Dark Island

by Matt James

  “You looking for me?”

  He didn’t get up. He barely even looked at her while he spoke. Ian was interested in what she wanted—just not that interested. He had other things going on in the next couple of days to keep him busy.

  She froze and looked his way. Instead of fleeing in fear, she marched forward and slammed her backpack on the table. His drink bounced, spilling its remains in his lap. He didn’t get to react.

  Instead, she did.

  “Seriously, Mr. Hunt, for a fellow American and a war veteran, I thought you’d surround yourself with better company!”

  He lifted an eyebrow. So, you do know who I am?

  “What do you want?” he asked, not letting her see his surprise.

  She didn’t answer. She just stared like everyone else did.

  “The scars aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. You can stop your gawking and tell me why you’re here.”

  She blinked. “Oh…sorry, Mr. Hunt.”

  “Dammit, shit, look, it’s Ian, okay? And you are?”

  “Mack.”

  His eyebrow lifted again. “Ms. Mack?”

  She snorted out a laugh. “No, my first name is Mack.” She held out her hand. “Mackenzie Moore, National Geographic.”

  Now it was his turn to chuckle. “Nat Geo? What the hell do they want?”

  She frowned when he didn’t take her hand but smiled as she spoke. “Same as you.”

  The woman slapped a large black and white photo down on the table top. It depicted the bones of a creature he knew all too well.

  “Rahonavis ostromi,” he said.

  “You know it?” she asked, sounding impressed. It looked like she was about to add something but, instead, she bit her lip and stayed silent. Ian would need to watch her more closely and make sure she wasn’t up to something, or at the very least, hiding something from him.

  “Lady, I lived it. I’ve studied every known predator that this godforsaken country has ever shit out, even the extinct ones. My wife was one of the top minds in the game when it came to the dinosaur-bird evolutionary theory.” He tapped the picture. “We came here to find this thing over seven years ago.”

  She slid into the booth, sitting directly across from him. Her eyes met his. “Did you know that this photo was taken less than a year before your wife died?” Ian’s attention returned to the photo. He didn’t know that. Mack continued. “And did you know that these remains were dated as a modern specimen?”

  Ian blinked hard and shook his head. He went to take a drink from his empty mug but got nothing from it. Frowning, he motioned for Fossa to bring over another but gave the ponytailed redhead a longer look. He decided to order one for her too.

  “Better make it two, Foss.”

  Ian took a deep breath.

  “You said modern... How modern exactly?”

  Mack leaned in closer and grinned. Whatever she was about to tell him, she knew he’d like the answer. “When the tests came back, the people in charge believed there was an error in the findings and dismissed it as fake.”

  “When?” he asked again, getting agitated by the drama.

  She sat back. “It died two weeks earlier. There was still blood on the bones. The people who discovered it believed it was picked clean by scavengers overnight. No one knows where the remains are now, unfortunately.”

  His hands shook at the answer. He had to squeeze them tight to calm them. “Okay, Mack Moore of National Geographic, what do you want?”

  “A kickass story for me…” she frowned, “and some closure for you.” She crossed her arms. “You look like shit, Ian.”

  He laughed and ran both his hands over his shaved head, not sure what to say or feel. This was the opportunity he’d been waiting for—real evidence.

  “Yeah, okay, sure…” He settled in. “What exactly do you have in mind?”

  “We need to visit the scene of the crime and scour the place clean, examine every cave and crevice, leave no stone unturned.”

  Ian was speechless again. He wanted, more than anything, to prove to the world, and himself, what killed Abigail that night. So, he took a deep breath, calmed his nerves, and looked Mack dead in the eyes and said, “No.”

  “What!” Her flabbergasted outburst startled him. Her eyes narrowed. “I fly all this way with a compelling case, complete with actual physical evidence, and you have the balls to turn me down?”

  Not used to being on the other end of a verbal thrashing, Ian stood and moved to the bar, trying desperately to get away from the flustered woman. Abigail was the last female to talk to him like that.

