Escape from Shadow Island (17 page)

CLARK STOPPED DEAD, GAPING IN ASTONISHMENT at Max. Then he lunged toward the desk.

Max was too quick for him. He snatched up the pistol and pointed it at Clark. “Get back!”

Max held the gun tightly with both hands. He didn't want Clark to see how much he was trembling. “Get back, or I'll shoot.”

Clark backed away, raising his hands. “Don't be stupid, Max,” he said. “Where's this going to get you? Put the gun down and let's talk.”

“We'll talk,” snapped Max. “But I'm not putting the gun down. I've just found my father's file. He came here the day after he disappeared. You kidnapped him,
didn't you? Then you framed my mother for his murder with the help of the local police. Why?”

“You're just a kid, Max—” Clark began.

“Don't give me that crap,” Max broke in angrily. “Just answer my questions. What's Episuderon? Why did you bring my father here? What did you do to him?”

“Sometimes people have to be sacrificed for the common good,” Clark said.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Clark shrugged. “It means that some things are bigger, and more important, than a single person's life. You're young, Max.”

“Stop telling me I'm young.”

“You have no idea how the world really works. How complex it is, how so many things are linked together. You don't understand how dangerous a place the world can be, how many people out there would like to destroy it.”

“What are you talking about?”

Clark's pale eyes glinted like chips of ice. There was something very hard about them, something calculating and ruthless. Max felt a sharp stab of fear in his stomach.

“We have to protect ourselves, Max. That's all we're
doing here. We're trying to protect the world from dangerous fanatics.”

“You're saying my father was a dangerous fanatic? You're mad.”

“Am I?”

“And what about Consuela? What about Chris Moncrieffe? Are they both dangerous fanatics too?”

“Fanatics come in many shapes and sizes,” Clark said. “Some are easy to identify; with others it's much harder, but they're there all the same. That woman working behind the counter in your local grocery store, that man driving a bus, that old guy digging his vegetable patch. They may not look dangerous, but how can you be sure? How can you be sure what they're thinking, what they're planning? That's all we're trying to do. Find out who the dangerous fanatics are so we can deal with them.”

“‘Deal with them'?” Max said. “You mean
kill
them?”

“Killing is not part of our plan.”

“You're lying. I've seen the bodies in that refrigerated cold storage.”

“My, you have been getting around the place, haven't you? They were accidents.”

“And my father—was he an accident too? Or Luis
Lopez-Vega? You killed him, didn't you?”

“Max, this isn't—”

“Didn't you?”

Clark shrugged. “Yes, I had Lopez-Vega killed. He was a troublemaker. He had to be removed.”

“And the fisherman, Fernando Gonzales? His death wasn't an accident, was it? You killed him and made it look as if he'd drowned.”

“Gonzales was unfortunate,” Clark said. “He brought your father out to the island on his boat. Your father went snooping where he shouldn't have been snooping. Gonzales knew too much. We couldn't afford to let him live.”

“And my dad? You kidnapped him and brought him back here. You injected him with Episuderon. Why? What harm had he ever done you?”

Clark's mouth twitched in a faint smile. “We know so little about our parents, don't we? We forget that they had lives before we were born. We never think that they might still have secret lives that we know nothing about.”

“Secret lives? My dad didn't have a secret life.”

“Oh yes, Max, he did. His stage act was just a cover, a legitimate reason for him to travel around the world doing other things.”

“What other things?”

“You don't know? I'm not surprised. Your father was a careful man. That's why it took us so long to catch him.”

“What things?”

“Put down the gun, Max. You can't get away from here. There are armed guards all over the fortress. You're on an island. The Santo Domingo police and armed forces—the whole government in fact—are in my pocket. It's five thousand miles to England. Do you really think you have a chance of escaping?”

Clark took a step nearer.

“Get back!” Max ordered.

“Or what?”

“Or I'll shoot you.”

