Deception Island

by Brynn Kelly

  Half a dozen men surrounded him, a couple with shotguns aimed at his face. Where the hell had they come from? One of them grabbed the backpack. If he could get one of the gunmen, he could take them on. But both were several meters away, and his body wasn’t at its finest—or his mind, evidently, if he’d missed six men creeping up. And if their firearms were as shoddy as the ones they’d brought to Penipuan, he might only have a couple of bullets that may or may not fly in the right direction. He held up his hands. Better to live, for now. At least he wasn’t shipwrecked on a deserted island.

  * * *

  “Never!” Holly spat.

  Chamuel sniggered, and said something to the bandanna-clad guard, who raised his eyebrows, in uneasy deference. One of the goons from the veranda darkened the doorway, holding his gun loosely but in a clear warning to Holly.

  Bandanna Guy stood, letting the teetering chair fall, and advanced on Holly. Chamuel grabbed her wrist. Panic bubbled in her stomach. Her brain lit up with a memory—another man grabbing her, planning to use her like this. She could still smell the whisky on her father’s breath.

  Chamuel yanked her up, wrenching her arm nearly from her socket. Instinct told her to pull away, but she overrode it. Cowering, as if in submission, she steadied herself to balance on her bad knee and fisted her left hand.

  His grip loosened, slightly. “Good g—”

  She smashed her knuckles into his eye socket and powered her good knee into his groin. He stumbled back, clutching north and south. Bandanna Guy flew forward and tackled her. She landed face-first on the thigh of a woman next to her. He kneed her in the sacrum and pulled back her arms. She thrashed. Someone else cable-tied her wrists. Shit. Bandanna Guy and another guard wrenched her up by her armpits, and she hung between them, her feet swinging off the floor. Chamuel’s face darkened. He made to step toward her, then backtracked, glancing warily at her unshackled feet.

  “Okay. I take you later. Now, I take her.” He pointed at Devi, who was still hiding her face in her hands. “For now, she is you.”

  “No,” said Holly, thrashing against her captors. Not the girl. Not anyone—but definitely not the girl. “No! Fine—take me!”

  Chamuel advanced on Devi and wrenched her hands from her face. She wailed and turned away, hyperventilating. The woman who’d been comforting her grabbed her hand, yelling at the pilot. He kicked the woman in the chest and shouted over his shoulder. Holly bucked, but she was powerless. Another goon charged in, grabbed Devi’s friend and dragged her out. Chamuel heaved the sobbing girl over his shoulder and glared at Holly. “Next time, you to come.”

  “Take me now. Not her.”

  “Yes, you want this. You like Chamuel. Next time, Miss America.”

  She glowered back, teeth clenched. So the Lost Boys would allow a captive to lose her value, if it meant maintaining discipline. Which meant there was nothing empty about Gabriel’s threat to kill Holly if she proved difficult.

  Bandanna Guy shouted at Chamuel, dropping Holly and striding forward to block his exit. She found her balance just as the other goon let go, gesturing with his gun that she should sit. She stood motionless, her mind spinning as the two men yelled at each other in rapid fire, their faces contorted. Bandanna Guy shouted Gabriel’s name.

  The goon rammed his rifle butt into her stomach, slamming her into the wall. Gasping for breath, she slid to the floor, ignoring the rip of pain as she tried to follow the argument. Chamuel charged for the door, Devi’s legs bouncing over his shoulder. Bandanna Guy clamped a hand around the girl’s ankle, pulling Chamuel up short.

  Chamuel’s face contorted, turning the color of sangria. Snarling at Bandanna Guy, he threw Devi across the room. Her skinny limbs flailed and she landed with a thud and a smack, sprawled over several women. Chamuel grabbed the arm of the nearest woman—the one whose foot had been crushed—and dragged her out instead.

  Devi crawled, wailing, back to her spot, her companion gone. The woman next to Holly clutched her shoulder again, her quick breath heating Holly’s cheek. The adrenaline had got to her, too.

  Damn. Holly should have gone with Chamuel. Not only would she have saved that woman from being raped, but she could have pulled the knife on him. She’d let her urge to defend herself override the bigger goal of escape, as futile as it might be. And she’d transferred the punishment to someone else—something she would never knowingly do. God, she should have clawed Chamuel’s eyes out and smashed her knee into him ten times as hard, really put him out of action. Hell, she should have pulled out the knife and cut his dick right off. Next chance she got...

