Free Escape by Gordon Korman Page B

yelled back in two languages until finally he began to laugh. He turned toJJ.
    “Don’t like the concert, eh? Can’t say I blame you.”
    “I just wanted to change the station,” JJ. mumbled resentfully.
    “No time for that now,” said Naslund briskly. He grabbed JJ. by the arm. “Let’s have a little chat with your father.”
    JJ. brightened. “He’s here? He paid?”
    “On the phone,” the smuggler amended. “He wants to hear his little boy’s voice before he ponies up the cash.”
    JJ.‘s face fell the distance between speaking to home and actually going there. “Okay, where’s the phone?”
    Naslund hustled him out into the hangar where a Mercedes stood waiting. “Your daddy’s probably got half the FBI tracing this call. We’re going to take a ride to a special phone.”
    They tied a burlap sack over JJ.‘s head and pushed him to the floor in the back of the car.
    JJ. guessed that it was mostly highway driving at first, but then the Mercedes entered what must have been a city. There were frequent stops, and he could make out horns and motorcycle engines all around.
    He heard Mr. Big’s voice: “There’s a cop on horseback. Sit the kid up.”
    So the sack was ripped off his head, and he was plucked from the floor and squeezed onto the backseat between Naslund and Meaner. They were in the middle of a bustling Asian city — Hong Kong? Shanghai? Neon billboards with
    Chinese characters flashed everywhere. Hundreds of motor scooters threaded through the crush of vehicles. Just ahead, a mounted policeman was directing traffic. No sooner had JJ.‘s eyes locked on the cop than he felt the muzzle of a gun pressed against his side.
    “Don’t even think about it/’ whispered Naslund.
    J.J. stared straight ahead, his blood chilled to freezing. They passed the officer close enough to reach out a hand and touch his boot.
    As soon as the policeman was out of sight, on went the hood, and J.J. was back on the floor.
    There were a lot of stairs — forty-two, JJ. counted. Every landing seemed to have a different cooking smell. Weeks on the island had gotten him used to the heat, but this was stifling.
    When the burlap sack was finally pulled off, he was in a small seedy apartment crammed full of computer equipment and piles of books and manuals.
    JJ. looked around for the phone, but Naslund sat him down in front of a computer that ran some kind of Internet long-distance calling program.
    A young Chinese man with shoulder-length hair was expertly pounding the keyboard. He
    turned to Mr. Big. “It will be untraceable for two minutes.”
    They heard a single ring and a quick pickup. “Jonathan Lane.”
    It was all JJ. could do to keep from bursting into tears like a two-year-old. Since he’d last spoken to his father six weeks ago, the whole world had gone crazy. He’d been shipwrecked, marooned, and held at gunpoint. And here was this voice that came from a life before all that. It was a comfort and a torment at the same time.
    “Hi, Dad.”
    “JJ., you’re okay, right? They haven’t hurt you?”
    “I’m fine,” he said shakily. “No, I’m not! You’ve got to get me out of this, Dad!”
    “It’s being taken care of,” promised his father. “Just sit tight and stay calm.”
    “Fasti”JJ. insisted, agonized that he couldn’t tell his father about the castaways still on the island. “You have to come quick! That’s the most important thing!”
    His father’s voice was choked with emotion. “I know you’re scared, J J. But for me this ishappy’t Three days ago I thought you were dead! To talk to you, hear your voice — you can’t know what it means to me — “
    JJ. was struck dumb. His father wascrying!
    Jonathan Lane never cried, not even in the movies. He had instructed his agent never to consider a role that involved “blubbering/’
    Mr. Big grabbed the microphone. “This is all very touching, but we have business. I assume you’ve got the money?”
    “It’s ready.”
    “Good.