Here’s a sample from an early chapter of The Golden Dragon. Just a small Christmas present…
Douglas dashed onto the ferry apron just before it took off. Only a couple people made it on after him. The boat creaked away from the dock and started across the bay. Again, the smells and sights captivated him as the old steel hull thumped its way through the waves.
He left the stern and headed up the starboard side of the vessel, his eyes straying to the horizon of low hills and water that encompassed the strait. Somewhere south along that line was the mouth of the Pearl River, which emptied into the bay carrying a lot of China’s flotsam and jetsam with it.
It was said that at certain times in Hong Kong’s history, the Pearl River was an indicator of China’s socio-political health, judged by the number of bodies washed into the delta in any given season. During Mao’s various campaigns and purges, fishermen around Hong Kong were said to sometimes haul in more bloated bodies of people than of fish.
Douglas mused on this as he made his way along the vessel, gradually leaving most of the people behind on the stern or inside. Local commuters comprised the bulk of the passengers and they were more intent upon their own conversations or smartphones than the scenery.
He finally sat on the low, steel bench that ran along the outside wall and leaned back. The diamond reflections of the sun on the milky green water made him squint as he watched a few ships bob past on the waves.
A young businessman walked by muttering into his phone, and almost tripped over Douglas’s feet as he edged by. The gap between the bench and the low gunwale was quite narrow and Douglas pulled his long legs in as far as he could with an apologetic look at the man, who ignored him anyway. The only other person coming along the side was a shorter, heavy-set man in a gray coat, who seemed as entranced with the horizon as Douglas was.
The man walked toward Douglas slowly, with occasional pauses to take in the scenery. At one point he stopped and looked around, seeing Douglas and giving him a slight nod. The man’s expression was flat, but Douglas returned the nod with a slight smile. The man angled his body away, and Douglas assumed he was going to return toward the stern. He closed his eyes for a moment, smelling only the sea and the diesel, and feeling only the thrum of the engine through his body and the warmth of the sun.
Which suddenly wasn’t there anymore.
He opened his eyes at the same time he became aware that someone was near him, blocking the light.
The man in the gray coat was looming over him, looking down at Douglas with that same flat expression. Douglas thought the man was going to ask him something and offered a flicker of a smile, but then his eyes happened to catch the long-barreled gun in the man’s hand, held at waist level and aimed right at his chest.
A spike of adrenaline sent shocks out his limbs and he moved instinctively, jerking sideways just as the gun coughed and a flare of heat lanced through his side. Before he could recover, the man grabbed him up like he weighed nothing and ripped the shoulder bag from him, tearing the straps off at the seams.
The bag dropped to the deck and Douglas was lifted bodily into the air, the world spinning around him. His head connected with something hard, and stars exploded across his vision, followed by a brief moment of weightlessness then a tooth-rattling impact as he hit the ocean, submerging and spinning head-down in a froth of dirty seawater.
The water was warm, but the shock and disorientation caused him to suck in a mouthful of it and he panicked, writhing in the current of the passing vessel. The uniform green murkiness filtered the sunlight in every direction and he couldn’t see the surface, but his momentary pause was enough to allow natural buoyancy to take over and he felt his legs begin to angle downward. Desperately, he flailed in the opposite direction, lungs empty and head bursting with pain, every stroke sending a fresh stab of agony up his side.
Just as he was sure he would take that fatal, life-stealing mouthful of the sea, his head broke the surface and he gasped raggedly. A wave smacked him in the face, and he gulped water again, this time swallowing some and the bitter, salty taste galvanized him to kick out strongly with his legs, lifting him momentarily above the swell.
Through blurry, stinging eyes he saw the stern of the ferry already tens of yards away. The people along the rail didn’t seem to notice him as most were in conversation with others or staring into their phones. He tried to yell, but another wave slapped him and choked it off.
His clothes felt like a suit of chainmail and he could barely lift one arm out of the water to signal before the movement ducked him under the next wave and his side cramped with pain. He couldn’t seem to draw in a full breath and had to struggle just to keep his head above water.
The ferry continued on its way. There was not going to be any assistance coming from there, so he treaded water and tried to think through the pain in both his head and his side.
He slid his left arm down and felt his inside pocket. Thank God, the cylinder was still there. It was heavy and awkward, but not heavy enough to make staying afloat much more difficult than it already was being fully clothed.
He moved his hand across his chest under his right arm. A warmth flowed over his fingers, and he knew he was bleeding. He was afraid to probe further and was gripped by the irrational fear that blood might attract sharks, but then he remembered he was in the middle of one of the busiest waterways on the planet and predators probably avoided the area.
That presented another problem, though. If he didn’t pass out from his injuries or get dragged down from exhaustion, it was a sure bet that he might end up in the propellers of one of the scores of ships plying the relatively narrow waterway.
On the other hand, it could be his salvation.
He cast about but didn’t see any ships in the near vicinity at the moment. Of course, he was in the part of the channel that the ferries traversed, and most local traffic stayed away. However, he felt himself making some movement through the water even while treading. There was a strong tidal current that swept back and forth through the channel twice and day and he was in its grip as surely as a discarded plastic bottle. In relatively short order, he’d be out of the ferry route and on his way to the greater Pacific if he wasn’t plowed under by a cargo hauler first.
A careful, pain-wracked spin showed him that he was roughly half-way across the channel, and he tried to picture in his fuzzy head where the current would likely take him. It seemed that his best chance was to strike out for the mainland side, rather than the Hong Kong Island side, as the island itself was small and he might be past it before getting close to shore.