  She could get away with it, though.

  Mack followed up her angry retort with a bumbling cacophony of “whats” and “whys” before sitting down next to him. She snagged the second mug and drained half of it.

  Fossa nodded his approval, impressed. Then he turned his attention to the other people in the bar. There weren’t many others, but he knew to give Ian his space when he was in one of his “moods.”

  Like now.

  “There is nothing that can get me back on that mountain, lady.”

  She turned to him. “First off, if you call me lady again, I’ll make the right side of your head look like the left. Secondly, you look like a typical scumbag now, how about I bribe you of your services with some good old-fashioned cash?”

  Ian’s eyes glanced at hers. This one was full of fire and brimstone. So, he decided to play along and see what she was offering. “How mu—?”

  “Five grand.”

  Ian choked and spit his lager all over the bartop, some of it making its way to the rear wall. Fossa turned and threw his hands up in anger, cursing him out in a string of Malagasy profanities.

  “Is, uh, that local dollars or U.S.?” Ian asked, ignoring the man.

  She grinned. “Which would you prefer?”

  He looked forward and eyed his reflection in the bar’s mirrored, back wall. He really did look like a merc pirate for hire. Then again, he’d basically become one. But it was mostly a front. Mentally, he was still something else—something better.

  Five grand was a ton of money in these parts. Even the jobs he did for Fossa only earned him a few hundred apiece at best. If he wanted more than that, he’d have to leave the country and find real work.

  He clenched his jaw at the notion. He wasn’t leaving. Not yet.

  Ian made up his mind quickly and chugged the rest of his beer, letting some of it drain down his chin and into his beard. Not bothering to wipe the excess away, he turned and eyed his potential employer.

  “If I agree to this, we’re going to do things my way, and I’m going to need some help.”

  “Like the big prick who grabbed me outside?”

  Ian smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, him. Sorry about that, by the way. Bob and I have a long list of enemies around here. I’m sure you can appreciate that. You’ve traveled a little, right? You’ve seen the way things are handled outside of the States.”

  “Yes, I have.” She visibly calmed. “I’ve been around the world enough times and seen the way things work in places like this.” She glanced at Fossa who was staring at her. “Not this place, I mean.” Mack took a sip of her drink and looked at Ian, grimacing as she did, not meaning to stick her foot in her mouth. She tipped the rest of the lager back, slamming the mug on the bar when she was finished. “You have anyone else in mind?” She belched, uncaring of what anyone thought. “And by the way, that five-k is for you. I only have another two of my own money to spend. Any more than that and it's coming out of your pay.”

  He waved her worries away. “These guys will work for peanuts, Bob included.”

  “These guys?”

  He smiled. “Yes, these. We’ll need to convince someone to come along, but…”

  “But what?” she asked, concerned.

  “He’s a little rough around the edges.”

  Mack snorted. “And who are you, Don Juan DeMarco?”

  He laughed. “Compared to Nash, I am.�
�

  Mack’s determination faltered, going from confident to unsure in the blink of an eye. Ian didn’t mean to frighten her.

  “Just let me do the talking, okay?”

  She silently nodded.

  Standing, Ian headed for the front with Mack right on his heels. The only reaction he got out of Fossa was a slight nod. Shoving open the door, he stepped into the late afternoon sun and squinted. When his foot hit the dirt, he was struck from the side, taking a hard blow to the jaw.

  Someone had punched him, blindsiding him like a coward.

  Mack screamed in surprise and tried to help Ian up but was grabbed and tossed to the ground by one of the three assailants. Ian met her frightened eyes and something inside him snapped. It was a vow he took to protect others that he’d not felt since Abigail died.

  Unarmed, he stood and faced the three thugs. He knew them all, especially their leader. He was a fellow smuggler, a pirate, like Ian, but he was also in the “private security” business. It was an industry that Ian had cornered the market on.

