Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Ethan’s watch told him it was a quarter after one.
Back when he’d climbed out of that fish bin, every joint and bone in his body protesting the tight quarters, he’d thought that would be the worst torture of the day.
That was what he got for thinking.
The room hadn’t changed a bit since then. Same dim yellow bulb in its wire cage, same smell of diesel and fish guts and something else he didn’t want to identify.
The sun must be overhead now, perhaps already arcing toward the west, but in that storage compartment, he’d never know it. The lack of fresh air was the worst part.
Maybe the second worst.
The trawler pitched to the left, but his stomach stayed where it had been.
The little chalky pills Lao Wu had pressed into their palms hours before hadn’t helped much. Or maybe they had and this could be even worse. He couldn’t imagine.
Mei Lin shifted on the floor.
She’d curled on top of a green tarp he’d pulled off a crate, then pulled the excess over her, complaining of the chill. He’d been grateful when she’d fallen asleep. Or maybe grateful was the wrong word. He’d been relieved. She’d slept off and on in the truck the night before, but not enough.
He watched her now and felt the relief curdle.
Her cheeks were red, and…was she shivering?
Still wearing the oilskin jumpsuit the pastor had brought for her, lying under the tarp in a room that felt stifling to him… But somehow, she was shivering.
He slid off the fish bin he’d been sitting on for hours. Crouching next to her, he pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. He didn’t have a thermometer, but he didn’t need one to know her temperature was over a hundred.
His wife was sick.
“Okay.” Not that anybody was there to hear his whisper.
He peeled the tarp back slowly, watching her face. He didn’t want to wake her, but he couldn’t let her temperature go any higher.
She didn’t stir.
He bunched the tarp up away from her, then sat back on his heels.
He had nothing. No Tylenol. No ibuprofen. Not a single aspirin. He’d brought Tylenol with him to China, but like an idiot, he’d left the bottle in his suitcase in the hotel in Changsha.
It felt like months had passed since then, but it had only been… He counted the days. He’d been in China for a week?
Plenty of time to grab a bottle of Tylenol. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
All he had were a couple of water bottles. His phone didn’t have service, and even if it had, who would he call? Until they reached South Korea, there was nothing to do but wait and pray.
He wanted to sleep. But even if there were room for him to stretch out in the tiny space, he couldn’t. He needed to be alert in case something went wrong.
Because, so far, something always went wrong. And now Mei Lin was sick.
Lao Wu had come down about an hour after they’d cast off. He’d stood at the bottom of the ladder in his big rubber boots, hair flat from the wind, and started talking.
Ethan, of course, hadn’t understood a word, but Mei Lin had still been awake. She’d translated, telling him the ride would take seven to nine hours to the EEZ. He forgot what it stood for—something economic zone, he thought.
“There, we will transfer to another boat.” She turned to the fisherman and asked him a question, then related his answer to Ethan. “We will get from this boat to another boat, though he says he doesn’t know how.”
Ethan had noticed the careful blankness on the man’s expression. It was the same kind of expression Ethan himself wore in the ER when he suspected a terrible diagnosis for a patient but didn’t want to say it until it was confirmed.
One more thing to worry about.
They weren’t in China anymore. He tried to be thankful that the Lord had brought them this far and not worry about everything that could still go wrong.
Easier said.
His wife’s cheeks were too red, her breath coming too fast. He needed to do something.
Maybe Lao Wu had a fever reducer. The fishermen who’d come to the ER back in Virginia seemed to keep well-stocked wheelhouses. Maybe that was a universal thing. Out here on the water, anything could happen.
Ethan stood and stepped over Mei Lin on his way to the steep stairs. He’d climb up, and when he was in front of Lao Wu, he’d point at his head and make a face that conveyed pain. Seemed like the universal sign for a headache.
He was on the bottom step when the hatch banged open, and cold, salty air poured into the stuffy space.
Lao Wu leaned over the opening, blocking the light and shouting something. Whatever the man said, it was urgent.
Ethan turned and dropped to his knees beside Mei Lin.
“Wake up. Sweetheart, wake up.”
He shook her shoulder.
Her eyes opened—glassy and slow. She tried to sit up but didn’t make it.
He got an arm under her shoulders. “Easy. Easy.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed the heel of her hand against her temple. He’d seen that look often enough—a fever-headache that pulsed and pounded with every movement.
Lao Wu shouted again from the hatch.
