—You're kidding —Marie said, noticing the faint smiles on Ethan's and Joe's faces. —You ate the same thing every day? Surely it couldn't have been that bad… could it?
Joe rolled his eyes.
—Try eating the same food ten times a week for twenty years, then tell me how you feel.
Even the thought made him nauseous.
—And they were always the same? The taste never changed? —Marie asked, her eyes brightening.
Joe nodded.
—Never. They tasted exactly the same.
Marie immediately took out her phone.
—Then we can look for Chinese restaurants that have been open for more than twenty years —she said excitedly. They finally had a lead. —There shouldn't be too many. If we find the restaurant that supplied your food, we might find the place where they kept you.
—Assuming it's still there —Ethan added cautiously.
—It's still there —Joe said, gripping the back of the seat. —I wasn't the only prisoner. I could hear other people.
Ethan looked at him in surprise.
—There were others?
—Yes —Joe replied through clenched teeth. —Whoever brought the food pushed a cart along a long hallway. There must have been other prisoners. I heard them every night—the pain, the desperation. Some of them eventually broke down or went mad.
Still searching on her phone, Marie spoke with renewed conviction.
—We're doing the right thing. Not just for you, Joe, but for everyone still trapped there.
Joe watched her work with curiosity.
—You can do all that on a phone now?
Ethan patted his shoulder.
—Of course. Technology moves fast. You've missed a lot.
Joe smiled sadly.
—I saw things on television, but I didn't realize how much the world had changed. I have no idea what my little Mia must be like now.
A little later, Marie held up the screen.
—I've checked. There aren't that many Chinese restaurants that have been around for over twenty years. A few dozen in New York, mostly in Chinatown.
Over the following days, several long-established Chinese restaurants received visits from the same three customers: two men and a woman. They ordered dumplings, tasted them, paid, and left.
Standing beside a trash can, Ethan watched Marie rub Joe's back as he retched. When he finished vomiting, she offered him water. Joe wiped his mouth with a tissue, breathing heavily.
—Next place —he said determinedly.
Later, they arrived at another restaurant. Ethan looked up at the sign.
—Golden Dragon Hotel and Restaurant —he read aloud.
They went inside and sat in a corner. As usual, they ordered dumplings.
The waiter wrote down their order, glanced at Joe's pale, tense face, and hurried to the kitchen.
Before long, he returned with a plate.
—Enjoy —he said with a smile.
—Thank you —Marie replied, handing Joe a fork.
Joe picked up a dumpling, drew a deep breath, and put it in his mouth. After he chewed a few times, Marie offered him a tissue. This time, however, he didn't spit it out. Instead, he chewed faster, his eyes brightening as he eagerly reached for another.
Soon, his mouth was full. He looked at Ethan while still chewing, but Ethan said nothing. He simply picked up a pair of chopsticks and tried one himself.
—Pork and chives, with a little mushroom. Pretty good —he said, glancing at Marie.
Encouraged, she tried one too.
—Not bad —she agreed with a nod.
While they ate, Ethan called the waiter over.
—Can I get you anything else?
—Yes. One number-one combo and two number-threes —Ethan said, pointing at the menu. —And three Cokes.
The waiter quickly wrote it down.
—Of course, sir.
—By the way, our office is nearby. Do you deliver? —Ethan asked with a smile.
—Sorry, we don't offer delivery at the moment. But you can call ahead and collect your order —the waiter explained. —We have one regular who's been picking up food here for more than thirty years.
—All right, thanks. I'll keep that in mind —Ethan replied, closing the menu and passing it back with a twenty-dollar bill. —That's all.
The waiter left, pleased with the tip.
Once he was out of earshot, Marie caught Ethan's hand.
—What did he say?
—Did you find something? —Joe asked anxiously.
—Looks like we're in the right place. They have a customer who's been collecting orders for over thirty years —Ethan said, checking his watch. —It's almost dinner time. Let's eat and see who comes in for a large order.
Their food arrived quickly. Ethan picked up a piece of meat with his chopsticks and tasted it.
