by Brad Taylor
He got Knuckles to duck, then stood up and began running toward the front door, and I took aim. I squeezed off a double-tap and he tumbled. I raced out from cover and kicked his weapon away, seeing him straining to draw a breath, his lungs punctured like a whitetail deer’s. He tried to sit up, his eyes wide, his left arm clawing the dirt.
I did nothing but watch, knowing he was slipping into another place. There was nothing I could do, even if I wanted to. He raked his nails through the earth one more time, then relaxed. I saw his eyes roll, and I knew he was done. Not for the first time, I wondered when someone would stand over me, waiting on my life to drain into the dirt.
It won’t be today.
The entire engagement had taken less than ten minutes. By the time Knuckles was back down the stairs, I was stripping the guy of his boots. Knuckles began doing the same to the man he’d chucked out the window when we heard movement. We both whipped our weapons up and saw a crusty-looking old man with almond skin coming out of the brush.
Knuckles said, “Doesn’t look like he’s from Romania.”
I stood up and waved, saying, “Nope. Looks more like a ride off of this rock. I think he’s a fisherman.”
The man waved back, then sat on a hunk of limestone, content to watch. Like he’d seen a shoot-out on this island every other week. I waited for him to engage us, and when he didn’t I went back to work. We continued searching the team’s belongings, trying to find some clue as to what was going on, and two more Haitians emerged from the brush. They talked among themselves, looking at us like we would do something else to provide entertainment, but did nothing to interfere.
We finished searching the bodies, finding precious little to explain what was going on. Little to enlighten how a simple contract to find a pirate treasure had evolved into a hunting team armed with the latest killing weapons available.
Knuckles waved a fixed-blade stiletto he’d pulled out of a sheath from the man he’d chucked out the window. He flicked it into the dirt, the blade spinning once before stabbing into the ground, and said, “What the hell is going on here?”
I unzipped the window jumper’s backpack, finding a walkie-talkie that was of little use and a notebook in Romanian. I said, “I don’t know, but one thing’s for sure. It’s got nothing to do with Blackbeard.”
Knuckles said, “Actually, I think this whole thing had a lot more to do with Edward Teach than we know.”
“What? You still believe there’s some treasure out here that caused all of this?”
He stood up and waved the old man forward, saying, “Did you put your wallet in that waterproof bag with the phone?”
“Yeah. Unlike you, I didn’t trust a bunch of foreigners with my personal stuff. Answer the question. What do you think is going on?”
He shook the man’s ancient hand and said, “I think these fuckers are modern-day pirates, and Jennifer and Brett are walking into a shit storm.”
Chapter 8
Jennifer felt the boat begin to gently roll and knew they’d cleared Port Royal. They were now out in the open ocean. She glanced at Brett and saw that he recognized it as well. They’d been locked up in the galley of the diving boat Pike had rented for close to twenty hours, their only movement allowed having been bathroom breaks. Even then, the zip ties stayed on their wrists and the door to the head had remained open, the Romanian thugs leering at her as she went. She had no idea what had happened to Pike and Knuckles, but after last night, she knew it wasn’t good news.
She and Brett had reported to Dylan’s room to provide their initial take on the research they’d conducted during the day, both on the various legends of the location of pirate treasure as well as a rundown on past antiquities rulings in the country of Jamaica. No sooner had they closed the door than the Romanian known as Costin had pulled a pistol, taking them prisoner.
They’d remained in the room until well past ten o’clock, then had been taken to the fifty-four-foot Bertram boat at the Royal Jamaican Yacht Club. Sailing out into the bay, they’d gotten within about two hundred meters of the port of Kingston, just outside the security zone, then stopped. A black mesh container about five feet square was thrown on the deck. Inside were dozens of waterproofed bundles. On the corners were large rare earth magnets.
Costin pointed at Brett and said, “Stand up. Look over toward the port. Do you see the second ship in the line?”
Brett did as he asked, then said, “Yes.”
“You will swim this bundle to that ship and affix the magnets to the hull beneath the water line.”
“Just me? That thing is huge.”
“Yes. Just you.” He pointed at the remaining scuba gear. “I’m told you know how to use this equipment. I hope for the sake of your friend here, you do. If you get caught by security or try to escape, she will die.”
Remembering that Brett was recovering from an arm wound, Jennifer said, “Let me help him. Let us both go.”
Costin had laughed. “Let you both go under the ocean at night? I’m afraid not. You will be helping him. You will provide the motivation.”
Brett had grimly suited up, then slipped over the side. Two men had hoisted the package into the water; then Costin had said, “You have two hours. If you’re not back in two hours, she is dead.”
“But this tank only holds about forty-five minutes of air.”
“Then I suggest you use it wisely. Surface swim until you’re close.”
An hour and forty-two minutes later, she had hoisted an exhausted scuba diver back onto the boat. Brett had collapsed on the deck, not even caring when they zip tied his hands behind his back.
The boat had returned to the marina, but they had not been allowed to leave. Costin and his crew had been replaced by two more men who said nothing, merely bringing on some maritime equipment and a duffel bag. One sat in the galley with a pistol on his belt while the other remained up top, the two men rotating positions every few hours.