Her head came up. “It’s time.” Her voice was thin, the words scratchy as she held her hand to her neck. “We have to hurry.”
Lord, help her. Help us both.
He grabbed their backpacks, shouldered his onto his back, then stuck his arms through hers and held it on his front. His bag held the evidence. It was the only one they couldn’t lose.
“Go on,” he said. “I’ll be right behind you.”
She crawled up the steps, using both arms and legs to lift herself from one to the next.
Ethan stayed close enough to catch her if she slipped.
They emerged into a world of light and chaos.
After all those hours in the dim yellow box, even cloud-filtered daylight made him squint. The wind whipped him by the collar and pushed. He held Mei Lin’s arm, terrified it would carry her right over the railing.
Ocean in every direction, gray water and gray clouds and a thin slice of sun fighting to break through. The deck was wet and slick. The boat rolled like it was trying to buck them off.
Lao Wu was at the rail, shouting at another man and pointing toward something off the port side.
Ethan peered in that direction.
A boat was coming in fast.
Not a fishing boat, though. It was long and narrow and matte black, sitting so low in the water that it was barely more than a dark shape carving a white path in the chop.
There was no cabin, just a center console with a plastic windscreen wrapped around it.
There must be people behind that windscreen, but he couldn’t see them.
That was their ride? He had been wishing for fresh air. It looked like they’d get it.
When Lao Wu stalked toward them, the careful blankness he’d worn below was gone. This was a working man’s face, focused and hard. He was shouting before he reached them.
Mei Lin’s eyes went wide.
“He says—” She held onto the railing. “He says we have to jump from this boat onto that one.”
“No.” Ethan glared at the fisherman. “Tell him no. That won’t work. You’re sick.” Even healthy, it was a crazy plan. There must be a ladder. There had to be another way.
She translated.
The fisherman barked something before she’d even gotten the words out, not even looking at them. He was watching the black boat, which had come close enough now that Ethan could see two men.
Mei Lin’s hand tightened on his sleeve. “He says this is it. We jump onto the boat, or we jump in the water. Either way, we go now.”
The wiry deckhand was at the rail, hurling fat orange foam bumpers over the side and paying the lines out fast.
The black boat’s engine got louder as it closed the gap. It barely slowed.
Lao Wu held up his hand, five fingers spread. “Ten,” he said, because why should anything make sense? Then he added something in Mandarin.
“When it gets here, we have ten seconds, and then he’s leaving.”
“Life vests.” Ethan caught Mei Lin’s shoulder but spoke to the fisherman. “Please. A vest for her at least.”
She got the words out.
The fisherman scowled and turned away.
If Ethan had time, he’d deck the guy. But the speedboat was alongside them now.
The bumpers groaned between the hulls. One man stayed at the wheel.
Another grabbed a line the fisherman tossed down.
Both were hooded and wore dark glasses, their mouths set tight.
One of them lifted a hand and gestured for them to hurry.
At the rail, Lao Wu’s eyes went wide.
His mate was pointing upward.
The low whomp whomp of a helicopter’s blades rose above the surf and engine noise.
The fisherman’s fear solidified into fury.
“Go.” Ethan squeezed Mei Lin’s arm. “You can do this.” If she didn’t, he’d dive into the water right after her. Surely, these men wouldn’t leave them to drown.
But the helicopter was getting closer, and apparently neither the fisherman nor the smugglers wanted to be caught.
Mei Lin’s expression shifted to determination. He helped her over the railing. She stood there a beat, then pushed off and landed on the boat ten feet below.
Ethan’s heart had jumped with her.
The man grabbed her and pushed her out of the way.
Another man Ethan wanted to deck. He climbed over the railing.
Lao Wu engaged the engine, and he felt it rumble just as he was hurling himself off.
His feet hit the smaller boat. The floor pitched beneath him, and his arms swung, reaching for something, anything to grab onto before he fell backward into the frigid sea.
The man grabbed his arm and shoved him toward Mei Lin.
Lao Wu was already motoring away. Ethan and Mei Lin were still crawling toward the plastic tarp that covered the cockpit when the driver hit the throttle. The boat spun in a tight circle and flew across the water.
Even with the heavy wool blanket one of the men had tossed him, the cold wind and salty spray were punishing. Ethan sat beneath the plastic on the floor, back against the hull, out of the way of the two men.
Mei Lin’s eyes were closed, but she wasn’t asleep. He’d pulled her legs across his lap and wrapped his arms around her, but it wasn’t enough to keep her warm.