Jet Skis, Swamps & Smugglers

by Robert Muchamore

  It was tailed by Prowler Four. The hi-tech CIS boat was only twelve metres long, but looked sinister, finished in grey radar-absorbing paint, with a double-barrelled cannon mounted above the sloping glass cockpit and twin jet engines that made it sound like a giant vacuum cleaner.

  ‘Badass,’ Robin whispered to Marion. ‘I hear prowlers can hit fifty knots.’

  Fenders on the captured fishing boat squashed as its hull hit the dockside with a clank. The thugs from the cruiser lined up along the shorefront holding guns and baseball bats as a tattooed Southeast Asian man leaped from the fishing boat and began tying up to a bollard.

  ‘There’s at least seventy refugees on there,’ Marion said. ‘They said six on the radio.’

  Prowler Four didn’t dock, but two CIS officers hopped from its rear deck onto one of the wharf’s rotting pontoons and jogged to the shore.

  Robin tried filming as the officers shook hands with the woman in the camouflage trousers from the white cruiser and tattoo guy from the fishing boat.

  ‘Looks like they’re best of friends,’ Marion said, tutting and shaking her head.

  ‘Wish I had a better phone,’ Robin moaned. ‘There’s no zoom and the video’s useless in the dark.’

  Once the fishing boat was tied off at both ends, its metal gangway was lowered to the wharf. The first people off were two women with assault rifles around their necks, while the captain yelled orders in some foreign language over the boat’s tinny public-address system.

  ‘Japanese?’ Robin guessed.

  Marion shook her head. ‘Refugees come from places a lot poorer than Japan.’

  The women on deck started filing onto the wharf area in front of the processing shed. The only light came from inside the boats, but it was enough for Robin and Marion to see they were Southeast Asian, and none looked older than twenty.

  ‘Line up!’ the thugs yelled, as the women shuffled ashore.

  A woman who tripped at the bottom of the gangplank got yanked to her feet by a man three times her size. Another who stopped to ask a question got shoved hard in the back. When she spun around and tried again, the woman in camouflage trousers smashed a palm into her nose.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Marion snarled, with bunched fists and furious eyes.

  ‘Do as you’re told, scum!’ camouflage trousers roared. ‘Mouths shut or we’ll shut them for you!’

  Robin counted seventy-four women down the gangplank. There were also five little kids and a middle-aged couple with Louis Vuitton luggage trunks and nice clothes, who were treated to respectful bows and handshakes as they stepped ashore.

  Robin’s eye caught something flying off the back of the fishing boat.

  ‘What was that?’ Robin asked, not sure he’d seen it.

  Marion shrugged. ‘What was what?’

  But someone aboard Prowler Four had seen it too, and the dark grey boat powered up a bank of searchlights, blazing the water behind the fishing boat.

  ‘I think someone jumped in,’ Robin explained.

  A couple of members of the prowler crew stepped out on deck. One picked up a long-handled boathook used to pull people out of the water, but there was nothing to reach for.

  ‘I hope they didn’t drown,’ Robin said, as he looked through the binoculars. ‘But I can’t see anyone swimming.’

  Back on shore, the thugs ordered the women to march to the white cruiser. Before stepping aboard they were stripped of any luggage, made to empty their pockets into a plastic bin and then had their wrists bound with plastic cuffs.

  A woman who protested as she tried to hold onto an inhaler got slapped, while the one who’d put up a fight on the gangplank boarded last with blood streaming from her nose.

  ‘This is awful,’ Marion said, wiping tears out of her eyes.

  ‘I don’t care how much trouble we’re in,’ Robin said determinedly. ‘People need to see what’s going on.’

  The prowler crew had ended their search of the water, but as the thugs from the cruiser pulled in the ramp linking it to the shore, Prowler Four’s searchlight swung towards Robin and Marion.

  ‘Balls,’ Robin gasped, diving for cover, assuming they’d been spotted.

  But Marion peeked around the door and realised the light was aiming right of their building at someone sprinting powerfully towards the reed beds. She was dripping wet from her swim and had what looked like a bundle of pillows clutched to her chest.

  ‘It’s not us they’re after!’ Marion said, relieved.

  Robin shielded his eyes as he peered out into dazzling light.

