The Keepers

by Dan Alatorre

  The trailing boat fired again. The bullet glanced off the rail of Moray’s canvas bimini top.

  “I’m a lieutenant in the Navy. I don’t dare let them board me, and they’d better not try.”

  “You’re in a recreational boat,” DeShear shouted. “If they thought you were a lieutenant in the Navy they wouldn’t be firing at you.” Sea spray washed over the boat as they crashed through the waves. “They don’t know you’ve got guns. Use that to your advantage. Act weak and draw them in. Let them board. When the moment’s right, attack.”

  “How?”

  “Stow your guns under a tarp or an old fishing net. Something they’re not going to want—and then let them push you to be near it. But you can’t have me in handcuffs or it’s not gonna work. They’ll know something’s up.”

  “If you make a move for that gun, mister, don’t worry about no pirates. I’ll take you down myself.”

  “They’re not aiming yet. If you leave me in handcuffs, I’m a dead man when the real shooting starts. Probably, so are you. I have no desire to die tonight. I’m hoping you feel the same way.”

  The lieutenant stared at the boat behind his, watching it weave in and out of his wake.

  “Lieutenant.”

  Moray kept his hand on the throttle. Sweat ran down the side of his face.

  “Lieutenant!”

  “All right! We play it your way! But you bungee sideways one time and I’ll kill you.” He untied DeShear from the railing and pulled out the key to the handcuffs.

  “Hurry,” DeShear said.

  Moray opened the handcuffs and shoved them in his pocket.

  “Okay.” DeShear rubbed his wrists. “I’ll take the wheel. You stow those weapons. Then, just pretend I hired you and your boat for some night diving.”

  Moray grabbed the gun and rifle, crouching as he slinked to the rear of the boat. He shoved the weapons behind the scuba diving tanks.

  DeShear eased the throttle back. “Don’t act like a military man. You’re a scuba charter captain. I’m your customer. We’re surrendering. Raise your hands.”

  Moray lifted his arms over his head. “Remember, mister. You die if you do anything funny.”

  DeShear raised his hands. “I am absolutely not in the mood to be funny.”

  The other boat pulled alongside them. Lines sailed onto the deck. Two men with rifles pointed at DeShear and Moray. The one on the front of the boat shouted. “Stop engine! Zet je motor uit!”

  DeShear switched the ignition off, peering at Moray out of the corner of his eye. “What language is that?”

  “They’re speaking Dutch,” the lieutenant said. “Dirty Dutch. Broken. No schooling.”

  “Tie! Tie!” the man shouted. “Bind de boten vast en beweeg niet!”

  Moray shook his head. “English, friend. Ne parle.”

  A man in a red t-shirt at the rear of the intruder’s vessel crept forward, his rifle aimed at Moray. “Attachez les bateaux ensemble. Rapidement.”

  “Oui, oui.” The lieutenant nudged DeShear. “This other man speaks French. He wants us take the lines and tie the boats together.”

  DeShear grabbed a line and looped it around the cleat on the side of the boat. Moray tied the stern line. The two boats were side by side, rocking in the waves.

  “Reculez et gardez les mains en l'air.” The man in the red t-shirt aimed his rifle back and forth between his victims. Placing a foot on the side of his boat, he crossed over to Moray’s vessel and landed on the rear deck. The rifle remained pointed at his two hostages.

  He pulled an 18” zip tie from his pocket, looking at DeShear. “Venez. Attache ton ami.”

  “He wants you come take that,” Moray said. “He says you are to tie me up.”

  DeShear nodded, walking slowly. “Think they understand English?”

  “This man with the rifle,” Moray said, “he’s one ugly pogo in that red shirt, for sure. Got a face like dog’s butt.”

  The stranger didn’t flinch.

  “I think they don’t speak English, mister.”

  “Geez.” DeShear winced. “Heckuva way to find out.”

  The pirate held out the long zip tie. “Venez, venez. Attache ton ami.”

  “That’s our opening.” His hands still in the air, DeShear turned slowly to Moray. “Follow me back here, Lieuten—uh, Louis. I’ll shove him into the drink. When I do, get your rifle and start blasting at that other boat.”

  Moray nodded, walking to the rear of the boat.

