kiDNApped (A Tara Shores Thriller)

by Chesler, Rick

  That was when Archer felt the steel blade against the small of his back, reminding him: the scissors.

  He snatched the scissors out from his shorts, waving them at the kidnapper, who was wiping blood out of his left eye.

  Then a voice came from outside—the waverunner driver—speaking in Chinese. Archer’s opponent uttered a couple of syllables before Archer slashed with the scissors.

  Missed.

  The kidnapper latched onto his forearm, moving his arm up and down in an attempt to slash Archer with his own weapon. Archer put his right leg behind the attacker’s left ankle. Pushed as hard as he could, sending the man sprawling into the partition. Archer was on top of him in a flash.

  The only thing he would be able to recall after that is repeatedly slamming the kidnapper’s face into the bulkhead. The man’s nose was obliterated, and he was bleating like a goat or something, unable to form coherent words as Archer dragged his face back and forth across the barnacle encrusted hull.

  Archer knew he should stop—that the man was no longer a threat, but the anger, rage and frustration of being held captive and tortured for months on end while these people sought to rob him of his most valuable asset was too much, and he lost it.

  “You stupid idiot,” Archer rasped, sawing the man’s face into a jagged fiberglass edge. “You goddamn piece of—”

  He tore the man’s head backward to look him in the eyes. His nose was practically missing, loose chunks of flesh riding a river of blood literally falling out of his face. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Archer knew that this was no longer a fight—it was murder.

  But he had snapped. These men had tried to exploit him for his mind, but now that same mind proved itself as effective at self-preservation as it had at applied science.

  Only the sound of approaching footsteps made him drop the kidnapper’s limp body. He hastily patted the man down, searching for any item of value. He found nothing, and was about to start moving when his gaze stopped at the nearly dead man’s feet. Thick-soled neoprene boots.

  Archer unzipped them, ripping them off the now comatose man’s feet. He quickly pulled them on while he heard the second kidnapper approach cautiously from the same entrance Archer himself had used. Archer dared take a couple of seconds to look and feel around the water sloshing about his feet for the scissors, but he couldn’t find them.

  Archer scuttled like one of the crabs he shared the wreck with toward the bow, passing out of sight behind a second partition. Behind him, the second kidnapper stepped into the wreck.

  As Archer stepped around a third partition, higher up toward the bow, he was surprised to see some litter—an old Hana Bay rum bottle, some beer cans, a broken fishing rod. He continued past it on his way up to the bow, where a fat shaft of sunlight cascaded down.

  An opening.

  Archer reached the forward berth, crawling now on his hands and knees to avoid falling back into the belly of the wreck. He could hear the newly arrived kidnapper stepping through the old boat now. Then he heard him speaking in Chinese, the words unfamiliar, but not the shock and bewilderment in the voice. He had found his fallen associate.

  Archer moved on. Toward the light. He reached the top and saw that he could fit out of the open hatch, the hatch cover long since removed.

  The splashy footfalls from below became quicker. Archer hauled his big body through the open hatch, kicking off the berth seat. He emerged into a world of dazzling sunlight on top of the wreck.

  He looked around. Same crowded beach in the distance. A few swimmers and various ocean users here and there, none of them paying attention to the action playing out on the wreck. In the other direction was the Nahoa, lying peacefully at anchor.

  And there, two O’clock from the bow, sat the waverunner, bobbing unattended in a few inches of water.

  Keys in the ignition.

  Archer heard the spat of a silenced pistol and felt a thud somewhere below him. He looked back at the Nahoa and saw the man who had been dancing on the sundeck pointing at him.

  Archer leapt from the bow toward the waverunner, aiming for a patch of water that didn’t feature any exposed coral. He knew the water wasn’t nearly as deep as he wanted it to be, but he made the best of it by spreading his body as flat as possible to avoid sinking like a stone when he hit.

