Passenger 13 (Ben Hope eBook originals)

by Scott Mariani

  The inside was pretty basic, almost Spartan: the walls bare, white-tiled floors throughout. The kitchen had a tiny table and a couple of plain wooden chairs. Microwave, two-ring stove, empty fridge, empty cupboards, bare worktops. The two basic bedrooms were the same, showing no sign of recent habitation. There was fresh linen in the storage drawers under the beds, waiting for the next visitor to arrive – maybe weeks in the future, maybe longer. In the small living room, dust covers had been stretched over the single armchair and the sofa. The TV was unplugged from the wall. The bookshelf was empty, like the coffee table. No books, no magazines, no papers, no sign of Larry Moss to be seen anywhere.

  First he’d never been on the plane. Now he’d never been here either.

  Ben had the distinct feeling that Little Cayman’s stock of potential leads had just dried up on him. Where to next?

  If Moss had had a boat or access to one, he’d have used it to get off the island instead of jumping on a CIC Trislander. Which meant that in order to get here in the first place, he must have travelled via Grand Cayman: where lay Ben’s only chance of picking up the trail again.

  How exactly he intended to do that, and what he was even looking for, were things he could figure out on the seventy-five-mile journey back across the sea.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Nightfall brought a rise in the wind, and the sea was choppy as Ben piloted the Santa Clara at a steady pace back towards Grand Cayman, lost in thought, only vaguely aware of the boat’s motion under his feet.

  Reckoning by the motor yacht’s GPS, he’d crossed just over fifteen miles of sea from when he saw the lights reflected on the window next to him, and turned to see that there was another vessel tracking along the same course, about half a mile away across the black water. He stepped away from the wheel and walked out on deck, but it was too dark to see what kind of vessel it was. What was certain was that she was coming up fast in his wake, her navigation lights and spotlamps growing larger and brighter with every passing minute.

  Returning to the wheelhouse, Ben steered a couple of points to starboard and opened up the throttle by a few revs. He glanced back at the Santa Clara’s foaming, curving wake, white against the dark waves as she peeled gently off her course. The spotlamps of the vessel behind were dazzling now as they drew closer. Behind their strong glare he could just about make out the boat’s silhouette: a large motor launch, taller and wider than the Santa Clara. Maybe a seventy-footer, maybe bigger. And whoever was on board, it was clear from the way the launch was following his course that they were definitely interested in catching up with him.

  Being followed at night by an unidentified pursuer wasn’t something that made Ben feel easy. In some parts of the world, commercial and private shipping was still widely preyed upon by pirates – but he was pretty damned sure that the Cayman Islands weren’t one of them. Who, then? Coastguard? Police? He didn’t think so.

  Ben gunned the throttle harder; the Santa Clara’s engine note climbed a notch in pitch as her propellers dug her stern deeper into the water, lifted her bows and sent her skipping across the waves.

  The big launch kept cleaving through the water after him – Ben could see the bow wave breaking white against the dark hull as the vessel came relentlessly closer and closer. He accelerated to near full throttle and felt the Santa Clara respond, bouncing over the sea at a bracing twenty-five knots. Any other time, the sensation of speed would have been exhilarating, but the knowledge that he was being chased by a much larger, more powerful and certainly more numerously-manned craft blunted his excitement somewhat. He considered his options: they were few. In open waters, there was nowhere to run to except straight ahead, in the hope that he could outrun his pursuers.

  And that hope was already fading fast. The launch was in his wake now, just fifty yards behind and still overhauling him. The blaze of the spotlamps was casting deep shadows across the yacht’s deck, so close he almost thought he could feel the white-hot halogen bulbs searing his back. He felt naked and hopelessly exposed in their glare.

  Full throttle. The rev counter needle touched the red and kept climbing. The engine note was becoming a shrill howl and he knew he couldn’t keep this up for long without risking damage.

  He glanced back again. The launch was getting dangerously close, so close he could hear the heavy diesel rumble over the tortured note of the Santa Clara’s own engine and the crash of the waves on her sides.

