Off Course: A clean action adventure book

by Glen Robins

  “The thought of Sarah being kidnapped or hurt or mistreated really burns me up. She’s like another mom to me―I can’t let anything happen to her.”

  “I know, Rob,” said Lukas, sounding distracted. “Time is of the essence. Sarah is in no condition to withstand this sort of thing. And poor Henry is probably beside himself with worry.”

  “Where do I go? What can I do to help?” asked Rob.

  “Go to Huntington Beach Hospital and take care of Henry. Let him know the FBI are working on finding Sarah, OK?”

  “Can I go with them? With a gun so I can shoot these guys?”

  “Tempting, isn’t it?” said Lukas. “You’d have my OK as long as you promised to plug them once for me, too.”

  “That’s the spirit,” said Rob, a hint of a smile returning to his countenance.

  “Seriously, I think it would be better for you to go see Henry,” said Lukas.

  “Not nearly as much fun as shooting the bad guys now, is it?” said Rob.

  “I know, I know. Don’t tell him too much, and don’t make any promises, but let him know there are people working hard to find Sarah and bring her and Emily home safely.”

  “I understand. I’ll play it safe―give him something to hope for without making any promises. Makes sense.”

  “Maybe you should contact Collin’s brother and sister,” Lukas suggested. “They should know what’s going on with their parents.”

  ****

  Western Caribbean Sea, 45 miles north of Providencia Island

  June 15 4:04 p.m. Caribbean Time

  Captain Sewell stood at the helm of the Admiral Risty, clutching the grips of the boat’s wheel. The winds from the southeast were maintaining speeds of twenty miles per hour with gusts upward of thirty-five. With the intention of reaching the Island of Providencia ahead of the worst part of the storm, the Captain ordered “full sails” in order to maximize speed. It was a risky move with potentially heavier winds on their way.

  His crew members prepared for stormy conditions. The wind rushed at them like a mountain stream in the spring, feral and erratic. Steady rain began to fall, so foul weather gear was passed out to everyone topside, even the three gunmen.

  The winds had created a swell coming from the southeast, causing the Admiral to list and rock as it mounted the waves at roughly a thirty-degree angle. Every man clung to something solid as the boat tipped and swayed in the mounting surf.

  The crew positioned themselves along the railing on the port side. They were tethered by lines that would keep them from falling overboard but would allow them to lean outward and use their weight to keep the boat from being pushed over as it sliced southward through the west-blowing wind. Before manning their posts, the Captain had instructed them to don life vests.

  “Give us those, too,” Stinky demanded, aiming his gun at the Captain.

  “Very well, but you will have to open that locker on the bow,” the Captain shouted above the noise, pointing to a rectangular holding compartment near the nose of the boat. “My men cannot help you right now. They must hike out like that or we will tip over. I must steer. You get the life jackets in that locker.”

  Stinky glared at the Captain as he held tight to the railing near the cockpit, watching as the bow repeatedly dove into the waves, sending a torrent of water across the deck. He raised his voice in his native tongue and pointed at the locker. After Stinky repeated himself, Grunter reluctantly shuffled toward the locker, keeping both hands on the railing as he picked his way forward. He lost his footing several times as the waves washed past him, and he finally resorted to crawling his way there. While carefully holding the railing with one hand, Grunter lifted the locker’s lid and retrieved the vests, his knuckles white from clinging to the rail so tightly as he crawled back to the cockpit. Stinky, Grunter, and Long Hair struggled in the turbulent weather to get their vests on, which they did one at a time while the other two maintained a watchful eye on the Captain and crew.

  But the Captain and crew were far too preoccupied with their battle to keep the Admiral upright and on course for the Island of Providencia to pay Stinky or his fellow hijackers any attention.

  With each mighty gust, the sails would fill and begin to push the Admiral over to its starboard side. The Captain would turn to the west and the crew would lean hard, then he would return to his southerly heading as it dissipated, just to do it again moments later. With the help of the wind, the Admiral was making nearly twenty knots in the direction of Providencia’s safe harbor. It was a constant struggle, however, to stay on course and not allow the wind to blow them due west into the exposed shoals and rocky shores of Nicaragua’s coast. The Captain was far less familiar with that area and its dangers, preferring to steer toward Providencia and the perils there that he had experienced before.

