Martin instinctively rolled left, just as the ax struck where he’d been lying. Martin continued the roll until he had room to get his hands and knees up under him. A moment later he was on his feet, dizzy and hurting, but with his fists raised.
“That was one of my kids,” Martin said softly. “My kids. You think you can kill one of mine?”
The axman was large, powerful, with thick arms and a neck like a tree stump. But when he swung the ax again in an arc aimed at Martin’s head, he showed his weakness. The bigger man was slow.
Martin ducked the swing and kicked out his foot, connecting between the axman’s legs. The he grabbed the ax handle and twisted it sideways, leveraging it from its owner’s thick fingers. Leverage and momentum were a fighter’s best weapons.
The axman grunted, stumbling forward, and Martin did a quick spin, momentum propelling the weapon around, burying the head into his adversary’s shoulder. The axman howled, dropping to his knees.
Martin finished him off, making extra sure the beast was dead.
“My kids, asshole.” Then he headed off to look for Sara.
He was called Kong Zhi-ou in the People’s Republic of China, and was on Homeland Security’s no fly list, so his passport was under the name Sonny Lung. He spoke British English perfectly, even affecting the accent. And he was running late.
There wasn’t much he could do about that at 20,000 feet, infuriating as it was. Kong liked order, and the predictability that came with it. Being on time was something that should be a given, not a wish. But no one had chosen Kong to run this airline, so all he could do was order another cup of tea from the portly flight attendant and try to keep his anger bottled up.
If the pilot was telling the truth—and he was American so Kong suspected he wasn’t—the flight would touch down at Chicago’s O’Hare airport in a little over an hour. Too late for him to catch the connecting flight to Sawyer International. That gave Kong a choice between staying in Chicago for a few hours, then boarding the early Sawyer departure, or chartering a helicopter at O’Hare and flying that straight to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.
He knew, even at this late hour, finding a chopper would be easy. Kong represented the premier world power, and had that power’s unlimited resources backing him. But he disliked the noise of helicopter rides, and involving more people in this venture meant more trails to hide. So Kong accepted the fact he’d be stuck at the O’Hare Hilton for a brief four hour stay.
Kong didn’t worry whether or not they had a room, because he’d already made reservations. He even arranged for a bit of entertainment, just in case the anticipated delay materialized. Planning ahead was one of the reasons Kong was so successful.
The tea came. Even in First Class it was insipid, almost unpalatable. He sipped it anyway, allowing his anger to build. He’d work it off later, after he landed.
Closing his eyes, Kong thought about the future of his country. China’s military was one of the largest in the world, more than twice the size of America’s. But it was underequipped. Even spending over twenty billion dollars in the last six years on arms wasn’t enough to guarantee its superiority. The war with the West was coming, sooner than many thought, and to win it China needed more manpower and more weapons.
Which is why the meeting with Doctor Plincer was so intriguing.
If all worked out, Kong would leave his position as director of the Jinzhong prison system, and take a new, more lucrative appointment with the People’s Liberation Army. He, Kong Zhi-ou, would ensure China could not only ably defend itself from its enemies, but if necessary, conquer them.
Kong didn’t smile often, but the thought of the Western world under Chinese rule brought a tiny one to his lips. He sipped more tea and waited patiently for his plane to land.
The interior of the tent was warm and sour, smelling of fresh blood and old sweat. Though the light was low, on her left Cindy could make out the shape of a person wrapped in a sleeping bag—the dirty, hairy man she’d seen earlier, the one who tried to grab her and Tyrone. He snored wetly, making the hair on Cindy’s arms stand on edge.
Cindy’s first reaction was to back up, get the hell out of there, and she went so far as to lean away. But her limbs stayed put. The radio was in that tent, and it was their only chance to get off this island alive. So she ignored all the voices in her brain screaming at her to leave, and instead inched forward.
There were backpacks to her right, their contents strewn about, probably by Tom. Cindy squinched her eyes, not even sure what the radio in question looked like. Before she rushed bravely in, possibly to her own death, she should have at least asked how big it was. In the dimness she could make out some clothing, a stack of cans, and something square-shaped. Were radios square? She crawled closer to the square thing, keeping the instinct to flee at bay.
The snoring cannibal kept a steady rhythm, every snort a reminder that death was less than three feet away. As Cindy got closer she saw the familiar red cross on the box.
A first aid kit. Tyrone needed this for his hands.
She picked it up and carefully placed it on the ground behind her, near the entrance. Then she began to paw through the discarded clothing.
After carefully setting aside one of Martin’s shirts, Cindy noticed a tiny red light, no larger than a BB. She reached for it, touching something hard and rectangular. Her fingers brushed over an antenna. It was either a very old model cell phone, or…
A walkie-talkie.
Cindy seized it, snugging it to her chest, and it let go with a loud burst of static hiss when she accidentally pressed a button.
She froze, holding her breath, listening for the inevitable sound of the cannibal reaching for her.
There was only silence.
Cindy waited, her hands shaking, her kidneys aching. If attacked, she needed to scream to alert Sara and Tyrone. She also needed to find a weapon. The radio had some heft, but she couldn’t risk damage by throwing or swinging it. The first aid kit was in a metal box. Heavier and stronger.
If he wakes up, scream first, then go for the kit.
Still no sound. Cindy hadn’t exhaled yet.
If she had to defend herself, she needed her hands free. Carefully feeling around the walkie-talkie, she discovered what she sought; a belt clip. Ever so slowly she hooked it onto the top of her pants.
Silence continued to pervade the tent. The cannibal wasn’t moving at all.
Cindy let her air out slowly, through her teeth, in an extended, soft hiss. She wanted to take another breath—her heart was thumping like mad—but she was too frightened.
Just get out of there. Get the hell out.
She began to back up, nice and easy, the quiet pressing down on her like a weight, when the obvious hit her.
Why isn’t he snoring anymore? Could he be awake?
That’s when the cannibal sprung up, winding his filthy arm around Cindy’s mouth before she had a chance to scream.
Sara felt ready to explode. She wasn’t sure how long it had been since Cindy crawled into the tent, but each second seemed like a little stretch of eternity in hell. Not being able to see her, not knowing what was happening to one of her kids, made Sara’s imagination run riot with atrocities.
She forced herself to count the seconds. A minute was more than enough time for Cindy to find the radio. After a minute, Sara was determined to go in after her.
Sara began a slow count to sixty.
“How long Cindy been in there?” Tyrone nudged her.
“Not long,” she whispered back.