Clark gazed at him, studying his face, his eyes, the pistol gripped in his hands. Then he laughed, a manic, high-pitched laugh that made Max's flesh creep. “I don't think so, Max. I don't think you're going to shoot me.”

“Don't push me,” Max said.

“It takes a certain type of person to be able to kill another, particularly in cold blood. You're not like that.” Clark took another step toward him.

“Get back, I said!” Max snapped.

Clark kept coming.

“Do you hear me? Stop right there.”

“Shoot me if you want,” Clark said. “Go on.”

Max knew that Clark was right. He wasn't a killer. He couldn't shoot anyone. He backed away.

“I mean it, I'll shoot you,” he said, aiming the pistol at Clark's head, but even Max knew he didn't sound convincing.

Clark went for him. There was a brief moment when Max could have pulled the trigger, but he didn't. Clark grabbed the gun and tried to pull it away. Max hung on, refusing to let go. Clark lashed out with his fists, hitting Max on the jaw. He reeled backward but kept hold of the pistol. Furious now, Clark swung another punch. Max twisted nimbly out of the way and Clark overbalanced, tumbling sideways and catching his head on the corner of the desk as he fell. He lay on the floor, unconscious.

Max was breathing heavily, massaging his jaw where he'd been hit. He looked down at Clark's body. He could leave him where he was, but he didn't know how long he'd remain unconscious. It might only be a few minutes. Max needed longer than that to find Consuela. He pulled open one of the desk drawers and took out the ball of string he'd noticed earlier. He rolled Clark over onto his stomach and tied his hands
together behind his back. Then he bound his legs together and tied them to the desk. Rummaging in Clark's suit pockets, he found a handkerchief, which he crumpled up and stuffed into Clark's mouth, gagging him, wrapping more string around his face to hold it in place. It was a crude piece of work, but Max knew a lot about knots and bonds. Clark wouldn't be able to free himself without help.

Max opened the desk drawer containing the money and looked at the packets of thousand-dollar bills. A plan of escape—not just from Shadow Island, but from Santo Domingo as well—was beginning to form in his mind. And the plan required money, possibly a large amount of money. He lifted out two packets and riffled through the cash. He guessed there were about fifty bills in each packet. That was fifty thousand dollars, a hundred thousand in total. That was more than enough. He stuffed a packet into each of his pockets, picked up the pistol, and opened the office door.

The corridor outside was deserted. Max headed for the east side of the building, the gun ready in his hand. It was still useful as a threat. As he reached the end of the corridor, where it made a ninety-degree turn to the right, he stopped and risked a look around the corner.
He caught a fleeting glimpse of a man being escorted through the door to the laboratory. Max couldn't see the man's face, but he was wearing jeans and a blue shirt.

Was it Chris Moncrieffe? Surely not. He was dead, wasn't he? Max waited a few seconds, then ran to the laboratory door. He pushed it open a fraction and slipped quietly through. Just inside the door was a bench with a stainless-steel top covered with bits of scientific apparatus. Max ducked down behind it and looked across the room. A guard was standing to one side while the two men in white coats strapped the prisoner into the high-tech metal chair in the center of the laboratory. When the men moved out of the way, Max saw that it was indeed Chris. Somehow, he was still alive. Then Max saw something that sent a chill up his spine. The second metal chair was also occupied—by Consuela.

She was strapped down, with electrodes attached to her head and body. Had she already been given an injection? Max thought not. She seemed calm but alert. He was just in time.

The white-coated men were checking their monitors now. Max had a pistol. He could deal with them. But what about the armed guard waiting patiently on
the sidelines? Was he going to go, or stay to watch the next stage? He was going to stay, Max decided. One of the scientists picked up a hypodermic needle and a glass vial of liquid. Max knew he had to do something fast. He dropped to the floor and snaked round the room, always keeping out of sight beneath the benches.

When he stood up again, he was only a yard or so behind the soldier. The scientist was next to Consuela, about to plunge the hypodermic needle into her arm. Max stepped forward and put the barrel of his pistol to the back of the soldier's head.

“Drop your gun!” he shouted.