  He landed from an eight foot drop into about six inches of water, on his right side. He grunted with the impact, but immediately got to his feet. The waverunner was only ten feet away. Men from the Nahoa were shouting, and inside the wreck he could hear the gunman skip-hopping back toward the entrance.

  Archer’s right foot landed in an unexpected sandy depression and down he went, fortunate not to have twisted the ankle. For a split second before he regained his feet, Archer saw his reflection in the water: his beard matted with blood (his own?), cuts and scrapes decorating much of his face. He flashed on the man he had likely just killed. Not long ago Archer had been a respected scientist. What had he become?

  And then he was running again, grabbing hold of the waverunner’s handlebar. Straddling its seat.

  He’d ridden them before, infrequently. There had been one on the Tropic Sequence for use as quick shore transport as well as recreation. Archer heard the gunman emerging from the wreck, but his pursuer was too late.

  Archer revved the engine, put the waverunner into gear and zoomed off toward the beach.

  …TTGC55GAAA …

  2:17 P.M.

  The helicopter skimmed a hundred feet above the waves as they scoured the water for yachts. So far they hadn’t seen any. Pilot Rob Tanner pointed as the coast of east Kauai came into view, a green jewel on a blue sea.

  “Lihue Airport’s just below the middle there,” he said. Tara nodded.

  “We’ve been there,” she said, flashing on their Kauai adventure—and their horrific find inside the Tropic Sequence—only two days ago. Then she aimed her binoculars at a ship heading for the coastline. “Cargo ship,” she said out from under the glasses.

  Rob spoke loudly over the engine noise. “When we reach the island, I’ll follow the coastline north until we reach Kilauea Lighthouse. From there, we make a right turn back east across the channel to Oahu. Should take about three hours. With me?”

  They all agreed. As they took the coast, a few vessels could be seen plying the waters beneath them.

  “Not nearly as many boats as on Oahu,” Kristen remarked. Dave nodded. “Yeah, it’s pretty laid back out here. You don’t get the tourist hordes.”

  They began the reconnaissance work of swooping in low enough to read the name on each yacht with binoculars. Lance, Kristen and Dave would do the spotting on either side of the aircraft while Tara scoped out the details through the glasses, directing Rob where to fly when needed. She called out boat names as she saw them, none of them the Nahoa. There would be a clutch of vessels as they passed over a port or harbor, and then a stretch of mostly deserted sea until they neared the next port area. Occasionally they would spot a yacht alone in the splendid isolation of the Garden Isle’s lush coast, and these excited them.

  Still, no Nahoa.

  After a while Lance said, “You don’t think we should swing over to the west coast, and search out from the Hanalei River?”

  Tara shook her head. “No. Anywhere along the Tropic Sequence’s proposed route is still monitored by the Coast Guard. I don’t think TYR would want the Nahoa anywhere near that.”

  “Probably true,” Lance agreed.

  “That would also mean we’d have to stop at Lihue to refuel before heading back across the channel,” Rob interjected. “So if it’s not a high probability area, we should skip it.”

  That settled it.

  Rob flipped on a marine band in case they might hear any references to a Nahoa. The chatter was light.

  In this manner they picked their way north along the coast.

  Dr. William Archer steered the big waverunner around a coral formation that protruded from the water scant feet in front of him
. Looking ahead, he saw a row of wooden houses on the waterfront with a busy road just behind them. People everywhere! He throttled up again and shot forward toward the road.

  Then the noise of an engine from above caught his ear. He looked up in time to see a small plane towing an advertisement banner reading, “Lahaina Arts Festival, June 20-21.”

  Though Archer had never been to Lahaina before, he had heard of it—it was the second most popular tourist area in Hawaii outside of Waikiki.

  Lahaina...on the island of Maui! It all made sense now, Archer thought, as he skirted around some more coral and headed for a gulf of deeper water ahead. The wooden stilt buildings along the water, the busy street and throngs of people. And stopping the Nahoa here. They must have needed supplies, Archer realized. Lahaina was a major port, though it no longer held the same importance it once enjoyed during its heyday as a whaling town. So his captors had made the Nahoa up to look like a pleasure yacht and anchored within dinghy distance of town.