  Two CIS officers leaped off the prowler to give chase, but the runaway was already a hundred metres ahead and the officers had to navigate the rickety pontoons to get ashore.

  ‘We’ve got to help her!’ Marion shouted, as she ran across the room and jumped out of the back window.

  Robin’s brain took a couple of seconds to catch up. He rolled as he landed in the weeds out back and followed Marion as they sprinted towards their bikes.

  They blasted off without their helmets. Marion’s skill enabled her to ride faster than Robin, throwing her bike down a tiny gap between two abandoned cars, while Robin circled out wide around all the debris.

  The reeds were three metres tall and they couldn’t see the runaway, but they could see the stiff grass parting as she ran, and she was properly fast.

  ‘Jump on. I’ll help you!’ Marion shouted, as she drove parallel to the reed beds.

  Robin was a long way back and saw two CIS officers. An overweight woman had stumbled to a breathless halt, but the other sprinted athletically with his gun in one hand. Since an escaped refugee threatened what was clearly a major people-smuggling operation, Robin didn’t doubt that the charging officer would shoot to kill.

  ‘I’ll help you!’ Marion screamed again, as her bike kept pace with the runaway.

  Marion guessed the runaway didn’t speak English, and since it was dark and she was running flat out, she’d have no idea that the two chasing bikes were on her side.

  The speeding officer was gaining on the girl and hoped he could scare her into surrendering with a couple of wild shots. The runaway stumbled as her front foot sank into thick mud, and with deeper water ahead she scrambled from the reeds into the open ground ahead of Marion.

  The runaway was blinded by the dirt bike’s headlamp, but realised Marion was way too young to be a cop.

  ‘Let me help you,’ Marion pleaded, gesturing frantically as she stopped the bike. ‘Get on, please!’

  After a nervous glance around, the girl jumped on, the soggy foam pillows still strapped to her chest as she gripped Marion’s waist. But Marion and the runaway made an easy target while they were stopped and Robin saw the CIS officer drop into a stable firing position.

  Robin had never wanted his bow more, but without it the only way to stop Marion getting shot was to use his bike as a weapon. He gunned the throttle. The officer heard the bike come at him from the side but couldn’t swing around in time to shoot.

  Robin saw the imminent collision in slow motion. He knew he’d fly over the handlebars, and with no crash helmet, if his head hit a rock or some of the abandoned junk, it would probably crack his skull.

  14. BLOOD AND BULLETS

  The bike smashed into the bulky CIS officer with a dull thud. Robin got bucked into the air and flew upside down until he crashed into the tall reeds.

  Sharp stems went up the back of Robin’s shirt and speared painfully as he landed with a squelch. Mushy sand went in one ear and down his bum crack. This was a good thing because the cold focused his brain as the commander stumbled into the reeds after him, determined to aim his gun, even though he was dragging a broken ankle.

  ‘Boy, you are dead meat!’ the commander thundered as he closed in.

  The only thing Robin had to hand were the binoculars around his neck. He threw them at the commander’s shooting hand, which bought him enough time to roll out of the way.

  Robin felt his trainers sink into mud
as he stood, with the commander’s face contorted in pain as he tried to shoot. The man was double Robin’s weight, but Robin didn’t want to give him room to aim so he lunged forward and clawed the officer’s neck.

  If the commander had been healthy, Robin would have been swatted away. But the bike had left the stocky officer with torn back muscles and a shattered ankle.

  Robin’s trainer got sucked off by the mud as he jumped on top of the commander. He used his left elbow to smash the commander hard under the chin, then both hands to snatch the gun and yank it free.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Marion shouted, as she peered into the reeds from a few metres away.

  Robin grabbed reeds and got to his feet. He held the commander’s gun in one hand and picked up his binoculars with the other, but when he looked back for his shoe it had vanished under puddle water and he realised there was no time to feel around in the dark.

  Marion had circled back to the scene of the collision and as Robin stumbled out onto open ground, she picked up his bike and restarted the engine.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asked. ‘There’s more CIS coming.’

  ‘I’ll live,’ Robin answered.

  The commander groaned from the reeds, barely conscious. Robin dripped mushy sand and was half deaf from water in his ear, but the soft ground had saved him and his only injuries were scratches and cuts.

