The Black Dragon (27 page)

“Forget that!” Zamora says. “I'm angry right now.”

He steams ahead and, wheeling round a corner, goes full speed into one of the pirates. The man has dinner on his mind—not enraged dwarf strongmen—and before he has time to register what's happening, Zamora has lowered his head, increased his gallop and butted the gangster full force in the chest. The air rushes from his lungs in a whoosh and he sinks to the ground, mouth gasping for air.

“
Buenos noches
,” Zamora says and, taking the man's cleaver, thumps him on the back of the head with the handle.

“See? I'm showing restraint here! Decency!”

He rushes on down the corridor, closely followed by the others.

Three guards are sitting round a folding table outside the laundry room in a fug of smoke. Their eyes are fixed on the cards in their hands, and on the money piled on the table in front of them. So they don't see Zamora's whirlwind attack.

He has the first two grabbed by the scruff of their necks before they can struggle from their seats.

“Nobody messes with Mister Danny,” Zamora growls, and brings their heads smartly together. An earsplitting crack resounds between the tight walls and they're slumping across the money and cards and beer cans, out for the count.

The third Dragon is lifting his gun, aiming at Zamora's neck. But then a sharp burst of Cantonese stops the man in his tracks.

It's Ponytail—Tony. And he has his pistol jammed against the back of his fellow Dragon's head, whose eyes bulge in surprise.

“
Maih yuka!
” he says. “Don't move!”

“I don't think your pal is bluffing,” Zamora says. “I'd do what he says.”

The man lets his gun fall with a clatter to the floor and raises his hands slowly.

Tony turns to look at Danny. There's a smile at the corners of his mouth. “You are number-one amazing kid,” he says.

“I should punch the stuffing out of you,” Zamora says. “Again.”

“No,” Danny says. “I couldn't have done it without him.”

He hands the folded knife back to Tony. “I'm sorry. The blade snapped as I was cutting myself free.”

Laura puts a hand on Tony's shoulder. “We'll give you the benefit. Open this door for us and Major Zamora will let bygones be bygones.”

There are ten or so crew members inside, a mix of Chinese and Filipinos. They look weary, hungry, their cheeks hollowed.

A heavily built man steps forward from amongst them, face set resolutely. His face is black and blue, one eye closing tight from a nasty blow. Blood dried on his white shirt. He eyes Tony with contempt but reads the situation quickly, before turning to Zamora.

“I am Captain Zhang. Who are you?”

“We're cleaning up the ship,” Zamora says. “Care to help?”

“The bridge,” the captain says. “We'll try and take control. Seal ourselves in and get radio help.”

His men gather what weapons are available: a meat cleaver, two guns.

Danny looks round to ask Tony to help them, but the man has slipped away into the shadows. Just the quick flight of footsteps echoing in the distance . . .

“The rat's going to raise the alarm,” Sing Sing says.

Danny listens to the fading sound. “No, I don't think so. He's making a break for it.”

40

HOW TO STORM THE BRIDGE

Captain Zhang leads them through the bowels of the ship, past cabins, storerooms, down long service gangways that still hold the heat of the engine, the humidity of the muggy day just gone.

No one talks.

Danny is lagging toward the back, still soaked from the immersion, still short of breath from the near drowning. His right arm doesn't feel good after wrenching it against the chains, and his vision keeps flickering white as exhaustion tugs away at his mind.

But I'll be OK
, he thinks. And feels it suddenly with certainty.
Whatever happens, I'll be OK. We'll be OK.

They have come to the bottom of a steep ladder.

“Bridge is directly up here,” Captain Zhang whispers. “Tactics?”

“No tactics,” Zamora says. “We attack!”

And he's away, up the rungs, closely followed by Zhang and his men, with Laura and Sing Sing struggling to catch up.

Danny suddenly feels as though his legs won't go any farther. The tiredness and shock and cold have hold of him now. He slumps down on the bottom step, trying to control the shakes that are creeping up his legs.

From above there's an eruption of sound. A burst of clattering gunfire, jarringly loud. Everyone shouting at once and the thump and crack of close quarters fighting. Stench of cordite in the air.

