A small fortune in seized booze.

Aida couldn’t quite determine the breadth of the haul, because the ship had no electricity. She could, however, spot the occasional guard meandering in the distance. Maybe ten or twenty men. Probably more she couldn’t see. A path of portable lanterns led them through the maze of crates to the staircase at the far end of the room. Tables had been pulled together here to create a small work area, where more armed men sorted through stacks of paperwork and labels. Nearby, several crates stood open, brimming with bottles nestled inside piles of wood shavings.

When they passed, all workers looked up at Yip, hailing him by some Cantonese name Aida didn’t catch, and bowing their heads.

“You’ve managed quite a collection here,” Aida noted. “Is this where all the booze in Chinatown went?”

“Quite a bit outside of Chinatown, too,” Doctor Yip said with a smile as he stopped to talk with someone at the tables. They spoke in hushed voices for several moments while Aida’s gaze jumped around the room, looking for anything that might be helpful: an unguarded door, a weapon . . . an escape route. The man with the cauliflower ear tightened his grip around the back of her neck.

“Just try it,” he whispered in her ear as pain shot down her shoulder. “I might not be able to hurt you in front of him, but wait until later.”

His grip softened when Yip ended his conversation and rejoined the group. “All right, Miss Palmer, onward.”

A few steps away, lanterns, fuel, and matches were lined up on a desk. Ju’s former thugs both took lanterns. Yip took out a flashlight. They were going deeper into the beached whale.

They headed down a flight of steps to the first level below, passing by more guards. The scents of gin and wood changed to something danker when they stepped into a long corridor. Yip turned on his flashlight and shone the beam in front of them.

“I hope you find your accommodations to your liking,” Yip said as he led them past doors lining either side of the hallway. Passenger cabins. First-class, from their location.

Only the best, Aida thought blackly. But this was no luxury liner built for rich European families to cruise the Mediterranean. This was an old steamer built for transporting large numbers of third-class expatriates from Hong Kong.

Yip opened a locked door at the end of the corridor. “Here we are, my dear. Please enter.” He held the narrow door open.

The cauliflower-eared man shoved her inside the tight quarters. Her knee banged against something hard. She yelped and tried to get her bearings in the dark. Yip carried one of the lanterns inside and hung it on one corner of the double-bunk berths lining one wall. One chair sat beneath the port window behind her, and a small sink sat at her left hip, on the wall opposite the berths. The room smelled of mold and must.

“It’s a tight squeeze, but you’ll make the most of it,” Yip said. “No plumbing, so the sink’s useless for anything other than a urinal. If you get desperate enough, you’ll appreciate it more.”

“How long are you keeping me here?”

“Not long, don’t worry. I have something to show you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” She suddenly felt claustrophobic, trapped in the narrow space, and tried to grab Yip’s collar.

He lunged out of her range. “Now, now, Miss Palmer. Please show me the same courtesy I’ve shown you.”

The man she’d stabbed in the face with burning incense shoved her backward into the chair as they exited.

“Make yourself at home,” Yip called out from the dark hallway. She couldn’t see his face anymore. “The fuel in the lantern should last you another hour or so. It will keep the rats and cockroaches away.”

The door shut. Aida rushed forward, throwing herself at it as the key turned in the lock. Twisting the doorknob was a waste of energy, but she did it nonetheless. “What do you want from me?” she shouted. No answer came. She pressed her ear to the door and listened to the sounds of retreating footfalls on the squeaking hallway boards.

When they were gone, she began thinking of anything she could use as a weapon. Her handbag was still tangled around her wrist, but her lancet was missing. She groaned, remembering how she spilled everything in the alley before Yip drove up. Had she lost it? Now of all times?

Disheartened, she explored the rest of the cabin. The door was solid and locked. The porthole didn’t open, nor could she fit through it if she were to break the glass.

After she’d exhausted every corner, she plunked down in the chair in defeat and thought about Winter.

“Do you even know I’m gone?” she said, despondent. If tonight was like the last few, he’d be out working until morning. The thought of him just heading out to work after their fight hurt her feelings, but that he might be doing that right now, when she’d been kidnapped? Oh, that made her furious.