—Not bad, huh? —He lightly tapped Joe's hand with the chopsticks. —There's more to Chinese food than dumplings, Joe.
Joe went through the motions of eating, his thoughts elsewhere.
Marie, meanwhile, enjoyed the meal without hesitation.
When they finished, Ethan paid the bill. Several large yellow paper bags packed with takeout containers stood at the front counter.
Marie was idly breaking open a fortune cookie when the restaurant door opened.
A tall man in a black suit entered with a cigarette between his lips.
—The usual? —he asked, reaching for a bag.
—That's right —the receptionist replied with a nod.
—Put it on the account —he said, gathering the bags and turning to leave.
Joe started to move, but Ethan lightly kicked him beneath the table. He tossed the car keys to Marie and followed the man alone.
At the entrance, Ethan saw him loading the food into the trunk of a black Cadillac SUV. He slowed, waiting for the tailgate to close before continuing.
The man opened the driver's door, dropped heavily into the seat, and shut it firmly. He settled in and exhaled, reaching for his keys. Just then, the passenger door swung open.
Startled, he turned sharply, his body tensing. Before he could react, a cold pistol pressed against his side. His hand stopped on its way toward the weapon beneath his ribs.
He went rigid, understanding the threat and the danger of resisting.
Closing his eyes, he spoke in a trembling voice.
—Listen, I don't know what you want. I've got a couple hundred dollars in my wallet. Take it.
Ethan kept the gun against him without answering. With his free hand, he reached beneath the man's ribs and removed a USP pistol. A search of his waistband produced a sheathed dagger.
—Hands on the wheel. I'm going to ask you some questions, and you're going to answer. Tell me what I need to know, and you can walk away unharmed.
The man nodded quickly and gripped the steering wheel.
—What's your boss's name? What does he look like? How many men does he have?
—I don't know what you're talking about. I'm a security guard. That food's for my coworkers.
—Wrong answer.
Holding the leather sheath between his knees, Ethan drew the dagger and drove it into the man's thigh.
—Fuck! —The man screamed, clutching the wheel.
Ethan pulled the blade out.
—Open your eyes. Look down.
The man obeyed. The gleaming blade hovered dangerously close to his crotch.
—Do I need to ask again?
—Chaney! His name's Chaney. Thin, but athletic. Dark skin. Wears glasses —he said rapidly, terrified. —There are more than twenty of us. You don't stand a chance. Give it up.
—That's not your concern. Tell me about security, and think carefully before you answer —Ethan said, applying light pressure with the blade.
—Cooperate, and I won't kill you. You'll still be able to use that, too. Understand?
With pain throbbing through his thigh, the man abandoned any thought of resistance and explained everything in detail.
Satisfied, Ethan put the dagger away, took out his phone, and called.
—Come outside and follow the black Cadillac SUV. Get moving.
Joe and Marie quickly came out and got into their car. Ethan cocked his pistol, keeping the driver at gunpoint. Following his instructions, the man drove through New York toward an industrial district surrounded by large factories.
After considering the situation, Ethan called again and told Marie to stay outside and keep watch while he and Joe went in. She protested, but eventually yielded to his insistence.
At their destination, the driver pressed a button on his remote, and a rolling door slowly rose. Ethan lowered the window and leaned forward, keeping both the M1911 and the USP trained on him. With no choice, the man drove inside.
The door closed behind them. As the SUV stopped, an irritated voice rang through the passage.
—What the fuck took you so long today, asshole?
Ethan immediately leaned out of the window, his M1911 raised. At the far end, a man in a suit sat behind a desk beside a forklift. Realizing something was wrong, he reached for an alarm button.
Bang!
Ethan fired without hesitation. The bullet struck the man's head, sending blood and fragments of bone against the wall.
The driver tried to escape. He had barely opened his door when Ethan fired the USP in his other hand. Several rounds struck him, knocking him to the floor.
