CHAPTER 14

Jun sits on the edge of her metal bunk while the other women who share the cramped, one-room dormitory cluster around, all talking at once, bombarding her with alternately curious and anxious questions.

"You are alive! Are you hurt?"

"What is happening? Who is screaming?"

"Do you know him? Is he your lover?"

"Those terrible sounds! I am frightened."

"Is he from the police? Did you tell them about Mr. Lee?"

"Does he know about the bombs?"

"Are they angry with us? Are we in trouble?"

Throughout the evening, the women had been unusually quiet after the violent commotion in the hallway had shattered their comfortable nightly rituals, a mood that had only darkened as the terrible and too-familiar sounds of torture followed. Then when the guards burst awhile later and demanded that Jun come with them, all of their worst forebodings had seemed to come true, and they had hardly dared to speak even in whispers.

Now that she has safely returned to them, the other women seem to regard this as something between an epiphany and a miracle. But as Jun looks around at the faces her fellow prisoners, she is equally as surprised by what she sees there. Somehow, amid the weariness, terror, and indignation, there is a new spark of resistance—the same spark of strength and purpose that has been kindled inside her by the tall man's kindness. For the first time, she sees them not merely as fellow victims and captives, but as the capable mothers, sisters, and daughters that they are. She seems women who are tired of being pushed around and treated as property.

That's when she knows what they must do. True, she cannot free the tall man on her own; one woman is helpless against a dozen armed men. But perhaps a dozen women, working together, can find some way to help her friend, and maybe change their own lot as well.

"Sisters," she declares, trying to make herself heard over the barrage of questions, "you have heard the terrible suffering of this man that Mr. Lee has captured. I have met this man." Murmurs of surprise break out around the room. "He is a good man, a brave man, who tried to help me today, to protect me from Mr. Lee's threats. He wants our freedom. But now, sisters, he needs our help; he has fallen into the hands of our cruel and greedy employer."

Nods and mutterings of agreement follow, and Jun seizes this moment of unity to rally the women. "We cannot let him die, sisters. There are many of us, and together we can save him. Together we can gain his freedom—and ours!"

The murmuring stops abruptly. Jun's fellow workers have frozen in the midst of their chattering, stunned by this audacious proposal. They have never before considered the strength of their numbers. But as they see the light in her eyes and know it as the same one that it glows their own hearts as well, her admonition begins to make a strange sort of sense.

"But what can we do, older sister?" asks a girl who is hardly more than a teenager, hugging herself and crossing her pink-slippered feet nervously. "The men have weapons. They will kill us."

"She is right, younger sister," adds a middle-aged woman who has only half finished putting her hair into rollers. "We are many, but how would we fight them?"

A smile spreads across Jun's face. "Think, sisters, of the work Mr. Lee hides here in this basement. He himself has put in our hands all the weapons we need!"

After a pause, realization begins to dawn on the faces around her—and mischievous smiles and even giggles follow. There is something fitting about turning the tables on Mr. Lee and using the explosives he illegally produces against him.

The aging Anna, the woman Finch and Reese both met at the reception counter, fairly crows with delight. "Yes, yes! The bombs. We have plenty of bombs!"

"But the bombs are dangerous!" someone protests.

"Of course, but they are dangerous for Mr. Lee, too!" another woman points out, and excited agreement follows.

"How would we get out? The door is locked!" someone asks.

For a moment, that problem quells the group's enthusiasm. Then Anna, with a twinkle in her eye, claps one hand dramatically to her chest and declares, "I will have a heart attack, and you will call for help! You will tell them I am dying!" She grimaces and gasps and staggers as the others stare in astonishment. "I always wanted to be actress," she says, breaking into a grin. "So, why are we wasting time? We must save your friend!"

Reese returns to consciousness more quickly than he would have liked, waking to the sting of the cane snapping against his cheek. He had been half-dreaming, half-hallucinating a rescue scene worthy of a TV crime drama: a fully-equipped SWAT Team bursting into the room, armored and armed to the teeth, forcing Mr. Lee and his henchmen to the ground. And then, to make the scene perfect, Carter following in their wake, desperate to find him, elated to see that she hasn't come too late.

But then the cane snaps again, hard enough that he winces and reluctantly opens his eyes. Nearby, several voices laugh, and a voice announces, "Sir, the prisoner—he wake!"

Weakly, Reese turns his head to look over his shoulder. Of course, there is no SWAT Team. No Carter. Only a nauseating close-up of his newly butchered left forearm, a gory mess where Ha-joon has cut away the bandage—along with a swath of skin. Then, a wavering image of Mr. Lee stalking back into the room, his enjoyment of his captive's suffering tinged with growing impatience. Reese is happy to be frustrating the man, at least.

"Ah, Mr. Robin Hood, I see that you have decided to join us again. Perhaps you're ready for a chat now, after your little nap? We do not have all night, you know."

With his arm burning, his head spinning like a cheap amusement park ride, and his back feeling like it's been torn up with a Rototiller, Reese is in no mood for banter. He growls hoarsely, "You . . . might as well . . . give up."

There is a pause of disbelief, then Mr. Lee and his men roar with laughter. "Oh, yes," he says with mock seriousness, "of course! I see no point in questioning an injured man who is chained to the wall and at my mercy."