  The Captain’s eyes moved constantly. He monitored the sails, the riggings, the four-to-six-foot swells all around them, and the array of instruments in front of him. The radar, GPS, and depth gauge occupied a portion of his attention. Red and orange blotches on the radar screen indicated heavier rain fall lay to their east, but would be upon them before too long. Somewhere within the next hour or so, the Captain knew the winds would increase and he would be forced to furl most of his sails and reduce his speed for the safety of all aboard.

  ****

  London, England

  June 15, 9:49 p.m. London Time

  Nic jumped in his seat as a hand clamped on his shoulder. “What the―?” he exclaimed breathlessly. Nic had been studying the storm’s path as well as obsessively scanning for any hints of radio contact with the Admiral Risty. So engrossed was he that he didn’t notice footsteps entering his cubicle, nor sense the presence of another human in his space.

  “Easy there, chap. Just me,” announced Alastair.

  Nic’s surprise deepened when he realized who it was that grabbed him and what time it was. “Whoa, I was not expecting that . . . not expecting anyone . . . Geez, don’t ever do that to me again, Alastair.” Recovering his wits, he added, “What brings you back to the office at this late hour?”

  “Hey, you’re not the only one who works late, Lancaster,” said Alastair. His tone was artificially buoyant, the alcohol fumes attesting to the origin of such jocularity. “I’ve been monitoring the situation, as well. Just so happens, I was in the comfort of my own home, enjoying a lovely supper of toad-in-the-hole with brandy, when your text came in. It got me thinking about an old chum of mine. We go way back, we do. He’s now an admiral in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy with loads of experience all around the globe. Then it struck me: he spent some time in the region, dealing with many Caribbean states and territories. Maybe, just maybe, he could shed some light on things for us. So, I called him up, explained the situation, and asked him if he could provide some sort of guidance. Know what he said, Nic?”

  “Haven’t a clue. Tell me.”

  “He told me he’d get back to me. ‘Right,’ I said and continued my supper. Then you know what happened?”

  “You polished off the brandy bottle and came down here to tell me this story.”

  “That I did, but first, my chum rings me back, gives me a name of a friend of his who just happens to be the new governor of the Archipelago of San Andres, Providencia, and Santa Catalina. Says he’s already contacted his friend. The governor will see to it that every available resource is used in our search for these terrorists.”

  “What does that mean, ‘every available resource’?”

  “I asked the same question. It means he has a small fleet of ships stationed on the island and he will assign two of them to search for our sailboat. Fair enough?”

  “It’s not exactly fantastic now, is it? But I’ll take it. It might prove to be a bit of a break and we need every break we can get, don’t we?”

  “That’s what I thought, too,” exclaimed Alastair as he plopped himself into a chair at the far end of Nic’s cubicle.

  “So, you got dressed in the middle of the night to
relay this news in person? You couldn’t just call me?”

  “Two things, Lancaster: First, this governor is going to be calling me here at the office as soon as he has some news to relay. Second, I needed to get out of the house, know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, yeah. That’s great. Are you expecting that call to come in soon?”

  “One never knows with these kinds of things, but I figured it certainly couldn’t hurt to be ready,” said Alastair as he rubbed his head and looked at the ceiling. “Got any aspirin here, Nic?”

  “I do, actually.” As Nic rummaged through his desk drawer, looking for the aspirin bottle he knew was in there somewhere, he made a mental note to remember this day. This day, he reckoned, marked the first time his boss was actually useful to him. It was worth noting. “Why the sudden change? How is it you have now thrown your support back into this case?”

  “The FBI contacted my boss and asked for cooperation, stating that they had a reliable trace on the whereabouts of Collin Cook and wanted to know if we had any resources in the Western Caribbean to contribute to the hunt,” explained Alastair.

  “So that’s why you’re suddenly involved. McKnight rings you up at home and, voila, the case is reopened,” said Nic.

  “You have a problem with me helping out, Nic?”

