by Mike Brogan
“The heavy stuff is bolted down,” Lindee said. “And the clothes hangers are too light.”
“Check the dresser drawers.”
In the bathroom, Nell opened the medicine cabinet and saw tanning lotions, skin creams, and Advil. She swallowed two Advil, pocketed the bottle, then wrapped two Band-Aids around her bloody finger.
As she turned around, her elbow rattled a towel rack. The ends of the metal rack were small chrome pineapples. The pineapples, she noticed, screwed onto the ends of the rack rod.
She tried to twist one off, but it was too tight. She opened the cabinet beneath the sink and found cleaners, washcloths, Windex, 3-IN-ONE oil, and in back, taped to the water pipes, a wrench. She grabbed the pipe wrench, then oiled the pineapple where it screwed onto the rack end. Using the wrench, she tried to twist the pineapple off again. Still wouldn’t budge.
She heard Hasham and Musa talking upstairs. Musa getting his list of questions for her. He’d come back down any second.
She wrapped a towel around the wrench to deaden sound, then whacked the pineapple hard. It loosened a bit. She thumped it again and the pineapple loosened more. She oiled it and managed to screw the pineapple off. Then she pulled the rack rod out of its wall brace and screwed the pineapple back on the end.
She was holding a three-foot steel pole with heavy metal pineapples at both ends. A seven-to-eight pound bat. She grabbed the second rack rod, oiled and unscrewed the pineapple, made a second bat and handed it to Lindee.
Lindee took a couple of hard swings.
“I’m swinging for the bleachers!”
“Start with his head.”
Lindee nodded.
“But we have to bring him downstairs when we’re ready for him. We need him totally focused on something other than us. Something he can’t ignore.”
Lindee grabbed a box of matches from the ashtray. “Fire!”
Nell nodded. “Perfect. Musa will have to come down to put it out.”
“And when he’s focused on putting out the fire - ”
“ – we knock his ass out!” Lindee’s mood had changed. She looked and sounded angry. Lindee’s anger surprised Nell. “Lin, you sound ready to do this!”
“I’m very ready!”
Nell realized something had transformed Lindee in the last few hours. She looked stronger that she had in months. Maybe this abduction had somehow ignited her survival instinct - her I’m-not-going-to-be-a victim-anymore reflex. Lindee looked ready to do someone serious harm.
They reviewed their plan, walking it though step-by-step a few times.
“And if we need extra uuumph . . .!” Lindee said, lifting a bed table lamp with a solid brass base. “It weighs over ten pounds.”
“That could kill him.”
“Works for me!” Lindee said.
Nell embraced her, praying they could pull this off.
“Let’s do it!” Nell said, grabbing a roll of toilet paper and some magazine pages. She looked for a place where smoke would be drawn up through the ventilation system to the upper cabins and deck so the men would smell it. In the bathroom, she saw a metal mesh wastebasket and moved it directly beneath the ceiling vent in the far corner. Nell stuffed the pages and papers in the wastebasket.
Lindee lit a page, smoke curled up. Nell turned on the exhaust vent. Smoke spiraled upward and into the vent. In seconds the smell would reach the upper decks. Someone would race down to check out the cause.
“Let’s hope only Musa comes,” Lindee said.
* * *
Thump . . . thump . . . thump . . .
Footsteps.
Coming down the stairs.
Coming toward us, Nell knew. The smoke had filtered up to the men on deck.
How many are coming? If two, our chances are impossible – unless both men turn their backs to us to put out the fire - and we disable both with one whack each. Lousy odds.
If it was just Musa, he’d quick-check their hands were still tied. Then he’d turn his back to go put out the fire in the bathroom. When he did - they’d both strike with their bats from behind! Possible odds.
She heard someone opening and closing cabin doors in the hall, obviously searching for the source of the smoke. Footsteps of one man. Who?
Musa?
The small deckhand?
Hasham?
The man checked the room next to theirs, a mini kitchen, then closed the door and stepped toward their stateroom.
