The bamboo hut on Lantau had become a war room. Lin Yanting spread the Ferryman's map across the rickety table, his finger tracing the network of tunnels and safe houses that crisscrossed the island. Chan Do stood beside him, his face illuminated by the single candle, his jaw set with a determination that bordered on recklessness.
"Elaine Wong is a professional," Yanting said, his voice low and urgent. "She's been covering corruption stories for fifteen years. She knows how to protect herself—dead drops, encrypted backups, emergency contacts. If they've taken her, it's because she let them. Or because they moved faster than she anticipated."
Chan shook his head. "She didn't let them. She was in her office when the text came through. I called her landline before you tried her mobile—no answer. Her assistant said she left abruptly, with no explanation." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "That means they grabbed her from the building. Which means they knew exactly where she was, and when. Someone inside her own newsroom is compromised."
Yanting felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. The Director's reach was deeper than he had imagined. Not just the police force, not just the courts, but the media as well. The conspiracy had tentacles that wrapped around every institution in the city.
"Then we need to move fast," Yanting said. "Before they can extract whatever information they think she has, or worse—before they make her a warning to anyone else who might help us."
Chan reached for his jacket. "I know where they'll take her. The Ferryman had a list of properties—places he used for storage, for meetings, for—" He stopped, his face darkening. "—for disposal. I've been to most of them. If the Director's people are following the same playbook, they'll use one of the old warehouses on the western coast of Hong Kong Island. Secluded, no neighbours, easy access to the water."
Yanting grabbed his own jacket, stuffing the burner phone and the map into his pockets. "Then we go. But we're not doing this alone. We need backup—someone who can move without raising suspicion."
"Ma?"
"She's already compromised. If she gets caught aiding us again, she'll be finished. We need someone outside the system." Yanting paused, a memory surfacing. "The Ferryman's contact—the woman who rowed me to the island. She's still out there. She knows the tunnels, the safe houses, the network. If she's loyal to the Ferryman's cause, she might be willing to help us rescue Elaine."
Chan's expression flickered with doubt. "She's also loyal to Uncle Kwok. If she thinks we're trying to use his legacy for something he wouldn't approve of, she might turn against us."
"It's a risk," Yanting admitted. "But it's the only one we've got."
They left the hut under cover of darkness, following the map through a winding network of footpaths and stream beds. The island was quiet, its villages asleep, its hills cloaked in shadow. They moved silently, the weight of the document and the urgency of the rescue driving them forward.
The woman's hideout was a small fishing shack at the end of a pier, its windows dark. Yanting knocked on the door—three taps, a pause, two more. The signal Chan had learned from the Ferryman.
The door creaked open, and the woman stood in the threshold, her weathered face unreadable. She was holding a fishing knife, its blade glinting in the moonlight.
"You again," she said, her voice flat. "And you brought the boy. What do you want?"
"Your help," Yanting said. "The Ferryman's network is under attack. The Director's people have taken a journalist—someone who was going to publish the evidence we retrieved from the island. If we don't find her, she'll be killed, and the truth will be buried forever."
The woman studied him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face for deception. Then she stepped aside, gesturing for them to enter.
Inside, the shack was cluttered with nets and buoys, but one corner held a small desk covered in maps and radio equipment. The woman picked up a worn notebook and flipped through its pages.
"The western coast warehouses," she said, her voice low. "There are three that fit the profile. One in Kennedy Town, one in Shek Tong Tsui, and one near the old typhoon shelter. The last one is the most likely—it's been abandoned for years, and it has a basement that's fully soundproofed. Your journalist would be in the basement, guarded by at least two men."
Chan leaned forward. "How do you know this?"
The woman looked at him, her eyes hard. "Because I helped Uncle Kwok scout the locations. He never used them for his work—he said they were 'reserved for emergencies.' But the Director's people have been watching them since the arrest. They're not creative. They'll use what they know."
Yanting felt a surge of hope. "Can you get us inside?"
The woman nodded slowly. "There's a tunnel that runs from the old pier to the warehouse basement. It was built during the war, for smuggling. I know the entrance. But once we're inside, we're on our own. No backup, no extraction. If we fail, we drown."
Yanting looked at Chan, who gave a single, resolute nod. "We're in."
