Pandora Jones: Deception

by Barry Jonsberg

  Jen came to a narrow staircase leading down to the left and without hesitation she took it, Pan close on her heels. The corridor continued and six or seven metres ahead ended in a T-junction. Good, thought Pan. Three possible ways to go. Maybe the pursuers would choose the wrong one. They reached the bottom of the staircase and again Jen didn’t hesitate, taking the corridor on their right. There were doors along this section. Sleeping quarters, maybe. Entrances to the cargo hold. Maybe each door would have to be checked by their pursuers, wasting more time.

  Maybe they did stand a chance. If they could remain hidden for long enough. If the captain had sent out an emergency message, then maybe the police, or the maritime patrol or whoever, would be on their way. It wasn’t much more than a crumb of comfort, but it was better than nothing.

  The lighting was dim in this corridor, the way illuminated by a few low-powered bulbs placed at long intervals. They came to a pair of narrow staircases, one leading up and the other down. Jen clattered down. Deeper into the bowels of the ship. The air was musty. At the bottom Jen stopped and held up a hand. Pan halted beside her. A corridor stretched before them, but it was too dimly lit to see where it headed. The girls stood for a moment, listening. The only thing they heard was the creaking of metal under strain. There were no sounds of pursuit.

  ‘We need a plan,’ Jen whispered. ‘We have no idea where we’re going or even where we are. We need to think.’

  ‘Maybe we should just choose one place and hide. It could take them hours to search thoroughly. Perhaps all we need is time,’ said Pan, but Jen didn’t seem convinced.

  ‘You said they had more power than we could imagine, Pandora,’ she said. ‘What if they jammed the distress signal?’

  ‘Maybe I was wrong,’ said Pan.

  ‘Maybe you weren’t.’

  ‘Too many maybes.’

  ‘Yeah, so what do we do now? And if they find us, do we fight or just give up?’

  ‘Fight?’ said Pan. ‘They had guns, Jen. And what have we got?’

  Jen reached into the waistband of her pants and drew out her hunting knife. Its blade was long and, even in the murky light, gleamed murderously.

  ‘I have this,’ she said. ‘And I have black belts in four martial arts. And you kicked my butt, remember?’

  ‘I still don’t know how I did that,’ Pan said. ‘And it’s not something I think I can recreate. Anyway, you think these guys aren’t trained?’

  ‘You’re too pessimistic,’ said Jen. ‘You and me against the world, and you wanna know something? I like those odds.’

  They moved more cautiously, aware that having put distance between themselves and their pursuers, keeping quiet was the best chance of escaping detection. The men would have to make quick progress and that would mean creating noise.

  Pan and Jen crept along into the darkness. This corridor was long and barely lit at all. Pan remembered the torches in the emergency pack she had taken from the boat, but that must have been left in the sick bay. There was nothing to do but grope along in the darkness and hope they found a place to hide.

  A large metal door blocked their way forward. It was oval in shape and reminded Pan of the kind of hatches seen on submarines. There was a spoked wheel in the centre of the door, though there was no window to indicate what lay beyond. The girls stepped up to it. Pan placed a hand on the wheel and prepared to turn it, but Jen gripped her shoulder before she could try.

  ‘Listen, Pandora,’ she hissed.

  Pan cocked her head and for a moment could hear nothing. Then she understood. The sound of footsteps clattering down a metal stairway – the same stairway, she assumed, they had come down only minutes before. Then the noise suddenly stopped and she heard voices, a distant hiss of conversation. She thought back. They had come down a stairway and then what? A long, dark corridor with no deviations. The men were behind them and there was no place to hide. No rooms, nothing, only an exposed expanse of corridor.

  ‘We’d better hope,’ whispered Jen, ‘that there’s somewhere to hide beyond this door, or we’re deep in the brown stuff, Pandora.’

  Pan turned back to the wheel and braced herself. She shifted her weight and thrust the bars anticlockwise. Nothing happened. She tried again, but the wheel didn’t budge. Think, Pandora. Stay calm. She took her hands from the wheel and breathed deeply. How did it work? Anticlockwise to open, clockwise to close. That was right, wasn’t it? She tried anticlockwise again, but with the same result. Okay, it must be the other way around. She shifted her weight once more and tried the door the opposite way. There was no sign of movement.