Zamora shouts above everyone, “That's for Mister Danny! And that's another one!”

A man comes tumbling down the companionway and Danny just has the wits left to dodge the body as it crumples unconscious at his feet.

More gunfire stuttering. Single shots. Breaking glass.

A distant splash from outside—and then the alarm is sounding and Danny can hear footsteps approaching fast.

He gathers his strength, trying to summon some life back into his legs, and starts to climb heavily to the battle raging above . . .

It's a quick, intense fight. Kwan and the Black Dragon men are caught off guard. Zamora lets loose, fists flailing, tattoos jumping, sending one—then two—triads sagging to the ground. A third hurtles through the bridge window into the sea far below.

And Zhang's men want revenge too. They soon have two more triads down and have sent the others scuttling from the bridge. Amid the confusion of gunshot and close-hand fighting Laura makes straight for Kwan. He pulls a gun from his belt but Sing Sing is there, kicking it violently from his hand, and then she and Laura have him held tight against the ship's control panel. Sing Sing pushes her face right into Kwan's.

“You are just about the worst taxi driver I have ever come across,” she hisses. “I'm going to think of something really unpleasant to do to you. Really unpleasant. And then I'm going to turn you over to Charlie.”

“Charlie's dead,” Kwan whispers. “I saw to it myself—”

But then he sees Danny stumbling up onto the bridge, and his eyes almost pop from their sockets. As if a ghost has materialized from out of thin air. Kwan's mouth works frantically but can make no sound.

“Seal the bridge,” Zhang shouts. “All lights up.”

“What do you mean about Charlie?” Sing Sing shouts. But she's interrupted by raking gunfire from outside.

The bridge window detonates in a shower of glass, sending them all crouching to the ground. Kwan takes his moment, wrenches himself free, and makes a dash for the door to the deck beyond. There's a searing whoosh in the cabin—a blinding blue line of fire that arcs across the bridge and strikes Kwan on the upper back as he makes his escape. He screams as the flare hits, and then he's spun around by the force and propelled over the rail to the sea below. The blue light burns itself out on the deck, casting an eerie light over everything.

“Get the radio up,” Zhang shouts, the flare gun still gripped tight in his hand. “Put out a distress call.”

But now, in the sudden lull, they hear the thrumming of an engine approaching fast, the smack of bow on wave.

Strong searchlights rake the camouflage netting. It's as bright as broad daylight on the bridge and a megaphone barks through the night, an authoritative Chinese voice.

And then a different voice in English, with a slight accent. “You are all under arrest. Stay where you are. Drop your weapons. This is the Hong Kong Police. And Interpol. Inspector Ricard. The Chinese Navy and OCTB have you surrounded.”

“We've done it, Danny,” Laura shouts.

She looks around. Danny has slumped to the floor, eyes clamped shut, and the major is crouched over him, slapping his cheek.

“Mister Danny? Mister Danny?”

The rain squall beats against the ship.

“Danny?”

There's more shouting outside on the deck. One long, low dragon-like roar of thunder and then silence returns again.

“He's still breathing,” Zamora says. “Come on, Mister Danny. Get a blanket, someone, he's shivering like anything.”

Danny half smiles. And opens his eyes.

Electric green, deepest brown, they flash in the glow of the searchlights. He blinks hard, trying to work out where he is. Trying to make sense of the world.

“Did I get out in time?”

“You did it, Mister Danny. You did the escape. The Chinese water torture! Just wait till I tell the old Mysterium crowd about this. Blanco and Rosa are going to freak out!”

Danny looks around at the wreckage of the bridge. Yes, it all makes sense, he thinks. At least
some
of it does now.

41

HOW TO SEE THE WONDER

The rain has cleared to leave a cool, calm morning. The predawn breaks green on the horizon as the police launch surges toward the harbor.

Danny is standing in the wheelhouse, wrapped in a first aid blanket, next to Ricard. Despite the sea crossing, the night, the arrest of most of the Black Dragon, the Interpol man looks immaculate as ever in his white suit. Just a hint of tiredness in the lines around his eyes.

