Marissa could hear the sound of songbirds coming from the nearby shore over the muffled roar of the cigarette-boat engine.
The powerboat was slowly pulling up to the junk to grapple to its side.
The captain was on the poop deck. He looked down on his Caucasian passengers morosely.
Tristan spoke quickly with Bentley, who shouted up to the captain in Tanka: “The white devil offers to pay fifty thousand Hong Kong dollars for you to get him and his wife safely back to Aberdeen.”
The captain’s expression changed. He stroked his goatee, then glanced at the approaching cigarette boat.
Marissa recognized the two men in the front of the boat as the two who’d been throwing the chum overboard the day Wendy died.
“The white devil has just raised his offer to one hundred thousand
Hong Kong dollars,” Bentley yelled in Tanka.
The captain started to speak to Bentley, but then he stopped mid-sentence. His eyes were riveted to the cigarette boat. Finally he shook his head.
“I cannot fight the Wing Sin,” he said.
Bentley faced Tristan and told him what the captain had said.
“Tell him we’ll double it to two hundred thousand,” Tristan said.
Before Bentley could yell out this new offer, they heard a second engine’s roar. All eyes were drawn to a small offshore island about a quarter mile to the east. The roar grew louder as a large, gun-metal-gray ship with a two-inch cannon mounted on its bow rounded the tip of the island.
The captain shouted to one of his crew on the main deck. The man tossed him his AK47. The captain grabbed the gun and fired a burst from the rifle over the heads of the men in the approaching cigarette boat and yelled something at the top of his lungs.
The other crewman herded Marissa and Tristan back into the hold and slammed the door on them.
“What’s happening?” Tristan demanded.
“It’s the PRC,” Bentley said.
“It’s a naval patrol boat.”
“What did the captain yell when he fired his weapon?” Tristan asked.
“He yelled “Thieves,” Bentley said.
From the hold they heard the cigarette boat take off with a roar of its powerful engine. The junk rocked when the boat’s wake hit the side.
Within seconds they heard the low-pitched concussion of the patrol boat’s cannon, followed by a high-pitched whistle.
“Are they firing at us?” Marissa demanded.
“They must be firing at the cigarette boat,” Tristan said.
“Otherwise we’d probably already be in the drink.”
The roar of the patrol boat’s engine grew louder as it bore down on the junk, but then it went by with a swoosh. The junk rocked again as the departing patrol boat’s wake hit the side.
“I never expected to be saved by the Chinese Communists,” Tristan said.
The wooden door to the deck crashed open again. One of the crewmen stood at the door. He stepped inside and yelled something.
“What now?” Tristan asked.
“He’s telling us all to get on deck on the double,” Bentley said.
“All of us, even the two refugees.”
As Marissa reached the deck again, she could see the patrol boat heading southeast. Far in front of it the cigarette boat was speeding away.
The captain bellowed out another order. Bentley blanched.
Even the refugees were upset. Chiang Lam began speaking to the captain. He seemed quite frantic.
“What’s the matter now, mate?” Tristan asked.
“The captain has just ordered us to jump overboard,” Bentley said.
“What!” Marissa gasped.
“Why?”
“Because he knows the PRC will be back and when they do, he doesn’t want to be caught with any contraband.”
Chiang was still addressing the captain. He’d grown hysterical and was yelling at the top of his lungs.
“What’s with the monk?” Tristan asked.
“He’s telling the captain that he cannot swim,” Bentley said.
The captain glared down at Chiang and pointed toward the shore. When Chiang continued his harangue, the captain pulled the AK47 off his shoulder and, without a moment’s hesitation, riddled the monk with bullets. The monk’s body smashed back against the railing before falling to the deck.
Marissa turned away. Tristan looked up at the captain in disbelief. Bentley climbed over the railing.