The Mind Pirates (Harbingers Book 10)

by Frank Peretti

  The Mind Pirates

  Frank Peretti

  Contents

  Copyright

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Preview

  Afterword

  Published by Amaris Media International.

  Copyright © 2015 Frank Peretti

  Cover Design: Angela Hunt

  Photos ©Ray8 and ©Priang, fotolia.com.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any other means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without prior permission from the publisher.

  For more information, visit us on Facebook:

  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Harbingers/705107309586877

  or www.harbingersseries.com.

  HARBINGERS

  A novella series by

  Bill Myers, Frank Peretti, Angela Hunt, and Alton Gansky

  In this fast-paced world with all its demands, the four of us wanted to try something new. Instead of the longer novel format, we wanted to write something equally as engaging but that could be read in one or two sittings—on the plane, waiting to pick up the kids from soccer, or as an evening’s read.

  We also wanted to play. As friends and seasoned novelists, we thought it would be fun to create a game we could participate in together. The rules were simple:

  Rule #1

  Each of us would write as if we were one of the characters in the series:

  Bill Myers would write as Brenda, the street-hustling tattoo artist who sees images of the future.

  Frank Peretti would write as the professor, the atheist ex-priest ruled by logic.

  Angela Hunt would write as Andi, the professor’s brilliant-but-geeky assistant who sees inexplicable patterns.

  Alton Gansky would write as Tank, the naïve, big-hearted jock with a surprising connection to a healing power.

  Rule #2

  Instead of the four of us writing one novella together (we’re friends but not crazy), we would write it like a TV series. There would be an overarching story line into which we’d plug our individual novellas, with each story written from our character’s point of view.

  If you’re keeping track, this is the order:

  Harbingers #1—The Call—Bill Myers

  Harbingers #2—The Haunted—Frank Peretti

  Harbingers #3—The Sentinels—Angela Hunt

  Harbingers #4—The Girl—Alton Gansky

  Volumes #1-4 omnibus: Cycle One: Invitation

  Harbingers #5—The Revealing—Bill Myers

  Harbingers #6—Infestation—Frank Peretti

  Harbingers #7—Infiltration—Angela Hunt

  Harbingers #8—The Fog—Alton Gansky

  Volumes #5-8 omnibus: Cycle Two: Mosaic

  Harbingers #9—Leviathan—Bill Myers

  Harbingers #10—The Mind Pirates—Frank Peretti

  There you have it—at least for now. We hope you’ll find these as entertaining in the reading as we are in the writing.

  Bill, Frank, Angie, and Al

  Chapter One

  A Broke Broker

  Adrian Pugh, Wall Street broker, offshore investor, and one-time multi-millionaire, paced nervously around his huge office, muttering, shaking his head in horror and disbelief. He turned and looked once again at the computer screen on his desk. The columns of figures and the totals at the bottom were still there. His first appointment was in ten minutes, and he would be eye to eye with one of the names on that computer screen.

  After that, he’d be eye to eye with an arresting officer.

  Outside the wall-sized windows, the skyscrapers of New York stood waist-deep in smog. The street was twenty stories below.

  Twenty stories. More than enough.

  Chapter Two

  Andi the Pirate

  Adrian Pugh’s intent was to end his life, but an awning broke his fall. Still alive, he would have to explain how millions of dollars suddenly vanished, not only from his own portfolio but from the portfolios of his clients. When he could not explain, the task of finding that explanation trickled down via the usual mysterious channels to myself and my teammates. The fact that we basically liked but could not stand each other had no bearing on the assignment we were given: to retrace Adrian Pugh’s sailing vacation in the Caribbean on a 40 foot sloop.

  McKinney here. James. Sixty, PhD, professor of philosophy and comparative religions, published, and so on and so forth, and no, do not be envious. Our sojourn on the crystal waters, verdant islands, and sugar-white beaches was strictly business, all eyes and ears to find a connection, if any, between Pugh’s enchanting vacation and his precipitous loss. And let me add: A sailboat heeling in the wind with swanlike grace may appear romantic, but I assure you, the Barbee Jay was not roomy, especially with five aboard –– especially we five.

  Especially with Andi the Pirate at the helm, living in a world all her own.

  “A stealin’ scoundrel, a rogue I be,

  from the Barbary Coast to the Caribbee,

  to take in m’hand any gold I see,

  with a hey, hi diddle and away!”

  My red-haired, youthful assistant, you’ll recall. I believe she composed the ditty herself. It went with the outfit: full, white blouse, thick leather belt and toy cutlass, baggy, striped culottes, a red scarf on her head, and a huge gold earring she’d bought on the island of St. Clemens.

  “Ahoy there, matey! So you be sprung from the brig at long last!”

  I’d just returned to the cockpit from a nap in the aft state room, not much different from sleeping in a drawer. “I was reviewing Pugh’s itinerary. And sleeping.”

  “And now you’ll be wanting a hand at the helm, I’ll lay to that.”

  “No, go ahead. You’re having so much fun –– and what in the world are you singing about?”