  The gunman retreated a step. “Arrêtez! Juste vous. Juste vous!”

  “I’m American.” DeShear shrugged, moved closer. “I don’t speak French. Jay nay parlay.”

  The zip tie quivered in the pirate’s hand. “Allez-y doucement. Doucement . . .”

  The gunman couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old. His red t-shirt was torn and faded; the sea breeze carried the stench of his body odor.

  His gun looks new enough, though—a military grade weapon from somewhere.

  DeShear reached for the zip tie. “I’ll take this and tie him up. We don’t want any trouble. Take what you want, and go.”

  The gunman breathed hard.

  Taking the zip tie, DeShear looked at the lieutenant. “Ready, Louis?”

  Moray nodded again, extending his hands.

  DeShear swung around and lowered his shoulder, ramming the gunman in the belly. Wrapping his arms around the man, DeShear churned his legs, driving them both into the rear deck railing. They smashed it hard, the gunman arching backwards, his arms flailing. His rifle flew from his grip as he went over backwards into the water.

  Moray scrambled for his rifle. The gunman on the other boat fired. A bullet whizzed past DeShear’s head. Another pinged off the railing, sending sparks into the air.

  On the deck, the lieutenant spun around, his rifle in his hands. Crouching, he fired two bursts at the remaining gunman.

  The attacker fell backwards, his weapon shooting wildly as he crashed to the deck.

  “Grab that handgun, mister!” Moray got to his feet, leaping onto the other boat.

  DeShear picked up the handgun from behind the scuba tanks, aiming it at the other boat. More shots came from the front of the pirates’ vessel. Moray ducked, then leaped forward, firing half a dozen times.

  Rushing forward, the Lieutenant kept his rifle aimed at the fore deck. “Les autres, sortez! Les mains en l'air!” He knelt for a moment, then got up and went below. “All clear, mister!”

  DeShear peered over the back of the diving boat. The man in the red t-shirt wasn’t there. Only a few bubbles dotted the surface.

  Moray appeared on the rear of the pirate boat, his rifle butt resting on his thigh. “Where’s your man, mister?”

  “I don’t see him. He must have drowned.”

  “Think so? No pirate from these waters is gonna drown.” He went to the wheel and grabbed the spotlight, turning it on. “Look here.”

  The light made a bright circle on the water, giving it a greenish glow against the dark night. A long, dark shadow darted past, heading behind Moray’s diving boat. The Lieutenant moved the light until it landed on a lone swimmer in a red t-shirt, quietly paddling away from the boats.

  “That’s him,” DeShear said. “He’s fast.”

  “Not fast enough, mister.”

  The shadow bumped into the gunman. He shrieked, kicking wildly.

  “Start the motor.” DeShear rushed toward the wheelhouse. “Let’s get him out.”

  “No.” Moray’s gaze stayed on the water. “No time.”

  Another shadow crossed under the swimmer, then another. The man screamed, thrashing the water. In the beam of the spotlight, a massive tiger shark surged upwards and sunk its teeth into his thigh. The man howled, dark clouds filling the water around him. Another shark came, taking his arm and shaking its head. He screamed, throwing himself backwards, waving his bloody stump in the air.

  “Help!” Saltwater filled his mouth, the water around him churning as th
e sharks continued their attacked. “Alsjeblieft!” he screamed. “Help me!”

  A huge shadow flashed upwards, lifting the man from the water. Blood streamed from his mouth and down his cheeks. The white triangles glinted in the spotlight as the massive shark landed sideways, disappearing in a giant, white splash.

  The waves flattened and disappeared, a few bubbles rising through the red patch. Then the water was calm.

  DeShear stood at the wheel of the diving boat, panting. “We should have done something!”

  “No time, mister.” Moray plopped into the chair behind the wheel, his shoulders sagging. “If you had gone into that water, you’d be dead now, too. That’s the way of the tiger shark.”

  DeShear grabbed the railing, cursing as he lowered his head. “What about your man, Lieutenant?”

  “He died, mister. Everybody died.” Moray dropped his rifle, his voice falling to a whisper. “And look at that, mister. They done shot up my diving boat.”

  The lieutenant sagged sideways and fell to the deck.

  “Louis!” DeShear hurled himself over the railing, jumping onto the other boat. “Louis!”

