by Hank Parker
“So where is Hoffman now?” asked Curt.
“I—he’s gone,” said Mariah. She turned away and tried to stave off a bout of trembling. “One of those bottles is cracked,” she said, pointing to the table in the hut. “Hoffman thought it was leaking, but it’s not. He tried to get me to transfer the contents to an empty bottle, but I hit him with it.” She pointed to the veranda. “He fell off the porch and hit his head. He’s gone now.” She realized the trembling had begun again and made an effort to steady herself.
Curt rose from the chair, walked unsteadily to the porch, and looked out. “No sign of him,” he said. “Must have floated away. Current’s pretty strong.” He glanced at the table. “His gun?” he asked.
Mariah nodded. “Knocked it out of his hand with the bottle.”
Curt shook his head. He walked up to her, looked into her eyes, and wrapped his arms around her. He didn’t speak.
Mariah buried her head in Curt’s shoulder and sobbed quietly for several seconds. “Thank God it’s over and you’re okay,” she said, knowing that there was no way he could be okay after losing his son again—this time for good. She pulled away and looked intently at him. “I’m so sorry about Angus.” When Curt didn’t respond, she said, “We’ve got to get going. The guy who brought us here could come back anytime.”
Curt walked back to the door and looked back out at the lagoon. “No sign of a boat,” he said. “I can see an island, maybe a mile or so away. Wonder if it’s inhabited.” He turned toward Mariah. “We could try swimming.”
Then, from behind Curt, Mariah heard the clumping of footsteps ascending the wooden ladder. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. A second later, Frank Hoffman’s bloodied head appeared at the edge of the porch. Because she was closer to the table than Curt was, Mariah grabbed the gun, clutched it in both hands, and pointed it at Hoffman, who looked both crazed and utterly determined.
Calm down, she told herself urgently. Steady your hands. Aim carefully, Mariah. Don’t miss.
Hoffman lurched through the doorway, blood oozing from his scalp, his mouth twisted into a snarl, staring at the gun in Mariah’s hands. “Kill me, and Kennedy will never see his son again,” he said. At this, both Mariah and Curt froze. Hoffman stood triumphantly, hands on his hips. “I see I’ve got your attention,” he said to Curt.
Mariah quickly answered. “What are you talking about?” she said.
“Angus Friedman. We know he’s Kennedy’s son. He spilled his guts after we captured him in Manila.”
“Even if that was true—which it’s not,” said Mariah, “Friedman was killed on the reef. With Omar.”
Hoffman’s lips were pressed together in a thin smile. He slowly shook his head. “We rescued them both,” he said. “If you want Friedman to live, put the gun down on the floor. Slowly. Then push it over to me.” He suppressed a rising cough.
“Don’t listen to him, Mariah,” said Curt. “He’s bluffing. Give me the gun.”
Mariah’s mind raced. What would Curt do to Hoffman? What would the other terrorists do to Angus if Hoffman didn’t return? She was pretty sure Curt would never see his son again in that case. She couldn’t let that happen. The best thing to do now was to buy some time. She turned to Hoffman. “If I give you the gun, can you guarantee that Friedman will live?” she asked. “And us?”
Hoffman was silent. Mariah hoped he was thinking back to a few minutes ago, when she’d attacked him with the empty bottle. Would that have been enough to convince him that she wouldn’t hesitate to use the gun?
“I can do that,” he said finally.
“Why should we believe you?” asked Mariah.
“Easy.” Hoffman pulled a portable radio from his trousers pocket, turned it on, and depressed the talk switch. “Transporter, this is Vector. Meet me at the hut as soon as you can. If anything has happened to me by the time you get here, pass the word to kill the kid.” He turned to Curt and Mariah. “My guys will be here shortly. With Friedman. You give me the gun, we tie the three of you up when they get here, and we’ll be long gone before anyone finds you. Friedman lives, you live, everyone wins.”
“Except for most of the population of a Western city,” said Curt. “Don’t do it, Mariah. It’s one life against thousands, maybe millions.”