  She shrugged. “It’s pirate talk.”

  Indeed. Adrian Pugh and family had taken in a raucous and touristy pirate show on St. Clemens, and so, keeping with our assignment, we took it in as well, and now . . . I could only snort with disgust. “Pirates! What sense does it make glamorizing criminals and reprobates?”

  Andi looked up at the mainsail, curved and winging, and smiled as if seeing a vision. “Aye, but there lies the beauty of it. Stow away the rules and the makin’ of sense and sail free!”

  “Oh will you spare me!”

  “What?”

  “Armed thugs committing robbery on the high seas. Don’t you see anything wrong with that?”

  She wagged her head and rolled her eyes –– as Andi, not Long John Silver, would do. “Ah, come on, it’s the romance of it! Haven’t you ever read Treasure Island? Or what about Peter Pan and Captain Hook? What about Pirates of Penzance?”

  “What about ‘stowing away the rules’? We’re talking lawlessness here, aren’t we?”

  Oh dear. She gave me her studied look, a forewarning of debate. “Are you suggesting a transcendent morality?”

  “You know I’m not.”

  “‘Don’t I see anything wrong?’ That is what you asked me.”


  “The limitations of language, I assure you. There is no transcendent law because that would presuppose a transcendent Lawgiver, and of course that, my young lady, is the stuff of folklore and mythology.”

  “So how can the pirates be criminals and reprobates if there is no overarching scheme of right and wrong?”

  Enough of this. I checked the compass as if she hadn’t. “I believe our heading should be 070. Andi?”

  She didn’t answer. The big sloop began to turn toward the wind.

  “Hey, careful. The sails are luffing.”

  The boat kept turning lazily into the wind as the sails went limp, flapping like laundry on a line.

  “Andi, you’re ––”

  She was leaning on the wheel, her eyes blank and her head quivering. “Aardvark . . . ” she said.

  “What?”

  “Aardvark Basil Crustacean . . . ”

  I jumped up and took hold of her before she fell, easing her down to the pilot’s bench. “Andi? Come on now, come back to earth.”

  Brenda Barnick’s voice came from the bow, “What’s going on back there?” With the foresail majestically to one side, she’d been able to lounge on the foredeck in straw hat, shorts, and halter, reading a book and looking like a travel poster. Now, fighting off the rude slaps of the foresail, she was groping her way back. Irritation gave way to concern at the sight of Andi slumped on the bench.

  “Aardvark Basil Crustacean,” Andi muttered, her eyes still blank and glassy. “Aardvark Basil Crustacean, 233 997 417709.”

  Andi was given to numbers, patterns, formulae. “Andi?” I said, “What are you giving me, a phone number?”

  “233 997 417709.”

  “Anybody writing this down?” Brenda asked as she stepped into the cockpit.

  “Execute, execute,” Andi said in a monotone.

  “Tank!” I hollered. “Bring a pencil and paper!”

  “Aardvark.” Andi’s eyes began to roam. “Basil. Crustacean.” She drew a breath, propped herself up. “233 . . . 997 . . . 4177 . . . ” Her eyes widened, she seemed to wake from a dream. “Zero Nine!”

  She lunged for the stern rail and threw up over the side.

  Tank came up the companionway to see the rest of us leaning over the railing. “Sick again?”

  “Just Andi,” I answered.

  Ten year old Daniel was immediately behind Tank, all eyes as usual. Upon apprising the situation he backed down the steps into the galley, apparently to fetch something.

  Brenda was still holding Andi, steadying her as she gripped the railing, gagging, coughing, gasping for breath. “Looks like a flashback.”

  “My fear exactly!” Her mind, so brilliant, so quick, had been sorely traumatized in our “fungus” adventure, deluded by the “emotional generator” we encountered in LA, hypnotized by a charlatan in Florida. After all that, I assumed we were witnessing a persisting damage.

  “I’m--I’m OK,” Andi said between coughs, spits, and swallows. She started to wipe her mouth on her puffy sleeve.

  “No, baby, use this.” With a praising smile, Brenda took a moist wash cloth from Daniel’s hand and gave it to Andi.

  “Was it a flashback?” Tank asked. I noticed he had brought a pen and scratch pad.

  “I wasn’t having a flashback.” Andi turned from the stern rail and rested on the bench, wiping her face and drawing in deep breaths of ocean air.

  “I’m afraid you were babbling nonsense,” I told her.

  “I know what I was saying!” she protested, and wiggled her finger at Tank’s scratch pad. He copied as she repeated quite lucidly, “Aardvark Basil Crustacean ––”

  “How do you spell crustacean?” he asked.

  “Later. Fake it. Then there were numbers: 233 997 417709. That’s A, B, C, and then some numbers, the same every time, even the spaces in between.”

  “But you were blanked out, as if having a seizure,” I tried to counter.

  She finished, “And then I said the word Execute. And then I said it again.”

  Now we all stared at her, waiting for the explanation. She only stared back.

  “So what does it mean?” I asked.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  “How are you feeling now?” Brenda asked.

