Munroe drew slow breaths, focused on her extremities, on the rumble of the oil pumps, on the sound of Janek’s methodical assembly; and in the minutes that ticked out long the pain dulled to a constant throb and the shaking subsided and she opened her eyes. Half the parts on the floor were gone, and Janek, focused on the task at hand, remained oblivious when she stood and left him for the war above her head.
On the deck the floodlights were off and under the clouded sky the musical score of combat came in fitful bursts, weapon reports that lit the night in all directions, an orchestration that kept the attack boats from drawing too close, kept them circling like sharks waiting for weakness while the music rose higher, faster, and in crescendo came the whoosh expulsion of a rocket-propelled grenade, and then another, and Munroe smiled and slid down the wall and closed her eyes while the symphony played on.
The first two grenades missed their targets, but the explosion of the third lit up the night with timpani and crashing cymbals, and a frantic answer rose from afar. Another roar from the percussion section, another flash of light, visible even with her eyes closed. As long as the attackers didn’t have a way to get close to the ship, as long as the RPGs and ammunition supplies held out, as long as none of the attack boats managed to sneak men on board, as long as Janek could get the engine running, they would make it out.
The booming of the symphony rose higher as the minutes extended far beyond the twenty that Janek had promised, and in the music of war Munroe found the patterns. Too much focus in some directions, not enough in others. She stood. Braced for pain and ran the deck to the number three hold. Followed the shelter of the coaming until she reached the first shooters and, through hand signals, was pointed toward the rifles and ammunition they’d unburied. Found a weapon. Loaded a magazine, seated it, charged the rifle, and returned to the shadows, watching and waiting for the inevitable.
CHAPTER 42
Munroe scanned the length of the ship, waited three minutes, four, before the first head peered up from the ladder: starboard, facing away from shore, away from where Natan and Marcus worked target practice with the grenade launchers—a replay of the maneuver from the first night of attack, when the men had come silently while distraction lit up the night on the opposite side of the ship.
Munroe slid through the shadows, crept closer for accuracy, pain intensity returning with each foot gained. She pulled the two-way off her belt, risked detection, gave notice of the impending boarding. Amber responded from the bow; was farther from the targets than Munroe. No response from Natan.
The first man slipped onto the deck, silhouette of a rifle in hand. Two heads rose behind him. Pushing forward against shortened breaths, Munroe crab-walked nearer; knelt for stability and, hands shaking with a trembling she couldn’t control, depressed the trigger. In response to the fusillade, the first man retreated back over the gunwale. Munroe crawled forward again. Gave up another five rounds. Didn’t make a hit, but the suppressive fire drove all three men farther down the ladder.
And then the shudder.
Noise. Movement. The ship groaning as the propeller kicked on.
Munroe called for Natan again.
No response.
Emboldened by the minimal defense, spurred on by the ship’s movement, the men slipped back up and rushed the deck. Munroe didn’t have the accuracy to take them down one hit at a time, sniper-style, had no strength to track after them, hunting through shadows to kill before they killed. Rifle stock to her shoulder, eye lined up to the sight, Munroe gave up another three rounds and scored a torso hit on one of the targets. He jerked, twisted, fell. The others scattered toward the holds, and she lost them in the dark, where they would be confused for her own men, set free to sneak among and kill the unsuspecting.
Without options, with no response from Natan, Munroe stood to follow after them. A rip of gunfire answered her movement: bullets tracing the night, aimed not at her but in the direction the attackers had fled. From the shadows an outline of arms and legs flailed into a heap and the second figure bolted from its hiding place. The gunfire continued. The runner yelled, twisted a near full circle, and stumbled; crawled forward, rifle swinging from one point to the next spraying ammunition, trying to find his enemy, until his gun went silent and Amber stepped from the shadows and stalked forward, firing one deliberate round after the next until she reached him. Stood over him. Plugged a last bullet into his head; moved to the next man and did the same. Stood over the dead for a half moment and then, face turned up into the dark in Munroe’s general direction, tipped fingers to her forehead, turned, and strode back toward her position on the bow.
THE SHIP TOOK up speed slowly and the attack boats gave chase, a mile or two or three, kept at a distance by the RPGs until, after what felt like a century, the muzzle flashes stopped, the rocket fire ceased, the air fell silent, and the water went dark with the symphony’s end.
Munroe stood on deck breathing in the night, the collective sigh on the ship, and the dawning realization that, though there could yet be new attacks as word of the Favorita’s recapture spread, they truly had a chance of making it to a port of safety. She turned toward the bridge and, with legs and hands still shaking, started up.
The captain nodded when she entered.
“What’s the situation with the fuel?” she said.
“We travel slow, we make to Mombasa.”
“How slow is slow?”
“Six, seven knots,” he said, and she groaned. At that speed, they’d be targets for the entire length of the journey.
“Khalid will stay with you,” she said. “As soon as we figure out what supplies are left, I’ll have food sent up, but you can’t leave the bridge.”
He looked at her fully then, wore an expression that wasn’t quite pain or concern but came close, and offered silent questions in place of words.
“They’re dead,” she said.
“Both of them?”
