Black Run

by D. L. Marshall

  ‘I can’t stand looking at him,’ Lennon said, mouth turning up into a snarl of pure disgust.

  A man on the table over from them grunted his disapproval. Sting turned and stared at him. The man’s young son looked between the thug and his dad, Sting’s lip curled, the man looked down into his menu, holding it up in front of his son.

  ‘I’ll drive to Spain tomorrow to finalise the transport,’ I said. ‘You hold the fort here.’

  ‘Don’t be too long,’ she said, eyes still boring into Bob’s back. ‘I might kill this bastard before you return.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tiburon

  The ship corkscrewed through the black, rain coming at us from all angles. As we climbed up to deck level and navigated the passageways to the port-side door I pulled on my soggy jacket, transferred my pistol to the pocket, and zipped it all the way up. The air was freezing but fresh, welcome again after just a short period in the stale air of the old ship. In the dim spotlamps, Miller was already striding through the rain pounding the deck, I left the safety of the doorway to follow him. Waves boomed against the hull, launching up over the prow and dropping an extra deluge on us.

  I paused to shelter by the rearward deck crane as the water washed about my ankles, Miller continued to saunter along as if we were on a summer cruise. My car was lashed down to the huge forward cargo bay doors, half the length of the ship away. In front of it the prow crane strained against its ties with every twist of the deck, threatening to collapse onto my pride and joy.

  I clung to the railings and looked up at the glowing wheelhouse, Katanga peering through the streaked windows. I turned to see Fields still huddled in the doorway, he nodded, stepping out onto the deck, pistol up. He soon gave that up as he slid sideways. I let go of the railings and ran back towards him as a wave broke over the side, he flailed as he was lifted clean over the railings by the motion of the ship. I grabbed his arm before he was pitched overboard, pulling as he flailed in the spray, dragging him back onto the deck.

  The ship heaved the other way, we slid across the deck and slammed into the superstructure. I was wearing Converse, great for driving but not renowned for grip on a wet deck. Still, they were a damn sight better than Fields’ heavy boots, I kept hold of him as we rose on another wave, scuttering and sliding like Bambi on ice.

  He gripped the external staircase and pulled himself to his feet, looking out over the churning sea. ‘I dropped my weapon!’

  ‘You absolute dickhead,’ I shouted above the waves. ‘What did you think you were gonna shoot out here?’

  I pulled his arm, sticking close to the superstructure and holding on to the lifelines and grab handles as we shuffled forward. Up ahead, Miller was already standing at the boot of my car, hands behind his back, experienced sea legs flexing as he rocked with the motion of the deck.

  ‘You fellas nearly went for a swim there,’ he shouted as we approached, grinning through his drenched beard. ‘Remember, there’s no turning round if you take a drink.’

  ‘Fuck off, Pugwash,’ Fields said, but the edge was taken off by his inability to move without squatting and spreading his arms out, ready to grab the nearest thing, which at the moment was me.

  I blipped the car, the indicators lit up the seawater washing around our feet. Miller waited for a wave to crash over the bow and the ship to begin the next climb, then made to open the boot.

  ‘Hang on,’ I shouted, handing Fields off to Miller and grabbing the boot lid myself. With a glance back at Katanga and King watching us from the bridge, I swung it up.

  A pile of clothes was pushed up against the back of the seats, bulky skiwear and a bright orange jacket, huddled like a scrunched up sleeping bag. It shook when I climbed into the boot, whimpering, pressing further away.

  ‘Shite,’ said Fields. ‘You didn’t tell us the cargo was alive.’

  ‘Listen to me,’ I shouted to the shape in the boot. ‘We’re on a ship in the middle of the ocean, there’s nowhere to go. You make any moves, you’ll go straight over the side, you got me?’

  A slight shudder of the canvas shopping bag on his head, another whimper said he got me. He was in no mood to argue, and couldn’t anyway, given he’d a big strip of duct tape over his mouth. I slid a penknife out of my pocket, flicked it open, cut the cable ties binding his handcuffs to the load anchor points, dragging him across the boot. I noticed a dark patch on his trousers even though we’d made a toilet stop an hour and a half before meeting the ship. Maybe the stress was having a detrimental impact on his body. That or the ket and thiopental cocktail I’d been using to keep him sedated.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, I’ve had this valeted not long since.’ Still, the bullet holes and BMW-coloured scrapes down one side had already ruined that.

