pulled out the dry clothes, but he needed to get his circulation going first, to rub warmth into his skin. There was a pile of sacks tacked against the far wall beyond the cage doors. He pushed. The cage was bolted. Max reached through the bars. The bolt was jammed; the damp air had set it fast. He tried to wriggle the bolt’s handle but it barely moved. If he tried to hammer it with the heel of his hand he’d cause damage to himself. Removing one of his sodden trainers, he slipped his hand inside and used it as a buffer for his fist.

Then he realized what the scraping sound was.

The polar bear was on its hind legs, standing full height on the other side of the ice wall-there were no cage bars between Max and the bear’s enclosure. It was scraping furiously to reach him. And those giant claws were rapidly destroying the half-meter-thick wall.

Max still lacked strength, but the urgency drove him to hit the stubborn bolt as hard as he could. The impact ran through his wrist into his forearm and shoulder, but that was the strongest way to deliver a blow.

The ice wall gave way. A hole crumbled open, big enough for the bear to get his paw and shoulder through. He grunted and snorted and seemed to relish the effort of reaching his meal. Max did his own grunting as he thumped away at the rusting bolt.

He could smell the bear now. Its breath plumed rapidly, its head forced farther through the hole. It retreated for a few seconds, scraping more ice, then, clambering like a giant teddy bear, its back claws found more purchase to force its body through.

Max felt the bolt give. He yelled as loud as he could, forcing the energy into the strike, and hit it again. It was enough. Pushing his shoulder against the cage door, he fell clear. The bear burst through the ice wall like a stuntman jumping through a fake window in a movie. Ice particles shattered; the bear stumbled, then was on all fours and came at Max.

Max shouted at the bear. “Not today! Not today!” And laughed crazily as the bear pressed itself against the iron-fronted gate that Max had just managed to close. He slumped barely a couple of meters from the frustrated, growling bear, repeating this mantra the only thing his mind seemed capable of doing. “Not today. No, not today. No thanks, not today. I’m not on the menu today.”

Fear finally released its grip on him, but the cold did not. He was worn down beyond anything he had ever experienced. He shuddered and felt a wave of relief. Tears stung his eyes. He had been so frightened, so scared. There was no shame in being human. A vulnerable human being. Dad. Oh, Dad, I was so bloody terrified. He couldn’t stop his body racking from huge sobs. The terror needed an escape route and found its release through tears.

Max took a couple of deep breaths. He was all right now. He blew the snot and spit away. He sighed. He was OK. He was OK! What a sight he must look. Exhausted, sitting on the cold floor, his boxer shorts halfway down his backside, one shoe on, one shoe off, hair matted with bits of smelly straw, his skin blue and raised in goosebumps, and a monster of a polar bear fancying him for dinner.

His ears still hurt from the cold-water ride; the sounds of the gushing sluice and the bear’s short, sharp grunts and growls were muted. Better that way. A bit of peace and quiet was exactly what he needed right now.

Max grabbed one of the empty sacks and rubbed the coarse burlap all over his body. He had to get warm, get his core body heat back up. At last he felt the blood prickle his skin-it hurt, pins and needles-but then came the satisfying comfort and warmth as his circulation returned. In between getting dressed he shoved every bit of food he could find into his mouth. The stale crisps and bottled water from the abandoned van followed the energy bar. Now he felt alive. His trainers were still wet but the dry socks and clothes made him feel one hundred percent better-which, given his condition, wasn’t as great as it sounded.

Max looked around him. This huge hall was more utilitarian, like a massive holding area. Empty steel cages, maybe twenty or more, lined the wall where the polar bear still paced. Lifeless machinery, wooden pallets and a forklift, sacks filled with salt. So that was why some of his cuts and bruises were stinging. They must use salt in the polar bear’s pool. And there was the way out! A mechanical hoist rose up between the empty cages, its platform open, big enough to roll a forklift onto, and obviously used for bringing anything heavy down below, like the machinery and all those sacks.

Then he heard a sound from one of the cages just beyond the hoist. It was a voice. Someone was weakly crying for help.

“Sayid?” Max called as he ran past a couple of empty cages until he came to where the whimpering emanated from.

The cage was locked and straw covered the floor. A man’s body lay curled next to the bars, his face badly bruised and covered in stubble and dirt. His eyes sought out Max’s, his hands raised, pleading for help.

“Max,” the hoarse voice whispered.

Max stood at the bars, the shock rendering him helpless for a moment. The man lying in tattered clothing encrusted with dried blood was Angelo Farentino.

Tishenko had never needed to attack anyone physically. There were always others to do his bidding. Within the caverns and hallways of the Citadel mountain he had a core group of armed guards. They were mostly from his home area and they sought refuge in Tishenko’s power. Like their fathers before them, these killers were part of the vucari-the tribe of men who invoked fear, not only through simple people’s superstition but also because of the clan’s taste for violence. For the privilege of being part of a group that was virtually a small private army, they did as they were told without question. And one of them had just slammed the butt of a sub machine gun into Sharkface’s stomach.

Sharkface thudded across the floor. Bewildered and in pain, he lay crumpled against a wall. He had served Tishenko loyally for years, ever since the burned man had picked him and his gang up from the streets in East Berlin nearly eight years ago. Kids into killers. Sharkface had earned his coldhearted reputation, but now tougher, meaner men were going to hurt him.

“The pendant is worthless! A stone, a common stone! Zabala did not die because of a trinket!” Tishenko hissed.

“That’s what I took off the girl. That was all she had,” Sharkface said, his mind desperately racing, trying to figure out how it had all gone so horribly wrong. He was only seconds away from death-but then Max Gordon inadvertently saved his life. One of Tishenko’s scientists came into the room.

“Someone was in the ice cave. Thermal imaging shows he came through a ventilation shaft,” the man said.

Tishenko touched a button on a control panel, the screen flared into life and the red glow of a body came into view. The blurred shape moved slowly, the hot areas of the body glowing-head, eyes and stomach. Set against the ice cave’s frozen blue atmosphere, the liquid red ghost was an unmistakable intruder.

“And now?” Tishenko asked the scientist as the red blip merged and disappeared into the surroundings.

“He went into the water.”

It was unbelievable that anyone would choose to do that, and Tishenko had no clear thought for a moment. Then it made sense.

“He’s in the cages.”

The statement was a command. Armed men ran from the room. There were no thermographic detectors down there, there was no need. It was only the preservation of his private collection that needed a constant freezing temperature.

One of the armed guards remained standing over Sharkface, the submachine gun leveled for a quick, killing burst.

“Don’t kill him,” Tishenko ordered. “Not yet.”

Max stepped back in shock. It couldn’t be the man he and his father had once entrusted with their lives.

“Max, please help me. There’s not much time,” Farentino muttered. “I know you must hate me. But Tishenko is going to-”

“Shut up!” Max said harshly, his mind jumbling a dozen questions to ask and knowing there was insufficient time to ask them. Concentrate! Think of what you’re doing here! “Where’s Sayid? Where’s my friend?”

Farentino shook his head, as if trying to clear his mind. “Who? I don’t know him.”

“He’s fourteen. My mate. He’s injured. They brought him here.”

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