As we descended another set of stairs, I could see in the dim halogen light that we were entering a labyrinth constructed out of twenty foot containers stacked in long lines.
When we got halfway down the stairs, I stopped First Mate, and whispered:
‘We’ve got to be silent as we approach. He’s inside, and can’t know we’re here.’
He nodded seriously, and continued. Then we were on the hold floor, progressing silently between stacks of containers. I studied the ones at the bottom of the pile, and could see that each had a number printed on the top right-hand corner of the front façade, and a heavy-duty plastic seal, with a matching number. First Mate came to an intersection – forward, left, or right – studied a few containers, then took a right. After twenty seconds, he stopped, and pointed to a crate five away, on the left-hand side.
Crate 2025. And unsurprisingly, it was at the bottom of the stack and missing its seal.
My heart lurched. It was go time.
Ideally, I wanted to put a bullet in the nationalist’s head. But it almost certainly wouldn’t be so simple: the hostage may be too close to the nationalist, and the confined space meant a ricocheting bullet that could hit any three of us was a very real possibility.
I motioned to First Mate to move to the other side of the crate – I felt he was unlikely to give me trouble, but I wanted him that side of me just in case – and once he’d moved, I crept to the container door.
One wrong move, and an innocent life could be lost. My life could be lost….
All at once, I threw open the door, and leapt over the threshold.
In a split second, I took in the scene. Maybe ten yards away, there was a man, bound, gagged, and gut-wrenchingly mutilated around the eyes – Xi Chen, the hostage. Just beyond, with provisions in between (sleeping bag; tinned food; flasks), was a huge, muscular Chinese man, sitting at such an angle that it was near impossible to get a clear shot.
For a second, we just looked at each other, his mouth open in astonishment. Then he was patting his pockets for his gun.
I had to act.
I charged into the container, and as the nationalist was just tugging the weapon out of his pocket, and just finding his feet, I leapt past Chen, and threw myself at him.
But when I made contact, I got a surprise. Because though he dropped his gun as his hands went up to defend himself and it went off, the bullet hit a wall, and ricocheted god-knows-where, he wasn’t overwhelmed by the force of my body. He caught me, albeit clumsily, then tightened his grip, rammed my back into the wall of the container, and knocked the wind out of me. I tried to struggle free, but couldn’t – he was strong as an ox– and he rammed me again, and my head started spinning.
He was stronger than I’d expected. More capable. And, with a twang of panic, I registered that if I didn’t do something quick, it’d be over.
I again made an effort to struggle out of his grip. But though this time I managed to momentarily loosen his grip, it was only momentary – and all I managed to do was turn my back to him. The next instant, he capitalized on this new position: he fell on his own back, put a forearm over my throat, and put pressure on my carotid artery, stifling the blood flow to my brain. Instantly, my vision went watery at the edges, and my head started pounding. I drove my heels into his legs, but it was no good. It was like kicking a wall.
As my thoughts themselves started to slur and slow, the temptation was to enter full-blown panic as it seemed there was no way out of this beast of a man’s grip. And the fact I’d come all this way, and fallen at the final hurdle, was almost too much to bear.
Then suddenly a last-ditch plan entered my head. Emulate panic. Because if I thrashed around, I might be able to shift my position and change the tide. At the same time, if he thought I was in my final throes, he might get complacent.
I didn’t think through the plan: my brain wasn’t up to it. I just went for it. And a moment later, I was struggling with every fiber of my being; struggling to move my body up, and get my head and shoulders touching the ground next to his, so I could get some purchase.
Struggling so vehemently that I honestly didn’t know myself whether this was emulated panic or the real deal.
After a few seconds, I managed to shift my head and shoulders back. It meant that if I could turn sharply back in his direction, I could spin him over. Only, it wasn’t so simple because, as I’d feared, he’d moved his arm up, too, and kept up the pressure. And in a moment of awful futility, I realized I was out of fight; that I didn’t have the strength to make good on my position.
My body involuntarily went limp. All the guy had to do was keep up the pressure a few more seconds, and I was a goner.
But then out of nowhere, he let up the pressure. He thought the job was done.
Somewhere, in a far corner of my brain, I knew this was my last chance.
Drawing on some primal reserve, I turned sharply inwards, and flipped the guy onto his side, and flung my fists ineffectually into his face – my arms were floppy, devoid of blood – and desperately sucked in breath.
My fists made feeble contact twice with his face; then, the next moment, he overcame his confusion, and grasped my left hand. As he did so, my right hand scrambled around on the floor nearby, and touched the metal of one of our guns.
I fumblingly wrapped my limp hand around the gun. Then, just as he started bending my wrist agonizingly back on itself, I lifted the gun in my other hand, and put it to his forehead.
And this time, there was no ricochet.
The bullet entered his head, and the pressure of the gas behind the bullet as it expanded beneath his skin, was – even with this silenced weapon – enough to strip off every last bit of skin from his goddamn face.
Covered in shreds of his flesh, I rolled onto my back, and drew in deep, vital breaths. Concentrated on nothing but getting oxygen into my system. After maybe fifteen seconds, I registered out of the corner of my eye, some movement right by me, and felt a swell of relief. It was Chen. And it meant that, at the very least, the ricocheting bullet hadn’t shot him dead.
I sat up, and turned to the container’s entrance. First Mate was in the doorway. He may’ve been an old-timer but, judging by his face, I’d given him a show unlike anything he’d seen before.
‘You okay?’ he asked nervously. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t – I didn’t—’
I cut him off with a wave of the hand. I understood. He’d been scared, and I didn’t begrudge that. On the contrary, I was simply relieved he hadn’t disappeared. It was a fairly clear indication that I could trust him – at least up to a point.
I crawled over to Chen, and found my hand in a pool of blood by his leg. The ricocheted bullet had hit his left calf, and made a small, but no doubt painful wound. He looked at me with wild, terrified eyes. Or, rather, eye singular, since one had clearly been blinded. And I realized with sudden revulsion what they’d done: they’d cut his eyelids to make his eyes appear rounder.
I gestured at First Mate.
‘This is the political prisoner. Help me untie him.’
As First Mate hustled in, and started gently untying Chen, I began rummaging around the back of the container, which was shrouded in shadows. After a few moments, I spotted what I was after: the hard-drive, in a transparent waterproof container.
I picked it up, and weighed it in my hand. Given its significance, it felt surprisingly light. And abruptly – though I still wasn’t sure what I was going to do with it – I felt a giddy surge of relief and happiness.
I’d derailed Yuelin’s plot and reclaimed her prisoner. All before the ship had set sail.
I turned back to Chen, who was now standing diffidently, as First Mate undid the rope binding his hands. Then, as First Mate ripped off his sleeve, and started tying it around Xi’s calf, I removed his gag.
He opened and closed his mouth. Then he said simply: ‘Thank you.’
That was all he needed to say. I felt elated. I’d saved this guy’s skin. Saved him from the overreaching power of tyranny, which’d attempted to pluck him from the Land of the Free and exact punishment on him for nothing more than speaking out against that tyranny.
And by securing this hard-drive, I’d ensured that many brave individuals like Chen – individuals who were daring to resist online – wouldn’t face the firing squad.
That was worth every single bruise on my aching body.
But then, even as the smile induced by this thought was still on my lips, my walkie-talkie crackled, and Ellen’s voice – panicked, fearful – came through:
‘Yuelin’s just boarded the ship, with three men. She’s got a pistol; the other three are carrying silenced MP5 submachine guns like back in Joshua Tree. They’re splitting up: two heading for below decks; Yuelin and one other heading for the deckhouse.’