  I stepped down to the deck, steadying myself on the car, and shouted at Fields, still hunched over and clinging to Miller. ‘Give me a bloody hand then.’

  Fields leaned into the car and helped me lift my captive out of the boot, the three of us sliding as a wave tossed us sideways. Miller leaned in to steady us, I reached back in, grabbed a rucksack, and slammed the boot. We waited to complete another circuit of the corkscrew motion then shuffled as one across the deck, back to the superstructure, a journey made more difficult by the worn tread plates and relentless, driving, freezing water.

  The man’s boots clattered and slid on the deck, ski boots not being suited to graceful movement at the best of times, least of all on a ship at sea. Finally, Miller opened the door and half-fell inside, dragging us with him. Fields rested back against the wall, panting.

  The man stood shivering and shaking in handcuffs. Miller looked him up and down, ending at the bag tied around his head, and scowled. ‘I’ve told you how I feel.’

  ‘Don’t grow a conscience now,’ I said. ‘Come on, Fields.’

  The man screamed and shouted into the duct tape, making a half-hearted attempt to ward us off, but with a bag cable-tied around his neck and looking like a deflated orange that’d been through a washing machine with no spin cycle, he was in no position to argue. We took an arm each, the captive sounded like he was imploring, fingers digging into our wrists as we dragged him between us like drunk mates on a pub crawl. King met us at the foot of the bridge staircase.

  ‘Christ man, item of value, you said. I was surprised at your car but I’ll be honest, you’ve gone one better.’

  ‘Shut up and get him below,’ I growled.

  King knew better than to argue, or ask questions – for now anyway – and took over from Fields, who’d turned a shade of green and followed us by sliding sideways along the wall.

  Miller paused by the steps up to the bridge, frowning. ‘Doc will bring some breakfast down.’

  Fields retched and threw up across the wall. King shuddered next me, he’d be next if we didn’t get a wriggle on.

  Miller shook his head. ‘Keep to your cabins, and try not to wave any guns at my crew – some of them get kinda touchy about it.’

  I gave him a nod, he stamped up the stairs.

  A woman screamed behind a swinging doorway, I glanced in, saw people running around on a TV fastened to the wall. A man was watching, he turned to see what was happening, saw us and got up.

  I slammed the door shut and continued aft, Cons squelching and slipping across the little round supposedly non-slip circles on the floor, dragging the man down the flickering passageway with Fields lurching behind us.

  A head poked out of the mouthy doorway up ahead, the young guy in the radio room.

  ‘Inside,’ I barked, he dodged back. As we passed, he was half-hidden round the door. I glared, he turned and pretended to go back to monitoring the radio, briefly looking up as he put his headphones back on.

  The lights buzzed and went out, we struggled on in the dim red emergency lighting. I stopped at the crossroads, looking back towards the radio room, trying to gauge my location. The German and Russian signs on the wall were no help, it all looked the same – that’s to say, i
t all looked like a dystopian sci-fi nightmare in steel, pipes and riveted seams, flickering light interspersed with gloomy red. Graffiti scrawled in various languages mingled with badly drawn cartoon characters, it was all a bit Das Boot on too much acid.

  ‘Here,’ King said, taking the lead down the stairs. Behind us, Fields fought to remain vertical as he bounced from wall to wall, staying upright made more difficult with one hand over his mouth.

  ‘Down,’ I prodded the hooded man in the back, ‘and hold on tight.’

  I forced him on, slow going as he crab-walked sideways down the open stairway. My foot slipped out from under me, I gripped even tighter. He was fortunate to be wearing the bag on his head. He couldn’t see the tight, steep metal steps, the rolling motion threatening to pitch us over the handrail onto the crates below. Above us a door opened, raised voices filled the corridors.

  Martinez was waiting at the bottom, fingers twitching next to her thigh holster. She stepped out of the way, glaring behind us at the noisy crew members congregating at the top of the stairs.