Ethan calmly put on a translucent mask and the gloves he had bought in Chinatown, then stepped out. After checking that there were no cameras in the passage, he approached the man writhing on the ground.
—I told you I wouldn't kill you if you cooperated. Why didn't you listen?
The man clearly hadn't believed him. Ethan shook his head, raised the pistol, and fired.
Bang!
He tucked the gun into his waistband, bent to retrieve the remote, and raised the rolling door. Joe appeared at the entrance, and Ethan closed it behind him.
—Joe, leave them. Come here —he said, glancing at the bodies.
Looking sick, his hands trembling slightly, Joe nodded without speaking.
Ethan opened the Cadillac's trunk and retrieved the takeout bags. Without further explanation, he handed them to Joe.
—Take these —he said, quickly surveying the area. —There are cameras in the elevator. You need to change into one of their suits.
Joe looked down at the bodies, their clothes marked with sweat and blood. Ethan continued in a low, firm voice.
—They only have one guard watching the entrance. I doubt they suspect anyone's gotten in. They're not expecting trouble.
Joe swallowed, his hand shaking as he accepted the food. The situation weighed heavily on him, but he knew this was his opportunity and that he needed to follow Ethan's plan.
Holding the bags and concealing his face, he answered:
—Don't worry. I know what to do.
A few minutes later, Joe was ready, dressed in the dead driver's suit.
Ethan nodded, pressed the freight elevator's call button, and moved out of sight as Joe approached it. A quiet mechanical hum followed as the elevator rose and came to a stop.
Ethan waited silently, pistol and dagger in hand. Minutes later, he heard Joe's voice from the returning elevator.
—It's me.
Ethan lowered his gun and joined him. As they ascended, he checked the magazine.
—Did you take care of the guy upstairs?
Joe nodded. A few drops of blood marked his suit. The elevator stopped, and they moved out. Beside it, a suited man sat with his feet on a table, a monitor nearby and a magazine in his hands. He never got to finish reading before a hammer struck him brutally.
—Where now? —Joe asked, looking at the scene.
Ethan moved quickly down the corridor.
—Central control. The boss is Chaney. That's where he watches the prisoners.
Desperate screams reached them from behind several doors. Rounding a corner, they came upon a man dressed in black. Without pausing, Ethan threw the dagger. It pierced the man's throat, sending him to his knees as he tried to stem the blood.
Passing him, Ethan retrieved the blade and wiped it several times on the man's clothes. Then he hurried toward the stairs.
They climbed another level and reached a door.
The two exchanged a look, and Joe knocked.
—What the fuck is wrong with you? Why haven't you fed my pets? They're starving, you lazy bastard!
The door opened, and Joe surged through it, driving his fist into the man's face. His glasses shattered, and he collapsed without another word.
Ethan rushed inside with his pistol raised. A quick glance confirmed that the man was alone.
Joe shut and locked the door. Ethan lowered his weapon and examined the figure on the floor.
Chaney wore a tailored black suit with an elegant pocket square, and his head was closely shaved. This was the man who had watched Joe for more than twenty years. Joe dragged a table over and swept everything off it.
—Help me lift him.
Once they had placed Chaney faceup on the table, Ethan surveyed the control room. A luxurious desk stood before a wall of more than twenty neatly arranged monitors.
Over a dozen displayed surveillance feeds. In some rooms, prisoners slept; in others, they sat with vacant, lifeless expressions.
Tall cabinets and equipment of uncertain purpose stood nearby. The cabinets were packed with records.
Joe called out:
—Ethan, give me your dagger.
Ethan turned. Joe had removed Chaney's jacket and trousers and used them to bind him firmly to the table. His head hung over the edge, leaving his neck exposed.
Glancing at the unconscious man, Ethan drew the dagger from the leather sheath at his waist and handed it over.
—Don't use my name.
—Sorry.
Joe accepted the blade, then went to the main desk and picked up a cup of salt and a permanent marker.
—What are you going to do? —Ethan asked curiously.
—What I need to do.
Joe struck Chaney across the mouth.