  “Shouldn’t have done that, Wandu.” Ian reached out a gentle hand, helping Mack to her feet. He made sure she was okay before handing her off to Babo who immediately put himself in between her and the fight. The larger, “less-threatening” of the two men was sporting a fat lip and a bloodied nose.

  They had jumped him too.

  Babo eyed Ian, but the American calmly shook his head, flicking his eyes to Mack. He wanted the Babo to look after her while he took care of their attackers himself. When he was provoked, the giant of a man could do some real damage. Ian knew not to ask him to fight unless it was absolutely necessary.

  This wasn’t one of those times.

  Ian wiped the blood from his lip and faced the trio. “You really shouldn’t have done that.”

  4

  Besides the ordeal with her father, it had been a long time since Mack had been genuinely scared. If you added “for her life” after the word “scared,” then it was that much longer for her. She recalled getting in the middle of a civil war in western Africa while doing a story on a rediscovered plant species. Apparently, their guide was unaware of how far the conflict reached and walked Mack and her crew right into a local militia’s territory.

  It was early in her career and the situation frightening. Mack genuinely feared for her life. What she saw standing in front of her now was similar. The trio of men wanted to harm them physically. The men in the Congo also wanted me physically. The memory still gave her the chills.

  The local named Wandu held a rusted machete while the men to either side of him each held wooden baseball bats.

  Ian was defenseless.

  She watched in amazement as the bearded American shook his head in their direction and then casually faced his attackers. “You really shouldn’t have done that.”

  Wandu and his thugs just laughed, making a show of it to the people around them. The leader’s thick midsection twitched with every weighty guffaw. His tank top may have once been white, but, as of now, it was just an awful shade of yellowish-brown. He was about fifty pounds heavier than Ian and had a couple inches of height on him too. The other men were about Ian’s size, but not as well-built as he was.

  Babo quietly translated for her as Wandu vehemently spoke. His broken English was better than she expected.

  “You lucky I no kill you, Ghost.”

  Ian’s jaw tightened. It was pretty evident to Mack that he disliked the nickname. Being the only white people in the area, Mack knew the name was because of his complexion, and therefore, insulting. If he was “Ghost,” she would probably be referred to as “Banshee” or some other derogatory name like “Witch.”

  Or they could go for the jugular and call me a bitch or a whore.

  “Enlighten me,” Ian replied through Babo, staying calm. “Why should I be thankful?” Mack was really impressed with Ian’s composure. He was waiting for the right moment, or maybe even trying to avoid the fight altogether.

  “You take our work, Ghost.”

  Ian’s right fist balled some more.

  Oops, Mack thought, waiting for him to pounce.

  But he didn’t.

  “No,” Babo translated, “you see, that where you wrong. I did not take work. I given your work because I better. That how business work, right?”

  Mack leaned into Babo. “Ian doesn’t hold back, does he?”

  The mammoth man silently shook his head.

  And speaking of not holding back…

  Wandu moved in but missed Ian’s head with a quick jab of his machete. The former SEAL didn’t hold back with his retaliation. Mack could only stand there and watch as Ian completely dismantled the trio of men.

  He quickly slapped away Wandu’s blade with a firm palm strike. Next, Ian latched onto Wandu’s wrist and pulled him closer, following with a hard elbow strike to the thicker man’s nose, now inside his reach. The portly man stumbled away, his face smeared with blood.

  As their leader fell back, both the bat wielders attacked. Ian calmly sidestepped one of them and used his thick forearm to block the other. The impact barely phased him, making it look like nothing more than a harmless glancing blow.

  He swung really hard, though.

  Showing off his agility, Ian spun and lashed out with a spinning back kick, connecting his foot with the first batsman’s face. He was out cold on his feet, crumpling to the ground like a ragdoll. The second one didn’t go down as easily—neither did Wandu, for that matter.

  Enraged and half-blind, the bloodied man swung wildly. Instead of fighting back, Ian grabbed the second batsman by the shirt collar and turned him toward the descending machete.