Curt had spoken forcefully, but Mariah now knew him well enough to pick up a note of uncertainty in his voice. She considered what he’d said. In his professional capacity, he had to say it. Based on the math alone, there really was no choice. But Angus was his son, a son he’d thought he’d lost again, for the second time since they were reunited. She tried to see the situation from his point of view. She’d never have the courage to sacrifice her own child even to save countless others. She forced herself to concentrate, to think objectively, professionally. Could she and Curt somehow get away, stop the plot, and free Angus before it was too late? She leaned down to place the gun on the floor. “We have to do this, Curt,” she said. She slid the gun toward Hoffman. Curt didn’t object. Was he trusting her to find a way out of this? Had he come up with an idea of his own? Or had his love for his son overwhelmed his professional training?
“Smart woman,” said Hoffman, retrieving the gun. “Now get on the floor. Opposite sides of the hut.”
For several minutes, Curt and Mariah sat in silence, with Hoffman’s gun trained on them. Mariah watched him for signs of wooziness and was mystified as he continued to show none. He’d smashed his head into a ladder rung in the midst of a free fall of about fifteen feet, blood was running from his nose, and he frequently broke into bouts of coughing. He was obviously dying from Kandahar. How was he still alive, let alone standing here, holding her and Curt hostage? A superstitious voice in the back of Mariah’s mind wondered if there was something subhuman about Hoffman at this point, if his rage and bitterness had formed some sort of inexplicable shield around him. Regardless, he had to know he was close to death. And that made him especially dangerous, a man who had nothing left to lose, who could risk all to accomplish his evil task.
She heard the sound of an approaching outboard motor. Hoffman backed up through the door of the hut and motioned with his gun for Curt and Mariah to join him. Less than a minute later, an inflatable boat pulled alongside the hut. Three men were inside. One was stocky with a ragged T-shirt. The guy from the pamboat, thought Mariah. The one with the RPG. The other, thinner man wore a dark ball cap. Omar. And the third: Angus! All three appeared to have cuts and scrapes but otherwise seemed in surprisingly good shape after their tumbles in the reef surf.
“Up here, Abdullah,” Hoffman barked to the man in the old T-shirt. “And bring Friedman.”
“Wait,” said Mariah. “People are already looking for us. It’s not like this hut is well hidden. If you leave us here, someone’s bound to find us pretty quickly. The authorities will figure out what happened and it won’t take them long to track you down. You’re better off taking us with you, hiding us somewhere less conspicuous.” She couldn’t yet see what advantage this would give them, but her goal was still to buy time. Would her argument work with Hoffman, or would he be suspicious? Hopefully he’d think her motive was to save their lives. She looked at Hoffman. He seemed to be considering what she’d said. Good sign.
With his pistol trained on her and Curt, Hoffman looked over his shoulder down to the boat. “Okay, leave the boy there,” he said. “Get up here and tie these two up. They’re coming with us.”
* * *
In an office just off the main newsroom of the Philadelphia Inquirer, Tony Parnell sat at a small table with the paper’s metro and managing editors and tried to keep his eyes from closing. It was late in Philadelphia, close to 10 p.m., and the last few days had been exhausting. He’d moved his family to his sister’s place over the weekend and had been working day and night on a tight deadline to complete his latest and most important update on the Kandahar epidemic. He’d finished
the long piece a couple of hours earlier, double-checked his facts and sources, and submitted it to the metro editor, who’d made a few cuts then passed it on to a copy editor for final corrections.
The windowless room was uncomfortably warm and smelled of body odor and stale coffee. As Parnell struggled to stay awake, the managing editor slowly scanned the article draft. She finally looked up at him over the top of her glasses. “So you’re saying they’re turning the corner on this thing?” she asked.
Parnell nodded. “According to the health authorities, the number of new cases has peaked and is starting to go down. And they’ve ramped up the manufacture of ribavirin—that’s the antiviral drug. Seems to work well in newly diagnosed patients.”
The managing editor looked back down at the copy. “See they still don’t have a vaccine,” she said.
