Ocean Grave

by Matt Serafini

  “Want me to show you?” Carly asked.

  “Go right ahead,” Sara said.

  Carly lifted her Desert Eagle. The gun was far bigger than Sara’s and was absurdly oversized in Carly’s fist. But the actress knew exactly how to use it. With all the movies she’d done, firing a gun was like a reflex.

  Sara braced for the shot. It was still startlingly loud. An explosive burst that prompted angry squawks from circling seagulls. The old scotch bottle exploded while Carly slid her aim just a few inches to the right and fired again. Sara bucked at that noise, too, as more glass shards joined the pile.

  “One more,” Guillaume said, unable to hide the condescending bemusement in his voice. “Convince me you’re the real deal.”

  The Jack Daniels bottle blew apart like a gunfighter had shot it. Carly did everything but blow on the smoking barrel, eyeing the Desert Eagle with a satisfied smirk. “I think I’m in love.”

  “Then it’s yours.” Guillaume went to the pile and used his boot heel to brush the glass overboard.

  Carly slid the vertical weapons holster around her shoulders, clicked the safety switch on the slide before sheathing it. She looked like some 70s detective show character as she leaned against the cabin, eyebrow cocked and eager to see if Sara could match her. “Need me to show you again?” Carly asked.

  “Nah,” Sara said, suddenly and stupidly competitive. She lifted the SIG Sauer P226, which is what Guillaume had told her it was, as if that was supposed to impress a marine biologist. Did it fire? Would it kill? Then great. She looked down the gray slide as the distant bottles blurred. Carly took a few exaggerated steps away and Sara turned to her. “Gee, thanks.”

  Carly chuckled.

  Sara raised her other hand to cradle the SIG Sauer’s grip. The gun barked and the glass broke.

  “Beginner’s luck.” Guillaume’s words and accent were smugly French.

  “Bullshit,” Sara said and blasted the next bottle into oblivion. And then the last. “Keanu fucking Reeves,” she said, and then to Guillaume, “You can clean that shit up now.”

  Guillaume did while Carly bumped shoulders like the actress was hip to her secret. “Look at us, all armed and dangerous. We find that island and—”

  “We still don’t know what could be there,” Sara said.

  Guillaume returned to the conversation and handed Sara a tactical thigh holster for her weapon. She attached it and tucked the gun away.

  “She is right, you know.” Guillaume popped a stick of chewing gum into his mouth. “Never know what you’ll find out here. Ever hear of the Sentinelese?”

  Neither woman had.

  “Cannibal tribe off the coast of Sri Lanka,” he said. “Last people on this planet to go entirely untouched by modern advancement. Primitive hunter-gatherers, incredibly hostile to the outside world.”

  “Poor people,” Carly said.

  An unfortunate display of clichéd Hollywood ignorance. Sara thought she saw visions of a charity dinner pass through Carly’s eyes. “Save the Cannibals” or whatever. The actress hadn’t meant anything by it, but Sara appreciated that parts of this world still lived in the past. It wouldn’t always be that way.

  And Guillaume challenged Carly. “Who says poor them? It’s the life they know.”

  “It’s all geography,” Carly said. “I mean, they don’t know how much easier their lives could be...”

  “Again, who says?”

  “The world could at least try and make contact.”

  “The world has tried,” he said. “Indian government, Christian missionaries... They’re not having it. So perhaps it’s best to live and let live.”

  “Yes,” Carly said. “Of course.”

  Jean-Philippe appeared two decks up. He waved for them to join him.

  “Shooting bottles is one thing,” Sara said as they walked. “But shooting people—”

  “—is much easier,” Guillaume said. “When someone’s trying to kill you, you’d be surprised what you’re capable of.”

  Sara remembered all the confusion and desperation aboard the Frozen Cocktail as the pirates took it and figured the mercenary was right. She wished she could’ve killed any one of them. Blake might still be alive then. The ship might still be afloat.