  Closer still – and for a couple of horrified moments Ben thought the launch’s pilot meant to ram his stern, crushing the yacht’s hull like an eggshell, running her down and sinking her – but then the launch veered hard to port and started cutting up alongside him, just a few feet of white water between the two vessels.

  Ben was completely off course by now, but the only thing on his mind was evasion. He steered hard away from the launch, bracing himself against the wheelhouse bulkhead as the motor yacht tilted sharply into the turn and the starboard rail was engulfed in foaming water.

  But it was going to take more than the Santa Clara’s agility to shake the launch off. It veered right after him, quickly drawing level again. Though the white spray Ben thought he could make out the figures of men on deck.

  A dull report, and something flew across the water. Ben instantly knew what it was – a grappling iron, fired from a hand-held projectile launcher. The black four-clawed hook smashed into the side of the Santa Clara’s wheelhouse, sending splinters of glass flying. It bounced back and its curved claws raked the deck. Ben twisted the wheel as far as it would go to starboard, trying to widen the gap between himself and the launch in the hope that the grappling iron would fall back into the sea. The Santa Clara began to peel off at a sheer angle – then gave a violent judder as her course was checked.

  Ben threw a glance out of the shattered wheelhouse window and saw that one of the hook’s claws had gained a grip around his port rail, the steel cable anchoring it to the launch’s deck shrieking taut.

  Ripping down the fire axe that was fixed to the wheelhouse bulkhead, Ben left the boat to steer itself and raced out across the slippery, heaving deck. The wind tore at his hair and salt spray soaked him instantly. He swung the axe down hard on the end of the steel cable as it sawed against the Santa Clara’s side. And again. In two blows he’d severed half the strands of the cable.

  But just as he was about to deliver a third, another grappling hook was fired from the deck of the launch. Ben didn’t register until a fraction of a second too late that it was flying right at him. Before he could get out of the way, the heavy impact caught him on the arm and shoulder and sent him sprawling on his back, knocking the axe from his hand. The grappling hook burst through the remaining wheelhouse windows and entangled itself around the smashed framework.

  By the time Ben had staggered back to his feet, the launch was reeling the Santa Clara in with its powerful winches. He ignored the pain in his side and the blood he could taste on his lips from the fall.

  He was about to be boarded.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The vessels touched with a thump as the winches drew them together. The launch pilot closed down his throttle, dragging the Santa Clara to a halt. Ben ran to the wheelhouse and activated the port bow thruster in an attempt to combat the pull of the winches. The narrowing gap of water between the hulls churned furiously, but he knew the little yacht was hopelessly outpowered. At any moment, the engines were going to stall or burn out.

  Ben shut everything down. The Santa Clara’s bows settled in the water and she began to rock in the heavy swell, helplessly tethered to the launch’s dark hull.

  But Ben wasn’t going to let himself be boarded just like that. Snatching a stubby Maglite torch and a roll of black waterproof repair tape from the equipment rack, he flew down the companionway from the wheelhouse and darted into the main cabin. He could hear and feel the grinding of the launch’s side against the yacht’s, and the yells of the launch crew as they prepared to leap across the gap between the
two boats and take him by force.

  He picked the Remington shotgun up from where he’d left it on his bunk earlier. Working feverishly fast, he tore off a two-foot length of tape and used it to attach the Maglite to the forend of the weapon, so that it pointed along and under the barrel. He twisted the head of the torch until its beam was focused tight and narrow. Rather cruder than a laser sight, but extremely effective for night work. At close range, whatever the light beam shone on could be blown apart quarter of a second later with a blast of 00-buckshot.

  Ben worked the shotgun’s bolt, feeding the first of the eight cartridges from the tube magazine into the breech. He slung the shotgun over his shoulder on its sling. Grabbed the Highway Patrolman revolver from his bag and stuffed it into the back of his jeans. Raced back up the companionway and burst out of the wheelhouse.