“They’re on an emergency crash program,” said Parnell. “They’ve made progress, but production’s still a ways away. Maybe a month or two, according to my source at FDA, but I agreed not to put that in the article. The agency is usually pretty closemouthed about vaccine timetables until the trials are done. They don’t want to raise false hopes.”
“You seem pretty upbeat about the financial situation,” added the managing editor.
“I don’t know about upbeat,” said Parnell. “But even with that run on the banks a few days ago, we seem to have avoided a complete meltdown. You have to give the president credit—and his treasury secretary. They’ve done all they can to calm the nation. But there’s still a lot of panic out there.”
“That’s an understatement,” said the managing editor. “It’s like the Wild West. A lot of people are taking the law into their own hands, or ignoring the law completely. Crime’s way up. But you know that.” She turned to the metro editor. “You’ve gone through this carefully?” she asked.
“Fact-checked everything. Copy editor made a few grammatical and spelling changes. It’s good to go.”
“Okay. Get it proofed and ready for the early edition,” said the managing editor. “We’ll run it as the lead.”
* * *
Sandwiched between their captors, Curt and Mariah made their way down the ladder of the hut and boarded the inflatable. Curt recognized it as the one they’d borrowed from the ex-priest in Sibutu. With what he hoped was a reassuring smile, he nodded at Angus, who was seated in the bow, facing aft, his arms behind his back.
Hoffman motioned for Curt and Mariah to sit beside Angus while Abdullah sat on the inflatable’s middle seat next to Hoffman, facing forward, a gun leveled at them. Omar placed the briefcase with the bottles in the stern, started the engine, cast off the mooring line, and steered the boat toward the reef opening.
Smart move on Mariah’s part to talk Hoffman into bringing them along, thought Curt. Could they take advantage of it? Cothran had mentioned a survival kit in the inflatable, somewhere in the bow. Anything he could use? What was in those things? Flares. Waterproof matches. Fishhooks and line. Maybe a small solar still. Reflecting mirror. Patch kit. What else? A knife? There had to be a knife. Where exactly would the kit be? Maybe under the seat. Close to one of the pontoons. Which side? How would he reach it?
The inflatable hit a wave, and Curt saw that Mariah almost bounced off her seat. It was impossible to hold on with their hands tied. That gave him an idea. He waited.
The boat pounded into another wave. Curt fell backward dramatically, cursing for effect. As if struggling to regain his seat, he maneuvered his body toward his side of the boat. He groped under the seat, along the side. Nothing. Abdullah was now moving, reaching toward him. “I’m trying to get up,” yelled Curt, twisting on the bottom of the boat, working his body backward toward the other side. There! His hands fastened around a plastic pouch. He lunged forward and made out the sound of Velcro releasing. Could the others hear it? Abdullah reacted quickly. With his free hand, he grabbed Curt by the front of his shirt and jerked him back onto the seat.
Curt sat quietly, pretending to catch his breath, waiting. His captors soon relaxed their attentiveness. Except Hoffman. He’d never taken his eyes off Curt. But neither he nor Abdullah could see Curt’s hands. Curt felt along the outside of the pouch. Holding it with one hand, he carefully inched the zipper open with the other, reached inside the opening, and groped the contents. A folding pocketknife, exactly what he had been hoping for. He forced his face to give away nothing, no relief, no exultation, nothing. If he could just release the blade—there. He felt the edge. Plenty sharp. He began to carefully saw at the line around his wrists, pulling the knife away every time the boat hit a wave. The last thing he needed to do was stab himself.
Abdullah and Hoffman were scrutinizing him closely now, suspiciously. They must know something was up, thought Curt. He gave up all pretense and began sawing quickly. Just as Abdullah rose to his feet and started shrieking at him, Curt’s hands broke free and he lunged toward the man, slashing at his gun hand with the knife, striking his wrist with the open blade, cutting deeply. The gun fell to the bottom of the boat. Curt dove with his knife in front of him. Abdullah tried to twist away, but the knife penetrated his shoulder. Blood sprayed into the boat, a horrific geyser. The momentum of Curt’s attack caused Abdullah to lose his balance. The back of his knees buckled against the pontoon and he tumbled into the ocean.