  She went to the rail and stared out on the ocean, eager to glimpse the monster that followed. The water was so calm it chilled her, knowing what could be just beneath the surface of serenity, keeping its distance until the time was right.

  This ship took ocean waves with more smoothness than the Frozen Cocktail. The Star Time’s hull displaced water by brushing it aside as opposed to tipping upward and riding atop it as Holloway’s vessel had done.

  Sara was the last to reach the helm and Jean-Philippe was already in mid-speech.

  “This boat was never intended to be out here this long,” he was saying.

  “Pirates were most likely going to do an open water auction,” Guillaume said. “This thing’s valuable enough to fund them for years.”

  “So you’re saying we’re out of fuel?” Carly said.

  “Almost,” Jean-Philippe admitted. “This thing holds five thousand liters and we’re losing it fast.”

  “Is there a place to refuel?” Guillaume asked.

  Jean-Philippe grinned. He had retrieved a GPS device from one of their drop packs. “Everything is working out,” he said.

  That seemed good enough for Guillaume. “Carly will stay on the helm with you while Sara and I discuss that other thing. Does that work for everyone?”

  Carly seemed hesitant to leave Sara, but the women exchanged trusting nods.

  “I have more questions about your films,” Jean-Philippe said.

  “Shoot,” Carly said, trying to hide her delight behind modesty as she dropped into the helm chair.

  “Tell her instead how you converse online entirely in reaction gifs from her movies and refer to her exclusively as ‘the queen,’” Guillaume laughed. “Because I think she will actually love that.”

  As Sara followed him from the helm, she heard Jean-Philippe concede, “I apologize for nothing.”

  “They seem to get along well,” Sara said once they were removed from earshot.

  “I have never seen him so star struck,” Guillaume said. “He blames me for what happened to our pilot. Hasn’t said much since, because it was my decision to take this ship in the storm.”

  Sara was glad they were here, even if the relief wouldn’t last. Had no comfort to offer him, though.

  “No matter,” Guillaume said. “I am glad she is here for him.”

  They went down to his cabin. The only sign of occupancy was a bulky Toughbook laptop sitting on the writing desk.

  “I know that I have not yet earned your trust,” he said. “I do not blame you. But I am serious about this partnership and would like the opportunity to discuss it further.”

  He opened the laptop and connected to the hotspot “football” the mercenaries had attached to the top of the ship’s helm.

  The screen blinked and beamed them into a high-class bedroom of hard right angles and minimal design. Bodies rested atop a king-size bed in a slumped tangle.

  Guillaume cleared his throat, which prompted the mound beneath the bed sheets to stir. A slim figure lifted from the center, a petite female frame. Groans and exhausted shuffles as two larger bodies rolled to their respective sides, forming a valley down the center of the bed as the woman emerged in full beneath the sheets and descended, her feet touching the floor as she stretched for the sky.

  She stood and crossed the room in the nude, too important a person to give a damn about modesty. She adjusted the laptop screen and smiled at the prying eyes.

  “It’s early,” she said in a raspy pack-a-day British accent.

  “Apologies, Baroness.”

  “Oh, please.” She was older, but had staved off the aging process in a way Sara found impressive. Her body was baked golden and there wasn’t a trace of fat to be found. If there was a fountain
of youth, then only the wealthiest players in the world knew where it was.

  The Baroness mumbled some kind of smarthome command as the window blinds in the background began rising, filling the bedroom with early morning sun. The floor-to-ceiling windows glowed hot enough for Sara to feel it. Outside was a gracious view of the London skyline.

  Behind the Baroness, two naked men stirred and groaned and shambled their way out of bed. Washboard abs, strong muscles. Boy toys who slumped out of frame like trained pets.

  “Is this our partner?” Baroness asked.

  “It is more complicated than that, sadly,” Guillaume told her. “But this is her. Sara—”

  Sara cleared her throat. “Just Sara.”

