The Sea Rats

by David Leadbeater

  He waited several minutes before grabbing hold of the rope ladder and starting his own ascent. Rashid and Jamal were at his back, two friends with whom he’d been pirating and sharing the spoils for a dozen years or more. The rope was rough under his calloused hands and held firm. His boots moved swiftly from rung to rung. His AK was slung over his right shoulder, its pitted barrel tapping his hip every time he moved. He approached the lower deck, grabbed the rail, and hauled his hardened, athletic body over the top.

  His boots hit the deck hard, shedding water.

  All around the ship, his fighters were arriving. A scream went up, clearly from a female throat. That was okay. Kobe knew these were the most vital few minutes. The passengers and crew had to be subdued quickly and forcefully, in any way possible. No amount of force was out of the question. And this time, it didn’t even matter if someone got a message off to the authorities.

  The authorities were, in fact, essential to the boss’s overall plan.

  Kobe ran down the starboard side of the lower deck, Rashid at his side.

  “I don’t like this,” Rashid rumbled. “We don’t work like this.”

  Kobe knew he meant what was to come. “Our employer wants it this way. He pays handsomely. Even you might then afford a beautiful women, eh Rashid?”

  The craggier, hairier man couldn’t hide a brief grin, but it quickly disappeared like drifting sea spray. “We work for Salene. Not this shadow person.”

  “Salene has his reasons. And I know some of them. This shadow person, as you call him is not to be crossed. Not by the most powerful men, not even by Salene. Once you accept his contract you are bound until it is complete.”

  “He is one man.”

  “He is the Devil. Remember that.”

  “All right.” Rashid was still running, and shook his head. “But the circumstances are unusual.”

  “Yes, they are,” Kobe acknowledged. “But it will not be difficult. The piracy, as the West calls it, is essential to our mission. So . . . go pirate.”

  Rashid laughed this time. A feral light came into his eyes and his gun came up as he sprinted ahead. Kobe stayed back, worried despite his pep talk. It was true that Salene was a powerful criminal, a true warlord of Africa, but even this great man had a fearful light in his eyes when he warned Kobe against crossing their employer. Kobe acknowledged and trusted that light. Salene had told him this mission would not be easy.

  Kobe did not pass that on to his men. First, he would let them have their fun. Second, maybe a little more. And then, third, he would insist upon that, on pain of death, they complete the final part of the mission.

  Kobe swung instinctively as a figure rose from the shadows to his right. It was a large, white frightened visage, the face of a man that had been in hiding but was too scared to remain so. A quivering coward, Kobe thought. Without restraint he smashed the man across the face with the side of his gun, heard bone break and saw blood fly, and left the figure floundering in his wake. Within seconds he heard one of his men put a bullet in the coward—more than he’d deserved.

  Kobe, ultimately, was headed for the bridge deck. Once there, he would help subdue any boisterous crew members and wait for the first reports from his men. From there he would issue initial orders.

  For now, because even his men enjoyed seeing their leader joining a fight, Kobe entered the main part of the ship and started hunting down passengers. They weren’t hard to find. His men were rounding up large groups, dragging many out of their elegant staterooms, cabins and suites, and throwing the occupants to the floor. Some were dressed, some were half-dressed, and others still wore the shorts and bikinis they’d been sunbathing in only half an hour ago. It didn’t matter; his men hauled them all to their feet or threw them against walls and into doors; anything to make them fearfully comply.

  Kobe waded in among a group of passengers protesting about being pulled out of their rooms, despite the presence of guns. He struck a man’s jaw, saw him go down. He grabbed the most vocal woman around the neck, spun and threw her headlong to the carpeted floor which she hit face first. The most vocal man, he treated to the sight of his seven-inch blade and then let its razor-sharp edge draw a thin line of blood along his forehead.

  “Any more talk,” Kobe whispered, “and I will peel your face off. Do you understand?”

  The man nodded, shaking in terror.