Laura and Sing Sing are on the front deck, watching the buildings heave themselves skyward in the first light, the whaleback hills rising up from the sea.

And in the cabin below Zamora is sitting with the police, watching over Jug Ears and some of the other half-drowned and bloodied triads, fighting sleep, rousing himself every now and then to list a few more of their shortcomings. It's a very long and specific list . . . and he's only halfway through.

Danny turns to Ricard. “What about Kwan?”

“No sign. We'll keep a boat searching, but he's probably shark meat now.”

“Did you know about him?”

“Heavens, no. He was completely off our radar, as far as I can tell.”

“And Lo?”

“He's suspended and under investigation by Internal Affairs. Should go down for a long time. We've just been trying to get enough on him. You'll be our star witness. And Laura.”

“Monsieur Ricard, what do you really know about the Forty-Nine? Tell me.”

“I'm still not sure one way or another, Danny. Maybe Kwan was all hot air and bluster—or maybe there
is
something to this fairy tale after all. Maybe it has
become
real and Kwan was just one of those dots on the diagram. In that case he'll be replaced now with someone else . . .”

His voice trails off.

“There's something you're holding back,” Danny says.

“Well, I need to warn you. If the Forty-Nine
are
real—and your dad thought as much—then sitting at the heart of it all is someone they call Center. But we have no idea who or where that person is. He—or she—might be the one who ordered Kwan to put you in that freezer. It's not impossible that Laura was lured to pursue this story . . . I will need to make urgent inquiries—see if the trail leads to a real threat. Or an imagined one.” He looks away toward the gathering light. “But if Center exists, we must suspect he was linked to the death of your parents. The improvised water torture and all that . . .”

At last!

“So
you
don't think the fire was an accident either.”

“I have my doubts. Just never had any evidence to pursue things.”

“I knew it. I knew the police missed something.”

“But what, I wonder?” Ricard looks at him searchingly. “There's something you aren't telling
me
now,
mon brave
.”

“Oh, it's nothing.” Danny shakes his head. “Nothing at all really.”

But he's thinking about Dad's Escape Book. He wants to get home and look at it again. See what is buried there in the code. And he's thinking about that Khaos Klown and the smear of paint . . .
My secret, he thinks. At least for now. For once I have some control over who knows what. Some power. And I want to keep it to myself.

“Can you tell me more about my dad and you? The work he did for you?”

“Not really, Danny.”

“I need to know.”

“I'm sorry, but I can't. But I can tell you that he was a good man. Very brave.”

Danny nods. He wants to ask more but can see Ricard will go no further. “Can I at least contact you if I need to?”

“Of course. Any time. Come on, forget about it for a little while. You need to recover. Look, the sun's just about coming up.”

Laura comes in from the deck, her usual composure regained.

“Sing Sing's taking Chow's death awfully well. Says she'll be OK.”

Danny nods, looking out to the deck where Sing Sing still stands, her hair flying in the wind. As if feeling his gaze, she turns and looks back at him. Smiling determinedly through her own emotion. Someone who feels like him. Someone who might just understand what he has been through. That alone makes the last few days' nightmarish effort worthwhile. He smiles back.

“I'll go and see if she's OK.”

“You do that, Danny boy.”

Danny glances at his watch. The date shows 31. The thirty-first of October.

“Hey, it's Halloween. You know what that means?”

“Trick or treat?”

“It's the anniversary of Houdini's death. We used to do something to mark that . . . in the old days. Dad would do something in his honor. Always.”

“Then let's do that,” Laura says. “How about dinner—Hong Kong style?”

“I'll see what Sing Sing wants to do. Whatever she wants is fine with me.”

He goes out onto the deck and glances back at their wake. Somewhere far behind, just over the horizon, is the place where he pulled off his desperate bid for freedom, watching the freezer falling into the limitless depths. Seems so hard to believe . . .

And it makes him think of Dad and the way his own meticulously planned version of the water torture went wrong. Much later that night—after the failed escape—Danny had sat up with him, refusing to go to bed.