“Americans,” A voice boomed in perfect English. Sara thought it had to be their ship captain.
“Americans, come here!” A man stepped from the hustling crowd, gripping a machete that dripped with fish guts. Uneven wooden planks bent beneath his feet.
Blake and Sara drew back in unison while Kahega pulled the AK-47 from the sack and lifted it.
Sara’s eyes fanned out across the crowd, thinking somebody here would stop this. There wasn’t a single head craned their way. They were the ghosts of wayward tourists that only Machete Man could see.
“Lost Americans,” Machete Man said with glee.
Kahega barked something in his native tongue. It was enough for Machete Man to slow his approach. But he didn’t stop.
“Go,” Kahega called. “To the bar.”
Blake took Sara’s hand and pulled her back the way they came.
Machete Man found their eyes and gave no mind to the man holding a gun on him. A pocket of fishermen moved down the pier and enveloped Kahega for a moment. It was all the time Machete Man needed to dart off between two shacks.
Blake and Sara ran for the bar they couldn’t find, catching flashes of the Machete Man moving parallel on the other side of the buildings. His head was craned toward them, eyes blazing with excitement. A greyhound chasing rabbits.
Sara pulled on Blake’s hand just as Machete Man disappeared beyond the next building. They had about two seconds to lose him. She steered him into a glut of broken ship wreckages. They weaved in and out of the piles, circling back the way they came.
“There,” Sara said and pointed to a building on stilts in the distance. A few rickety chairs pushed up against it said it might be the kind of place that served exhausted fishermen after a long day. They ran toward it with raised knees, Sara getting out in front of Blake who was bogged down by their luggage, a panicked tourist rushing to make a departing flight.
She was nearly to the stilts when Blake yelled out. Machete Man had closed the gap and was nearly upon him, moving like a storm. The blade sliced through the air. Somehow, she had a second to realize nobody around them cared.
“Blake,” she cried out.
The blade never connected. Machete Man’s shoulder jerked back as thunder cracked across the sky. The next boom corresponded with a second spasm in Machete Man’s shoulder. His upper torso twisted as his legs continued to charge, tripping on his own contorted lunge. Splotches of crimson broke out across his chest like fireworks.
It took Sara a second to realize what had happened. Beside her, a swirl of smoke teased her nostrils. Sometimes at sea, captains would fire rifles to keep larger predators off the schools they were counting. Or catching. She’d grown accustomed to that smell, the way it swirled through her headspace now.
“We’re not going to want to hang around here, darlin’.”
Sara turned and found a man standing behind her with a rifle drawn on his target. A sun-chapped white dude whose off-white linen coat hung unbuttoned to reveal bare-chested strength. He stunk of whiskey and looked like he won bar fights for a living.
The Machete Man lay unmoving in the muck and Blake crawled away from him like a battered dog. He wiped tears and snot from his face and looked at Sara like she was his mother, desperate for the comfort of her lap.
Sara was shaken, too, pins and needles in the tips of her fingers. And still, she nearly scoffed at the pathetic sight of her lover.
Kahega appeared out of the crowd, taking stock of the situation and breathing a huge sigh of relief when he counted Blake and Sara among the survivors.
“Almost lost your meal ticket,” Sara called.
Behind her, the white gunman laughed.
Kahega reached down and tugged Blake to his feet. “Sara,” he said. “Meet Holloway.”
“Captain of the Frozen Cocktail,” Holloway added.
“Huh?”
“My ship,” he said.
“Right,” Sara cleared her throat. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Holloway told her. “We don’t know how many friends your buddy down there has. You can bet there’s a few more standing among the curious.”
At the embankment, a chattering crowd had gathered.
Kahega shouldered most of the luggage this time and Sara helped lighten that burden. All she wanted was to be away from here.
Blake tried to ask if she was okay, but his voice was too wobbly for chivalry and there was no time to acknowledge it.
“I’m right down there,” Holloway said, pointing to the water. “Best we go now. And fast.”
The captain pointed to a young boy following them by hopping overhead rooftops.
They ran for water, and reached the Frozen Cocktail at the end of the pier. The ship itself was somewhere between a small yacht and a personal fishing vessel.
Sara tossed her stuff over the railing and then scaled it herself to get aboard. Kahega followed and Blake brought up the rear as the world’s worst Indiana Jones, running like hellfire chapped his ass when the only thing in pursuit was a summer’s breeze. Even the little watcher in the sky stayed back, spying from the last building on the pier.
Blake rolled onto his side as he crashed to the deck, sucking air furiously in order to catch his breath.
Holloway and Kahega cast off and the boat began its slow drift away from the dock. Blake remained on his knees, his hands curled tight around the Frozen Cocktail’s rail. His head was half-buried as he watched the port fade and become a tiny speck on the horizon.
Only then did he stand up and straighten out his clothes. “You shot somebody,” he said. “Straight up murder.”
Sara sighed. “Blake—”
“No, Sara,” he screamed. “If this gets worse, who do you think is going to go down for that? Him?”
