Escape (9 page)

Howlong nave /been sleeping? What did I miss ?

And then it hit him. That looked like — a sa/7!

“LyssaiLyss!”

This time the others came running. And when they found him awake and alert, the celebration was boisterous. He couldn’t get a word in edgewise. When he opened his mouth to ask what was going on, Lyssa stuck a thermometer in it. That was when Luke explained that Will had been out for the better part of a week, and during that time, the bullet in his leg had been surgically removed.

“Without asking me?” blurted Will, spitting the thermometer clear out of the lifeboat.

Lyssa retrieved it and brushed the sand off. “And it worked, Will! Your temperature is almost down to normal! We thought we’d killed you for sure!”

“It feels like you did,” Will gasped. “My leg, anyway. Why’d you have to do it?”

“This is better,” Ian insisted. “I know it hurts, but that infection could have been fatal.”

Will nodded slowly, struggling to think through the firestorm of pain.

“What’s with the” — he strained to point at the beach — “the fruit market? And that thing between the oars?”

Luke took a deep breath. “JJ. stowed away on the smugglers’ plane,” he said gravely. “We haven’t heard from him since.”

It was the one thought that could have drawn Will’s mind off his leg. “Oh, my God, they killed him!”

Luke nodded grimly. “We think so. And we also think they probably interrogated him before they did it.”

“Which means they’re going to come after us,” Lyssa went on. “And this time there’s no place to hide. We’ve got to get away from here.”

“But not on the ocean!” Will protested, panting with the effort of his words. “Don’t you remember? We almost died out there!”

“But this time we’ll be prepared/’ Charla insisted. “We’ve got the lifeboat, and we’re stocking up on food and water.”

“Come on,” groaned Will. “We’ll never carry enough water to get us across the whole ocean!”

“No,” agreed Ian. “But maybe the wind will take us into the shipping lanes or someplace where planes fly over, and we can be spotted. It’s a long shot, but it could be our only chance.”

“We can’t just wait here to be slaughtered,” added Lyssa.

Will lay back in torment and despair, staring up at the sun canopy. No, they shouldn’t sit around waiting for their own murders. But was the only alternative to go out and quite probably kill themselves?

Day 28, 11:45 a.m.

The country music was louder than ever, and Meaner was in an especially foul mood. That morning his fellow guard, Mean, had failed to show up for work, leaving Meaner with a triple shift as JJ.‘s jailer.

The actor’s son lay on his stomach on the hard concrete floor, his chin resting on folded arms. He had not set foot outside the storeroom since his guided tour of Taipei a day and a half before. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept.

They’re going to kill you. The thought was a heavy-duty wake-up call, a piercing alarm broadcast directly into his brain whenever drowsiness was about to get the better of him. If Dad paid up, the smugglers would shoot him the minute they had the money. But even if Dad held out, they’d eventually get wise and whack him anyway.

Better to stay awake, he told himself. Don’fsleep through any ofthe little time you’ve got left .

Even after the shipwreck and all those terrible weeks on the island, this was the first time JJ.

had thought seriously about what death would feel like. Blackness. Nothingness. But just for him. That part was especially hard to accept. The rest of the world would go about its business. In California, there would be traffic and surfing and all-night Hollywood parties. On the island, his fellow castaways would continue to think about rescue. Even this lousy music would probably go on.

“Howdy, pardners!” enthused the DJ. A string of lightning-quick Chinese was followed by the word hoedown.

My lastmemoryis going to be BoxcarWilly .

He stood up. “I’m changing the station.”

Meaner regarded him, a bored expression on his face.

J.J. headed for the radio. “I’m serious. There’s got to be some decent music around here.”

The guard barked something at him. His hand hovered over the gun in his belt.

JJ. swallowed hard and kept walking. A plan was taking shape in his mind.

Hedidn’t shoot melost time .

Now the gun was out. The man yelled a steady stream of agitated Chinese that mingled with the DJ’s harangue to sound like a heated argument.

So long as hethinks I’m just acountry music hater .

“Changing the station, got it? I’m changing the station/’ JJ. reached for the dial.

Shouting, Meaner took a menacing step forward, and JJ. picked up the radio and swung it with all his might.

