At precisely 11:43 a.m., the tide came in just as the marine forecast had said it would. From the terrace outside the breakfast room, one could see it trying to climb the private slipway, while foam hissed amongst the imported granite blocks. Xu Xiao stood at the rail, coat collar turned up against a wind whose breath was tainted with diesel and wet leaves. Below, the yacht Cirrus—a stealth-carbon catamaran registered in the Caymans—was idling, her engine hushed to a whisper.
By then, Manning had come up beside him carrying only Dr. Chen's splint and the aluminum case he'd given her. Damp strands from the swiftest shower of her life were twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck. She had on dark jeans and black sneakers with a fisherman-style sweater two sizes too big; the sleeves engulfed her hands, and she had rolled them back to free her fingers; the left one still twitched with a tremor. "Mrs. Liu cried," she answered.
"Mrs. Liu cries all the time; she will cry louder when the auditors show up next week." Xu Xiao gazed away, toward the river mouth, where police boats were running slow ellipses, their white hulls flashing sunlight like warnings. "We have about a twelve-minute window between their patrol circuits. After that, we're on radar."
"But what if the wind shifts?"
"On that clapping shift, we take the gap at forty knots and hope the hull doesn't sheer." He pushed off from the rail. "You get seasick?"
"Only when I'm being hunted."
A weak smile. "Good. Adrenaline will keep your stomach down."
They went down the teak steps to the dock, wherein stood the ex-PLA security chief, Zhao, in civvies—an olive bomber jacket and mirrored sunglasses—waiting at the gangway. He passed a slim folder over to Xu Xiao. "Clearance papers for the Yangshan outbound lane. Coast Guard signed an hour ago. The weather ahead is up for turning-force six by dusk."
"Fuel?"
"Six hundred nautical at cruise. Enough for Keelung, not enough for trouble."
Xu Xiao flipped through the folder and nodded once. Zhao's gaze rested on Manning, lingering over the splint for a moment. "Are you sure about the girl, boss?"
"She's the reason we're running, not a passenger."
Zhao shrugged eloquently, stepping aside accordingly.
Manning crossed the gangway last. The deck flexed under her sneakers—carbon fiber so lightweight it felt alive. Below, nervous applause was rendered as water slapped against the pontoons. The companionway led into the salon: white leather, matte titanium, and a wall of glass that turned the river into cinema. One bag sat alone on the table, unzipped, holding neat bricks of cash, two burner phones, and a matte black pistol smaller than her palm.
Xu Xiao followed her line of sight. "Glock 43. Loaded, safety on. Do you shoot?"
"I was taught never to aim at anything I wasn't prepared to lose."
"Sensible curriculum." He zipped the bag, tossed it to Zhao, who stowed it in a hidden locker. "Bridge is forward. Galley aft. If we take fire, you drop to the deck and stay there."
"Fire from whom?"
"Everyone who isn't us."
The engines rose to a muted growl, lines cast off. The yacht turned and headed downriver. From the upper deck, Manning watched Cloud Crest shrink—first a palace, then a postcard, then a memory framed in salt haze. She waited for a sudden pang of regret, but none came. The house had never belonged to her; it had simply been holding her for ransom.
At 12:01, they cleared the breakwater. Zhao pushed the throttles forward. The catamaran rose onto its foils, and the world became a blur. The Shanghai skyline receded astern like a row of broken teeth. And in front of them, grey water and the low, ragged clouds of a gathering storm.
• Below deck, Xu Xiao laid out a nautical chart across the salon table, red and black waypoints stitched a crooked path south-southwest. "We hug the Zhejiang coast until dusk, then cut east under cover of darkness. If we're lucky, we reach international waters before anyone notices."
Manning traced the route with her finger. "You trust luck?"
"I trust in fuel flow and radar shadow. Luck is a luxury." He glanced up. "Your mother is in a private clinic outside Lugano. Name on the file is 'Elena Rossi.' Italian passport, forged in '06. The Triad of Nine paid the bills for fifteen years. Last month, the payments stopped. Clinic's admin panicked, started shredding files. Seventy-two hours is all we have before they move her to a state facility where the trail vanishes."
Manning swallowed. "What condition is she in?"
"Catatonic, but stable. Electroshock therapy left scars. She's not pronounced since the bombing." His voice was flat, as if reading stock prices. "We will need her fingerprints and retinal scan to open a vault in Zurich. The vault contains the original source code of Phoenix. Anything in circulation is useless without it."
"And what if she is unable to consent?"
"We improvise." He folded the chart. "You should rest. You're going to need your strength for Switzerland."
She didn't move. "In the house—some of them knew my name. They knew the locket."
"They knew enough to be dangerous, not enough to be useful."
"How?"
He hesitated; a deviance from the norm. "Someone in Xu Group fed them. Someone with Level Seven clearance."
"Level Seven is you."
"And my mother."
A flicker from the salon lights as the yacht punched through a wave. Manning could feel the deck shifting beneath her soles, gently and deliberately. "Your mother tried to have me killed once before," she said, her voice low. "In Macau. Year before last. I was still pretending to be a cocktail waitress."
"I know."
"And you still brought me here."
"I brought you here because she failed." He locked eyes with her. "The enemy of my enemy is leverage."
Outside, the first rain hit the windows-a fat drop splattering like a bomb. Zhao's voice came over the intercom: "Force six confirmed. ETA to squall line twenty minutes. Recommend course change."
Xu Xiao keyed the mic. "Maintain heading. Push to thirty-five knots. We ride over the top."
He turned back to Manning. "Galley is stocked. There is Dramamine in the drawer if you need it."
"Not that I will." She stood, swayed with the roll, steadying herself on the edge of the table. "But I would like a straight answer first. After Switzerland, after we had the code, what would happen to me?"
He held her gaze for a long moment. The rain drummed harder now, a metallic hiss against the carbon fiber.
"You get to choose," he said at last. "Stay and fight for what is yours, or vanish again. In either case, the debt will be cleared."
"What if I choose to fight you?"
His smile was thin, almost tender. "Then I will still be in your corner. Enemies change. The rules do not."
Thunder grumbled overhead. The yacht pitched into the impending darkness, engines singing a hungry note. Manning walked aft, trailing her hand on the cool wall for balance. In the narrow galley, she poured water and drank it standing up. She caught her reflection in the glossy surface of the stainless-steel fridge: resting wide-open eyes, tight lips, a stranger who looked braver than she felt.
She pictured her mother somewhere lost in the Swiss fog, the scar on her wrist, the copper key that was now sealed in a waterproof pouch around Xu Xiao's neck. These were pieces of a puzzle she had not known existed until three days ago.
An unexpected lurch sent her staggering. Water sloshed from her glass and streaked the counter like tears. She righted herself, took a breath, then another. Then she opened the drawer, retrieved the pistol, and checked the chamber: round seated, safety on. She clicked it off, then back on. The motion felt disconcertingly familiar, as if muscle memory had somehow survived nineteen years of slumber.
She tucked the gun in the waistband of her jeans, sweater pulled down to hide it. It was a cold weight and oddly reassuring.
On the bridge, Zhao shouted something she couldn't catch. The roar of the engines seemed to overwhelm even his voice. The yacht tilted up as the foils began to sing, slashing into the storm like a knife through silk.
The mainland slipped behind them. Ahead lay only the gray of the unknown.
Manning closed her eyes and felt the fracture in her wrist throb, synchronized with the roar of the engines.
The next chapter, she had just thought, had just begun.