Bodyguard_Fugitive

by Chris Bradford

  Connor sat up straight. ‘What’s she saying?’

  ‘That state security forces stopped a terrorist attack …’ replied Zhen, his eyes locked on the TV, ‘by a gunman and a suicide bomber.’

  Mugshots of Colonel Black and Bugsy flashed up on the screen.

  Zhen continued to translate. ‘There were several deaths and multiple injuries, but she says it could’ve been a lot worse if security forces hadn’t responded so quickly and shot the terrorists.’

  ‘They’re not terrorists!’ Amir exclaimed indignantly.

  The programme switched to CCTV footage showing Colonel Black running through the crowd and wielding a gun. Bugsy was highlighted holding a cylindrical tube in his hand as people scattered in panic, some falling to the ground as if shot. Then a thin man, his face pixelated to conceal his identity, entered the picture and gunned Bugsy down. Security guards moved in to surround the colonel. He was seen to take aim with his handgun before a security guard took him out in what was clearly an act of self-defence.

  ‘That isn’t what happened!’ cried Amir in outrage. ‘They’ve doctored the video footage.’

  Connor was too stunned to say anything. He just stared at the TV as his own face now appeared alongside Amir’s.

  Zhen let out a soft cry of astonishment. ‘Police are hunting two suspects, believed to be connected to the terrorists,’ he explained, rapidly translating the presenter’s words. ‘The two fugitives are suspected foreign spies, trying to smuggle top-secret documents out of the country. Although children, they should be considered armed and dangerous. Do not approach. Report any sightings to the police immediately. A reward of a million yuan is being offered for information leading to their capture …’

  Connor turned slowly to Amir, whose expression mirrored his own deep shock. ‘I can’t believe how far Equilibrium has taken this. They set up a terrorist attack. Killed innocent civilians. Framed the colonel and Bugsy. And now they’ve turned us into enemies of the state!’

  Amir swallowed hard. ‘You know, if we’re caught, that means life imprisonment, maybe even the death penalty!’

  Connor’s mind became sharp in its panic. ‘We have to lie low, otherwise we’ll never get out of this country –’

  ‘I know the very place,’ Zhen said.

  Connor shook his head. ‘No, you can’t risk your life being linked with us any longer.’

  ‘Too late,’ said Zhen, nodding grimly at the TV.

  On the screen was a grainy CCTV photograph of a young boy in a loose T-shirt and red baseball cap.

  ‘I’m a fugitive too.’

  The glaring neon-white strip light in the ceiling buzzed – not because it was broken but because its incessant drone gradually wore the cell’s occupant down. Similarly, the hard bench along the wall was made too narrow and too short to lie comfortably upon, in order to induce sleep deprivation in the detainee. An acute sense of claustrophobia, as well as dislocation from both time and place, was soon felt by anyone unfortunate enough to be locked inside the tiny windowless cell. The temperature in the room could also be altered from bone-chillingly cold to stiflingly hot, depending upon what caused the most suffering. And a large one-way mirror ensured the inmate had no privacy whatsoever, remaining constantly under the impression they were being observed.

  Strapped to a chair and unconscious, the cell’s current captive had no awareness of these ‘conditioning techniques’ – at least not yet. A bandage wrapped around the shoulder seeped blood, but the chest still rose and fell with each laboured breath.

  ‘Bring the prisoner round.’

  Obeying his boss’s order with a sharp nod, a gaunt weasel-faced man in a white medical lab coat injected a syringe into the left forearm. The prisoner stirred, groaning feebly and spluttering up bile. The head lolled forward and eyes, swimming with pain and drugs, flickered open. They took a moment to focus on the woman standing over them.

  Ignoring the weasel-faced doctor at his side, Colonel Black slurred, ‘Wh-who … are you?’

  ‘The Director.’

  ‘Where’s … my lawyer?’

  The Director laughed, high and humourless. ‘I’m not the director of the police. You have no right of attorney here.’

  Colonel Black weakly turned his head, surveying the four featureless walls of the grim little cell. ‘And where’s here?’

  The Director waved away his question. ‘Don’t concern yourself with such troubling details. You’re in Equilibrium’s care. That’s all you need to know.’