  “Let me be clear.” Kobe raised his voice, looking over the small group of about fifteen passengers. “You are not safe. My men have free rein. You have this one chance and one chance only. Cooperate immediately and we will leave you be. Obstruct us just once and you will be fair game. To start you will lose your clothing, your bikinis and shorts and trousers, and then you will be taken away for unpleasant conditioning. After that you will lose fingers, toes, ears. And then you will be shot. I hope I am making myself clear.”

  He kicked a nearby man in the ribs. The man wore no top and folded when Kobe’s boots smashed into his ribs. Kobe stepped over him and shoved the barrel of his gun into a second man’s face.

  “Lie flat on the floor,” he said, “with your hands behind your back.”

  The man did as he was told. Kobe turned left, making a blond woman do the same. Soon, all fifteen passengers were lying in the same pose, silent and unmoving.

  Kobe nodded his satisfaction. “Stay there until you are told to move. Then you will follow our every direction.”

  He moved off, confident that his men’s training would ensure they did not break the menacing aura he’d cast over their captives. Steadily, stopping twice more to show his men the best way to subdue prisoners, he made his way up to the bridge deck.

  There, Rashid and Jamal were among eight men holding the primary members of the ship’s crew captive.

  “Who do we have?” Kobe asked.

  “The captain.” Rashid pointed. “The first officer. Bosun. Security officers. And even the chief stewardess.”

  Kobe’s gaze lingered a little longer on the last figure. The chief stewardess was a pretty redhead with a svelte figure and sparkling green eyes. With her in the room it would be hard keeping his men focused and he didn’t blame them. But, for now, Kobe turned his attention to the ship’s captain.

  “Name.”

  “I am Edouard Rousseau. I am the captain of this ship.”

  Kobe broke a rib with the butt of his rifle. “No,” he said. “I am the captain. Challenge me again and you will die.”

  His black eyes swept the rest of the crew. “Anyone else think they’re in charge?”

  The bridge remained silent. Kobe couldn’t help but stare at the chief stewardess one more time before he ordered Rashid to contact the rest of their men aboard the ship. All was going well. Eighty percent of the passengers were accounted for and all of the crew. Kobe ordered everyone to be taken to the largest restaurant on board; a gargantuan, round and domed room called Adria’s. It would be easier to keep an eye on them all in one place.

  “Use the PA,” he told the first officer. “Inform the rest of the passengers that they must go to the restaurant or risk being shot dead in their rooms.”

  The first officer, a slight, balding older man with bulging eyes, hesitated only a few seconds. Kobe allowed him that. As his orders were carried out, he nodded at nobody in particular.

  “That all seems to be that then.”

  It was time to call his boss, Salene, the man everyone in his country regarded as the African kingpin, and take this oceangoing party up to a much higher level.

  “It is done,” Kobe said simply. “We have taken charge of the vessel.”

  “Good. Take the valuables as usual, but start looking for him now. You cannot return without him, Kobe, do you understand?”

  Kobe didn’t show the surprise he felt at hearing such fear in his master’s voice. “I do,” he said. “And I will find him, Salene. It is underway.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Matt Drake kept his head down, staying on the right track by following his i
nstincts. He knew this route. He’d utilized it several times before. Cautiously, he ran the parameters of this particular mission through his head, save he forget something and risk certain death. Nothing short of a 100 percent success rate would do. A biting wind snapped around his exposed face, his face and hands. A flurry of snow whipped through the air. He blew on his hands to warm them, then glanced up to make sure he was headed in the right direction.

  The Starbucks was dead ahead.

  It was never easy when it was your turn to fetch the coffee. There were nine drinks to remember, in various iterations. One mistake and it would all go to shit. One mistake and somebody would raise holy hell.

  Probably Alicia to be fair.

  Of course, being a Yorkshireman through and through, he point-blank refused to write anything down. He would remember it. Stubbornly, he would remember it all. He stood for a moment, waiting to cross the street, glancing up and down its impossibly long, incredibly busy length. They had been in DC now for three days and the time had passed in a muddled whirl.