  “Like I just puked. Where are we?”

  “The Caribbean,” I told her. “We left St. Clemens two hours ago. We were heading for St. Jacob. You were piloting the boat.”

  At that moment, Daniel squeezed around us and took the wheel, swinging the boat back on course. The sails filled, the boat gently heeled, and we started moving again. He loved the role of sea captain.

  “We were talking about pirates!” she told me as it came back to her.

  “That’s right.”

  “And debating a basis for right and wrong.”

  “Which we’ll let rest for now.”

  She was coming fully around. She put her hand to her head. “Well, shiver me timbers.”

  Chapter Three

  Nightmare of Murder

  The winds were steady and gentle when the Barbee Jay reached the island of St. Jacob and we dropped anchor in the harbor. To the west, just over a heavily jungled ridge, the lowering sun was setting the sky on fire, washing the rippled harbor and the little village of St. Marie with gold and crimson.

  Brenda, Tank, Daniel, and I were on deck, all tempted to rouse Andi to see it all.

  “Better let her sleep,” I finally said.

  As for Andi . . .

  As she lay restless in the bow’s V-berth, sleep became a theater of horrors as dark visions tumbled through her mind: The sea, dark and boiling; a pirate with red scarf and stubbly chin; the belly of an old ship at sea, rocking, the planks and timbers groaning; another pirate with a long black beard, laughing, the glint of gold in his mouth; the zing! of a cutlass being drawn; clashing blades.

  Then came threatening faces emerging from the night. Cold, cruel eyes. A blond man, his face wrinkled, his hair thin. A big Asian man, all in black, wielding a knife.

  “You really thought you’d get away?” said the blond man.

  “This is no game,” said the Asian, waving the knife blade closer, closer.

  Banana Peel. The words bore no meaning, but they terrified her.

  They clamped onto her with a painful, iron grip. Terror. Choking. A slap across the face like a lashing, burning fire.

  She kicked violently under the blanket, writhing, trying to get free. “No . . . no! Not me!”

  The visions continued . . .

  “Where is the money?” they asked. “Tell us or you will bleed.”

  Can’t remember, can’t remember!

  Then you will bleed. You will die.

  The knife -

  “NO!” She wanted to wake up but could not.

  The visions coalesced into a nightmare . . .

  Grappling, breaking free, she ran down shadowy, empty streets, through alleys and archways in the dark. Can’t shout, can’t call for help, no one must know . . .

  Footsteps behind her. The knife blade flashing in a patch of moonlight.

  A long pier with boats on either side. The hollow clump! clump! of the planks under her feet, the hiss of surf.

  Grabbed! An iron hand on her arm! Blows to her face! Striking back, lashing, trying to get free.

  Water, all around her. Stinging salt filling her mouth, her throat, her lungs.

  Fire in her chest! FIRE!

  With a muffled scream she kicked off her blanket and leaped from the berth, bounding about the main cabin like a pinball, banging her head on the ceiling, groping for a way out, yelling, screaming, lashing with her arms.

  We collided with each other trying to get down the companionway. Brenda stopped short at the base of the steps while the rest of us piled up behind her, aghast.

  Andi was like a trapped animal, crouching, fists clenched, throwing punches and kicking at enemies who weren’t there. “Touch me and I’ll take your hands for me trophy, by the
powers!” She was still wearing her pirate costume, right down to the scarf and earring.

  “Andi . . . ” Brenda spoke in a hushed voice, reaching out to her.

  Andi planted a mean punch to her jaw, sending her into the galley cabinets. “I’ll take you all like a man, and you scurvy scum!”

  Tank got close enough to see into her eyes. “She’s walking in her –” Her foot in his chest sent him to the floor. “—sleep!”

  I took hold of her from behind. “Andi, you’re going to hurt yourself –– OOF!” Her elbow rammed into my gut and I lost my grip on her, my vision going dark.

  “Nay,” she said, “but you’ll have me for shark bait if I know my own name!” She leaped upon the dining table, her rubber cutlass in her hand. “I’ll be free o’ you all or under the hatches, you can lay to that!”

  Brenda and Daniel blocked the companionway lest Andi find her way overboard. Tank grabbed one leg, I grabbed the other, and we pulled her down as she took to us with her fists. I saw stars, but somehow I held on.

  With a free hand she yanked open the cutlery drawer.

  I grabbed for that hand. I missed.

  She let out a yell, “Take that, Banana Peel!” and a knife sailed through the air.

  Brenda ducked and the knife thudded into the paneling right behind her. A perfect throw.

  We pig-piled on top of her, even Daniel, and that seemed to arrest her madness. At least, she ceased fighting.

  Brenda, warily easing off the pile and shielding Daniel, called to her, “Andi? Earth to Andi, come in.”

  “You awake now?” Tank asked, side glancing at the knife still quivering in the wall.

  Andi was alarmed to find herself on the floor. “I was having a dream. Somebody was trying to kill me, and I ran away, and then they caught me and . . . they just kept wailing on me, beating me silly ‘til I fell in the water and drowned.”