  Colonel Black nodded, as if accepting his fate.

  The Director drew closer, her dragon pendant glinting dully in the harsh neon light. ‘You can make your stay with us as comfortable …’ Her manicured fingers gently stroked his cheek. ‘Or as painful –’ she slapped him sharply across the face – ‘as you choose. Now where’s the flash drive?’

  Colonel Black blinked away stars, his ears ringing and his cheek smarting, then he stared defiantly back at his interrogator.

  The Director waited a full minute. ‘Don’t play this tiresome game, Colonel. To the outside world you’re already dead. And you’ll wish you were if you don’t answer me.’

  The colonel remained stubbornly silent. The Director nodded at the doctor and he inserted another syringe into their prisoner’s arm. Colonel Black felt reality slide from him, the strip light overhead leaving psychedelic tracers across his vision and the Director’s voice now sounding as if she was underwater.

  ‘Where’s the flash drive, Colonel?’

  He bit down hard, fighting the urge to reply, knowing whatever drugs had been injected into him would make his tongue loose.

  With a roll of the eyes, the Director turned to the weasel-faced doctor. ‘The drugs aren’t working. Show him the video.’

  The doctor extracted a tablet computer from his waist pocket and held up the screen for the colonel to see. Colonel Black tried to focus on the jerky images, watching as a handheld video camera approached a rusty old shipping container. A gloved hand reached out, undid the padlock and swung open the creaking door. Light spilt into the container to reveal a huddle of frightened teenagers. They were crammed like cattle into the metal box, their faces gaunt, their eyes haunted, their clothes grimy. Colonel Black barely recognized Ling, Jason or any of the other recruits. They looked like prisoners of war. Then Jason, Richie and a number of other Buddyguards made a dash forward at their captors … only to be beaten back with electric cattle prods and steel batons. A heavy blow to Richie’s skull dropped him where he stood, his blood splattering across the camera lens –

  The footage ended and the doctor put away the tablet.

  Colonel Black clenched his fists in futile rage and a vein began to pulse in his neck. ‘They’re just children!’ he rasped, struggling against his bonds.

  ‘Exactly,’ said the Director, ‘yet you use them as human shields for spoilt little rich kids. Now unless you want them to suffer a slow and excruciating death – starving or perhaps suffocating inside that container – tell me what you did with that flash drive.’

  Colonel Black glared at the Director. ‘If you hurt them, I’ll rip your head from your body.’

  The Director tutted at the impotent threat. ‘Perhaps I need to rephrase the question. Where’s Connor Reeves?’

  Still glowering at his captor, the colonel remained tight-lipped.

  ‘We know you passed the flash drive to him. We know you were headed to Hong Kong. We know they didn’t catch the train –’

  Colonel Black flinched at this.

  The Director raised a slender eyebrow. ‘That’s news to you, I see. Who’s the local contact?’

  Thrown by the unexpected change in questioning, Colonel Black tried to hide his puzzled frown, but the drugs had made him woozy and unguarded.

  ‘The Chinese boy with the red baseball cap,’ clarified the Director.

  ‘No one,’ said the colonel.

  ‘For a no one, he’s going to great lengths to help Connor and Amir. Where’s
the safe house in Shanghai?’ She waited impatiently for an answer. ‘Tell me or I’ll start killing your precious recruits one by one … while you watch!’

  ‘As you said yourself, I use them as human shields,’ Colonel Black replied coldly. ‘They’re expendable. So what do I care what you do to them?’

  The Director let out a long sigh as if suddenly bored with the interrogation. ‘Well, if you won’t talk willingly, we’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.’

  The door to the cell opened and Mr Grey strode in, a small black roll bag clasped in his hand.

  ‘Extract the information we require, Mr Grey,’ ordered the Director.

  ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘I know it is,’ she said as the assassin placed the bag on the bench, undid the clasp and unrolled it to reveal a row of shiny metal dentistry tools. ‘Enjoy your stay with us, Colonel Black. Though I don’t anticipate you being here long.’

  The Director left the cell and closed the door behind her, sealing in the colonel and his tortured screams.