  The lights of the launch were even more blinding at close range. Through the white glare he could see the shapes of men running across its deck.

  And something else. The unmistakable glint of gunmetal under the spotlights, marking the contours of a weapon that Ben had seen so many countless times that even in near-total darkness it was as familiar to him as his own face in the mirror. His unexpected guests were carrying MP5-Ks. The K designation stood for Kurtz, German for short. The stubby compact 9mm machine carbines were the kind of weapon favoured by professional assault teams.

  So much for the coastguard.

  One of the boarding team leaped across. Then another. Ben felt the thud as they landed on the Santa Clara’s deck and scattered. One crouched behind the tender while another raced up the port side-deck, the two of them quickly joined by another three MP5-toting crew from the launch.

  Ben ducked down around the side of the wheelhouse as he heard footsteps thudding towards him. He counted: one – two – three – go. Straightened up and twisted round to point the shotgun, turning on the bright white Maglite beam and shining it right in the guy’s face.

  Shoot or be shot. Ben dropped his aim a foot and squeezed the trigger without hesitation. His hearing disappeared in a wall of noise. The recoil of the heavy twelve-gauge load slammed the butt of the Remington hard against his right shoulder, sending a jet of pain through his side.

  But it was worse for the other guy. The boarder took the blast in the chest and was lifted clean off his feet by the impact. His weapon flew out of his grip and splashed into the sea.

  Before his man was even down, Ben was swivelling the Remington up and across. Another stabbing knife of pain through his ribs as he fired straight into the blinding glare of a spotlamp. Glass showered the deck of the launch. The spotlamp went dark. He was about to fire at another when he spotted a fleeting shape moving low along the deck beyond the wheelhouse. He chased the figure with the torch beam. The shotgun boomed and kicked – but in anticipation of the pain from the recoil he’d jerked the shot a little to the left, missing his mark and blowing a serrated bite out of the Santa Clara’s side.

  The percussive rattle of fully-automatic gunfire sounded from the deck of the launch. Ben threw himself backwards as bullets punched into fibreglass all around him. He rolled behind the cover of the buckled wheelhouse, wedged the Remington tightly against its corner and blasted off four rounds as fast as his finger could move, the shotgun’s heavy boom drowning out the chatter of the MP5. There was a yell of pain from the launch and the splash of a body hitting the water.

  Eight shots gone. Ben pressed himself tightly against the wheelhouse and started reloading the shotgun with spare cartridges from the ammo holder attached to the stock. He’d slid three rounds into the magazine when he heard the frantic commotion from the water. An instant later, a terrible bubbling wailing scream pierced the air.

  The man who’d gone overboard let out another animal howl of terror as he tried frantically to reach the Santa Clara’s side and haul himself out of the water. His body jerked as something hit him hard under the surface. He opened his mouth to scream again, but before the sound could burst from his lungs, a powerful unseen force dragged him under.

  For an instant the water boiled and turned red. The man’s bloody head and shoulders erupted from the surface, propelled violently from below. A glimpse of white teeth and an expressionless black eye; then the tiger shark dragged him back down into the churning bloody foam and tore him apart like a terrier shaking a rat.

  Ben hadn’t been distracted for more than a second or two, but it was long enough for him to be taken by surprise as a dark shape flew down from the wheelhouse roof. It was the man he’d missed moments before, now leaping at him, knife in hand. With no time to finish loading the shotgun, Ben swung the weapon like a club and felt the whack of solid beechwood on human skull. The guy slumped senseless against the side of the wheelhouse. Ben kicked the fallen knife away.

  ‘Major Hope?’ said a voice from the shadows.

  Ben whipped round, clutching the shotgun – but the pain in his side slowed his reaction time just a fraction of a second too long. There was a curious popping sound, and something hit him with a startling impact high up in the shoulder. His fingers lost their grip on the Remington and an uncontrollable wave of muscle tremors swiped his legs out from under him and sent him crashing to the deck. The sensation was like nothing he’d ever known before, filling his whole body with a terrible tingling agony. He struggled desperately to get up, but his limbs were gripped by spasms and wouldn’t respond to the commands from his brain.