  ‘Can you ride?’ Marion asked desperately.

  ‘Think so,’ Robin said, as he saw two running CIS officers, cut out by the searchlights from Prowler Four.

  They were pretty far off, but before straddling his bike Robin aimed two wild shots, making them dive for cover. Then he tucked the gun into the back of his jeans and spun his rear wheel as he blasted off.

  Marion’s bike was parked a few metres in front, and as Robin passed it he saw the runaway and realised what had looked like pillows clutched to her chest was actually a float, made from two foam life preservers with a tiny human sandwiched between them.

  ‘Where to?’ Robin shouted, as Marion and her passengers caught up and cruised alongside.

  ‘Main road, where else?’ Marion said.

  The sky flashed bright white from a flare launched off Prowler Four. Robin realised the bad guys had all arrived in boats. They had no vehicles to chase on land, but once the bikes hit the gravel track, they had a CIS drone on their tails.

  Marion knew they stood no chance of shaking the drone on open ground, so when they reached the junction with the road back to Boston, she pulled off into the trees and came to a halt.

  The drone hovered noisily overhead.

  ‘That’ll follow us back to Boston if we take the open road,’ Marion said.

  Robin nodded as he tilted his head to drain water out of his earhole. At the same time, the runaway unknotted some twine that held the floats together. She let them drop, exposing the baby strapped to her chest in a sling.

  ‘Baby!’ Marion said, in absolute shock. ‘How did I not see a baby?’

  ‘Calm down and think,’ Robin urged. ‘If I had my bow, I’d smash a drone that size. I’ve got that officer’s gun, but no shooting skills.’

  ‘Do you think we can lose that thing if we ride cross-country?’ Marion asked.

  ‘Might,’ Robin said. ‘But there’s one drone and two of us. I’ll stick on the main road and head towards Boston, you go the other way then cut across country. Hopefully the drone will follow me and I’ll figure out a way to lose it.’

  Marion didn’t look convinced but had no better plan.

  ‘There were cops sniffing around when we left Boston,’ Marion said. ‘The Station is nearer and I know every track around there.’

  The runaway couldn’t understand what Robin and Marion were discussing and looked confused. She also seemed wary of the baby hanging from her chest, which made Robin suspect she wasn’t its mother.

  ‘We’re going to find somewhere safe,’ Marion said slowly and clearly to the runaway. ‘I might have to go across country, so hold on tight.’

  ‘See you at The Station!’ Robin said, as he restarted his bike.

  As he rolled onto the road, Robin pulled the gun sticking out of his jeans. He couldn’t be certain the drone would follow but hoped the pilot aboard Prowler Four would instinctively go after someone who attacked it.

  As Robin rode into the open, he kept slow until the drone swung out from above the trees, then fired upwards before twisting the throttle. Aiming backwards at a black object in a black sky from a moving bike was hopeless, but Marion watched the drone zoom after Robin’s bike, before spinning up her back wheel and heading in the opposite direction.

  15. GETTING LUCKY

  Diogo’s bedroom on The Station’s upper floor had a panoramic window with a view over the delta. A huge thunderclap exploded as rain streaked down the glass and his date, Napua, stepped into the room.

  ‘Did you find the good towel?’ Diogo asked anxiously. ‘My niece and nephew are staying for summer holidays, and you know . . . Kids are slobs.’

  ‘This is an amazing spot to watch a storm,’ Napua said, smiling as she stepped up to the window. ‘I thought it was a line to get me up to your bedroom.’

  Diogo laughed. ‘Can’t you tell I’m a gentleman?’

  He couldn’t believe how great the date was going. Napua had picked every scrap off the bones of the rack of lamb he’d cooked, said the cassata cake he’d bought from an Italian deli was the best she’d ever tasted and laughed at all of his jokes.

  ‘I’ve met a few guys since I started online dating,’ Napua said. ‘A supermarket manager, a stock-control accountant. Boring cars, boring houses, and ex-wives. A smuggler with a house on the beach is refreshing.’

  Diogo felt uneasy. ‘Who says I’m a smuggler?’