  The Baroness smirked and stared at her for a long moment. Sara read every inch of her confident smile. It said, “I’ll know everything about who you are by the time I end this call.” And Sara didn’t doubt that.

  “Okay,” the Baroness said. “Just Sara, I would like you to know that I pride myself on reputation. For all matters similar, I am fair and honest. The treasure we search for, that of Alejandro Roche, will be mine. That is non-negotiable.”

  Guillaume’s hand moved like lightning, raising his weapon. Cold steel bit Sara’s temple.

  “Say that you understand and we will move at once beyond this unpleasantness.”

  “That shit you’re after cost me everything,” Sara said. “I don’t want it.”

  The Baroness continued to scrutinize Sara with a slow, almost imperceptible nod. “Here’s what I’m prepared to do as a gesture of gratitude, Just Sara. I am prepared to fund your field research to the tune of one hundred thousand dollars a year over the next decade. On top of which you earn a living wage through one of my companies. Forty years with pension. Retirement. And you never have to show up.”

  “My parachute out of this rat race?”

  The Baroness smirked. She was impossibly gorgeous, and better suited for a James Bond movie. Sara couldn’t believe people like this existed. “Exactly,” the Baroness said. “I take care of those who are loyal to me.”

  Guillaume took the pistol away and exhaled silent relief. He stood there looking mildly apologetic.

  Sara shrugged. “Just tell me where to sign.”

  The Baroness flushed her smile away the moment business was concluded. “I will meet you once this is over,” she said. And that was it. The screen flicked and was dark.

  “Pretty shit way to earn my trust,” Sara said.

  “Sorry about the gun.” For the first time, Guillaume couldn’t look at her. “When the boss speaks—”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why do you look like sour milk then?”

  “Because I don’t trust her any more than I do you.”

  “Her offer is a peasant’s wage where she is concerned. It is much, much easier for her to grease your wheels that way than do anything disreputable.”

  “If you say so.”

  Guillaume stuck his hand out. “You’re on our team now. Welcome.”

  After some reluctance, they shook.

  He took Sara above deck, to where one of the rooms beneath the helm had been retrofitted into a makeshift supply depot. All the cases the helicopter had dropped off, apparently.

  “The first time I briefed the Baroness on the situation,” Guillaume said, “she wanted me to bring you into the fold.” He pointed to a spread of equipment in the far corner. “So that’s roughly your size. Figure out what you like and suit up. I’ll go make sure Jean-Philippe isn’t making Carly sign his poster collection.”

  “So you two really are...”

  “Married?” Guillaume said. “No, but... we are involved. That much is true.”

  He left for the flying bridge and Sara changed into a thick pair of sandy shorts. They were a little on the short side, but the humidity out here was as monstrous as the creature in that ocean. She stripped her top off and slid a white belly tee over her body and then covered that with a sleeveless olive top. She looped the holster through her belt strips and gave that SIG Sauer P226 a comfortable home.

  Boots were halfway to her knees and the half gloves would prevent the weapon from slipping from her hands if the world got really wet again. She was ready for whatever Isabella and her psychotic boyfriend might throw at them from beyond the grave.

  There was news when she got back to the bridge. Carly stood there like a little kid at her birthday party, eyes beaming.

  “What is it?” Sara said.

  They had intercepted a communication from some place called Agaléga. It was a request for the immediate presence of a magistrate. They were also asking the coast guard to investigate a man there who claimed to be the captain of a sunken vessel called the Frozen Cocktail.

  “Holloway’s alive,” Carly said as if Sara hadn’t been able to piece that much together on her own.

  The others seemed less enthused by this development. On their end, this complicated things.

  “We need to beat that magistrate to land,” Guillaume said.

  “We will have to refuel there,” Jean-Philippe said. “It does not look like they have a port, so that’s easier said than done.”

  “And there’s more,” Guillaume said, looking right at Sara.

  “That’s right,” Jean-Philippe added. “Follow the path of the plate to the glaring twins. The clue is exactly what I suspected. Has to be.”