The sharp slap made Chaney's eyelids flutter, and he slowly opened his eyes.
Another blow followed. He cried out and struggled against his restraints.
—What happened? Who are you?
Joe rested his hands on his knees and leaned closer, slowly removing his mask. He stared at Chaney with fierce anticipation.
—You haven't forgotten me, have you, bastard?
Chaney's pupils contracted as he recognized the pale face before him. Knowing he couldn't escape, he answered stiffly.
—Look who's back. My little pet came home to its owner.
Joe narrowed his eyes and slapped him twice, leaving him dazed.
Chaney shook his head and gritted his teeth.
—Come on. Untie me. Man to man. Come on.
—Don't rush. We're going to play for a while.
Joe tapped the dagger's tip with a finger, producing a faint metallic sound. With the marker, he drew a line across Chaney's throat.
—What are you going to do?
Chaney struggled violently, but the restraints held. He turned toward Ethan.
—Hey! Who are you? Make him stop, and maybe you'll get out of here alive.
Searching through the boxes, Ethan answered casually.
—I'm nobody. He went to a lot of trouble to find you. You should concentrate on convincing him.
—Listen to me, you fucking bastards! —Chaney shouted desperately. —I'm just the manager! This business didn't start with me, and it won't stop if I'm gone. As long as there's hatred and money involved, someone will keep doing it.
—You have a point —Ethan said, turning toward Joe. —What are you waiting for? Get on with it. I'm tired of hearing his fucking voice.
As Chaney screamed, Ethan opened another cabinet. His eyes brightened at the sight of two AR-15s.
He lifted the rifles from the shelf, their weight solid and familiar in his hands. He removed the magazines and checked the ammunition. Both were fully loaded.
Beside them lay a thick stack of cash, apparently twenty or thirty thousand dollars. He took a couple of bundles and slipped them into his pockets. That would cover what he owed Job. Then he picked up the rifles and stood.
Ignoring Chaney's curses, Joe carefully cut at the skin of his neck with the dagger's tip. Ethan turned to the surveillance feeds, then hurried toward a monitor at the end of the row. In a small room, a long-haired woman in a white T-shirt and shorts sat curled up at the end of a bed, staring blankly at a television.
—Nola?
Ethan stared in shock. He had seen her at the casino after rescuing Rebecca, and now here she was again. He hadn't expected to find the proud Kinaho heiress imprisoned in this place. A faint smile crossed his face.
—Take your time. Get whatever information you can. I'm stepping out.
He stopped Joe before he could pour salt onto Chaney's neck and handed him an AR-15.
Joe accepted it.
—Where are you going?
Ethan pointed at the monitor.
—To rescue a damsel in distress.
Joe's hands shook awkwardly, and he dropped the salt.
—What the fuck do you want? —Chaney yelled.
Ethan patted his shoulder.
—Don't make it too easy on him.
Leaving Chaney's curses behind, Ethan opened the door and stepped out. Joe locked it from inside.
He didn't know which room held Nola. After descending the stairs, he followed the corridor to a door secured by an old latch.
He lifted it and opened the door easily. From the inside, however, escape would have been almost impossible.
A startled man stared at him from the room.
Under the prisoner's frightened gaze, Ethan shifted the rifle in his hand and spoke casually.
—You're free.
Then he moved on.
He had opened seven or eight doors before anyone dared to peer out, afraid it might be a trap.
A harsh alarm suddenly rang through the building.
Only then did the prisoners react, rushing to escape.
Did a guard find one of the bodies? Ethan wondered, shaking his head as he opened another door.
Nola sat curled up at the foot of the bed, her hands resting on her knees.
When she saw him in the doorway, she clenched her fists and shifted into a defensive stance.
Apparently, she hadn't been there long. She still had the strength to resist.
—Who are you? —she demanded.
The mask concealed Ethan's features, and Nola watched him warily. Rapid footsteps echoed along the corridor, drawing closer. Without answering, he took the USP from his waistband and held it out to her.
—Follow me if you want to live.