  Following the events in Japan, where they had discovered four of that country’s legendary lost treasures, the team had first stayed for a while with Dino and Karin at a hospital, and then at a quiet retreat. It was a hard time. Dino was traumatized and convalescing after losing a hand in the final battle against an assortment of samurai, shinobi, Mai’s old clan of ninjas, and many mercenaries.

  Drake was surprised that that was the worst of their collective injuries. In the end, the team had been outmatched and it was only because the various enemy forces had expended most of their energy and attention on each other that Strike Force One had come through to win the day.

  Dino and Karin wouldn’t be back any time soon, if ever. Karin had told him that, even before Dino’s injury, they had been close to quitting the team. They needed something else from their lives. In the end, they all said their goodbyes, not knowing when and if they would ever see each other again. For Drake it was a poignant moment. The history between Karin and him was bittersweet and a bit stormy, but they had always forgiven each other in the end. He didn’t know what to think of her new calling.

  The same went for Yorgi. The Russian had proved himself invaluable once again toward the end of their last mission; but barely surviving being shot and hunted by the new Blood King’s men had forced the young thief to re-evaluate his role in a Special Forces team. He wasn’t a fighter, nor a soldier. For now, he wished to stay apart and pursue dreams of his own.

  Drake and the others respected him for it. For Drake personally, it was a sad and sentimental moment. The team was changing, the sands shifting all around him, and he could do nothing to stop it. Both on missions and during downtime through the last few years, Yorgi had become a good, dependable friend and one of the few that could put up with Alicia’s many quirks. A man like that was always useful to have at your side.

  Still, the world moved on. Remaining stagnant would only kill you quicker. Drake crossed the road and headed for the Starbucks, putting things like Yorgi’s absence, Dino’s injury, and Karin’s new convictions to the back of his mind. Of course, lurking there in the deep recesses were memories of Dallas’s funeral, one more that the remaining members of the team had attended. Drake would never lose count of the good men and women he’d known that had died, but the numbers were racking up. Funerals never got easier. Saying goodbye to someone who had been walking, talking and breathing not so long ago, who’d had a personality and dreams and special, individual quirks . . . that was the hardest thing he ever had to do.

  Drake entered the coffee shop, ignored the hubbub and joined the end of the expected long line. Why the hell these places didn’t employ more staff was beyond him. In the ten minutes he stood waiting—ten minutes he’d never get back and blamed the coffee company for—six people either left the queue or walked in the door and went straight back out again. Great customer service, guys.

  But who was he to complain? Just another unknown face, one of many through a long, profitable day, the only winner was the conglomerate at the top of the coffee chain. Certainly not the staff who looked harassed and tired. Drake kept his eyes to the front as he ordered nine drinks, six sandwiches and three lemon muffins, feeling bad for those waiting behind him.

  After that, the mission got even harder. Returning to their DC office with two cardboard trays full of paper cups and juggling three bags of food, was an art he was slowly becoming used to. As was this area of the capital. The Strike Force teams worked through an internet HQ, nothing physical, so when they wanted to assemble they were forced to make their own arrangements. The Strike Force coordinator—a man strangely named G who sent out all the updates—only did so digitally. It helped their anonymity, their speed of reply, and fulfilled a dozen other stipulations the US government enjoyed burdening Special Forces operatives with.

  Ten minutes later, Alicia buzzed him into the room. Drake was red-faced from the cold and wearing a sheen of snowflakes melting across his cheeks and outer clothing. None of this was noticed by the eight ravenous, caffeine-starved wolves that descended on him. Drake felt himself lucky to be left with a lidless Columbian, three empty bags and half a muffin.

  The frenzy over, he moved into the room and sipped from his steaming hot cup.

  “Did I miss anything?”

  “No,” Alicia said a little huffily. “In the forty five minutes it took you to walk down the block you missed absolutely nothing.”

