words that dark night asking me to trust him still echo in my head, with my last words to him, begging him not to leave me.
Before the memory feasts at the barren table of my heart, I turn away and begin to calculate as I walk: cigarette butts littering the floor—nineteen. The number of seconds until we pass the fighting rooms—thirty-nine. The height and width of the tunnels—eight feet by ten. I also note San’s pace is thirty percent faster than usual.
Finally, we reach a hallway I’ve only seen a few times. There’s an exit up ahead to the right—one they never use.
I feel safe until we arrive at the crossroads in the tunnels, where the footsteps materialize into two tall men in dark suits and stop Guard San in his tracks.
Guard San spits out a curse and tightens his grip as the two men lead us to the left instead of right. He looks down at me, eyes full of remorse before he barks out, “King’s office,” like a command, loud enough for the whole Pratt to hear. It’s not his usual voice.
My feet stick to the floor. King’s office?
Negative numbers begin pulsing in my mind. I’m dizzy with probabilities. King’s office is the end of the road. Prisoners are taken there when they have ceased to have purpose or function.
I look up at San, my eyes wide w
ith disbelief. “Why? What have I done?”
His sad eyes tell me there’s nothing he can do. He must obey orders.
Judging by the bend in the dank crossroads, there are seventeen feet until we reach the door. My mind breaks them down into inches, then millimeters, the size of my feet and how long it will take if I drag my feet instead of walk. I need time to think.
King must have discovered Red’s plan to get me out and now he has to kill me. Someone learned the truth of who I am. Or a third possibility, much worse than anything else, Madame learned I’m still alive…
Maybe King’s office is for the best. A final freedom—my true way home. I could forget the last two and a half years. Forget Madame, who took everything from me, then threw me like a bone with the meat gnawed off to King. I could close my eyes and maybe I’d find peace, silence. My family’s voices wouldn’t bleed in my ears anymore.
But somewhere, deep in my heart, Red’s words are louder than my own. His song of redemption tugs at me, urging me to fight, to lift my head, to grab hold of my destiny—to walk in it. The destiny I thought I came here to find.
We reach the door, which is flanked by two men in suits. I’ve rarely seen Guard San show any emotion, but I swear his eyes fill with tears. His strong hand squeezes my arm gently, the same hand that handed me the key to my own cell and gave me authority in the Pratt. With one squeeze, San is telling me goodbye.
Because he knows, like I do, that those who enter King’s office rarely come back out.
One of the men at the door shoves me inside, a billow of cigarette smoke swirling out. Behind the smoke are two men. Neither of them is King.
The room is small with only one desk and three wooden chairs, covered with old cloth cushions. The floor has a smoother kind of cement than the tunnels and there are no windows. A dull bulb dangles from a thin wire and shines enough light to make out two faces and the dust gathering in the corners.
An overweight man sits behind the desk, sipping a clear liquid out of a glass the size of his small finger. He wipes sweat off his bald head with a napkin. The Buddha belly, hanging over his belt, does not fool me. I’ve seen him in action before. He’s trained to take down a charging ox if he has to: Bo Gong.
The bottle behind him is glass, decorated with a golden emblem shaped like a dragon devouring a lion. It’s very expensive, used for special occasions. Not the typical white liquor seen in the Pratt and by the look on his red face, it’s strong too. I’m not sure I want to know the reason for this celebration.
Bo Gong nods to me. I dip my head in automatic response.
I haven’t seen Bo Gong since the first year I was brought here. He’s always stumbling in to someone else’s private business and making money off their life spinning into utter chaos. In my case, I can either thank him or hate him. He’s the reason I “work” for King instead of residing at the bottom of the Yangtze River, as Madame paid him to do. As soon as I understood King would spare me if I produced great sums of money, I succumbed to life in the Pratt.
The other man wears an expensive suit cut close to his long, thin frame. One single moli flower, or jasmine, hangs from his lapel. I’ve never seen him before and he’s not smoking or drinking. His face isn’t hard and unforgiving like the other men I’ve seen come and go from this place. No, this man is nervous. He’s a fish in the wrong pond, but he’s taking a good, long look at me too.
“Double-Eight, the Pratt’s lucky girl,” Bo Gong says, “How’ve you been?”
I huff a laugh so thick with sarcasm I might choke. “Living the dream, obviously. The Pratt’s so lovely this time of year.”
The Pratt is what King, or Wang, in Chinese, calls his Palace. The property once harbored the old port buildings, which are mostly vacant now. Underneath the Pratt lies a valuable secret—endless, ancient tunnels stretching up to two miles. It’s also a convenient place to hide the criminals—and occasionally unlucky people like Red and me—that he blackmails into working for him. Life in the Pratt was simple, work for King or risk your own life or the life of someone you love.
Bo Gong laughs as smoke seeps from his mouth. “You’ve grown up, I see. You finally speak.”