  Moray laid on the deck, blood seeping from his mouth. Two red spots grew on his shirt. Another spread over his upper leg.

  DeShear ripped open the garments. Moray had been shot twice on the right side of his chest, once in the thigh.

  The lieutenant’s eyelids fluttered. Wheezing, he lifted his head. “You . . . got lucky again in this water, mister.” He choked, spitting blood. “Again, you’re the only one who didn’t die.”

  “You’re not going to die, Louis.” Kneeling, DeShear pulled Moray onto his lap, cradling the lieutenant’s head. “I’ll drive us out of here. We’ll be back at the dock in an hour. Stay with me, Louis. Keep fighting!” DeShear raced to the wheelhouse, searching the dashboard for a key to start the motor.

  There was none.

  “That’s okay. Your boat—I’ll get us out of here, Louis!” He jumped over the rail and climbed behind the wheel of moray’s boat. Heart pumping, he turned the key.

  Nothing.

  He glanced at the motor. Two holes were in the side, a thin line of steam rising from the top.

  “We have a radio! I’ll signal for help.”

  Groaning, Moray shook his head. “You’re not thinking, mister. Call on the radio, a Defense Force boat shows up. How am I gonna explain you being on my boat?”

  “Then . . . then we’ll use the common channel. A non-distress frequency. There’ll be a fishing boat out here somewhere.”

  “No, mister. You’re gonna gum up the works. Everybody here fears the pirates. Nobody comes when you call. Only the Defense Force. Then, they hang me high from the yardarm.”

  “No.” He climbed back over the railing to Moray.

  “We did pretty even, mister.” The lieutenant closed his eyes. “We got them pirates, but they got me.”

  “No. We can still both make it . . . Give me a few minutes to wire up this pirate boat so it’ll run. It’s fast. We can make it back to shore and get you to a hospital.”

  “They’ll hang me, mister.” Moray’s voice faded. “I don’t wanna go like that.”

  “Nobody’s hanging anybody, Louis.” DeShear took off his shirt, ripping it into strips. “I wasn’t kidding about the girl or the money. It’s all yours, Louis—$250,000.” He tied a tourniquet around the leg and folded two makeshift bandages, pressing them to the chest wounds. “With that kind of money, you can hire the best lawyer on the island to defend yourself. Take all of the money. It’s yours, all $250,000. Just . . . stay with me, Louis. Don’t die.”

  Moray smiled, weakly patting DeShear’s hand. “You . . . must be part sailor, mister . . . come telling a big fib like that.”

  Chapter 17

  Scowling, Hollings paced back and forth in front of the table of computers, his cane jabbing the dusty ground with each step. “We ain’t got enough power, we ain’t got the information yet, and we done lost a hostage!” Turning, he glared at Helena. “But we still got you, don’t we, Keeper 27? So unless you want your situation to take a nasty turn, you’re going to tell me what I need to know. Where’s your friend run off to, where’s the money, and where’s Constantine?”

  Helena sat rigid, kneading her hands in her lap. “Of course, I shall tell you everything, Mr. Hollings.” She glanced at the cap on the table. “How could I not?”

  “No more games, old woman!” He slammed his cane down on the table. “You’ll tell me the truth.” Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the cap and pushed it onto her head.

  Freeman winced, peering up from his keyboard. “Sir, we don’t have enough power to—”

  “Find it!” Hollings yelled. “Find the power to get these machines to run, or find another job.”

  Miss Franklin stepped behind Freeman, lowering her voice. “You said she was resisting before—that’s why the computer wasn’t working and needed more power.” She made a fist and pounded it into her other hand. “Want me to persuade her a little?”

  Trembling, Helena’s gaze went to Hollings. “You’ll have enough power now, Mr. Hollings. I won’t resist. I only ask one thing in return.” She swallowed hard, her hands shaking. “People are trying to harm Hamilton DeShear and Jaden Trinn. You can make them stop.”

  Hollings’ eyed widened. His lips curled into a slow smile. “What?” He sneered. “Are you winding me up? Me, help them? Madam, it’s my life’s current goal to see them both dead, especially that manky little sket Jaden Trinn. Shot me full of holes, she did. Why would I ever help either one of them?”