Holloway ignored him entirely. “Good thing I packed the ship this morning.” He smirked and extended his hand to Sara.
She shook.
“Les Holloway,” he said. “Welcome aboard.”
Sara introduced herself and her shell-shocked husband, adding, “Worst vacation I've ever taken.”
“Pretty clean port, though,” Holloway said. “Could’ve arranged for us to meet inside one of the tourist traps, but you get too many thirsty eyes there. Too many radars. The ones we’re trying to stay off.”
Sara thought of Guillaume and Jean-Philippe and realized he was right. He knew his stuff and that set her at ease.
Sara followed Holloway down the thin side deck where the space between the cabin and the rail was tight. “Look,” Holloway said. “Is he going to be okay? I need to know who I’m working with.”
Blake was the color of milk. He sucked the air like his lungs needed it. The pathetic sight brought Sara’s fists to clenches.
It was too late to go back. Holloway might’ve been a professional, but he wasn’t in this for charity. His hands were bloody and all of them together had incurred some debt.
“He’ll be okay,” Sara said. “But we should probably talk about getting this over with.”
“We’re partners now,” Holloway nodded. He was shameless about looking her body up and down. “So I think that's probably a good idea.”
Eleven
At dusk, the runner came for him.
A boy no older than ten. Covered in sweat, wearing shorts no more constrictive than loincloth. When he reached the tent, he buckled with his hands on his knees, sucking air.
Kaahin rose from his cot and pulled the flap of his lean-to aside. The humidity had thinned and the breeze that rolled in off the ocean seeped straight into his pores. He only had to shut his eyes and draw a few deep breaths in order to feel at peace.
Beyond the boy, his men patrolled the shoreline with AK-47s at the ready. Steel-eyed sentries with eager trigger fingers. He paid them to kill, never defend. And since the world was out hunting the Pirate King right now, he needed those hair triggers.
His men caught motion in their peripherals and looked to Kaahin with expectation, eager
for work. One hand wave told them there was nothing and they resumed their watch. Beside him, the boy’s breathing returned to normal.
“Speak,” Kaahin said.
“Mabek is killed.”
Kaahin did not know Mabek. He had plenty of loyalists, and when the job required more bodies, more bodies were easy to recruit. There were many on Madagascar who promised allegiance to him, but he could no longer afford to pay so many, preferring instead to rouse those bodies only when necessary. In the gaps between, they were free to earn however they could. That also meant they were on their own when things went wrong.
“Shot by a white man,” the boy added.
“Tourist?” That did not sound right. More likely, this Mabek had tried breaking into a resort or some other part of the continent that employed whites. But the small boy shook his head and that prompted Kaahin’s curiosity. “Tell me, then.”
“A boatman. He met two Americans and an islander and took them out on his ship.”
Kaahin waited for the young boy to finish and once there was nothing else, he tossed the boy a few ariarys.
The boy folded the bills in his fist and bent toward him in a gesture of deep gratitude.
Kaahin touched the round of his head with a chapped palm and smiled warmly. “Tell no one.” Then he watched as the boy sprinted off into fast-approaching darkness.
He waited a moment and then strolled down to the water where the men guarded their dinghies. “We may have work,” he said.
The men perked like starved dogs.
“Prepare just one of these,” he said of the small boats. “Any more and we will arouse attention.” They nodded and the Pirate King left them to get ready.
He cleared the brush and thought of Alzir, who had taken multiple rounds in the back off the coast of Algeria in order to guarantee his escape.
Because of that, Kaahin could not go to his family. They were being watched and if there was so much as a hint that he had made it back to Madagascar, the westerners would do more than spy.
His wife knew what to do when he refused to check-in. He hoped.
This was too important to risk.
Twelve
Five minutes. That’s how long it took for Sara to tire of Blake while aboard the Frozen Cocktail.
She found Holloway on deck, huddled alongside Kahega and the three other black men who comprised the captain’s crew.
Sara asked if she could have another room and the men laughed.
Except Holloway. He came away from the railing with a wolf’s grin. “Take mine, darlin’.”
Sara raised her hands so he wouldn’t come any further. “No, that’s okay.”
“I know how it sounds.”
“Good.”
“I’m not going to be sleeping much.”
“Why is that?”
“What happened back in port. Word’s all the way around the island by now. Mercs’ll be gunning for this ship everywhere we go.”
“You had no choice.”
“Locals won’t be as sympathetic.” Holloway started past Sara and flicked his fingers so she followed him below deck. The central hall was so thin it needed to be walked single file. But there was more space down here than one might’ve suspected. Four staterooms and additional storage compartments.
Blake heard them coming and opened his door, stood in the jamb and watched.
Holloway brushed right by like he wasn’t there and reached the last room at the end of the hall, pushing in on the door. “This is the Frozen Bunk and usually, you sail with me, this space sets you back an extra five hundred.”
“Is this a fishing vessel or a luxury yacht?” Sara asked, watching as the lights fluttered on, igniting the bed’s undercarriage in a deep blue glow.