The journey to Hong Kong Island took two hours by boat—a small, motorized sampan that the woman piloted with practiced ease. They docked at a crumbling pier in Kennedy Town, its wooden planks rotting and moss-covered. The woman led them to a hidden trapdoor behind a stack of rusted barrels, revealing a narrow staircase that descended into darkness.
"Follow me," she said, and disappeared into the blackness.
The tunnel was narrow and damp, its walls dripping with condensation. Yanting followed close behind Chan, the woman's flashlight a faint beacon ahead. They walked for what felt like an eternity, the tunnel winding and branching, until finally the woman stopped.
"Above us is the basement," she whispered. "There's a hatch in the ceiling. It opens into a storage closet. From there, you can access the main room."
Yanting pressed his ear to the hatch and listened. He could hear voices—two men, speaking in low tones. And then, a third voice, muffled but unmistakably Elaine's.
"She's alive," he breathed. "We're not too late."
Chan pulled out a small crowbar he had taken from the hut. "I'll go in first. You follow. We take out the guards, secure the room, and get Elaine out through the tunnel."
The woman handed them each a length of rope and a small stun gun. "In case you need to tie them up. And in case you can't afford to make noise."
Yanting took the stun gun, its weight reassuring in his palm. He had never used one before, but he had seen them in action. Enough to incapacitate, not enough to kill. They could not afford a murder charge on top of everything else.
Chan pushed open the hatch and climbed through, his movements silent and fluid. Yanting followed, emerging into a dusty storage closet that smelled of mothballs and old wood. Through a crack in the door, they could see the basement—a concrete room with a single bare bulb, a metal chair, and Elaine Wong tied to it, her face bruised but her eyes defiant.
The two guards were seated at a table, playing cards, their weapons holstered. They looked bored, relaxed, unprepared.
Chan moved first. He crossed the room in three strides, his crowbar swinging in a arc that caught the first guard across the temple. The man crumpled without a sound. The second guard reached for his weapon, but Yanting was already there, the stun gun pressed against his neck. A crackle of electricity, and the man went rigid, then slumped to the floor.
Elaine looked up, her eyes widening with recognition. "Yanting. I should have known."
Yanting knelt beside her, working at the ropes that bound her wrists. "Are you hurt?"
"Just bruised. They wanted to know where the documents were. I told them I'd already sent them to three different outlets. They didn't believe me." She smiled, a thin, defiant smile. "I wasn't lying."
Chan finished securing the guards with the rope, then turned to them. "We need to move. The Director's people will be doing regular check-ins. When the guards don't respond, they'll send a team."
They moved quickly, guiding Elaine back through the hatch and into the tunnel. The woman was waiting, her flashlight cutting through the darkness. They hurried through the winding passage, their footsteps echoing against the damp walls.
They reached the sampan and pushed off from the pier, the woman navigating the dark waters with practiced silence. Yanting watched the coast recede, his heart pounding with a mix of relief and exhaustion.
Elaine leaned against the gunwale, her face pale but her spirit unbroken. "The documents—I've already distributed them to three secure servers. Even if they destroy everything else, the story will get out. It's already scheduled to go live in six hours."
Yanting let out a long, shuddering breath. The truth was unstoppable now. No matter what Kong or the Director did, the evidence would reach the public.
They reached Lantau as dawn was breaking, the sky painted in shades of pink and gold. The woman dropped them at a secluded beach, then disappeared without a word, melting back into the network she had served for so long.
Yanting, Chan, and Elaine made their way to the bamboo hut, where they collapsed in a heap of exhaustion and gratitude. Chan brewed tea on a small stove, and they sat in silence, the weight of the night pressing down on them.
And then Yanting's phone buzzed. A text message, from an unknown number.
"Six hours? That's a long time for a story to die. The Director has one final crossing to complete. And you're the passenger. — The Ferryman"
Yanting stared at the screen, a cold dread spreading through him. The Ferryman was in custody. The Director was fleeing. Who was sending these messages?
Chan looked over his shoulder, his face going pale. "He's not in custody anymore. The Ferryman—Uncle Kwok—he escaped last night. The ICAC is already mobilizing a manhunt."
Yanting's blood ran cold. The Ferryman was free. And he was coming for them.
The final crossing was no longer a metaphor.
It was a destination.
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