My feet rub against the dank, gray cement oozing with bitter cold. “What brings you back?”
“The escape you have been planning.”
My smile fades, but Bo Gong’s grows wider.
“While you have been doing that,” he continues, “we have been planning your death.”
The word death falls on me like a ton of bricks.
My ocean. My vow. Red.
Jiche! King knows. How did I fool myself into believing that I could have a new life after everything that has happened? I scoff, shake my head. Red almost had me convinced.
Of all the times I calculated my own death, it never went down like this. Is dying well the only thing left to do? I look at the men in front of me, but fear doesn’t plague me like I thought it would, instead confusion spreads like a disease. The calculator inside me produces positive numbers, swirling like a tornado around Bo Gong.
Bo’s completely relaxed and tipsy, pouring another drink, a smirk on his face. The man next to him looks terrified, clutching the edge of his suit jacket. For men about to carry out a death sentence, they should be a bit more vigilant. But then again, nothing King does is predictable.
The thumping in my heart explodes to my limbs. I have experienced adrenaline before, but this time it’s different. It’s calculated. My odds are good. If I act now, I can survive. I must. For Red.
Something snaps within me. All of Red’s faith, his love, his lunacy comes alive in me—I take hold of his words: that I’m a new person, commander of my own destiny.
Without further thought, a scream rips out of my throat as I lunge through the air. Like a cat in a room with two dogs, I become someone I don’t even know. Fierce. Bold.
The years of people pushing me into a corner are over; I won’t go without a fight.
3
Present: Double-Eight
THE PRATT, SHANGHAI, CHINA
A chair crashes to the floor. My fist flies wildly into the thin man’s nose and blood begins to flow. I scratch and grab at anything I can but before I know it, Bo Gong has hold of both my shoulders. He drags me off the man with as little effort as it would take to remove a toddler. He secures both my arms and legs in his, throwing my face to the ground until I stop struggling. Bo Gong’s laugh rings in my ears.
“Good show,” he says. “It’ll be more believable this way. But, lucky girl, this is the last man you want to hurt.”
I’m panting, looking at the man I hit in the face. “What are you talking about?” I snap.
With one hand, the thin man pinches his nose while he holds his head back. His other hand wipes away the blood.
Bo Gong releases me, stands, and pulls the chair out for me. “Sit. This isn’t the way we are going to do things.”
At first, I hesitate. “What? You’re going to torture me first?” I spit some blood on the floor. I think my tongue is bleeding. I must have bitten it when Bo Gong threw me down. I’m sure, too, that my eye is swelling.
“Ha,” he grunts. “Just sit, would you?”
“Please, please,” the hurt man insists as he stands up. There is a gash on the bridge of his nose. The blood has run down onto his suit and tie. They might be ruined for good.
The man glances at Bo Gong as if to ask whether it’s safe to sit down next to me. Bo Gong smiles like he is enjoying whatever is happening here. The man sits.
Crap. A moment ago, this man was my death sentence and now by the look on Bo Gong’s face it’s more likely that he’s my ticket out. What has the Pratt turned me into?
“My name is Chan Huang Long,” he says quickly. He’s still pinching his nose. He sounds nasally and ridiculous, but I’m stuck on his name. I’ve heard it before. Everybody knows this man.
“Why are you here?” I ask, calculating the odds of one of the richest men in Asia coming to me.
He couldn’t possibly need my services.
“I know it’s unusual to have a meeting like this,” he says, his voice straining to sound calm. “No one likes talking about death, especially one’s own.”
“I’ve died twice already,” I say. “This time shouldn’t be too hard.”
We size each other up in silence. Apparently, Chan has never been below King’s palace. He tries to hide his disgust at my appearance, without success. My clothes are faded and dirty and reeked of mildew, smoke, and sweat. King’s men wouldn’t even notice. Everything reeks in the Pratt.
He is also sweating and more nervous than I would expect from such a powerful man.
“You don’t work with King, do you?” I ask.
King plays the role of an Import-Export businessman perfectly but anyone really looking at him could see something is off kilter. Half of King’s meetings take place at night in the vacant Pratt buildings. He has an incessant nervous twitch, looking to the right and then the left, over his shoulder. His entourage looks like they’ve been plucked from the International Most Wanted list. He’s rich, though he only allows a few private clients to come to the port, and his cargo is never seen. Few people have any idea what King specializes in, either that, or they don’t dare ask.
I know the truth. He’s a gangster, a lackey for Madame, her second in command in one of the largest criminal rings in the world. She chose him because of his connections to the Shanghai International Port. His smuggling, gambling, embezzling, and brothels, which he runs for Madame, are spread across Shanghai, China, and the rest of Asia.
“No. I have come for you.” He takes the handkerchief passed by Bo Gong to clean the blood from his face. “To bargain for your freedom.”
Did Chan Huang Long just say freedom or did I imagine it? Does he know who I am?