  “Because you need Constantine.” Helena’s voice quivered. “And I’m the only way you’ll get her. If you help my friends, I’ll take you to her.”

  Hollings dropped into the wheelchair, his jaw agape. “Cor, blimey,” he whispered, rubbing his chin. “That’s quite an offer, old girl.”

  “It’s a trick.” Franklin walked around to stand by Helena. “Let me work on her for a few minutes. She’ll tell us whatever you want to know, I guarantee it.”

  “I suppose I should be right afraid of you, Miss.” Helena stared up at her kidnapper. “And I am.” Her eyes went to Hollings. “But I’d sooner die than let anyone harm that child. Working with you will get me to her fastest.”

  Franklin patted Helena on the shoulder. “Let me give it a try.”

  Pursing his lips, Hollings stared at his elderly hostage. The wind swept across the roof of the old building, ruffling its worn shingles and making its walls creak. “It’s a trick.” He pointed his finger at Helena. “I know it is. But still, if we get the girl . . .”

  “I’ll get her to talk,” Franklin said.

  “No, dear. You’ve misunderstood me.” Helena’s eyes stayed on Hollings. “I’d sooner die than let anyone harm that child.”

  Hollings sighed. “Aye, Miss Franklin. We can’t resort to your methods.” He got up from the wheelchair, leaning on his cane as he paced the floor again. “What the old bird is saying is, she’ll stop breathing on her own—she’ll go standalone or whatever’s deeper than that until she offs herself. And then we’re buggered. No amount of pain would get through. I’ve seen one drone stand still as another drone clubbed it right to death. Never flinched, never raised a hand. But if grabbing Jaden Trinn and Hank DeShear allow me to get that girl . . . maybe there’s a way.” He jerked his head toward the ambulance.

  Frowning, Franklin walked behind the vehicle again.

  “You.” Hollings pointed to Freeman. “The old gal ain’t likely to go running off, but keep your eye on her just the same. And get that bloody computer working. We ain’t finished with it yet.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Behind the ambulance, Hollings lowering his voice and addressed Miss Franklin. “The instructions were to get the little girl by whatever means necessary. This might be the fastest way.”

  “It might be fast,” Franklin said, “but from what you told me about DeShear and Trinn, they’re dangerous.”
/>   “Aye, no doubt about that. We’ll need to lock them up tight—and you’ll keep a close eye on them. When we have what we want, we’ll snuff them out and dump them in a shallow grave. It’s all the same to me.” He walked out from behind the ambulance, looking at Helena. “I won’t give you Jaden Trinn. She’s a dead girl, that one. Shot me full of holes and left me in the trunk of a car.”

  “Miss Trinn didn’t kill you,” Helena said. “Though she had every right. And she made sure you received the medical attention that saved your life.”

  “Don’t matter.” Hollings sat down behind the table. “I might need DeShear, to sign everything over legally and whatnot, but I don’t need Trinn. She ain’t part of the equation.”

  Helena stared at him. “He loves her. So does Constantine. That makes her part of the equation.”

  Hollings lowered his head and balled up his fists. “A hard old bird, you are, Keeper 27—and you drive a hard bargain. Think you’ve got it all figured out, do you? Well, we’ll see.” He grabbed the cap and handed it to Freeman. “Hook her up again.”

  Freeman took the cap and placed it on Helena’s head, then attached the wires to the computer and engaged the processors.

  “Remember . . .” Hollings stared at Helena, narrowing his eyes. “Your visions didn’t see all them little children dying, did it? You were right there, and you were oblivious. All you could do was watch the tansuits load corpse after corpse into the collectors’ bins and wheel them off to the trash pile—while you cried in the courtyard.”

  She looked down. “And the person responsible died shortly after.”

  “No!” Hollings pounded the table. “Don’t you never say that! Never! Doctor Hauser is alive.”

  “Then you have nothing to fear,” Helena said. “He wanted Mr. DeShear alive to transfer the money and the businesses until Constantine was old enough. I’m sure he still does. Have you asked him?”

  Hollings leaned back in his chair, putting his chin in his hand. “Let’s get on with the matter at hand. You want a family reunion, is that it? All of Dr. Hauser’s pesky little progeny, rounded up and safe for a party?”