  “I’m glad for the help, but I have a sneaking suspicion that you’re in it to be sure you’re credited with breaking the case. Am I right?”

  “Nonsense, Lancaster. It’s a win for the team.”

  “Team? I bust my hind end for weeks on this case, even after you tell me not to, and now it’s going to be a team win?”

  “I didn’t see you get in touch with your admiral friend and get put through to the governor of the island chain,” said Alastair with relish.

  “One bloody phone call and now it’s a team effort,” Nic mumbled as he turned back to his computer.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Western Caribbean, 40 miles north of Providencia Island

  June 15, 4:08 p.m. Caribbean Time

  A melodic trilling once again caught the Captain’s ear. At the same time, Stinky’s herky-jerky movements caught his eye. Stinky was trying to dig the phone out of his pocket with his arm wrapped around the railing. Mounting waves tossed the boat about. Seawater sloshed and ran across the deck. Wind whipped rain pellets haphazardly, but Stinky was determined to answer the incoming call, even with his rain slicker providing yet another obstacle to his goal. The Captain watched Stinky pull out the bulky phone, encased in a thick, yellow plastic case with a chunky, black antenna the size of a thumb. He was familiar with that model of satellite phone and knew it was capable of transmitting and receiving a signal virtually anywhere in the world. Once the device was out of Stinky’s pocket, he punched a button to answer it. When Stinky finally answered the phone after several rings, he was off balance and panicky. “Ya,” he said, then stuck the forefinger of his free hand into his ear. His feet slipped out from under him, causing his cheek to slam into the rail as he landed on his knees. The fact that his elbow was wrapped around the railing saved him from skittering across the deck and over the edge. When Stinky recovered, he said something into the phone that seemed to be a request to give him a moment. He then carefully worked his way toward the cabin door, keeping one hand firmly connected to the rails. Stinky bounced side to side, hitting the walls of the stairwell with each shoulder, until he eventually pushed his way through the cabin door.

  ****

  Collin had moved into position at the edge of the bunk bed, his feet set shoulder width apart under him, poised once again to pounce when something banged into the door of the cabin, then stumbled through. It was Stinky, trying to stay upright amid the constant pitching and heaving of the boat. He clutched a phone in his left hand.

  Collin slumped back down and closed his eyes in defeat.

  Without a word, Stinky motioned to Mr. Green to get up, then wrestled the wet raincoat off his torso and pushed it at Mr. Green. Mr. Green, as he staggered and swayed with the boat’s movement, put the raincoat on and exited through the door and up the steps.

  Stinky gripped a teakwood handhold attached to the ceiling near the dining table and braced himself as he held the phone to his ear. “Ya, ya,” he started. He mumbled something Collin could not understand, then listened hard. “OK,” he said.

  Stinky calculated his movements and maneuvered across the cabin to another set of handrails bolted to the ceiling near Collin’s bunk. He tapped a button to place the call on speaker mode and tossed the phone on the bed next to Collin. Stinky held on tight as the boat heaved upward again at an odd angle. Using his free hand, he managed to swing the Uzi, which was strapped around his shoulder and across his chest and aim it at Collin.

  Surprised and flustered that his chance at freedom had again been snatched away, Collin stammered, “Hello? Who is this?”

  “You need to ask?” The sound coming through the speaker of the phone had a tinny quality that echoed. This gave the tenor voice a smooth, mechanical tone, but there was still a hint of a British accent. “This is the owner of the $30 million you have hidden in Panama City. Who else?”

  Collin took a deep breath. The words and the voice—so confident, so well-articulated—along with the timing, punched him like a fist to the gut. Everything froze and he could feel the color drain from his face. He shook his head and blurted out the first thing that came into his battered brain, “What are you talking about?”

  The calm, refined chuckle exuded a regal authority, even with the disconcerting reverberation. “Surely you jest, Mr. Cook. I am not a fool and I am not amused by your games.”