The second mate had been blinded in the torture. She simply nodded.
“They weren’t the only ones,” she said, and turned from him. Paused at the door but had nothing with which to articulate the spite stuck inside her throat. He’d taunted fate by using blackmail to get the weapons, taunted fate again by attempting to deliver them to a buyer off the Somali coast. Men without options had died for his failed conceit.
Hands resting on the control panel, face to the broken window so that he avoided eye contact, the captain said, “You keep your promise?”
“Yes,” she said, and left him. Returned to the deck, where the crew, released from duty by Natan, trudged back toward the tower, two of them dragging a bag of rice, perhaps the only food left on the ship. By the railing, Amber shoved the bodies of the men she’d killed and with her feet pushed them one by one beneath the bottom rail and dumped them overboard. Munroe came to stand beside her, and together they stared down at the water, where in place of the ladder and inflatable there was only blackness and a river of red ink on Amber’s balance sheet, everything likely torn loose when the ship began to move and the damaged boat became a trawl.
“Do we have the fuel to get us all the way?” Amber said.
“Supposedly.”
“Leo is paralyzed,” she said. “No feeling from the waist down. He needs medical care.”
“Will you get help in Mombasa?”
“I don’t know,” Amber said, and then leaving the conversation unfinished, turned for the tower. Munroe followed, slower, craving rest and a way to allow the pain to subside. Instead, she pulled the satellite phone and powered it on. Caught a signal. Waited until she was certain she wouldn’t be overheard and dialed the Sentrim Castle, the hotel Sergey and the Russian delegation had moved to after she’d dropped off the first picture of the captain.
At her request, the front desk connected her to the room of Anton, the boss man, and, voice groggy and angry, he answered after several long rings.
“Hello,” she said. Used English because it would give him the fewest clues to her identity. �
�Did you enjoy my gift, the photo of the friend you have been so desperate to find?”
“Who is this?” he said, his words thick with sleep.
“Nikola Goran,” she said, mimicking his accent.
“You are not.”
“I do have him,” she said. “If you still want him.”
“Yes,” he said, and the sleep was gone, his tone alert and wary.
“We should make a trade.”
“What do you want?”
“Five hundred thousand in U.S. dollars by wire transfer. Half now, half upon delivery.”
“Is not possible,” he said, but his voice betrayed a measure of doubt, which she had expected. In the grand scheme of things she’d not asked for a lot, and their calculations would be based on the upfront money—they’d never plan to pay the rest.
“You should speak with your boss about it,” she said. “If he says no, then your friend will be given a passport and put on the next flight out of Nairobi. You will never find him again.”
A pause and the heavy breathing of thought. “I need time,” he said.
“I’ll give you an hour.”
“If I can make an arrangement, then I must have proof that you do have this man.”
“Not a problem,” she said, and ended the call.
She waited out the hour in the coaming shadows of the number three hold, back to the deck, face to the stars, occasionally catching sight of Natan and Marcus, Omar and Ali, all four of whom patrolled on high alert for the first sign of another attack, though if it came, like the ones before, they’d probably not know it until too late.
The gentle rocking of the ship pulled her in and out of sleep, and when the hour had passed, she stood and walked toward the bulwark, where, without the clutter of the deck crane, the signal was better.
Anton picked up the phone on the first ring. “We will trade you money for Nikola,” he said.
“You’ll have your proof in the morning,” she said. “Check with the front desk for a fax. After that you have twelve hours to wire the money. If it’s not there, Nikola is gone. Do you have a pen?”
“Yes,” he said.
She recited routing details from memory, swift codes and account numbers, said, “No payment, no prize.” Then the hair on the back of her neck rose, the animal instinct of being watched. The boss man grunted, acceptance and confirmation, and Munroe pressed End.
The air shifted behind her.
She said, “What now?” but spun before the words were fully out of her mouth. Blocked Natan’s blow with her forearm and felt the impact down into her chest.
“Traitor,” he hissed. “Selling us out.”
“No,” she said, and shifted, danced to slip from another blow, and then another as he struck again and again. Battle-hardened and a brutal fighter, he drove her back against the bulwark and, without the strength to do more than hurt herself if she tried to strike back without a weapon, she struggled to dodge, to block the beating, and still he pressed on.
“Stop,” she said. “There’s no point to this.”
He struck, she swerved; his follow-through connected with her cheekbone.
Munroe’s head rang, and she shook it off.
“Tonight I finish the misery I should have the first time,” he said, and in the menace beneath his words she understood that with the ship secure, he didn’t need her anymore, had every intention of succeeding where Leo had failed.
She reached for the knife without thinking, and in the heat of the moment, her hand on the blade, the jungle rose in the darkness and took her back to where weakness had made her strong. Warmth crept up her arms and the bloodlust rose, the desperate need to finish the fight, to strike before struck, to draw blood before her own was shed.
Natan kept at her, blow by blow, pain rising higher in the background of her consciousness as she dodged and blocked and sliced a blade into his arm trailing a gash that made him jerk back and pause.
Dizzying euphoria rose in answer to the connection and the war drum pounded harder, louder, drowning her senses, drowning out reason, filling her with Pavlovian need.
