The Black Dragon by Julian Sedgwick Page A

gangster’s right hand.
    â€œOK, just think about the floor number. The floor where you want to go. You don’t have to move your arm, just say it over and over in your head.”
    Ponytail’s hand jerks up like an automaton, his finger extending, hovering near the 17.
    Zamora presses it and the elevator jerks skyward. Grinding metallic sounds reverberate from overhead, as the compartment groans and bumps against its shaft. The major starts to whistle softly under his breath, eyes glued to the display ticking up the numbers.
    â€œ
No hay problema, no hay problema
,” he mutters to himself.
    â€œ
No problema
,” Ponytail parrots from deep in his hypnotic state.
    And then the elevator comes to a stop at 17. Zamora grips the pistol tighter.
    The doors open to reveal a dingy corridor, its walls running with damp. Deathly silence and no air. From somewhere a long way off comes the sound of hysterical laughter. It stops abruptly as they step out of the lift.
    Danny steadies his own breathing again.
    â€œJust keep that image strong,” he says to Ponytail, but the man needs no encouragement. He’s transmitting again. A sensation of rush, a determination to get to wherever they’re going. Muscles tensing.
    â€œEasy now,” Danny says. “No rush. Relaxed.”
    Past a string of unmarked doors, up half a flight of steps, down another moldering corridor, through a kind of interior bridge to another block, through a door, another dark passageway . . .
    â€œ
Madre mia
,” Zamora mutters. “Hope we can find our way back out of this.”
    Ponytail is hesitating now. Maybe the fear of revealing the hideout is starting to override everything else. The sensation of movement is dying under Danny’s fingertips. It feels like he wants to stop . . . here.
    â€œOK,” Danny says. “Nothing to worry about. Shall we go on?”
    But the man has come to a resolute halt outside an opaque glass door.
    A plaque on the outside: BLACK DRAGON KUNG FU CLUB. And two characters under the words Black Dragon:

    Danny raises his eyebrows. Same characters, surely. He takes Ponytail’s lighter from his pocket, studies it for a second and hands it to Zamora. “Don’t think Lo translated things properly for us. Do you?”
    The major shakes his head. “Scumbag.”
    They listen hard at the door. Not a sound from inside.
    â€œLaura’s here?” Danny asks quietly.
    And Tony nods, as if lost somewhere very, very far away.

14
    HOW TO WRITE WITHOUT A PEN
    Zamora tries the handle, but it’s locked.
    There’s a security code pad on the door frame, and Danny’s just considering whether he can get Ponytail to reveal the number when the major takes matters into his own hands. He charges the door, his left shoulder crunching into it just above the lock. It gives slightly. Zamora furrows his brow, takes another run up and the door wrenches loose, the frame splintering. It swings on one hinge and then crashes to the floor in a cloud of dust.
    The noise reverberates in the corridor like a bomb going off—and snaps Ponytail from his trance. He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly as he takes in the situation. Then he’s off at speed, around the corner and gone. “Forget him,” Danny says. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”
    They dash through an office and, beyond that, find themselves in a large echoing gymnasium. A row of dusty windows spill opaque light onto the wooden floor. Arrayed along the opposite wall is an arsenal of clubs, sticks, and barbells. In front of those a wooden army of dummy fighting figures stands ready for sparring, stocky arms held up stiffly, while black and white photos of stern kung fu masters stare down at them from the walk.
    â€œLaura?” Zamora calls.
    A punching bag twists very slowly on its rope, groaning. Not a soul to be seen, and the silence sings in their ears.
    At the far end of the gym there are