  We shuffled along the passage and threw the Michelin man into my room, Martinez closed the door behind us. Fields collapsed onto the nearest bed, grabbing a bucket, King shoved the prisoner out of the way and sat down.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ asked Martinez.

  ‘Too late to ask questions now,’ said King. ‘If you had any qualms about the job, you should have specified them before taking the money.’

  I gave him a nod of thanks, dropped my rucksack on the floor, and dragged the man to the hatch.

  ‘Sit down.’ As he did I knelt to open the wooden panel. ‘You’re going down a ladder. Don’t slip or you’ll break your leg.’

  He mumbled something as I helped his boot onto the top rung then forced him down. As he descended I swung my legs into the hatch.

  ‘Hand me that chair,’ I said to King as I started to climb down.

  King passed it to me, I reached the bottom and stood it behind the man, leaning in close.

  ‘Co-operate and you might still survive. Sit.’

  He sat on the chair.

  ‘I’m going to take off your boots. Your gear can stay on, it’s bloody cold in here. Nod.’

  I knelt and loosened the ratchet. As I unhooked one of the catches he kicked out, just missing my nose and catching me painfully on the shoulder. I fell back, he made to stand, but I was quicker to my feet.

  I shouldn’t have hit him quite so hard, but you’ll have to trust me: the guy deserved worse. The chair rocked, I caught it and straightened him up, pulling several thick cable ties from my jacket. He attempted a half-hearted struggle but the fight had been knocked out of him hours ago back in the mountains; within seconds he was bound to the chair. Leaving his uncomfortable boots on, I stepped back, watching his head jerk side to side, the chair sliding on the floor. I climbed up the ladder, when my head reached the top all three of them were staring at me.

  ‘Don’t feel sorry for him,’ I said, closing the hatch and kicking the carpet back.

  ‘We’re professionals,’ said Fields.

  Martinez shook her head. ‘This is looking more and more like some gangland shit. Kidnapping ain’t my thing.’

  ‘The guy’s a wanted man.’ I swung my bed down and sat on it to untie my laces.

  Martinez was still shaking her head. ‘That’s what police are for. Abduction and extraction from European countries ain’t—’

  ‘Isn’t what? Why’s it okay when it’s some Al Qaeda leader in the Middle East, but not here? He’s a traitorous, murdering scumbag, and he’s going to face justice.’

  ‘So bad we’re ferrying him to England?’ said Fields.

  ‘And being paid very well to do so.’ I kicked my trainers under the bed then stood to peel off my sodden jacket.

  ‘The money might not be worth it if you’ve made us important enemies,’ Fields muttered.

  ‘You think he’d do that, with his penchant for self-preservation?’ said King. I appreciated the backup, and he’d tried to inject levity into it, but I could see he was thinking along the same lines as the others.

  I hung the dripping jacket over the en-suite door then peeled off my socks, launching them into the sink. ‘Look, we’re covered. This time tomorrow we’ll all be back home and considerably better off.’

  King and Fields continued to argue it out. I grabbed my rucksack and rummaged through the clothes. Martinez sat silently watching me as I pulled out a rugged, waterproof satphone.

  ‘Hold the fort, I’m making a call.’

  She nodded and closed the door behind me as I stepped into the corridor. No faces upstairs now, no shouts, just the waves booming against the sides and the constant thrum of the diesels. I walked to the end of the corridor and turned by the engine room, passing the stairs and heading to a black porthole set into the wall, rhythmically dipping under the water. I pulled the antenna up and held it near the porthole, the display showed what I hoped was just enough signal.

  The call was answered immediately.

  ‘What time do you call this? Update.’

  I’d often criticised Colonel Holderness’ management style, brusque at the very best of times and downright shitty at all others, but the relationship had soured recently.

  ‘I was instructed not to call until the parcel was in the post.’

  ‘Any problems?’

  ‘A little traffic. Still managed to catch the post office before it closed.’

  ‘Trip going well?’

  ‘Everyone’s enjoying it so far.’

  ‘Take care. We know children can act up on long journeys. Update me again at a more suitable hour.’