Reese smirks as if the joke is on them. "I'm full of . . . surprises," he manages to say. But really, he suspects that no help will arrive before Mr. Lee's patience runs out. Heck, he'd even settle for a rescue by Fusco right now. He only hopes that Finch and the others can find a way to rescue Jun before Mr. Lee takes his out frustration on her.

Strolling over, Mr. Lee tugs on one of the handcuffs biting into his captive's wrists, causing fresh blood to well up around it. Reese doesn't flinch—doesn't even blink. "Ah, so you have loosened your chains, fearless Mr. Robin Hood? Ready to break free and defeat us all? No?" He smirks as Reese's eyes grow stormy. "Then I think I am the one who decides what we will do." He stands back again, and barks out an order in Korean.

As Reese hears the rotan whip through the air once more, he braces himself but with little effect; the nerves in his ravaged back seem to have become live wires. Such excruciating pain roars through his body that for a moment, he cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot even see. The sheer physical shock nearly overwhelms him.

Thankfully, the man with the cane pauses after the fifth lash, which is when Reese's legs give out. Panting with pain and fury, Reese struggles to make them support him, trying to relieve the agony of his full weight hanging from his wrists, fighting to regain some shred of dignity. But his legs won't comply. He's too spent.

"Fortunately for you, I am patient man," says Mr. Lee. At this, Reese manages a bitter snort of a laugh, which his captor ignores. "I will give you one more chance to tell me what I want to know," he continues, "before I give you the death that you deserve."

Although Reese has always expected to die violently, this end is shaping up to be even more miserable than he had imagined. But that challenge only fuels his resolve to fight to his last breath. Hearing the hungry snap of the cane in the hands of Lee's henchman, Reese groans and rolls his eyes in exhaustion.

Then, somewhere in the midst of the blinding agony, above the sound of his own ragged breathing, a familiar voice jolts him back to the basement. It's a woman's voice, but not Carter's. The pain must be making him hallucinate, because he can't possibly be hearing what he thinks he hears.

It their Number's voice, demanding, "Mr. Lee, you will let that man go—now!" and a large chorus of female voices backing up her demand. Blearily, he wonders whether Carter has managed to find him after all, and has spurred this revolt. That thought kindles a faint spark of hope in him, but Reese is too weak to turn his head and see whether she's there.

Snickering and the sound of knives being drawn make it obvious to Reese how Mr. Lee's men are taking this unorthodox invasion, and it seems for a moment that the whole thing will end quickly with a rout of the women. But then Mr. Lee's voice rings out above the murmurings of violence. "Wait! I want to hear what this gaggle of hens has to say."

Although Mr. Lee's voice is as mocking and imperious as ever, but Reese detects an unfamiliar note in it—could it possibly be fear? He can only hope.

Jun speaks again, her voice bold despite its slight quavering. "This gaggle of hens says you must release this man now, and do not hurt him more. And you must pay us all fairly, or we will tell the police about your bombs."

Predictably, Mr. Lee and his henchmen guffaw with laughter, but with a definite edge of nervousness this time. Reese can guess why, thanks to one word: "bombs." Apparently he was right in noting the similarity between the smells of salon chemicals and explosives, though he's annoyed at himself for not seeing the connection sooner.

"And why," Mr. Lee sneers, "should I be frightened of a little chicken who comes with her flock to peck at me?" He makes clucking noises and pretends to flap his wings, then strides forward until he is standing face to face with Jun. "I own you," he growls, "I own all of you, little hens. You have nothing without me. But if you fly back to your coop right now with no more cackling, I will not beat you too badly when I am done with this man. If you stay—then you can share his fate."

Jun's heart beats faster, since she knows that Mr. Lee does not make empty threats. But she has chosen her path and won't be swayed from it. "No," she says, then louder, "NO! We will not leave. We are free women. We are not your slaves. If you do not do as we ask, we will use your own bombs to burn down your big, expensive house." She nods toward a small but powerful device that she holds in one hand and the lighter she carries in the other.

Anna, behind her, holds up a bottle of nail polish remover. She points to the warning label with a smile. "See? 'Highly flammable.' "

Mr. Lee abruptly falls silent and his men freeze in their places as they notice that each of the twenty women crowding the doorway and spilling into the room is similarly armed with explosive substances. Still, he hesitates, unwilling to bear the shame of letting this absurd army defeat him.

"And then what?" he shouts at them, gesturing broadly. "You will be criminals in this country. They will lock you up in jail. They will send you back to China."

A woman further back in the crowd speaks up. "Either way, we will be free more than when we work for you!"

Another adds, "And the food will be better!"

A refreshing burst of female laughter breaks through the tension for a moment, which only enrages Mr. Lee more. Subtly, he gestures to two of his men to break through the crowd. But even with knives drawn, they hesitate, and Jun calls out, "Now!"

The nearest women dash the contents of their bottles in the men's faces, leaving them howling and clawing at their eyes, their weapons forgotten. Their compatriots fall back in alarm. Then as Jun flicks on her lighter, Mr. Lee and some of his men duck for cover, while others make a break for the doorway, shouting in terror, pushing past the women.

Seeing that Mr. Lee has not retreated, Jun pauses, wondering whether she should light the fuse. Then she looks again at the tall man, her rescuer, his body hanging limp and torn. Her face hardens; she knows what she must do.

But before she can move, something heavy barrels into her full on, knocking her onto her back. As if in slow motion, Jun watches the device and the lighter fall from her hands toward the concrete, and she feels her hopes falling away with them.