  The skinnier local screamed and threw his bat up, making Wandu flinch and let up on his attack. It gave Ian an opportunity to respond. He shoved the batsman forward and then kicked him in the back, driving him right into Wandu’s barrel chest. Both men went spinning to the ground, comically entangled with one another.

  Ian backed away, wiped Wandu’s blood from his own elbow, and waited. He didn’t press the attack, and Mack knew why.

  Babo understood as well. He smiled. “He show them who boss.”

  Ian took in the people gathering around the front of Fossa’s place and made sure they saw what happened next. Even Fossa himself was watching from inside the bar’s large front window. But the barkeep’s face was one of boredom. He already knew how this was going to end.

  Ian wants to embarrass these guys in front of everyone.

  Wandu roared in anger and slashed out again at Ian, this time more wildly. Quicker than she could process, Ian flipped one of the men’s bats into the air with his foot, caught it, and deflected the blade away. Ian had shown remarkable restraint so far. Mack half-expected him to do it again.

  She was wrong.

  Instead of letting the stumbling man wobble away, Ian ducked under another feeble attack, spun down to one knee, and savagely hacked at Wandu’s right leg. The overweight goon squealed, gripping his destroyed kneecap as he fell. Mack knew Ian could’ve let Wandu walk away, but she also understood that they would only come back again. Maybe with more men. It was a harsh way to teach someone a lesson, but some people didn’t learn unless it was forced upon them.

  Even if violence was involved.

  And Wandu was definitely one of those people.

  Ian stalked forward and shoved the chipped tip of the bat into Wandu’s throat, silencing his painfilled howls for the moment. He pressed it in deep enough to make the other man gag.

  “Threaten me or my people again, and I’ll kill you,” Ian said in English, dropping the bat like he was dropping the mic. “This is your last warning.” His eyes narrowed. “Next time, I’ll break your fucking skull.”

  Unarmed, he turned to the other batman and deepened his scowl. The local quickly dropped his weapon and threw up his hands in surrender. Then, he began dragging Wandu away while avoiding the looks of the crowd around them. The other bat wielder—the unconscious one—j
ust laid there, down for the count. No one tried to help him either.

  Mack was about to ask what they should do with him but stopped when Fossa pushed through the front door. He calmly dumped a full mop bucket on the man’s head. The rank-smelling water instantly roused the guy, but it took a second for him to realize where he was and what had happened.

  Ian folded his arms and waited.

  Once the groggy local made eye contact with the pissed off American, he jumped to his feet and took off running. Fossa patted Ian on the shoulder and headed back into his bar without a single word.

  Facing Mack, Ian dabbed his split lip with his shirt sleeve. “So, about that job…”

  * * *

  Ian stayed in a small, one-bedroom apartment above Fossa’s place. Only accessible by a set of stairs around back, he’d been renting the place from the bar owner for the last few years. Fossa lived outside of town and initially used the quaint home as a drop zone for his trading empire. But once he and Ian had gotten together, Fossa had no use for other people. It worked out nicely for Ian since he needed a place to stay. Plus, it was rent-free.

  Unlocking the door, Ian stepped in, holding it open for Mack as he did. She followed as did Babo. The latter went straight to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, throwing one to Ian without so much as looking at him. He turned and held one up for Mack who gladly accepted. Babo lobbed it underhand at her, and she snagged it with little effort.

  It wasn’t much of a display, but Ian could tell that the woman could handle herself. Her body said she was a sportswoman of some kind. Basketball? Regardless of her athletic background, he was most impressed with how she held it together when Wandu and his men showed up.

  Ian filled Babo in with the gist of Mack’s job offer on the way up to his place. And as he usually did, Babo didn’t say a word. He gave Ian a soft nod and kept walking. They got along well because Ian never took him for granted. They both had their need for one another, and the symbiotic relationship had yet to fail.