  “There was a queue.”

  “Forty five minutes!” Alicia reiterated. “For a trip to the coffee shop. Do you know what I could do in forty five friggin’ minutes?”

  “Barcelona football team?”

  Mai laughed out loud only a second behind Kenzie. Alicia eyed them both with an evaluating eye, as if sizing them up for later witticisms. It wouldn’t matter to them. Alicia would make comments whether they laughed at her or not.

  “We were discussing how things had changed since Vegas, and the Fabergé heist,” Hayden said. “And if we feel they’re for the better or not.”

  Drake nodded, sensing the same argument Alicia and he gnawed over every day. Did more rest mean better soldiers? Did downtime mean sharper soldiers? Or were the best warriors those that fought, breathed and lived the battle every day—no distractions, no compromises, no impossible, opposing personal decisions to make.

  Drake had been a soldier for as long as he could remember. Looking back he saw a man in his late teens, a man alone, a man determined to make it. A man strong-minded enough to change his fortunes. A man without a real family. Come to think of it, he was similar to Alicia in many ways.

  Damn, did I really think that?

  He smiled discreetly. The coffee was good, hitting the spot.

  “I think this internet HQ idea needs work,” Dahl said. “We should meet this G and talk it all through.”

  “The whole idea came down from the President,” Hayden said. “You really wanna question that?”

  “It came from the president’s office,” Dahl said. “I’d assume they would welcome feedback from those at the sharp end.”

  “Politicians rarely welcome feedback,” Luther said with meaning in his voice. “It gets in the way of their agenda.”

  Drake watched the large American shift in his seat to take a bite of his sandwich. He looked ridiculous in his small armchair with the strong ceiling lights glancing off the bald dome of his head. Beside him, Molokai—his big brother—sat in a T-shirt and jeans, a garb Drake wasn’t used to seeing him in. Almost universally, Molokai had worn green camo trousers and countless robes that wrapped around his body and came up over the lesions that covered his lower jaw and face. It had taken a while for Molokai to grow accustomed to the team and maybe even enjoy their presence, but this was as relaxed as Drake had ever seen him.

  Hayden and Kinimaka were sat close, their legs touching. The big Hawaiian stared at the room through faraway, sad-looking eyes, as if recalling the last time he’d been in Waikiki. It was a
memory none of them wanted to dwell on, but one they would never forget.

  Which left Mai and Kenzie, seated next to each other on one of the room’s bigger sofas. It was over two weeks since they found the legendary Chintamani Stone and Mai had used every following day, every minute, to make sure the authorities made good on their word to shut the Tsugarai down for good. Her old clan had now been completely disbanded, its leaders and all those who followed them and did their bidding either imprisoned or hunted. The innocents had been rescued. Mai had overseen the razing of the compound the Tsugarai had called home for many years.

  She looked peaceful now. Almost content. Drake knew her as well as anyone and knew the end of the Tsugarai would signal the lifting of a great weight from her mind.

  Kenzie mourned for Dallas. She couldn’t articulate her feelings; wasn’t used to revealing emotion. Drake knew she’d tried on several occasions to share with Dahl, but the conversations had amounted to nothing. The big Swede himself was wallowing in a turmoil of his own right now, trying to come to terms with Johanna and the children heading back to Stockholm.

  Drake, comparatively, had Alicia to deal with.

  “You alright, Drakey?” the blonde asked around a mouthful of muffin. “You look like you lost a bollock.”

  “Just absorbing,” he said. “It doesn’t seem two minutes since the new Blood King attacked, closely followed by the Devil. Both of whom disappeared soon after and have never been heard of again. Then we had to face the One Percenters in Vegas, where one of their best thieves, Cara, offered to help even from prison. Of course, anything that might have come of that soon disappeared because we were taken to Japan, where that madwoman Zuki was willing to sacrifice millions to save face, respect and power for her own family.”