  “Which is?” Sara asked.

  “The island itself,” Jean-Philippe told her. “It’s really two islands joined together by sand and coral.”

  “The glaring twins,” Carly said and hugged Sara, warmth she hadn’t felt in days. Sara allowed herself to relax inside the actress’ soft grip for just a second.

  “Holy shit,” Sara said, wiping a single tear on Carly’s shoulder.

  “If you look at those islands on a map,” Jean-Philippe added, “they are almost on top of one another.”

  Sara pushed away from Carly as she looked at the digital GPS map. The actress kept a supportive hand on the small of Sara’s back, might’ve even been massaging her with small, calming rubs, but Sara couldn’t focus on that. The puzzle was clicking into place and filling her with adrenaline. “Right,” she said. “So it cannot be north or south. The ‘twins’ cannot glare together in either of those directions.”

  “East or west then?” Guillaume said.

  All eyes were on Sara.

  “We need Holloway,” she said. “He might have the jewel.”

  “What is the jewel for?” Carly asked.

  “I don’t know,” Sara said. “But I think we need it. For the game.”

  “Then we will not leave Agaléga without it,” Guillaume said.

  Jean-Philippe tapped the GPS and confirmed to the group they’d been heading toward Agaléga since yesterday.

  And they were closer than they realized.

  Thirty-Seven

  The northern Agaléga island prison was two holding cells on the building’s far end.

  A wire fan tucked into the furthest corner oscillated and was only a meek disruption to the punishing humidity.

  Every few minutes, Kaahin looked to the American for a plan and saw only his downturned eyes.

  For Kaahin, this was bad. All the American needed to do was keep his mouth shut. The truth would come out.

  The Agaléga police claimed their little island was receptive to visitors. Especially those who arrived carrying this kind of trauma. Thing was, though, word traveled. Word reached these small islands, for even out here at the end of everything, pirates were news. Mauritius had sent word that the waters around Madagascar had seen a sharp increase in pirate activity.

  The police claimed to believe their story, their truth through omission, but they also had orders. Orders that required both men to be tossed into prison cells until the magistrate could arrive and sort through the details.

  Kaahin had no intention of waiting. “We are close to the treasure,” he whispered. Then, taking his voice down even lo
wer, added, “If we separate, we may not succeed.”

  They were in separate cells, but the men sat close. Their backs each faced the stonewall that formed the building’s rear, and that area was divided by iron bars that split the space into cells.

  Kaahin kept the conversation confined to whispers. The officers came and went so often it was like they were searching for excuses to avoid actual police work.

  “I said we have a serious decision to make, American.”

  The American didn’t look. “We don’t.”

  “The only people closer to the treasure are your acquaintances. If those women find it—”

  The American looked up. That thought apparently too much to bear.

  “Pretend you are ill,” Kaahin told him.

  “You want to get out of here, or do you want to get us cuffed to these bars?”

  His way of saying he had a better idea. They waited for the officers to return. When they did, it was not the men who had taken them into custody last night, but two nondescript uniforms who stared from across the way. They weren’t used to guests.

  “Hey, pal,” the American said. He crossed the cell and closed his fists around the bars. “I’m going to need you to let me use the radio.”

  The officers exchanged mutual shrugs.

  It wasn’t enough to prevent the slick-mouthed American from continuing. “My ship went down. You know that much, right? Well, I lost some good men. One of those boys had a wife... a kid on the way any day now. I need to get word to her. Can’t wait for the magistrate.”

  The police traded a few whispers before realizing the airy hum of the wire fan was all that prevented their words from being overheard. They stepped outside.

  The American smiled and watched them disappear. “They’re going to let me do it.”

  One officer returned before there was a chance to take the conversation further. He unlocked the American’s cell and ushered him out. “I take you to port.” The officer stopped and glanced back at Kaahin. “They are cooking your lunch now. Meals are prepared at the administration building. My partner goes to get yours.”