  ‘Xièxiè,’ said Zhen, climbing out of the truck’s cab on to the darkened highway. As their guide was thanking the driver, Connor and Amir slipped quietly out from beneath the tarpaulin of the open flatbed and crept into the bushes at the side of the road. With a rumble and cough of diesel fumes, the old truck pulled away and disappeared into the night.

  Zhen waited until the road was clear, then, peering into the gloom, hissed, ‘Connor? Amir?’

  The two of them emerged from the bushes like skittish round-eyed gophers. Amir had his arms clasped around himself, chilled to the bone by the long drive out of Shanghai. Connor rolled his shoulders and stretched out his back, his muscles stiff and sore from his cramped position hiding among the bags of cement and other building supplies the truck had been transporting.

  ‘Did the driver suspect anything?’ asked Connor, dusting down his clothes and Go-bag.

  Zhen shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. He talked about the terrorist attack the whole way, but didn’t link me with it.’

  A pair of headlights appeared in the distance, their super-bright halogen beams growing fast.

  ‘We need to get off the road,’ said Amir fretfully.

  Following their guide, they clambered down the embankment into a farmer’s paddy field. The car shot past without slowing, plunging them back into darkness. More feeling than seeing their way, they headed across the field. The ground underfoot was waterlogged, the rice crop yet to be harvested, so Zhen kept to a narrow dirt ridge that ran between the tall stems of grasses. Connor crouched low and, being careful not to slip, trod softly in his guide’s footsteps. Although the paddy field looked to be deserted, a huddle of low buildings nestled in the near distance and Connor was wary of any guard dogs that might alert their owners.

  All of a sudden there was a splash and a sharply muttered curse from Amir. This was followed by loud squawking and a furious flapping of wings. Connor instinctively ducked, shielding his face as a pair of startled birds flew overhead.

  ‘Bloody ducks!’ complained Amir, shaking the mud off his sodden shoe.

  ‘Stay low,’ Connor hissed, his eyes watching the nearby buildings for movement. The birds’ racket must surely have caught somebody’s attention.

  Zhen hunkered down beside him. ‘Eco-friendly farming,’ he whispered to Amir. ‘Instead of pesticides, farmers use ducks to eat the insects and weeds.’

  ‘Well, I wish they’d build their nests somewhere else!’ grumbled Amir.

  ‘Shh!’ warned Connor, peering into the darkness. Now the ducks had settled, the night was still and hushed once again. He waited a full minute just to be sure. Then he waved to Zhen to move on.

  Moonlight glinted on the muddy waters as their silhouettes swiftly and silently flitted across the field. Reaching the far side, they came to a single-track road that led to the outskirts of an old town. The buildings here were a mishmash of squat single- and two-storey whitewashed blocks, their peaked roofs a ripple of clay tiles, each merging into the next like a sea of grey dappled waves. The streets were narrow and cobbled, illuminated by red oval-shaped lanterns hanging from doorways, their warm soft light welcoming and just enough to see by. There were few if any people around, a stark contrast to the hectic bustle of the city. In fact, the flash modernity of Shanghai seemed to have bypassed this quiet corner of China completely. As the three of them wended their way through the back alleys, concealing themselves in the shadows, they crossed over a number of ancient stone bridges, each spanning a network of canals. There were no roads to speak of, in fact no cars at all – only narrow paddle boats. It was as if they’d stepped back in time.

  ‘Where are we?’ Connor whispered as they scurried over yet another bridge.

  ‘Zhouzhuang,’ Zhen replied quietly. ‘It’s a water town, a hundred kilometres west of Shanghai.’

  Heading down the lane opposite, their guide stopped beside a small unassuming house backing on to a canal. Its windows were shuttered and no lanterns lit. Above its modest entrance a dragon had been etched into the brickwork. Zhen rapped on the door.

  Getting no answer, he knocked again, more urgently.

  After what seemed an age, the door opened a crack and an old woman’s wrinkled face peeked through.

  ‘Lăolao,’ said Zhen, smiling warmly.