Nell had draped the bloody towel over the ropes around her wrists so he’d think they were still bound.
Click . . .
A key in the door.
Musa stormed inside, holding a small fire extinguisher and his handgun.
Only Musa.
His eyes were maniacal, his neck arteries bulged like computer cables. “Where fire?”
“There!” Nell nodded toward the bathroom door. “It smells electrical! We shut the door to contain it. We yelled “FIRE!” Didn’t you hear us?”
“Engine too loud.”
Musa glanced at the bloody towel covering Nell’s loosely-roped wrists and then Lindee’s roped wrists. Then at the smoke seeping out under the bathroom door. He opened the door and billows of smoke whooshed out, engulfing him. He eased into the clouds of the smoke-filled bathroom, looking for the source of the fire.
Musa stepped deeper into the thick smoke and sprayed the fire extinguisher, releasing even more clouds of white smoke. Then he paused and looked up at the ceiling vent.
“I turned the ventilator on so you’d smell the smoke.” Nell said, moving up behind him, holding her heavy pineapple rack behind her back.
Musa inched closer to the source of the smoke.
Then he looked down and froze.
He sees the burning wastebasket . . . suspects our setup . . .
He started to turn back toward her -
– as Nell bashed the steel pineapple into the back of his head! Musa wobbled, stunned, but didn’t fall. He started turning his gun toward her - as she slammed the pineapple into his head again!
Musa dropped the fire extinguisher and slumped against the wall, shaking his head, his knees buckling . . . but still somehow standing.
Then, incredibly, he started turning toward Nell –
- as Lindee’s cast-iron lamp bashed into his temple.
Musa dropped like wet cement, his forehead crashing against the toilet. He landed face down on the floor, unconscious. His gun skittered away a few feet.
Nell grabbed the gun. Lindee sprayed the fire extinguisher on the wastebasket fire, then turned off the ventilator so Hasham would assume Musa put out the fire. Quickly, they tied Musa’s hands and ankles with their ropes, and stuffed a washcloth in his mouth. Nell couldn’t tell if Musa was dead or alive, but preferred the former.
They had to move quickly. They opened the door, stepped out of the room and walked silently through the hall. Nell wanted to reach the rear deck where she’d seen their one and only hope of escape. But reaching the rear deck, depended on where Hasham, the deckhand, and the captain were now.
She looked at Musa’s gun. A Beretta M9. Years ago, she fired an older Beretta during her Aberdeen training. She checked the full clip, then clicked the safety off.
She hoped the men were all up on the bridge, staring ahead, looking for Coast Guard vessels, or busy checking radar or radio traffic. If they were busy on the bridge, she and Lindee might reach the rear deck unseen. But if anyone glanced down, they’d see them.
It all depends on where the men are.
Only one way to find out.
Nell and Lindee climbed the stairs and peeked out at the rear deck. Nell saw no one. Then more good luck – looking up she saw the bridge extended much farther over the rear deck. So much farther the men couldn’t see them unless they stood at the end of the bridge and looked straight down.
Quickly, Nell led Lindee onto the rear deck. Their one hope was ten feet ahead - the small life raft. She checked the bridge. Still, no one looking down.
>
They unfastened the raft and eased it into the water. The soft splash was muffled by the yacht’s engine noise.
They climbed in the raft, released the rope, and drifted a few feet away from the big Hatteras. She checked the raft’s small motor. No way she could start it until they’d drifted well out of earshot, several hundred yards at least.
She realized the raft had no lifejackets.
As they quietly paddled away, she saw Hasham, the deckhand, and the captain on the bridge, all staring straight ahead, scanning the horizon, probably watching for Coast Guard and police boats.
Keep staring that direction . . .
Just maybe, this is going to work.
Then slowly . . . Hasham started to turn around.
SEVENTY FIVE
“Hasham has too much head start and too much ocean to hide in,” Donovan said, squinting at the empty Atlantic horizon stretching toward Europe, three thousand five hundred miles away.
Manning nodded.