Angry was good. If she was mad, then she wouldn’t worry about what Yip had planned. She wouldn’t notice that the light from the lantern was beginning to dim as it ran low on fuel.

And she wouldn’t have to regret that the last words she’d ever hear out of Winter’s mouth might be when he told her to leave his house.

* * *

Indignant and annoyed, Winter strode out of the Tea Rose brothel with Bo at his side. Several of his men detached themselves from shadows and flanked them as they headed toward the car. It would be daybreak soon. Six hours since that bastard Yip had taken her.

And he still had nothing.

Four tong leaders sat inside the parlor of the whorehouse—five, including Ju. A small miracle that he’d been able to gather them together so quickly. Not every tong in Chinatown, but some of the big players. And all of them had sat in silence while Bo translated Winter’s words. Not a single one of them knew about Doctor Yip or the Beekeeper or the Hive—rather, not one of them admitted to knowing.

They just stared at him with untrusting eyes. One of them looked at him as if he were crazy, organizing a hunt for one woman. A couple others looked at him in pity, maybe for the same reason. They knew his weakness now. A dangerous thing for someone in his position.

“All of that for nothing,” Winter grumbled, anger trumping the dread and fear pulsing beneath his skin.

“Give the bosses time to talk,” Bo encouraged. “Right now, they are intimidated that you summoned them. Once they loosen up, maybe someone will remember something.”

“And by the time they do, Aida could be raped or dead.”

“You can’t think like that.”

“The man who tried to burn her alive in her bed—”

“I know,” Bo said firmly. “But he also wouldn’t do the deed with his own hands. He’s a coward. We will find him.”

No other choice existed.

Winter eyed the lights inside a large Chinese bakery and pointed it out to Bo. “Ask to use their telephone. Check in with the house and the pier. Then call up the police station and tell them we’re coming in to talk to Inspector Manion.”

As much money as Winter pumped into the police force, the inspector better damn well be there to receive them. Manion headed up the vice squad in Chinatown. Winter normally would’ve hated like hell to ask for a favor, but at that moment, he just didn’t care. If Manion could help him find Aida, nothing else mattered.

Waving away an open car door offered by one of his men, Winter pulled his collar up and huddled against a wall outside the bakery while he waited for Bo. The adrenaline that had been pushing him forward was fizzling away, leaving him with nothing but imagined glimpses of Aida in increasingly horrifying situations. She wasn’t dead. Couldn’t be. He would know—completely illogical, but he repeated it in his head until he believed it. She was alive, and he would find her.

And when he did, he would rip out every vertebra in Doctor Yip’s spine.

Winter paced the sidewalk, watching Bo inside the bakery as he made the telephone calls; a few curious workers peered back out at him. Winter exhaled heavily and pulled down the brim of his hat. How the hell was he going to find the herbalist? Bo had been scouting Chinatown for weeks and had barely found crumbs. Winter tried to reassure himself that Aida could hold her own, but it didn’t help his mood. Even the strongest man could be pinned down when it was many against one.

Winter had never felt so impotent and useless. Scared out of his mind. Plagued with what-ifs. What if they were hurting her? Maybe using fire again, or something else just as sick. After all, this was the man who killed one of the biggest tong leaders in Chinatown with bees.

Maybe the worst of his fears was something he hadn’t yet considered. What if he never found out what they were doing to her—what if he never found her? The crushing darkness that had descended on him after the accident threatened to fall again. He pushed it away.

He watched Bo count off several bills to the bakery owner before marching out into the cold early-morning air. “The house?”

Bo buttoned up his coat. “Greta says Jonte’s sitting in the foyer with a shotgun. The men outside haven’t seen anything.”

“Pier?”

“Same there. Called Gris-Gris again—Velma said no one’s seen anything there, either, but she’ll keep the telephone next to her bed, so we can call her on her home line.”

Winter grunted in acknowledgment. He’d already begged Velma to help with magic, but she said there was nothing she could do.

“Talked to Dina down at the station,” Bo said as he tugged his gloves on. “She said she’d call the inspector to meet us at the station, and she’s putting the word out.”