Out of the small window above the galley table, Jennifer could see the container ship that Brett had swum to. When it set sail midafternoon, her boat’s engines had fired to life. Now Jennifer was sure they were chasing the giant ship on the open ocean.
Why? What are they up to? What does this have to do with us?
The guards on the boat spoke only in a foreign language she assumed was Romanian and were no help. Before he’d left, Costin had given instructions to Brett and Jennifer, saying they were being held only until an operation had been conducted, then would be set free. Jennifer knew he was just trying to ensure compliance and he had no intention of letting them go. He was going to kill them the minute they were no longer of any use. But that was the question.
What use are we to begin with?
They were being kept alive for a specific reason, and it wasn’t goodwill. When the two men had changed out with Costin’s crew this morning, they’d brought with them some type of collapsible pole ladder with a hook on the end. That, coupled with the fact that they were following the container ship, led her to believe that they were going to board it, and not from the next port.
But they couldn’t board it and leave us here without risking escape. And there are only two men on this boat. Not enough manpower to both drive the boat and guard us if only one boards. Why keep us alive if they’re going to do that anyway? They could just shoot us and dump us out here.
Then it dawned on her. They’re going to make us board.
She had no idea why but was positive that was what was going to happen, and once it did, they’d be used as pawns in whatever Costin and Dylan were doing. Probably dead pawns.
Need to get off this boat before we stop again.
She ran through options in her head, for a split second her mind clicking on a rescue by Pike. She immediately forced the thought away, not wanting to dwell in any way on his fate. Not wanting to pop the blister of awful truth.
She flexed her hands behind her back, pulling her wrists apart, and thought there was enough slack in the plastic zip tie to allow her to slip them under her heels, bringing her arms to the front. If she did so, she could get a weapon.
She surveyed the galley, seeing nothing that would help. No knives or anything else that she could use against a man with a pistol. Everything was strapped down or put away for the boat ride, and she wouldn’t have time to dig through drawers. It would have to be quick and fluid if she were to succeed.
The only positive news was that the guard was seated in a folding chair facing Brett, obviously feeling he was the greater threat. She thought about that mistake. Thought about not worrying about a weapon and simply attacking. If she could get Brett’s attention, he could join in. They both had their legs free, another mistake that could prove costly.
All I need to do is pin his arms. Keep him from using the pistol. Then let Brett take over.
The other man was on the bridge above them and would not be able to react in time even if he did hear anything. She caught Brett’s eyes, then flicked them to the man. She blinked four times slowly. He blinked back twice. Yes.
Perched on a galley couch built into the wall, she scooted closer to the deck chair the man was sitting in. Slowly inching her way to him, she closed to within three feet and he glanced her way, a scowl on his face. She wondered if she’d given it away and thought about stopping. Brett stood up, saying, “I need to use the bathroom.”
The man raised his pistol off his lap, and Jennifer committed, springing up and leaping toward him feetfirst, pushing off the couch with her hands and wrists. He caught the motion and started to rise but wasn’t fast enough. She clamped her legs around his waist and intertwined her ankles, hitting the ground on her back but locking his arms to his sides.
He flung her sideways, slamming her into the port cabinets and trying to raise his weapon to a firing position with his wrists alone. Brett jumped forward and hammered the bone of his forehead right above the man’s nose, knocking him out cleanly. He hit the ground and Jennifer rolled over, bringing her legs to her chest and pulling her hands over them, ripping the skin. She jumped up and began going through the drawers, finding a serrated steak knife.
She hissed, “Turn around.”
Brett did so, whispering, “Don’t fucking cut my wrist.”
She split the plastic, nicking him only a few times. He returned the favor, then picked up the pistol of the man he’d knocked out. “Time to play pirate.”
Chapter 9
Knuckles hit another crest at speed, causing the boat to catch air before crashing down and slamming my BGAN terminal to the deck. I knew it was a dumb idea to rent this damn thing.
The only boat available with any velocity had been one that looked like it belonged in some international speedboat competition, a Sunsation Performance CCX. It was a thirty-four-foot torpedo, with chairs that looked like something out of a space shuttle, and Knuckles began salivating as soon as he saw it, no doubt having flashbacks about driving a Mark V SEAL fast boat. Given where our Bertram 540 was showing on Google Maps, I’d caved in and rented it because we would need the speed to catch up. We were way behind the eight ball.
The old man had turned out to be a Haitian fisherman who spoke only Creole and French. Luckily, he did understand English when it was spoken with U.S. dollars. He’d transported us to his village outside of Tiburon, Haiti, and we’d played planes, trains, and automobiles getting back to Jamaica, hitchhiking to the airport and catching the first shuttle flight from Port-au-Prince to Kingston.
I’d gone to our hotel, intent on finding Jennifer and Brett, but it was empty. I’d given the journal I’d found to Knuckles and told him to get it translated by the Taskforce intel section, then tried Dylan’s hotel, only to find it vacated as well.