Despite the enormous sea and air dragnet by the Coast Guard, Navy, police boats, no one had spotted the Leyla.
“How the hell can a snow-white, seventy-two foot yacht hide on dark-blue water?” Manning asked.
“Covered boathouse,” Donovan said.
Manning nodded. “Just one more Hasham deception. Hide the yacht in a roofed boathouse and escape by car as authorities search a million miles of ocean.”
“Possible.”
“But we have people checking marinas, docks, and boathouses. Anywhere he might have moored and covered the Leyla. But that’s a lot of marinas. So far, nothing.”
Donovan nodded and looked down on Staten Island and the coast of New Jersey sweeping past below, then moments later, Perth Amboy, Morgan, Union Beach . . .
As they headed into the Atlantic, Donovan saw marina after marina, rows of yachts tucked like white piano keys against the docks. The sun glinted off the chrome deck railings.
Manning pointed, “None of those yachts has Leyla on their rear deck.”
“None will if he renamed it,” Donovan said.
Manning nodded as his phone rang. He answered, grew excited and hung up.
“Seventy foot white Hatteras near the Sandy Hook Bay Marina. Guy says the name started with an LE.”
Three minutes later they were circling over Sandy Hook Bay Marina.
Donovan looked down and couldn’t believe his eyes. He saw at least fifty yachts stuffed into the marina docks. All were white. Many appeared to be Hatterases, fifty to seventy feet or more.
“Problem,” Manning said.
“What?”
“The yachts’ names are backed up against the docks. Hard to read.”
“We gotta try!”
The pilot banked right and swept down behind the yachts two hundred yards away. People on the rear decks stared wide-eyed up at the aggressive chopper racing over them. Some people waved. Most smiled. A body builder gave them the finger when the downwash blew his toupee into the water.
“There - the yacht with the LE . . .!” Donovan said, pointing.
The pilot swooped down behind the large white yacht, but Donovan’s hope sank when he read -
LEEWARD.
The pilot pointed. “More big yacht marinas down there.”
The chopper rolled right and they swept down the coast to the Marina on the Bay. Again, Donovan saw maybe thirty yachts moored on long docks. Only two looked over seventy feet. One had several women sunbathing on the deck, the other was powder blue.
“What about all those yachts docked inland?” Donovan pointed at several long canals that stretched inland like watery fingers. Each was lined with hundreds of medium-sized to large yachts moored in front of rows of McMansions. Some yachts had long covered boathouses, big enough to hide the Leyla. Everywhere he looked – yachts, mansions. Hurricanes had not devastated everyone in the area.
“We’re checking all of them,” Manning said as his phone rang. He listened and hung up, excited.
“We got the Leyla!”
“Where?”
“Down near the Gateway Marina.”
“Where’s that?”
“Real close!” the pilot said, banking left and racing down the coastline at one-hundred-thirty miles per hour.
Two minutes later, they hovered over the yacht.
Donovan looked down and saw two policemen, guns in hand, slowly approaching the seventy-foot docked Hatteras. As the chopper drew closer, he thought the yacht looked like the photo of the Leyla. He saw three men on the deck.
Then Donovan slumped when he saw the yacht’s name.
LEYLAND.
SEVENTY SIX
“Hasham is racing to get outside US jurisdiction,” Manning said.
“Which puts him in CIA jurisdiction,” Donovan said.
“Wherever he runs, we nail him!” Manning said.
“Nails are too kind.”
The pilot pointed ahead where the dark blue water fused into a dark gray sky. “Nasty storm moving in fast.”
Donovan nodded. “Has radar or AIS located any large yachts this far out?”
“Sixteen within eight miles of us,” the pilot said. One fifty-footer, some over sixty, and most over seventy. The over seventy-footers are farther out, cruising deeper into the Atlantic where we’re heading.”
“How far can Hasham’s Hatteras travel with a full tank?” Donovan asked. Manning checked his notes. “The Leyla left the marina with a full tank. Three thousand gallons. Figure a half-mile to the gallon.