Smack! The portable made contact with Meaner’s hand. With a cry of pain, the guard dropped the gun, which skittered across the cement floor.

JJ. lunged for it. He knew speed was his only advantage in a fight with an adult. If Meaner ever got him in a wrestling match, he was doomed. His eyes were locked on the gun — only a few inches away! He reached for it, but Meaner hurled himself bodily into the way.

Whom! He hit the floor between JJ. and the weapon. There was a sick-soundingcrack as the guard’s head struck the concrete.

JJ. sprang to his feet, but Meaner was un-moving. A trickle of blood trailed out of his ear to the floor.

JJ. picked up the weapon and stuck it in the waistband of his fatigues. He was free. But how was he ever going to get out of the hangar?

He eased the door open about an inch and peered through the gap. The building was deserted.

/couldn’t get this lucky .

He looked from every angle. The plane was parked, and the big hangar door was closed. But there was no sign of his captors, and he could hear no voices. All was quiet.

He took three tentative steps and then broke into a run. Where was the control that opened the hangar door? It was probably pretty obvious, but in his excited state he couldn’t locate it. Then he spotted a small emergency exit in the corner of the building. He sprinted for it.

Lockedl

He fought with the knob, shaking with all his might. Cold panic. Anger too. He was so close! How could fate do this to him?

The gun. It came to him in a series of flashes from at least a dozen of his father’s movies. The cop/detective/secret agent shoots the lock to make his escape. But that was the movies. Would it work in real life?

There’s only one way to find outl

Hand shaking, he held the pistol about six inches from the doorknob and took careful aim. He had never fired a gun in his life. He was amazed at how hard it was to budge the trigger. But once it began to move, it was like a toboggan — accelerating, inevitable.

Three sounds came in such rapid succession that JJ. heard them all at once: the crack of the gun, a violent screech of splintering metal, and a yowl of pain. The recoil took the pistol clear out of JJ.‘s hand. It clattered to the floor five feet behind him. The ruined exit door swung slowly open to reveal Naslund and Mr. Big. The Englishman was doubled over, clutching his side where the bullet had struck him. His shirt was stained with blood.

“You!” exclaimed Mr. Big.

Naslund reached out menacingly, but JJ. exploded through the doorway past him, convinced to the core of his being that the prize of this footrace would be his very life. The Englishman pursued until the pain in his side became too great and he pulled up short.

“Get the car!” he croaked.

His words sent ice water coursing through JJ.‘s veins. JJ. pounded down the runway, footfalls resounding in his head like the beating of his heart.Fly ! he exhorted himself. It was a moment of such crystal-clear purpose it was almost exhilarating: Speed equals escape — that simple law governed his entire universe. If it weren’t for the terror that held him in its grip, he might have been cheering himself on.

He wheeled off the runway onto a dirt road.

All at once, his field of vision was filled with the front grille and headlights of a car — coming upfast’t ‘

There was no time to get out of the way. JJ. vaulted onto the hood and rolled. A split second before the windshield hurtled into him, he tumbled off the car, landing in a heap in light underbrush.

The squeal of tires. “Freeze! Hands on your head!”

JJ. didn’t respond to the command. There were no moves left in him. Instead, he steeled himself for the impact of the bullets that would end this crazy ride.

“Geez, don’t shoot!” shouted another voice. “It’s him! It’s Lane’s kid!”

That was when JJ. took note of the vehicle that had almost obliterated him. It was a police cruiser.

Day 28, 8:50 a.m.

“Row!” bellowed Luke.

He and Charla splashed through the waist-deep surf, pushing the loaded lifeboat out to sea. On board, Ian and Lyssa heaved at the oars, propelling the covered raft into the oncoming breakers.

The tide was going out, but the seas were rougher than usual. Every time they made any progress, a powerful wave would take hold of the craft and send it careening back toward the island.

Will’s cries of pain resounded from the raft. With the wild pitching of the sea, it was impossible to keep his injured leg immobilized.

“We’re hurting him!” shouted Lyssa, her voice barely audible over the pounding of the surf. “Let’s try again when the ocean calms down!”

“No!” exclaimed Ian. “We make our move when we’ve got the tide!”