  ‘It’s locked, Jen,’ she said.

  Chapter 25

  Jen pushed her out of the way and tried herself. Her face distorted with the effort and veins stood out on her neck. The door stubbornly refused to open.

  Somewhere behind them, the noise of boots against metal approached. Jen dangled her arms, took a deep breath and shook out her hands. Then she gripped the bars of the wheel and twisted them violently, first to one side, then the other. Pan watched and knew it was hopeless. Finally, Jen’s head bowed and she rested her head against the cold metal of the door. Then she stepped back.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘You’re right. The bastard’s locked.’

  Jen’s voice was surprisingly calm and controlled. ‘We’re trapped. So what advantages do we have, Pandora? What’s working in our favour just at the moment?’

  Pan couldn’t come up with anything. What could be in their favour? They had a knife against automatic weapons, they were outnumbered and there was no chance of evading pursuit. She could see no way out.

  ‘Darkness,’ said Jen. ‘That’s what we’ve got going for us. Darkness and surprise.’

  ‘Jen, what the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Listen. They might have split up. We wait for them, Pandora. Surprise them. Take them out of the game. We use the darkness as our ally.’

  ‘I can’t fight, Jen. I don’t know how.’

  ‘This from the girl who did me serious damage at Gwynne’s training session? Get real, Pandora.’

  ‘But that was my gift – whatever you want to call it. I can’t tap into it at will, Jen. I’ve tried and it doesn’t work that way. Trust me.’

  ‘Then find a way. And quick.’ Jen took Pan’s arm and dragged her back along the corridor.

  There was a bend in the corridor. Jen pressed up against the left-hand wall and drew Pan close. She didn’t have to say anything. The voices were louder now. The clanging of boots against metal was harsh against their ears. Pan pushed her back against the wall and held her breath.

  Find the centre, Pandora Jones, she thought. Let yourself go. Surrender. Be a channel. Relax.

  But she didn’t feel any different. She felt afraid. At any moment, the men would appear. Men with guns whose bullets would cut through her in less than a second. How could she oppose a stream of bullets? A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead and into her left eye. Her vision blurred. Time slowed.

  Despite the lack of light, there was a change in the texture of the darkness. A shifting of the shadows. The sounds were so loud Pan found it difficult to believe the men hadn’t already passed them by. She tried to still the pounding of her heart.

  The first thing that appeared around the bend was the barrel of a gun, then another. Quickly followed by the silhouettes of men.

  When the leading man drew level Jen screamed at the top of her voice, her leg already making contact with the gun. Neither of the girls was wearing shoes, but Jen didn’t hold back. There was a dull metallic thunk as her shin caught the underside of the gun and a stifled cry of surprise from the man. The gun discharged, sending a stream of bullets into the ceiling of the corridor. The darkness was dispelled by the flash of gunfire and Pan could see clearly. There were three men, including the man at the front. They had balaclavas covering their faces. It was as if time had stopped. She took in the details of the man’s eyes – brown, wide with astonishment – a mouth turne
d down and lips slightly parted, revealing even teeth.

  And Pan saw, as if in slow motion, Jen follow through in one movement, swivelling on her heel and bringing the elbow of her left arm into the man’s throat. A knife flashed in the aftermath of the gunfire and the eyes behind the balaclava showed genuine fear. He loosened his grip on the gun, which sagged but didn’t fall, one hand moving towards his stomach. He made a strange gurgling sound and, in slow motion, fell to his knees. A gush of red spurted between the man’s fingers.

  The whole thing must have lasted less than a second. Jen’s cry still rang in her ears.

  Pan felt strangely calm. Her eyes took in everything, the way the man next in line was lifting the barrel of his gun, anchoring his feet. The last man hesitated. Pan moved past Jen and allowed her body to do exactly what it wanted to do. No control. On the contrary, a surrender to something – a force that could not be stopped, could not be directed, but simply allowed to do whatever it must. It was peaceful, that surrender. As her body moved, Pan’s mind was at ease.

