Dragon's Maw

Back on the bridge, Jade and Dell finish binding the crew’s hands behind their backs with zip ties.

“So, since you are all good boys now, can you tell me where the man of the house, Yi Yang is? Hmm?”

Jade leans into each of the crew members’ personal space, but none of them crack.

“Or should I let my trusty knife jog your memory?” She pokes one of their shoulders with her karambit, but he stays silent.

“Globetrotting pigs.” A scrawny crew member snorts, defiance in his eyes.

Jade switches her attention to him. “Big talk for a man sitting on the floor in cuffs.” She crouches to meet him at eye level, blade casually spinning in her hand. “You really think you’re in any position to be saying that right now?”

“You can’t hurt us,” he says smugly. “Interpol’s bound by the rule of global law.”

“Oh really? You hear that Dell? This one knows his rights.”

“If you harm us under your custody, you’ll be court-martialed,” the crew member adds.

“Here’s the thing,” Jade says, leaning in closer. “I don’t think you’re Interpol custody just yet. As far as I’m concerned, you’re still resisting arrest. And guess what?” She taps the side of his face with the flat of her karambit. “We’re authorized to use force until you comply.”

The man spits on Jade’s face. She remains unfazed, wiping the loogie off her combat glasses with a slow flick.

She steps back calmly. “Johnson?”

Dell cracks his knuckles together. He steps forward, towering over the stick of a crew member like a wall of steel. He winds back his fist.

“You wouldn’t dare—” WHAM.

Dell’s fist sinks into the man’s face like a cannonball, breaking his entire facial structure as it caves inward. His body crumples to the ground in a limp heap.

“Jeez, Dell,” Jade says with a raised eyebrow. “Did you put all your strength into that?”

“I held back quite a bit, though.” Dell said.

She shakes her head. “Muscles-for-brains, then.”

Another crew member’s voice trembles as he blurts out, “He’s in his quarters! Yi Yang’s in his quarters!”

Jade flashes a big, friendly smile at the snitch. “Thank you for your cooperation.” She taps her earpiece. “Flint, Ray, check for Yi Yang in the crew quarters at the bow.”

In the ship’s quarters, Yi Yang spin his fingers on the dial of a wall-mounted safe. After dialing in the right combination, he yanks on the lever and the door swings open. He pulls out a black titanium case and flicks both latches open and peeks inside.

Resting inside, surrounded by protective foam, is a metallic cube with a surface that weaves like carbon fiber. Yi Yang’s sighs with satisfaction. He shuts the case and snaps the latches shut.

“Going somewhere?” a voice whispers behind him.

Yi Yang’s body twists on instinct and is greeted by the woman in the dark bodysuit and face partially obscured by a long scarf.

“Didn’t expect you so soon, Locke,” Yi Yang says, his voice forced into false bravado. “Want to make the exchange now? Well, first let’s get off the ship. I have a hover ski waiting, and—”

“Icarus is quite disappointed by your performance,” Locke replies in a monotone voice.

“Wait, I can explain,” Yi Yang says, his hand slipping toward the knife at his back. “Just give me one—”

He swings.

…

Ray and Flint creep through the dark cargo hold, their goggles illuminating the dim space with color night vision. Rows of unmarked crates are stacked throughout, scattered like a maze of wood.

Ray spots one lone elongated crate with its lid ajar, and pries it open with his shortsword. Inside, he finds a cache of Chinese spears.

“Illegal weapons. We hit the jackpot alright.” Ray mutters, picking up one of the spears. He drags a finger along the tip, inspecting the craftsmanship. “Looks like a Qiang Type 2. But steel polyalloy instead of obsidian composite. Rough finishing marks. Nothing the Chinese would pass. Must be an American copy.”

“Focus,” Flint replies, his eyes scanning the shadowy corners. “We’re here for Yi Yang, not the knockoffs.”

“But why would the Triad resort to moving hillbilly crap? Are they really that strapped for cash?”

Flint’s eyes lock onto something he doesn’t expect to see—a stack of 55-gallon drums labeled “Cerium Oxide”. “Cerium oxide? What’s the Triad want with this much glass polisher?”

“Maybe the triad are turning legit with glassmaking?”

Flint chuckles. “I doubt that.”

Ray’s combat glasses outline a giant silhouette shifting in the dark behind Flint.

“Flint! Get down!”

Flint spins and ducks just as a halberd’s blade slices through the air where his head was a moment before. The blade slices a gash into one of the cerium oxide barrels, spilling the white granules onto the deck.

The hulking triad supervisor, out of his raincoat but still wearing a whistle around his neck, steps out of the shadows. His robotic left arm’s motors whine as it assists him in wielding a large, modernized halberd in hand.

Flint rolls aside and attempts to get back up, but his mechanical leg stutters, locking him into a kneeling position. “Damn it, not now…” he pounds his artificial knee, hoping it behaves.

The supervisor’s eyes lock onto Ray and swings the halberd at him. Ray jumps back just in time, and the blade smashing into the metal deck, sending sparks flying. The force of the impact echoes throughout the hold.

Ray seizes the opportunity and lunges at the supervisor with his shortsword. His strike is blocked as Ray’s blade presses against the halberd’s reinforced shaft. The supervisor’s raw strength wins out and he shoves Ray backward into a stack of crates. Weapons spill out in a clatter. Ray’s shortsword flies from his grip.

Ray scrambles to his knees and grabs one of the fallen cheap American Qiang Type 2’s as a substitute. It’s better than nothing.

With a warrior’s shout, Ray charges the supervisor, lunging the unwieldy spear in front.