A breaker hit Luke in the face. He came up sputtering. He would have been overjoyed to postpone their departure until conditions were better. But the smugglers could already be on their way back to the island. Waiting an extra day might well be fatal.

“I hate this place!” raged Charla. “Getting here almost killed us and getting away is going to finish the job!”

Suddenly, the raft was in the grasp of a monster swell. For a breathless few seconds, it teetered on the crest, looming over Luke, threatening to come down and crush him. He was frozen, powerless to move, staring up at the terrified face of Will, who stared back at him through the flap of the sun canopy.

Afterall
Ve survived, Luke thought ruefully, I’mgoing to be drownedby my own l
feboaf!

His eyes searched out the telltale foam that meant the wave was about to break. It never came. Instead, the raft bobbed up to the top of the swell and disappeared down the other side. The moving mountain of water rolled over Luke and Charla, driving them under.

Luke floundered, kicking for the light. When he surfaced, choking and spitting, he looked desperately around for the lifeboat.

Charla pointed. “Out there!”

Luke stared. In only a handful of seconds, the raft was forty feet away. Now free of the incoming surf, it was being pulled out to sea by a relentless undertow.

The rowers, Lyssa and Ian, were paddling like mad to slow things down. Their efforts had no effect at all on the drag of the ocean.

“Swim for it!” called Luke, launching himself through the waves.

Charla took off, cutting the water like a cabin cruiser. Her powerful arms churning, she passed Luke and bore down on the raft.

Still swimming, he saw her heave herself up over the side. It was only then that he realized how very far the boat still was, and how tired and heavy his arms and legs felt. An overwhelming isolation gripped him. If he couldn’t reach the raft, he’d have to swim back to shore. Then he’d be maroonedalone .

Never! he vowed to himself. / won’f goback there! If I can’t reach the others, I’ll drown right here and now !

The thought was a booster rocket. His arms windmilled wildly; his legs manufactured the strength to kick on. He could barely hear the shouts of the others over the pounding of his own heart in his ears. He closed his eyes and swam blindly. If he looked and saw the lifeboat pulling away, it would mean there was no hope.

Splash!

Something hit the water inches from his face. He pulled up, and his arms smacked right into it

— the raft’s life preserver. He barely had the energy to clamp himself onto it.

Charla and Lyssa hauled on the rope, pulling him alongside the raft. Even hanging on to the edge of the sun canopy, he was too exhausted to climb onto the lifeboat. Instead, he allowed himself to be towed for twenty minutes before working up the strength to accept his friends’ help and clamber aboard.

What came next had been carefully scripted. The paddles were tied into the oarlocks, pointing straight up. Between them was stretched the makeshift sail. Next, the flat wooden raft that had served as Will’s hospital bed was maneuvered out the flap of the sun canopy and dropped over the side. It contained forty-six shelled coconuts, tied tightly in place under a blanket taken from the military base. It bobbed in tow behind the lifeboat.

Totally spent, Luke found an empty space and slumped back. Even with the coconut stash trailing behind, there was more food than people on the lifeboat. Wedged between the bunches of finger bananas and the sacks of roasted durian seeds, he fell into a deep sleep.

Six hours.

For the first time, the island was completely out of sight. Once again the castaways found themselves at the mercy of the sea.

“Why didn’t I remember how much I hate bobbing around the ocean?” mumbled Charla. “Maybe I would have had the brains to stay back on dry land and take my chances with the smugglers.”

Luke regarded Lyssa. The girl had suffered from terrible seasickness while on thePhoenix . Now her face was a telltale shade of oatmeal.

“Hey,” he said kindly. “No one’s going to get on your case if you have to hang your head over the side.”

“Just don’t barf on the coconuts,” Will added weakly.

She cast him a withering glare. “Big talk from the guy who bled on everybody here.”

“Lyss — “

But his sister’s queasiness bubbled up inside her. With a strangled gurgle, she headed for the flap. She threw the canopy wide, then dropped back among them with a scream of shock.

Luke grabbed her by the shoulders. “What?What?” ^

The raft lurched and dipped to one side. A moment later, the head and shoulders of a man in a short-sleeved hooded wet suit were thrust through the opening.