  And then it was over.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Pandora,’ said Jen. Her voice was little more than a murmur. Pan shook her head to clear her mind and looked down at the bodies on the floor. One man lay dead or unconscious, his head against the wall of the corridor. A smear of blood trailed down the wall beside his left ear. Another man moaned and gripped his right arm, which was bent horribly out of shape. The third, the one Jen had attacked, lay on his side in the foetal position, hands pressed against his stomach to stem the pool of blood gathering on the metal floor. As Pan watched, the pool widened and spread, one rivulet moving slowly towards her as if seeking her bare foot.

  ‘What happened?’ she whispered.

  ‘You happened, Pandora Jones,’ Jen replied. She bent and picked up a handgun from the floor and passed it to Pan, who took it instinctively. It was heavy and cold and her skin crawled at its touch. Jen took another weapon for herself, the automatic that had belonged to the first man, and checked its mechanism. Satisfied, she glanced at Pan. ‘You really don’t remember what you just did?’

  Pan shook her head.

  ‘Maybe that’s just as well,’ Jen said. ‘Frankly, I don’t care how you did it—’

  There was a sharp burst of static and then a voice, eerie and disembodied, spread through the corridor.

  ‘Team 2. Report your position. Over.’

  Jen reached down and opened the jacket of the man slumped against the wall. Peeking from the inside pocket was a walkie-talkie. Jen closed the jacket flap and stood.

  ‘Okay, Pandora. Time to get as far from here as we possibly can. We’re still stuck in a dead end and that’s a situation we need to correct. Let’s go.’

  Pan stared at the bodies on the floor. There was something hypnotic in the scene of destruction, particularly since she knew she was the cause of most of it. Was that man dead, the one with the walkie-talkie? Had she killed someone? Fear spread its icy fingers along her spine. She wanted to check for a pulse, but was afraid of failing to find one. Jen grabbed her arm and Pan shuddered.

  ‘Pandora?’ Jen’s voice was gentle. Concerned. ‘We have to go.’

  Pan tore her eyes away from the bodies. This was something she would have to process later, try to come to terms with. If that was possible. She forced her body to move and the two girls ran down the corridor, towards the stairs they had previously descended. The gun felt clammy in Pan’s hand and she gripped it tighter as she ran.

  They had no destination. No way of knowing if there was another group of armed men around the next corner. Pan followed Jen’s lead. They had no time to discuss the situation.

  They raced along corridors, some of which seemed familiar, but others were clearly new territory. Pivoting around a corner, Jen ran straight into a man walking in the opposite direction. She didn’t hesitate. She slammed him up against the wall, the gun dangling from its strap, her knife against his neck.

  ‘Jen, it’s okay,’ said Pan. ‘He’s crew.’

  For a moment it appeared that Pan’s words hadn’t sunk in. The knife pressed against flesh and a trickle of blood oozed from a fine nick. Then Jen lowered her hand and the man slid down the wall, fingers reaching for his throat, his eyes wide with fear and fixed on the blade.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Jen and Pan almost laughed at the absurdity of the apology. Then they were off again. Whenever there was a choice, Jen opted for upwards, spurning stairs that disappeared down towards the hold. Always upwards. Finally, Pan realised they must be close to the deck. Portholes allowed pale light into the corridors and the smell of the sea became stronger.

  Jen stopped by a door, pressed her back against the wall and brought her gun up onto her chest. Pan took up a position beside her.

  ‘I will open this door very gently,’ whispered Jen. ‘You do nothing. I’ll see if the coast is clear. Only once I’ve stepped onto deck do you follow. Is that clear?’

  ‘Why are we going on deck?’ Pan whispered back.

  ‘Because that’s the last place they’d expect to find us.’

  Pan was dubious. Surely they would have left someone in charge up there, probably in the bridge to command a view of the whole boat. And what about the helicopters? Were they still hovering? The pilots would spot them for sure. But Jen had made her decision and it stood. She was in charge and Pan would follow.