Hoffman, who’d seemed paralyzed during the few seconds Curt was attacking Abdullah, now broke into action. He reached toward the gun in the bottom of the boat and instead found Curt lunging toward him with the knife. Hoffman rolled away, the knife blade narrowly missing him.
There was a scream from the water. Curt turned and saw Abdullah struggling, arms flailing above the sea surface—and something else, moving just underwater. A fin cut through the surface, and a sleek, dark form raced toward Abdullah’s body, which gave a slight shudder when the shark reached it. Curt heard more screams.
“Give me the knife!” yelled Hoffman in a labored gasp. “Now!”
Stupid! Kennedy scolded himself. He’d allowed himself to get distracted. Now Hoffman had the gun. Omar was still at the outboard. Hoffman leaned forward, his eyes bulging, and aimed the gun at Curt’s head. Curt realized he had no choice and grudgingly handed over the knife.
“Okay. You guys are next,” wheezed Hoffman. “Over the side.”
Curt looked at the growing red stain in the water around Abdullah’s shuddering form. He turned back to Hoffman. “Fuck you,” he said.
The sound of a gunshot nearly deafened him. Was he hit? Nothing hurt. He looked at Mariah and Angus, and was relieved to see that they both seemed okay.
“The next shot goes into you,” said Hoffman. “One way or another, you all go over the side. Alive or dead. Your choice.” He began to cough, then caught himself and spat over the side.
“Leave them alone,” said Curt. “I’ll go. Just let them live. They’re harmless.” Without waiting for an answer, he rolled over the side. When he resurfaced after momentarily submerging, he heard Hoffman yelling and saw him point the gun toward Mariah and Angus. Helpless to intervene, willing the sharks to keep their distance, Curt watched Mariah and his son stand shakily. For God’s sake, at least untie them, he screamed silently. Then he saw Hoffman give Mariah a hard push and watched as she toppled over the side. Without delay, Angus jumped in after her.
Curt quickly swam to them, positioning himself to screen their view of the sharks, which continued to feed on Abdullah’s corpse mere yards away. There were no more sounds from Abdullah now, but what was left of his body continued to jerk and bob as the sharks barreled against it, tearing off chunks of flesh. Curt knew the sharks would sense them soon. How long did they have? He heard a shout from the boat. Hoffman was yelling to Omar to take off, that their captives were now just shark bait. Curt figured that Hoffman was deranged enough to prefer that they die horrifically rather than waste bullets on them. He heard the outboard motor rev up and saw the boat be
gin to move away. Curt quickly moved behind Mariah and Angus and untied them. “Swim,” he said. “As fast as you can. Move.”
“What about your arm?” asked Mariah.
“I have two,” said Curt.
“We shouldn’t have that far to go,” said Mariah. “Those guys dumped us out not that far away from the hut.” Treading water, she raised her head as far as she could. “I see it!” she said, pointing. “Maybe a mile away.”
Curt didn’t doubt her. Perched above the barrier reef on its high posts, the hut should be visible for at least a mile, even from the sea surface. But it was a hazy day, and try as he might, he couldn’t make it out.
Then Angus spoke. “I see it too.”
Mariah began to swim, in a slow crawl. She looked back over her shoulder. Just follow behind me,” she said. “We’ll rest whenever you need to.”
Curt was happy to have Mariah lead the way. He remembered that she’d told him that she’d been a swimmer in high school, and that that was one of the reasons she wanted to qualify in scuba. He swam behind her, alongside Angus, doing a sidestroke with his good arm, the other pressed to his side, his legs scissoring back and forth with a steady motion. Thankfully, the swells had died down and there was little wind. Their biggest challenge would be making it to the hut before dark. Assuming the waves didn’t bash them to pieces on the coral, they should be able to rest there until morning, and then make their way across the lagoon, which he hoped was shallow, to the island he’d seen from the hut. He willed himself, and the others, not to look back. The last time he’d glanced toward Abdullah’s remains, there seemed to be fewer fins circling than there had been before. He didn’t know where the other sharks had gone. He couldn’t think about it.