  The phone went dead.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tiburon

  I pushed the satphone into my pocket, was about to go back in my room when I heard footsteps on the stairs. Doc, carrying a tray, like a mountain goat somehow managing to make it down in perfect co-ordination with the rolling of the boat.

  ‘A spot of breakfast before you turn in,’ he raised the tray. I followed him back to the cabin.

  At the opening door, three pistols clinked in unison as the mercenaries inside cocked and readied, then relaxed. I stood to one side and ushered Doc in.

  He looked at King’s green face and smiled, placing the tray on the desk: croissants and mugs of coffee. Martinez picked up a mug.

  ‘I don’t wanna sound rude,’ I said, picking up a mug and turning up my nose, ‘but you got any tea?’

  ‘Miller doesn’t trust anyone who doesn’t drink coffee.’

  I put the mug down in disgust. ‘Nor should he, but the question stands.’

  ‘I’ll have a forage, my boy. But first…’ He pulled out a bottle of capsules and tipped one out, handing it to King. ‘For the mal de mer.’ He tipped out more pills for Martinez, Fields, and me.

  ‘I don’t get seasick,’ said Martinez.

  ‘Everyone takes the tablets,’ I said.

  ‘My dear Ms Martinez,’ said Doc, handing her a pill. ‘We are heading into the Bay of Biscay in December. You may have observed the current motion of the boat…’

  King put a hand to his mouth.

  ‘…but trust me, this is but a millpond compared to what we’ll be facing in a few hours. Do not let that tablet resurface, Mr King.’

  I took the pill and swallowed it. ‘I need you all in good shape. There’s no sick pay.’

  Martinez pulled apart a croissant and nodded at the floor. ‘You need to feed your friend down there.’

  Doc nodded. ‘I don’t know who it is you’ve brought on board, but as a doctor I must agree with your colleague.’

  ‘He’ll be fed in England.’

  Doc shook his head. ‘When was the last time he ate?’

  I thought about it. ‘Maybe thirty hours or so.’

  ‘Out of the way, out of the way,’ Doc bustled Fields across the room and bent over the breakfast tray. ‘Stress is a terrible thing. It’s almost twenty hours to Poole, that’s
two days with no food or drink, captive in the boot of a car and then the stinking hull of a pogoing boat in a storm. I suspect your employers will be very much aggrieved if you deliver a corpse.’

  He was only half right. I stood and lifted the bed.

  He put a seasickness pill and bottle of water next to a croissant on the tray and passed it to me. ‘Doctor’s orders.’

  ‘Clear off.’

  He closed the door behind him. Martinez was already halfway through a croissant, inhaling the mug of coffee.

  ‘You two,’ I waved my finger between Fields and King, ‘make sure you eat. I wasn’t kidding: you’re not being paid if you’re too sick to aim a weapon.’

  I opened the hatch once again and climbed down into the hidden room, placing the tray next to the chair. I pulled the bag off his head, dropped it on the floor. The man blinked in the lights, made more difficult and more painful by the broken nose and two black eyes I’d given him a few hours ago. I peeled the tape off his mouth.

  ‘Don’t say a word. I’m gonna cut one arm loose so you can eat something.’ I nodded at the tray and flicked open my knife.

  ‘Please, I didn’t mean—’

  I clenched a fist, glanced up at the hatch in the ceiling then fixed him with a hard stare, he closed his mouth. Everything about him repulsed me, I was itching to beat the shit out of him and wondered, not for the first time, how cops managed it. Fortunately, I didn’t have to; I’m not one of the good guys.

  I sliced the cable tie on his right hand and stood back. Bound to the chair he was unlikely to attempt anything, and the guy was a cowardly rat anyway. But cornered rats can be unpredictable. He picked up the mug and drained half in one go.

  ‘If you so much as make a sound…’ I let him decide what I’d do, left him to it and climbed up.

  King was busy showing off his fancy new Glock again.

  ‘Nice,’ said Fields, dropping the mag and sliding it back in.

  ‘You’d best get that back off him,’ I said to King. ‘He’s already lost his over the side.’

  ‘Got another in my cabin,’ Fields said. He squinted along the pistol at the door. ‘What do you think, Tyler?’