“Because it doesn’t look like much?” Holloway seemed wounded by that insinuation. Sara rolled her eyes and left the comment hanging.
“I can’t take your b—”
“Don’t be flattered,” he said. “If we had other guests, I wouldn’t be offering it.” That grin again. Infectious enough to spread to her lips. Her muscles had been so firm, her face so miserably dour, that the stretch of her mouth felt good.
“If you’re sure,” Sara said.
From the hallway, Blake cleared his throat and went right on being ignored.
“Positive.” Holloway stood one moment longer than was appropriate. Then he was gone, leaving Sara to listen to his footsteps stalking back above deck.
“Here,” Blake said and threw her bags over the threshold. “You want to be rid of me? Be rid of me.”
She leapt out of the way as her backpack skidded against her feet.
“All I said is that I needed some space to myself. To think.”
“I told you everything,” he said. “What’s left for you to think about?”
“You really don’t know? Or are you just mad because I haven’t kissed your forehead and told you all is forgiven?”
He mumbled something beneath his breath. She scooped the yellowed papers in her hand.
“I need to see what you sold our future for,” she said.
She headed back inside the Frozen Bunk and clicked the lock. Didn’t want him coming in here to make amends.
She tossed the papers onto the bed and stripped, leaving her clothes in a wrinkled trail that led straight to the bathroom. Through the small portal window, the ship nodded up and down while slicing through placid waters.
Sara got beneath the meager shower stream and felt the tension at the small of her back loosen like a shoelace.
Once dry, she took a seat on the cushion and reached for the letters. Each page was clipped to a second, less yellowed sheet. Thumbing through she saw those were the English translations for what must’ve been Spanish originals.
To You, Stranger:
I do not expect my pleas to be heard, though I must leave behind a record in case I do not make it.
My name is Isabella de Carcena of Aragon and I write as a prisoner on my own island, held in captivity by a man who once claimed to love me, but now thinks of me as treasure.
We met three years ago on Ile Saint Marie. I do not know where my island lies in relation to that bustling port, only that it takes several days to reach by ship and you will see nothing but water for so long that land begins to feel like a dream.
My captor is the pirate, Alejandro Roche. A long time ago, I loved him in good faith. But there is nothing now. What can there be on this island of two? I must face the truth that he has tired of me, just as he tires of his bounties.
We used to venture to Ile Saint Marie on occasion—until Roche became too paranoid to leave his vault unattended. Something I thought was absurd until the last time we were there. I shared a dance with an English port trader named Martine Vernier, who confessed to me after too many flagons of rum that he had come here to hunt Roche’s treasure and planned to take it for his own.
For our own. That was his offer. We made love that night, and he promised that he would come for me. That he had heard of the island from the wife of a missing laborer—one of the men Roche had paid to construct our isolated paradise. I must return there with my captor, Vernier said, and promised that my time there would be short.
I do not know how, but Roche learned of my indiscretion and forbade any subsequent departures from our island. So now I walk these beaches alone, feeling the sand between my toes as I watch the horizon and pray to catch sight of Vernier’s approaching ship.
Anything to bring resolution, though I do not believe myself that lucky. I think I truly could die here. Though the end of my life does not scare me as much as a wasted one.
For my sanity,
Isabella
Sara’s hands trembled as she read it.
The words were a knife to her heart. Isabella de Carcena had lived hundreds of years ago, but might as well be a pen pal for as much common ground as Sara thought they shared.
Sara’s jaw tightened as she imagined this woman’s life. It was easy to relat
e.
Could Isabella have made it off the island? Sara guessed not if these were found in someone’s private collection in 1976.
But the woman had written more.
My love,
I write so you will not worry. This note will take weeks to reach you, and I only need to say that I am alive. For now.
Yet you simply must hurry. Roche does not let me out of his sight for even a moment now that he suspects my allegiance has shifted. He caught me watching the ocean last night over dinner, and demanded to know why my attention lay on breaking waves. He accused me of rooting against him.
I did not tell him, of course, though I suspect he knows. Because in his ever-increasing madness, Roche tells me he wishes that someone out there would solve his riddles and find our island. He is desperate for competition.
In his isolation, he becomes increasingly bored. The men who constructed this fortress are not allowed to leave, and the traders who arrive from the Far East by rowboat are instructed to come no further than the beach.
Never further. I have to pay them to take my letters, left in secret on the beach in a sack filled with doubloons.
The night after I left you on Ile Saint Marie, we planted the key at Roche’s request. He selected two men from port who could hold their breaths for four minutes and ordered them to do it. One went to a watery grave like a drowned rat. Roche shot the other as soon as he surfaced and confirmed the job done. But it’s there, waiting for you, my love.
Roche is paranoid beyond usefulness. Each drink I serve, every meal I cook surely must be poisoned. He looks at me with suspicious eyes, as though every move I make is a plot against him. Of course it is, and so now I must once again consider my own role in his madness.
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