  Napua gave a naughty-girl smirk as a gust of wind sent rain pelting against the window. ‘I grew up in the delta, Diogo. Boats like Water Rat are for smuggling or taking tourists to see turtles. And I don’t see many tourists around here.’

  ‘Smart and beautiful,’ Diogo said cheesily as he moved in close. ‘May I?’

  Napua tilted her head and they started kissing. Then she took Diogo’s wrist and stepped backwards.

  ‘I was on my feet all day at work,’ she said, giving a teasing smile. ‘Why don’t we move to the bed?’

  As Diogo let Napua lead him towards the bed, a key turned in the front door. He hoped his brain was playing tricks, but the distinctive sound was followed by hurried footsteps and clattering water pipes as someone ran the kitchen tap.

  ‘Expecting a guest?’ Napua asked, slightly annoyed.

  ‘Stay right there,’ Diogo said.

  He snatched a cricket bat from under the bed before charging down the spiral stairs. Robin stood at the sink, peeling his wet, bloody shirt over his head.

  ‘Why, God? Why?’ Diogo pleaded, as he flicked a light on and threw down the bat.

  When he saw the state Robin was in he changed from furious to worried. One shoe missing, jeans ripped, mud everywhere and his back smeared with blood.

  ‘What happened?’ Diogo asked. ‘Did you come off the bike? Why isn’t Marion with you?’

  ‘I crashed your bike,’ Robin admitted. ‘Marion’s not here with the baby? I thought she’d get here before me.’

  ‘What baby?’ Diogo spluttered. ‘And what do you mean, you crashed my bike?’

  ‘I was being chased by a drone,’ Robin said, as he took the gun from the back of his jeans and placed it on the counter next to a stack of dirty dishes. ‘I got lucky. The rain started lashing, and drones can’t fly in that kind of weather. But then I caught a massive skid coming back through the holiday village. Ripped my jeans is all, but the bike’s light smashed. I couldn’t get it restarted and walked the last couple of kilometres with one shoe.’

  Drones, crashes, babies, guns . . . Every word out of Robin made questions pop into Diogo’s head. His eyebrows shot up as he inspected the gun.

  ‘This is a police weapon,’ he said, raising t
he muzzle to his nose and sniffing gunpowder. ‘And it’s been used.’

  ‘CIS actually,’ Robin said. ‘Officer tried to kill me. Are there bits of reed stuck in my back? It didn’t hurt at first, but now the adrenaline’s worn off, it’s agony.’

  ‘You had a loaded gun down the back of your trousers when you crashed my bike?’ Diogo asked furiously, as he clicked on the safety. ‘You’re lucky you didn’t shoot your dick off.’

  Diogo heard feet on the stairs. He looked back to Napua, coming down with her shoes hooked over her fingers.

  ‘What happened?’ she gasped when she saw Robin’s back.

  ‘My nephew, Ross,’ Diogo said.

  ‘Poor little guy,’ Napua said, as she glowered at Diogo. ‘You need to deal with those wounds before you yell at him!’

  ‘I . . .’ Diogo spluttered, unable to believe he’d gone from having a woman on his bed to having her scowl at him in under three minutes.

  ‘I learned first aid when I worked as an airline steward,’ Napua said. ‘Do you have medical supplies? Like tweezers and disinfectant? He may need a couple of stitches.’

  ‘Got plenty of medical supplies,’ Diogo said, as he stomped across the room.

  He took a bottle of antiseptic and three sterile tweezer packs out of a box. He almost banged them down by the sink, but realised he’d blow his chance with Napua if he didn’t calm down.

  ‘Maybe if Ross sits at the dining table . . .’ Diogo said. ‘I’ll get the lamp from my desk so we can see better.’

  Napua told Robin to take off his filthy jeans and socks, leaving him sat at the dining table in soggy undershorts with blood soaked into the waistband.

  ‘I’ve got syringes and local anaesthetic if you need to numb it off,’ Diogo said. ‘Who wants a drink?’

  ‘Glass of water would be amazing,’ Robin said, as he switched his phone out of airplane mode, hoping for a message from Marion. But the only new ones were from Marion’s mum Indio.

  ‘I’m lost,’ Diogo said, as he gave Robin water, then cracked a beer for himself. ‘Can you go back to the beginning and explain what’s been going on?’