So depending on speed, wind and currents, they could cruise maybe 1,500 miles or more.”
“So south to Florida or Bermuda . . .”
Manning nodded. ”Or north to Nova Scotia or Newfoundland. Or to some small island we don’t know about.
“Or for all we know,” Donovan said, “Hasham could hook up with fuel tankers mid-ocean, refill his tanks, and cruise on to Europe.”
* * *
Nell relaxed when Hasham turned his back to their raft. He never saw it because he was staring into the afternoon sun.
But now dark clouds had swept in, blocking the sun. So it was only a matter of time before Hasham, the captain or deckhand turned around and saw them.
Then what?
Then, Hasham would order the captain to bring the yacht around, race toward their raft, probably ram and deflate it. Without lifejackets they’d die quickly in the frigid water. Even with lifejackets, they’d die in the frigid water. But slower.
As they paddled the raft, Nell knew they were still too close to start the motor.
The yacht had slowed to an idle during the fire. But by now, Hasham must have stopped smelling the flow of smoke. He’d wonder why Musa was taking so long and maybe send the deckhand below to check things out. The deckhand would find Musa unconscious, gagged, and tied up. Maybe even dead. Everyone would search for her and Lindee, checking every nook and cranny.
Then someone would notice the missing raft. They’d scan the ocean and spot it –
- but not if the raft had drifted much farther away.
Nell and Lindee paddled harder.
Nell looked down at the Beretta. A two pound gun - against a fifty-five ton yacht. She checked the clip again. Nine bullets. She practiced flipping the safety on and off a few more times.
On the yacht, she’d briefly considered shooting Hasham and the others, but their AK-47 and Uzi would have sliced and diced her and Lindee in seconds.
And what about the deckhand and the captain? What if they were just hired boat workers? Could she have shot them? Were they jihadists? Both men had beards and dark complexions and seemed to know Hasham. And sometimes, like now, profiling could save your life . . . or put another way . . . not profiling could end your life.
She saw Hasham walk down from the bridge and head below to the cabins. He would find Musa. Alive or dead.
The raft was only about two hundred fifty yards from the idling Hatteras. Still visible from the yacht and still within hearing range of the m
otor. She estimated she should be well over three hundred yards before she started the small 25-horsepower Evinrude. By then she could be out of hearing range, maybe even visual range, unless the rolling waves lifted the raft high enough to be visible.
The big question was – did she have enough fuel? The gauge indicated half a tank. She had no idea how far that would take her?
She also had no idea if the small motor would even start.
“Look!” Lindee said, pointing back at the yacht.
Nell saw Hasham helping Musa onto the deck. Musa had a bloody bandage wrapped around on his head and seemed wobbly. Nell was amazed the man was alive.
Hasham, Musa, and the deckhand walked around searching for her and Lindee. After searching, they went back down into the cabins below, apparently to search some more.
Should she try the engine now?
No. Still too close. The noise would rocket over the water like a gunshot and alert the captain and deckhand. She and Lindee paddled harder. Just another eighty yards should do it.
She scanned the ocean for another boat to race to. She saw none.
A minute later, Hasham and Musa came back up on deck. Musa pointed to the empty brackets where the raft had been tethered. Both men spun around and faced the ocean. Hasham grabbed some binoculars, aimed them toward shore. Then he turned back and started scanning the horizon, moving slowly in their direction.
He locked on their raft.
Hasham pointed at them and said something to Musa.
Musa hurried into the bridge and came out with a rifle. He steadied it on the deck railing, aimed, and fired.
Bullets splashed into the water about one hundred feet short of the raft.
Nell pushed the raft’s starter button.
Dead.
She tried again.
Dead.
She saw Hasham signal the captain to turn the big yacht around and head toward them. Slowly, the Leyla turned in an arc.
She hit the starter button again.
A sputter, then nothing.
The yacht headed toward their raft.
She hit the starter.
Silence.
Dead battery? Clogged fuel line?
Bullets splashed twenty feet from the raft.