  Archer pointed the waverunner’s nose at the beach. He opened up the throttle, grateful for the increasing revolutions of the engine. He sped along the reef much faster than was safe, hardly noticing the danger to himself. His mind was still numb with the fact that he had in all probability just killed a man.

  He banked right to steer through a narrow channel cut in the reef that opened into a deeper swimming area closer to the waterfront. As he did, he stole a glance at the Nahoa. His fists tightened on the throttle grips as he saw two single-person jet-ski’s—smaller than the waverunner, but even more maneuverable—launch from the yacht toward the beach.

  They were coming for him.

  He throttled up, coaxing the waverunner’s engine to a roar that was painfully loud. A hectic rooster tail of exhaust water sprayed high behind him as he crossed into the swim area. His eyes darted back and forth.

  Ahead of him, Dr. Archer could see that there was a narrow sandy beach to the left and a longer stone seawall to the right. Beyond both was Front Street, Lahaina’s quaint main drag. Heads began to turn as Archer struggled to control his waverunner, which weaved erratically toward the sandy beach. He craned his neck behind him.

  The two jet-skis were catching up fast. Archer had little doubt that the men riding them were armed and angry. He had to make the street before they caught up with him. He angled his craft a little to the left—away from the seawall—as he approached the beach. The ribbon of sand grew larger. Archer snapped his head back. The jet-skiers?

  Closing—and fast. He could see their sunglasses and baseball caps as they lasered in on him. Archer eyed the beach. It wasn’t packed body-to-body but there were plenty of people there, with still more walking back and forth on the sidewalk above.

  Archer was concerned that these killers would gun him down like an animal even if he did reach the beach. Then they’d retreat back to the boat and leave.

  But people were taking notice. Archer wasn’t quite aware of how eye-catching he was, a fifty-five year old man coated with blood, wearing arm’s length yellow rubber gloves, white hair and beard flying in the wind as he crazily rode his waverunner in a tourist swimming zone. There was no lifeguard.

  But Archer had unconsciously slowed down while he thought about what to do next. The jet-skis were almost on him now. Archer jammed the throttle back up to full. He plowed toward the center of the beach.

  A mother took notice and dragged her two children away from the sand castle they had been working on. An elderly woman beachcombing dropped the shells and beach glass she had just gathered and ran.

  Archer didn’t like his situation. He was about to run up onto the beach, and then he would have to run to a stone wall with a short staircase cut into it leading up to the street. The two jet-skis whinnied like electric stallions just behind him.

  Archer held the throttle down so hard his hands hurt as he hit the beach. The tide was with him, giving him more water, and the waverunner’s hull flew across the wet sand like a motorcycle across a slip N slide. What happened next was a blur to Archer—action so fast that his brain was unable to process it.

  Two paddleboards had been propped up on the stone wall abutting the street. Archer saw the wall, saw the boards, beckoning like a crude ramp—heard the jet-skis hit the sand behind him—and steered for the boards.

  His speed was more than sufficient to fly up the artificial incline. One of the waxed boards broke away as he rocketed up, and for a split second Archer thought he was going to slam right into the stone wall. But he cleared it with an inch to spare, and then he was careening across crowded Front Street on a three-person waverunner, shreds of its fiberglass scattering everywhere as he fishtailed first across the sidewalk, and then across two lanes of traffic.

  Pedestrians leapt out of the way. Horns blared. People shrieked. Archer was fortunate that the near lane was empty except for a bicyclist whose rear wheel he clipped, sending the biker flying onto the beach below. Then Archer’s waverunner—he no longer had any kind of control over it—slid across the second lane of traffic and into a street lamp.

  A pickup truck was unable to stop in time. It nicked the waverunner’s rear, causing the wayward watercraft to spin in place like a top.