The man started and began to turn. Max jabbed his pistol hard into his skull. “Now!”

The guard slid the submachine gun off his shoulder and let it fall to the floor. The men in white coats were staring open-mouthed at Max.

“Move back,” he ordered. “And keep your hands in the air.” Then, to the guard, he said, “Take three paces forward.”

Max bent down and picked up the submachine gun. One of the scientists made a move for an alarm button on the control console. Max aimed his pistol at the console and fired. The recoil was much greater than he'd expected. The bullet went high, shattering one of
the computer screens. The scientist froze.

“You move again and I'll shoot
you
,” Max said. “Understand?”

He circled around, his pistol covering the men. He stopped behind one of the chairs and unstrapped Chris.

Chris stood up and took the submachine gun from Max, leaving him with the pistol. “That's what I like about you, kid,” he said. “Your sense of timing.”

Max released Consuela from the other chair.

“You okay?” he asked, helping her up.

She nodded and hugged him tightly.

“Thank God you're all right,” she said.

“Someone will have heard the gunshot,” Chris said. “We shouldn't hang around.”

He pointed the gun at the guard and the two scientists. “Over there,” he commanded, indicating a door in the corner of the laboratory.

He herded the three men toward it at gunpoint. It led to a small storeroom. Chris forced the men inside and locked the door behind them.

“I thought you were dead,” Max said to Chris.

“Not yet,” he replied. “But there's still time,” he added, as three soldiers burst through the door at the far end of the room.

“Get down!” Chris yelled to Max and Consuela,
before firing a short burst at the soldiers.

The guards fired back, but by now Max and Consuela and Chris himself were flat on the floor behind one of the benches. Chris lifted the gun over his head and fired blindly in the direction of the soldiers.

They retaliated with a barrage of bullets. Computer screens shattered, glass jars of chemicals smashed, and the air was filled with clouds of noxious fumes. Then one of the broken monitors short-circuited, sending out a shower of sparks. There was a sudden whoosh as these ignited the fumes, then a huge explosion that reverberated around the laboratory, sending debris flying across the room. Flames leaped into the air, licking the wood-paneled walls and ornate ceiling. Clouds of thick smoke ballooned out as the whole laboratory turned into an inferno.

“Let's go!” Chris said, getting to his feet and running for the nearest exit.

Max and Consuela went after him. The room was well ablaze by now, the wall of smoke screening them from the guards.

Chris whipped open the door and looked out, ducking back in quickly as he saw three more guards at the far end of the corridor. They were heading for the door at the other side of the laboratory. Chris waited for them to disappear from view, then darted out and
sprinted in the opposite direction, Max and Consuela following.

“How do we get out of here?” Chris called over his shoulder.

“Go left at the corner,” Max shouted back.

They raced down the corridor, turned into the north wing of the fortress and kept going. As they reached the northwest corner, Max suddenly stopped.

“Wait!” he cried.

Chris turned. “What's the matter?”

“The other prisoner upstairs. We can't leave him.”

“You mean the guy who was screaming? Why would you—?”

“We have to get him out,” Max said.

“Look, kid, that's not a good idea.”

“They'll kill him if we don't.”

Chris opened his mouth to argue, but Max was already running up the stairs.

“Is he always this stubborn?” Chris said to Consuela.

“He has his moments,” she replied, then turned and chased after Max.

Chris came up the stairs behind her and they followed Max to the third floor and along the corridor toward the cells. They could smell the smoke from the fire downstairs.

“This whole place is going to go up in flames,” Chris
said. “We'd better hurry. Which cell was he in?”

“This one, I think.”

Max flipped down the hatch in one of the doors. The prisoner was still inside, lying on his bed. He was awake, but tossing and turning from side to side, foaming at the mouth.

“What the hell have they done to him?” Chris said. “Stand back.”

He shot the lock away with his gun and kicked in the door. The man stared at them with terrified eyes. He let out a piercing scream, shaking his head to and fro, then backed away into the corner.