By the time I’d returned, Knuckles had an answer from the Taskforce, and it was grim. Dylan and his Romanian friends were pirates and were planning on taking over a container ship and stealing something it was hauling. Something very valuable but small enough to take with them. The kicker was they were going to slaughter everyone on board and blame the whole thing on my company to cover their tracks.
How that was going to happen wasn’t in the notebook, but it meant that nobody from the company could be alive to contest the story. Something that gave me grave concern. I felt sorry for the crew of the ship, but Jennifer and Brett were much, much more pressing, and the biggest piece of the puzzle was missing anyway: which container ship.
With ships coming and going from this port on a daily basis, there was nothing to take to the authorities but a vague threat. We couldn’t neck it down by type, flag, or name of the vessel, and because we didn’t know what they were after, we couldn’t neck it down by cargo. Hell, we couldn’t even neck it down by date.
The Taskforce would feed all the intel into overt systems, putting the Coast Guard and the Jamaica Defence Force on alert, but there was little more we could do for the container ship. My people, however, were another story.
The Bertram 540 I’d rented for the bogus treasure hunt was one expensive piece of floating luxury, and because of it, the owners had invested in a maritime GPS tracking capability, a sort of LoJack for boats. It was a simple matter to call the company and ascertain what type, then have the hacking cell at the Taskforce intercept the signal.
They’d given me my “account information,” and I’d logged on to the hotel Wi-Fi with my laptop, finding that my Bertram was out on the open ocean, about eighty nautical miles away and moving farther away.
I’d sent Knuckles to locate a boat and I’d gone in search of satellite Internet. I’d purchased a Thrane and Thrane BGAN terminal and met Knuckles, finding him drooling over the CCX speedboat. Now the sun was rapidly setting and he was doing his damnedest to break the boat in two on the open ocean while I was trying to keep the BGAN antenna lined up to track the Bertram.
He hammered one more wave and I had enough, shouting, “Do you know how to drive this thing?”
He turned from the wheel, hippie hair flying in the breeze, and said, “I can’t stop the ocean. You’re giving me the directions, and they’re against the current.”
“Well, slow down. We’re getting in range. You don’t need to full throttle it anymore.”
He said, “Where?”
“Should be just ahead, about a mile.”
He cut the throttle and I showed him the computer, with both our location and the Bertram on the screen. He saw the positioning and pulled out a pair of binoculars, scanning the horizon. He said, “I got a container ship but can’t see anything smaller.”
“Get closer.”
He goosed it, and we closed the gap like a bullet. A few minutes later, he slowed again, the darkness growing with each passing second, the sun about to plunge below the horizon for good. I could see the container ship with my naked eye now.
I said, “We’re right on top of them.”
Knuckles scanned again and said, “I got ’em. I see the boat.”
I stood up. “Give me the glasses.”
I focused in the direction he pointed and found the boat. I heard Knuckles rack a round in his MP7. He said, “How do you want to play this?”
I put down the binos and said, “Full frontal assault. Fuck stealth.”
Knuckles grinned and said, “Roger that.”
He gunned the engine and I began prepping my own MP7, running a functions check and stacking magazines in my pockets. I stood up, getting mentally psyched for the combat, and saw Knuckles with the binos to his eyes. He put them down with a look of astonishment.
“What?”
He said nothing, putting the binoculars back to his eyes. He stared for a few seconds more, then said, “I think Jennifer’s driving the damn boat.”
I snatched the glasses and focused on the bridge of the fishing boat. Sure enough, in the
dying twilight, I could just make out Jennifer, hair in a ponytail and hands on the wheel. Next to her was Brett.
• • •
Suffice it to say they were just as astonished when we came wheeling up in our hot-rod boat. I couldn’t stop grinning and wanted desperately to wrap my arms around Jennifer, but that would have blown our little cover, so I settled for some back slapping.
Out of view of the men, she pursed her lips in an air kiss and winked at me. I winked back and said, “Man, I was worried sick about you.”
“You were worried? I thought you were dead.”
“We almost were.”
I relayed everything I knew, then said, “Let’s get these boats back to Jamaica.” I pointed at the tied-up Romanians and said, “Turn these guys over to the cops and let the Coasties worry about Dylan and his pirate plan.”
Jennifer said, “Pike, from what you’ve said, the plan is going down tonight. We don’t have time to turn them over to the police.”
“Maybe it will, but we don’t even know what ship it is, and they do, so let’s get them to the cops.”
Jennifer pointed at the container ship I’d seen earlier, now off the starboard bow and twinkling with lights in the darkness. “That’s the ship right there. We’ve been following it since this morning.”
I stared at the ship’s glow for a moment, thinking, then said, “That doesn’t make any sense. These two guys weren’t going to take over the ship.”
She pointed at a ladder contraption with a hook on the end. “They were going to make us board as well.”
“And do what? Help them take over the boat? That makes no sense.”
“No. I think they were going to kill us and leave us on the ship. That ladder doesn’t only work one way.”
Knuckles caught what she was saying before I did. “Meaning it’ll be used to exfiltrate the pirates for escape. Shit, Pike, they’re already on board, using our names as passengers. That’s what the itinerary was.”