  A flood of emotions came over Collin as his mind flashed through the past eleven months of his shattered life and the abuse of the past two days. The cold inside turned to rage. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, you arrogant prick. I could care less about the money. It won’t bring my family back.” Collin paused, trying to sort out his feelings and put them into words. “But I won’t give it back, if that’s what your insinuating. Not to the likes of you. I know what you’re all about,” he seethed.

  “Insinuating? You think I called to insinuate something, Mr. Cook? I am simply requesting that you return that money to its rightful owner.”

  Collin waited a moment for the garbled metallic beeps and squawks to subside. “Rightful owner?” Collin spat the words out. His mind was in gear and revved up now. Something about the man’s arrogance set the wheels spinning and loosened his tongue. “What makes you think you’re the rightful owner? You’re a blood-sucking scumbag.” Collin paused, knowing there was a millisecond delay in the transmission. He spoke slowly and enunciated his words for optimal comprehension on the other end. “You and your insurance company take money from customers, then when you have to pay a large claim, you use any devious means you can to get your money back.”

  Another wave crashed into the hull of the boat, nearly propelling Collin off the bed.

  The phone ricocheted off the wall and hit Collin’s elbow as he leaned on it. He pushed the phone to the side where he could talk into it more easily.

  “You surprise me, Mr. Cook. For a man of your limited education and resources, you sound all too sure of yourself.” The voice, though hollowed by the satellite phone, carried a patronizing edge.

  “It’s called the Internet, you condescending sack of trash. I know about you and Tranquil Pacific Casualty. I also know how many of your claimants end up dead or in prison or mysteriously penniless within months of receiving settlements from your fraudulent company. Yeah, I know about you and your sinister tricks.”

  “Well, then, Mr. Cook, you must know that I would not approach you like this if I did not have leverage against you.”

  “What are you talking about, Penh?”

  “I’m talking about your ailing mother, Mr. Cook. She is not looking too well these days, you know.”

  A lump formed in Collin’s throat, trapping the torrent of foul words he plan
ned to let loose. He squinted at the phone as he coughed out the words, “You’re full of crap.” His voice held neither volume nor conviction.

  “Let me show you, Mr. Cook,” Penh continued, smugger than before.

  “Problem is, Penh, my hands are tied behind my back and we’re in the middle of a raging storm, so―” The boat was once again pummeled from the side. This time both Collin and the phone hit the floor, sending a fresh wave of pain shooting through the ragged skin around his wrists and his aching shoulders. Stinky, now using both hands to brace himself, stuck a foot out to stop the phone. He re-aimed the muzzle of the Uzi at Collin and motioned for him to get up and get back on the bed before he bent down to retrieve the phone, his eyes never leaving Collin’s.

  “My men will set up a link to a computer and I will transmit a video clip.” Penh added a few commands in a language Collin didn’t understand.

  Stinky responded by saying, “OK.” Then he backed carefully toward the cabin door, never taking his eyes or weapon off Collin. He bellowed out the door and Long Hair appeared a few seconds later, dripping wet.

  Fighting to keep his balance, Long Hair pulled a black briefcase from the closet and carried it to the table and went to work. After unlocking the case, he unzipped a rubberized lining and removed a sleek, ultra-thin laptop and began punching keys, unraveling and connecting a yellow cable. He plugged one end into the laptop and motioned for Stinky to hand him the phone so he could insert the other end into it. He muttered something and Stinky relayed something that sounded similar through the phone.

  “It appears we are prepared to send you a nice little video clip. Enjoy, Mr. Cook.”

  Stinky waved the muzzle of the gun toward the table, motioning for Collin to move in that direction.

  Collin struggled to his feet amid the tumult, leaning forward and using his shoulder to balance against the wall, then carefully moving across the floor to the table. Long Hair had stood and moved out of reach. Once Collin was seated, Stinky continued speaking into the phone, apparently explaining what had just happened. Stinky tapped a few keys and slid the laptop in front of Collin. There, on the screen in front of him, was a most haunting image: his mother duct taped to a chair. A thick strip of the gray adhesive covered her mouth. Her hair was matted down. The bones in her hands and arms protruded and the skin sagged. Her face was gaunt and ash gray. Collin opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Thoughts and words vaporized, and his tongue felt glued in place.