“I don’t want to kill you,” she panted. “If you keep at me, I won’t be able to help myself. Please stop.”
He hesitated just out of reach. Looked at his arm and the blood that flowed freely; shock, perhaps, that she’d managed to connect a blow, or shock that she’d actually cut him. She took the knife to her own shirt and sliced a ribbon off it. Grabbed his hand and wrapped the fabric tightly to stanch the flow, and there, while her hands were busy tending to his wound, he struck again.
The blow hit her chest, a punishing pain that rivaled the worst of the beating on the night she’d almost died; it dropped her to her knees. The world tilted at odd angles, the color of her vision shifted to gray. Unable to stand, she watched his feet as they approached, senses measuring time by each heartbeat, lengthening and distorting her vision, blood in her ears rushing out all else but the thirst for retaliation. Another second, another step, and he would be close enough.
He neared, and in response the blade came alive.
From behind came footsteps, and a clink of metal on metal, and Victor’s voice saying, “No warnings, Natan. Stop or I finish this.”
“Rescue with one hand,” Natan said, “stab in the back with the other.” He pivoted slightly, his face turned toward Victor. “There is more to this than you see, Victor. You should never meddle in things you don’t understand.”
When Victor didn’t answer, didn’t move, Natan flung an accusatory finger toward Munroe. “A traitor,” he said. “Using us, using Amber, to take the ship. Using us to get to something else.”
Munroe closed her eyes, drew in a long breath, and held it until her lungs burned with want of air.
“Step away,” Victor said, and his voice was closer now and Munroe could see his feet. She exhaled and pushed away the need, the fire, the death. Drew in another long breath and let the poison seep out with her exhale.
Victor stepped around Natan in Munroe’s direction. “Even if it’s true,” he said, “we would be rotting in wait with no rescue.” He knelt. Offered Munroe an arm and helped her stand.
Upright, she turned to Natan.
“He takes the wise in their own craftiness,” she said, “and the counsel of the cunning is carried headlong.”
“What is this?” Natan said.
“I told you to let me work. You in all your smartness will get us killed.”
“You are lying.”
“Think what you want,” she said, and with her arm on Victor’s, turned her back to him, fighting the pain that wouldn’t simmer.
In the passageway outside the Somalis’ berth, where two of the ship’s crew waited as guards in Victor’s place, she reached for one of the cell phones piled up outside the door. Had to kneel to collect it and, with Victor helping her, made it upright again; allowed him to lead her to an empty berth and settled on the bed, adrenaline dumping, body burning.
He lingered in the doorway as if unsure if it was safe to leave her.
“You be all right?” he said.
“Yes,” she whispered, and when he’d shut the door, Munroe powered on the Somali phone and, hands shaking, dialed the hawaladar.
CHAPTER 43
The trajectories of the dhow and the Favorita converged, vessels traveling in convoy, a slow chug several miles off the Somali coastline, lights off, ship dark to avoid attracting attention, still very much within the high-risk area. Head on the pillow, Munroe closed her eyes listening to the background chatter of the two-way, following the progress until she drifted into sleep.
At some point Victor returned, and as Mary had done not so long ago, he pressed a tablet to Munroe’s lips and followed the pill with water. The opioid wrapped her in warmth and she drifted into oblivion where time ceased to exist. Then woke with a start, blinking against natural light, disoriented and gasping for air, urged to rush onward because no matter what the hour, the daylight told her she was alre
ady late in delivering her proof to the Russians.
Munroe pushed up, rolled her legs off the bed, and, wincing against the stiffness and pain, unbound the tape that braced her chest. Used her T-shirt to dry her skin, which was mottled with sweat and itching with heat rash, and pulled the shirt back on. Pushed both phones into her pockets and, still woozy, opened the door to the passageway.
Victor was on the floor several meters down, rifle across his lap, keeping guard outside the berth that housed the Somali prisoners. He tipped his head back when she stepped out, bushy beard and wild hair turning his smile into something ghoulish. “You sleep good?” he said.
Munroe forced a half smile, the best she had to offer, and at the sound of his voice a rumble picked up from behind him: banging and shouting, muted by the door and wall. Victor slammed the butt of his rifle into the door and swore in Spanish.
“How many are in there?” Munroe said.
“Eight.”
“Have they had water?”
Victor shook his head. “There is no unity in the decision of what to do with them, so I wait.”
“Just make the decision yourself.”
He shrugged. The banging continued. Victor sighed. Stood. Opened the door and the tumult picked up volume. He motioned Munroe to have a look and she peered into the filthy room where once the crew had been kept captive and now what pirates still lived held bound hands out in the universal sign of prayer, pleading for water and for mercy.
“Amber is with Leo,” Victor said. “She is not concerned with them. Marcus and Natan call for executions.”
“And you?”
“They showed no pity to us.”
“Would you dump them overboard?”
“I would,” he said.
“That would make you the same as them.”
“I have no problem with that.”
Munroe shut the door and Victor continued to stare after it.
“It should be the captain’s decision,” she said, “as the master of the ship.”
Victor snorted.
“At least give them water,” she said.
The Catch: A Novel Page 32