  Archer was thrown from the waverunner. He landed in the doorway of a restaurant. The last thing he heard before blacking out was a Chinese-accented voice speaking English, assuring everyone within earshot that he was a doctor.

  …TTAT56CGGA…

  In the chopper, the initial excitement of the search had worn off. The Kauai Channel on the way back to Oahu was now a monotonous expanse of dark blue, offering precious little in the way of boats to investigate. Those few they did see proved not to be what they were looking for.

  The sight of Oahu’s land mass ahead forced the unspoken question on all of their minds from the pilot.

  “Where to next?” he asked.

  Tara turned around in her seat to consult her passengers. “Circle Oahu? Or keep going East to the other islands?”

  “I doubt they’d risk hanging around Oahu,” Lance said. “Such a huge law enforcement and military presence. What’s the next island over if we keep going this way?”

  “Molokai,” Dave declared.

  “Molokai...” Kristen echoed. “That’s definitely off the Tropic Sequence’s itinerary. Could be good. Not much there, is there?”

  “Hardly anything,” the pilot answered. “Only one small town, one small harbor. Easy to pick out any large yachts along the coast. If I were gonna try to hide, I might blend in rather than take myself to a remote location. Oahu is probably too populated, like he said.” Rob jerked a thumb back at Lance. “But...how about this...” He paused while he adjusted some controls on the dash.

  “We do a quick fuel stop in Honolulu. Then we fly by Molokai, see if we see anything there. If not, we continue on to Maui. Or Lana’i, the smaller island in between Molokai and Maui. Either way. But head to that group: Molokai, Maui, Lanai. Those three are close together—they make up Maui County.”

  “Flight time from here is how long?” Tara asked.

  “About an hour.”

  Tara looked at Rob and nodded.

  3:03 P.M.

  When Archer awoke he knew he was back on the Nahoa. The boat’s rocking motion told him they were still at anchor. Whether they had moved since he escaped, he could only wonder, but this line of thought was cut short when he realized that his eyes were open even though he could not see.

  His mind flashed on the waverunner accident, recalling random snatches of it—a shower of sparks, the side of a pickup truck, the sound of the hull grinding across pavement, the sight of people’s legs as he ended up on the sidewalk...

  Were his eyes open? He blinked several times in a row, feeling them rub against something. He held his eyes wide open: still black. Then he heard the voice. Modulated voice.

  “You have been blindfolded,” it began. Dr. Archer went to pull the blindfold off but found his arms were bound. “And restrained,” the vo
ice continued.

  “Doctor Archer, we are extremely disappointed in your lapse of judgment. We thought you understood our business arrangement.”

  “You call holding someone prisoner a business arrangement?” Archer spat.

  Someone rammed a fist into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The disguised voice continued while Archer sputtered and coughed.

  “Your recalcitrance will no longer be tolerated. Should you prove too much of a liability to us, we will simply drop you over the side of the ship, bound as you are, and your loved ones will never know what happened to you. Is that clear, Doctor Archer?”

  Archer lifted his head. His captor continued before he could speak.

  “Up to now we have tried to give you as much freedom as possible while you work to demonstrate GREENBACK. This approach has failed, leaving us with no recourse but to closely supervise your every move.”

  “You want GREENBACK? I’ll give you GREENBACK. But then what? You’re just going to kill me, right? So why should I do it?”

  The silence that followed this outburst caught Archer by surprise. But it didn’t last long.

  “So you have been deliberately holding out on us?” came the voice.

  “I’m saying that after the experimentation I’ve performed thus far in your shipboard lab, I’m confident that I now understand the proper methodology to produce the GREENBACK organism.”

  “Very well. Doctor Archer, even though you have killed one of my best men, we are going to release you from these bonds. You will then set to work on creating GREENBACK, with at least two guards standing next to you at all times. Every supply you require will have to be requested of us. We can no longer give you free access to the lab. If you need a chemical, we will get it for you. If you need anything, we will get it.”