  The old woman frowned, her wrinkles deepening into grooves across her weathered face. Then a spark of recognition twinkled in her eyes. ‘Zhen?’

  Their guide nodded and the old woman, short and shrivelled as a dried fruit, opened the door. But she stopped as soon as she spotted his two companions in the shadows. Her sharp eyes were quick to judge Connor’s cement-encrusted hair, Western looks and surprisingly tall stature. She glanced in undisguised distaste at Amir too, noting with a downward curl of her lips his muddy waterlogged shoes.

  Zhen spoke rapidly in Chinese. The old woman didn’t take her eyes off the two of them as she listened, her expression inscrutable. She gave no response to Zhen’s pleas and appeared to be as unyielding as a rock.

  Connor began to feel uneasy standing so exposed in the street. Someone could come along at any moment. The woman was evidently not going to let them in. And at worst she might raise the alarm, even inform the authorities. A million-yuan reward was not to be taken lightly.

  Then the old woman held up a gnarled hand, silencing Zhen, and begrudgingly beckoned them all inside. They stepped into a small courtyard, cluttered with pots that brimmed with herbs and flowers. From the weak glow of a light bulb hung above the door, Connor could see the central area had been kept clear and recently swept. The house itself was a humble single-storey affair, its plaster walls flaking paint and its windows crooked yet spotlessly clean. A simple kitchen unit with a concrete sink was housed outside beneath a plastic corrugated roof. Laundry hung from a washing line and a wooden chair was propped against a wall beside a small foldaway table. In one corner stood a tall wooden stand with long pegs sticking out at different angles – to Connor it looked like a muk yan jong, a wooden training dummy used in martial arts, but here its sole purpose seemed to be as a coat rack.

  Once the door closed behind them, the old woman turned her scathing, critical glare upon Zhen. In a brusque and sharp tongue, she rebuked the boy, wagging her bony finger angrily. Connor didn’t need to understand Chinese to know that Zhen was in deep trouble and being subjected to a severe dressing-down. The old woman was as fierce as the dragon engraved above her door.

  After a three-minute tirade, she dismissed Zhen into the house with a flick of her wrist. Red-faced and scolded into silence, their guide scurried through an open door and disappeared. The old woman shot a sideways glance at Connor and Amir, narrowing her eyes, daring them to move. But Connor doubted they could, even if they wanted to, in the face of such a ferocious adversary.

  The old woman stalked past to the little kitchen. Lighting a single-ring gas stove, she picked up a large cooking pot that looked far too heavy for her slight frame a
nd rested it on top. Removing the lid, she gave whatever was inside a stir, then adjusted the stove’s heat. As the food was cooking, she stood with her arms crossed, watching Connor and Amir like a cantankerous vulture.

  ‘We should go,’ said Amir out of the corner of his mouth. ‘The woman’s obviously angry. And raving mad!’

  ‘I agree,’ said Connor. ‘Zhen’s in enough hot water without us adding to it.’

  ‘She’s not angry with you. She’s angry with me.’

  Connor and Amir turned to Zhen –

  But it wasn’t their guide who emerged back into the courtyard. Instead a slender young girl with a cascade of black hair appeared.

  ‘Zhen?’ asked Connor, questioning his eyesight. Gone were the shapeless T-shirt and baseball cap that had hidden her long hair; now their guide wore a traditional qipao dress, the close-fitting robe – with its high neck, split skirt and short sleeves – patterned with pink lotus flowers.

  The girl nodded, spread her arms and offered them a tentative smile. ‘Shanghai Surprise!’

  ‘Meet Lăolao, my grandmother,’ said Zhen as the old woman dumped three bowls of steaming soup on the little table that had been set up in the centre of the courtyard. Having scavenged three rickety wooden stools from around the house, they all sat down to eat a late-night supper – apart from the grandmother, who stood over them like a stern and dour-faced headmistress.

  ‘Xièxiè, Lăolao,’ said Connor, bowing his head in appreciation. But his attempts at courtesy were met with stony-walled silence. He glanced across at Zhen. ‘Your grandmother doesn’t appear too delighted at having us around,’ he said through a clenched smile. ‘Perhaps we should stay somewhere else?’