  Through a haze Ben saw a tall, thin man walk across the deck towards him. He was holding a taser gun in his hand, the curly wires connected to the dart that was embedded in Ben’s shoulder. With his other hand the man reached inside his jacket and flashed an ID card.

  ‘Jack Brewster, MI6.’ The voice seemed to echo from some indeterminate place a million miles away. ‘I’m sorry you’re being so uncooperative, Major.’ Another man appeared at Brewster’s side, holding a syringe.

  Ben felt a sharp prick in his upper arm as the needle lanced deep into his flesh. He muttered something incomprehensible, then closed his eyes and went limp on the deck.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Ben awoke with a gasp. His arm shot out to grab the fallen shotgun that his senses told him was just a couple of feet away across the deck.

  But something was wrong. It wasn’t the solid timbers of the Santa Clara under him, but the soft, dry fabric of a car seat. Shaking his head to clear his blurry vision, he looked up and dimly recognised the figure of Jack Brewster turning round to speak to him from the front passenger seat.

  Only then did Ben register the presence of the other two men in the vehicle: the guy wedged up against him in the back, and the driver speeding the car along a dark road.

  ‘Sorry about the tranquilliser,’ Brewster said. ‘Couldn’t have you taking down any more of my men. The effects will wear off by the time we get you to the plane.’

  ‘Where are you taking …’ Ben managed to mumble before the drowsiness sucked him back under again. The next time he regained consciousness, he was being hauled out of the back of the car. Two men steadied him by the arms as they walked him across tarmac to a building. He felt himself being shoved through a door and made to sit at a bare table. The two men left the room and locked the door behind them.

  It was inside that tiny, stark room that Ben’s senses slowly returned over the next thirty minutes or so. By the time he heard the door being unlocked and the two men came back to collect him, he was fully alert and on his feet.

  ‘I don’t suppose it would do me any good to ask where we’re going?’ he said as they led him down a corridor.

  No reply. One of the men pushed open a door and Ben found himself looking out across a stretch of taxiway at a sleek white Gulfstream jet.

  ‘I forgot my passport,’ Ben said, stepping out into the night air.

  ‘Move,’ said the other man.

  The jet’s passenger cabin was quite empty, and looked more like a long, narrow luxury conference room than the interior of an aircraft.
The moment Ben was on board, his escorts disappeared. A smiling hostess offered him soft drinks, which he turned down, and motioned him towards one of the very few seats, which he grudgingly sat in. He’d given up asking where they were going.

  Minutes later, the jet began its taxi towards the main runway. Ben felt the rush as the aircraft soared upwards, and watched the lights of Grand Cayman grow tiny in the porthole by his seat.

  Once the plane had levelled off to cruising altitude, a curtain swished aside and Ben’s old friend Jack Brewster appeared. ‘You might like to follow me,’ he said with a lopsided smirk. ‘Someone wants to talk to you.’

  Ben wondered whether he could grab Brewster by his belt and collar and pitch him head-first through a window without being sucked out himself as the jet depressurised.

  Maybe later on. Right now, he was more interested in knowing what this was all about.

  On the other side of the curtain sat a man at a table. He was older than Brewster, early fifties, with a hawk-like face and swept-back dark hair, receding and greying at the temples. On the table at his elbow was a closed file. Calm and smiling, he stood up as Brewster showed Ben inside the screened-off compartment.

  ‘Leave us, Jack,’ the man said to Brewster, who disappeared back through the curtain. ‘You’re a very capable man, Major Hope,’ he said when they were alone. ‘It’s reassuring to know that you’re on our side. Egerton Sinclair, MI6.’ He offered his hand. Ben just looked at it.

  Sinclair withdrew the hand, sighed and sat down at the table. ‘I don’t like to talk business on an empty stomach. One of the disadvantages of my profession is that I very often have to eat at the most unsociable hours, and therefore alone. Would you care to dine with me?’