  Jen turned the handle on the door carefully and pushed. A small shaft of daylight spilled into the corridor. She opened the door just enough to allow her to poke her head out. Pan tensed, expecting to hear a shot ring out, for Jen’s body to snap and sag and crumple. But nothing happened. Jen eased through the slim gap and Pan followed a moment later.

  After the murky confines below deck, the daylight was like an assault on Pan’s senses, though the sky was overcast and a dark thunderhead loomed far out to sea. She blinked and let her vision adjust. They had come out on the opposite side of the boat from the first time and the bridge was somewhere to their right, hidden from view by a large bulkhead. To their left a narrow area of deck snaked into the distance. Jen crouched and edged towards the front of the boat, Pan following. A distant whirr of blades alerted them to the fact that the helicopters were still circling.

  Jen peeked around the bulkhead. Pan crouched and did the same. The bridge was visible, the expanse of dirty glass offering a silhouette of one person etched against the sky. It was impossible to tell whether he faced towards them or away from them. But he was too tall to be any of the crew members. Other than that solitary figure, the deck was deserted. Hovering some distance away, the two helicopters flanked the boat.

  ‘Okay,’ Jen whispered. ‘Here’s what I suggest. We move towards the rear of the ship and find somewhere to hide, maybe in a lifeboat. We hunker down and wait. Maybe there’s time pressure on them. Maybe they’ll be forced to leave. I mean, how long can helicopters hover like that? Sooner or later they’ll need to refuel.’

  The same idea had occurred to Pan.

  ‘If that doesn’t work,’ Jen added, ‘we’ll have to pick them off one by one.’ She slapped the stock of her gun. ‘At least we’ve got more going for us now. Let’s go, Pandora.’

  The girls moved quickly, but silently, along the deserted ribbon of deck. Lack of footwear was an advantage, and their feet made no sound. But even in that confined space, Pan felt dreadfully exposed. They had walked a hundred metres or so, when Jen stopped and pointed to a metal ladder welded against the bulkhead. It led to a platform slightly above head height. There was no way of telling what lay up there. Jen shrugged a question and Pan nodded. This part of the deck still felt far too exposed and any kind of height must offer some advantage. Jen slung the gun on her back and climbed the short ladder in a few seconds. Pan followed. She had barely hauled herself onto the platform when she heard the sound of boots against the deck. Just before she ducked her head out of the line of sight, she saw three men, armed and dressed in black fatigues, their faces covered by balaclavas, coming towards them. Ha
d the girls not climbed the ladder they would have walked straight into them.

  The platform was small and featureless. A series of other platforms led higher, but they couldn’t scramble up there. Not until the men had passed. They would be far too visible. Both girls froze. The men were so close that any movement would alert them to their presence. Pan waited for the sound of footsteps to recede into the distance.

  But there was no sound at all. Had the men moved on and the girls had failed to hear them? Or were they still there? A minute passed and nothing happened. Then a balaclavaed head popped up over the edge of the platform and Pan caught a glimpse of blue eyes, narrowing. Jen’s foot lashed out and caught the man square in the nose. He disappeared with a cry of pain.

  ‘Oh, crap, Pandora,’ yelled Jen. ‘Run for it.’

  Pan knew it was futile. Jen scrambled onto the next platform and Pan joined her. The sound of gunfire made her freeze, until she realised the men had no chance of hitting them from their position on the deck. They were laying down covering fire to stop the girls shooting them as they followed. Was that what she and Jen should be doing? Waiting with guns aimed until the men came up onto the platform, killing them one by one? But it was too late. They had made their decision and that decision was flight.

  Jen climbed. Like her life depends on it, thought Pan. She followed. As they climbed, the geography of the boat became more apparent. They were towards the rear of the ship and Jen was headed straight towards it, this time jumping down a series of platforms. Pan wondered if Jen’s plan was to throw herself off the boat and back into the sea, take her chances in the water.

  Only when they came to the protective railing at the rear of the boat did Pan realise they were trapped again. They were totally exposed and the raised platforms behind them gave their pursuers cover. Pan and Jen walked backwards, their guns raised, their eyes darting around the deck, until the railing pressed against their backs. For at least thirty seconds they simply stood and watched.