Another glance in the direction of the departed ferry showed him a sister-vessel approaching from the opposite terminal, but he knew he was already being pulled out of line with the route the boats took and that he’d be far away by the time it reached the midway point.
With little hope that he’d be able to make it at all, he decided to go for it and began swimming with the current but angling himself toward the distant mainland shore. He was hampered by the wound in his side and didn’t want to think about how much blood he was losing to the sea. His right arm was useless, as he couldn’t stretch it out very far before his side burned with pain, but found he could manage with a slow, side-stroke motion on his left side that didn’t seem to be as painful or tiring. It also allowed him to keep his targeted shoreline in view while he swam.
Even a few minutes of slow swimming, however, revealed the truth of his situation to him. Blood-loss and his already tired condition had him stopping every few strokes to gasp for breath. His head was swirling and he knew he wouldn’t make it all the way to shore. His only hope was for a boat to come along in time and that seemed unlikely, but he was loathe to just give up, so he waited until his head cleared a bit and struck out again.
He paused more and more frequently as he went, finally getting to the point where only a stroke or two was all he could manage before having to stop. Maddeningly, the shore seemed as far away as ever, but he refused to give in and simply took longer breaks, hoping for a miracle but knowing that one wouldn’t likely be coming.
*
Across the water, on the Hong Kong Island side, the ferry docked and the short, burly man in the gray suit disembarked, mixing in with the commuters. He walked purposefully, clutching a shoulder bag in one hand, unnoticed by everyone except a pair of eyes watching from a terrace across the street, behind a coffee cup and a wide-brimmed hat.
Jen Liu-Shih, an investigator with the Ministry of Internal Affairs, followed the man’s progress across the street with her eyes and saw him climb into a green sedan, which sped away. Training took over and the car’s plate number was memorized, filed, and she turned back to watch the remaining passengers leave the terminal.
In a seemingly casual gesture, she lifted a cellphone from the table and hit a button. Deep red painted lips spoke in clipped Mandarin, “I don’t see the professor, but some bulldog just got off the Star with what looks like the Canadian’s bag you described and took off. Where are you?”
A voice buzzed back, “Halfway across on the next boat. I didn’t make the professor’s departure, as you know.”
“Yes. Very disappointing.” Her lips were set in a grim line, “And the professor definitely got on, followed by that bulldog.” It wasn’t a question.
A pause, “Yes.”
Curses went unspoken as she watched the last of the departing passengers file out and the next line of commuters heading across begin to check their tickets and walk onto the ferry, “Then there are only two possibilities; the professor is still on the ferry, tucked away somewhere dark, or…”
“Or…?” came the query.
“Or his body is halfway to Macau by now. Either way, he’s probably dead.”
The phone clicked off and was tossed onto the table. The rice-pudding was surely in the fire now. She took a controlling breath and picked up the phone again with steadied fingers. The hope now rested on whether Dr. Thorsby had passed the document to his friend, or whether it was still in the bag that had just disappeared into Hong Kong traffic. Delicate red fingernails pressed another button, and the news was passed on.
*
After what seemed like hours, Douglas was close to admitting defeat. No other boats had even come close and the ferries were far behind him. The channel was frustratingly peppered with vessels, but it seemed as if a conspiracy was keeping them just far enough away that his small head went unobserved in the choppy, sun-dappled water.
His breath came in shorter and shorter gasps, his legs and arms felt numb, and his shoulders and neck were rigid with fatigue. Exhaustion was claiming him and even his ears felt stuffed with wool. All he could hear was his own gasping and a rhythmic thrumming in his chest that he thought must be his blood slowing as his body systems began to shut down.
He was almost at the point of finally giving up and just letting the jade water claim him when something struck his shoulder hard, startling him. His head was forced under, and he struggled to jerk his body around, sending a fresh wash of pain the entire length of his right side.
He came back up and saw a broad plank, painted a faded white, with streaks and chips showing salt-bleached gray wood-grain underneath. It bobbed beside him and a dull red plimsole line showed itself.
It was a small boat of shallow draft sliding by him rapidly in the swell.
Without thinking, he swung an arm up and grasped the low gunwale, raking his hand along the ragged, splintery wood until he caught an obstruction and his fingernails dug in. He was immediately dragged through the water, his head pummelled by waves. His entire body shrieked in pain as his stiff muscles howled and the wound in his side felt like it ripped open wider.
The small craft dipped suddenly with the added weight and a voice called out from somewhere above in Cantonese, “Aiyah! Wai! Jo muot ye?”
Douglas squinted up through salt-encrusted eyes and saw a leathery, wrinkled face with too few teeth jutting out above him.
The man’s startled eyes widened until it looked as if they’d pop out and a gnarled hand reached out to grab Douglas’s jacket, just as his own strength finally failed and his arm slid off the gunwale.
Unseen, another pair of younger, stronger arms reached down and grabbed him up, pulling him roughly over the side and into the flat bottom of the fishing sampan.
A mixed haze of sun glare and shadow washed across his vision as he faded in and out of consciousness and a gabble of excited voices gradually faded from a dull roar to a whisper and ultimately out. He didn’t even care if it was a prelude to death as merciful blackness claimed him.
I hope you enjoyed this excerpt. The Golden Dragon and as well as all my other books can be found on Amazon by entering the titles and my name, or by going to my author page at:
amazon.com/author/jaygould
Author Jay Gould 