  Devi inhaled a heaving sob. That poor, terrified child. Across the room, Amina met Holly’s gaze and nodded, quickly and grimly. Sometime in the fracas she must have got her message away. That was something. Had the iPhone been in Holly’s pocket, the men might have it by now. Thank God they’d been too distracted to spot the less-obvious outline of the knife.

  Holly shuffled into the least uncomfortable position she could assume with her hands tied. When could she get the phone back—at the next mealtime? She located the cockroach and resumed following its journey across the room. Not for the first time in her life, she found herself envying an insect. Cockroaches didn’t entrap and abuse each other, for kicks or for profit. They just got on with their simple lives, each to his own. Humans really were the lowest life form.

  It seemed like hours before the women returned. The others moved aside as they limped back to their places. Devi’s friend walked in, her head high, meeting no one’s gaze. She lowered herself to her spot next to the girl and clutched her, fiercely. The woman Chamuel had dragged out gulped air in strangled whimpers. Holly closed her eyes, each cry spearing her.

  Even if she died doing it, she’d find a way to make Gabriel and his men pay for what they’d done to these women, and to Theo.

  * * *

  Rafe allowed the men to march him along the beach, his hands tied with coarse rope. With his strength returning, he could shrug off the bonds in five seconds and take out at least the two armed men, but it was wiser to cooperate until he’d scoped out which island he was on and how he could get away. The sun was low and fading, and nightfall might offer a better chance of escape.

  They trudged up into soft sand and took a well-trodden path through beech forest. After about a kilometer they reached a village. Rafe’s shoulders ebbed. Kids, chickens, pigs, vegetable plots, weathered men with red betel nut–stained teeth and conical hats... Ropes and nets were lined up on the dirt, decaying seaweed and drying fish scented the air, worn clothing hung from washing lines, huts were tacked together with traditional and Western materials. This wasn’t the headquarters of a gang of bandits. This was a bunch of people trying to survive.

  A bunch of people who probably held him responsible for the death of one of their sons. If all went to hell, perhaps he could escape into the dense bush behind the village. Assuming this was a fishing community, finding a boat wouldn’t be hard.

  Shouts rose up, and a woman in a batik hijab ran into a hut that had a large satellite dish propped on its roof. A middle-aged man emerged, wearing a khaki Che Guevara T-shirt and shorts. He pulled a pair of scratched glasses low on his nose and studied Rafe, as Kung Fu Pirate gave a rapid explanation. Rafe spoke a little Indonesian, but couldn’t pick up any words. Could it be Javanese? Sundanese? Hell, he could be in the Philippines, for all he knew.

  After a lot of questioning and nodding, the man cleared his throat and addressed Rafe. “Do you speak English?”

  “Yes.”

  “You came from Penipuan?” His accent was clipped and precise—the voice of a man who’d been educated by the English, like Rafe.

  “I was swept off my Windsurfer. I washed up here.” Better to be frugal with the truth, for now.

  “That is a long way to come on a Windsurfer. You became lost?”

 
“I went off course.”

  “You are a lucky man, to wash up here and not...” He trailed off.

  Rafe frowned. Not where?

  “You were windsurfing in a cyclone?”

  “Best time to windsurf.”

  “With a laptop and a knife?”

  Rafe shrugged. No mention of the Makarov—had it been silently pocketed? “In case I got blown off course.”

  “I see. And your name?”

  “Jack.”

  “Jack,” the man repeated, as if testing the likelihood it was the truth. “You may call me Mr. Buana. Perhaps you would like to come inside and tell me the entire story, including what happened to my son, with whom I believe you were briefly acquainted.”

  His son. Oh, shit.

  Mr. Buana bowed slightly, sweeping his hand toward the hut’s doorway. He spoke softly to the woman in the hijab and followed Rafe into a living room with a vaulted dark teak ceiling and a concrete floor patchworked with rattan mats. Woven bamboo partitions veiled other rooms. A bead curtain to their right was swept aside, revealing a rudimentary kitchen with walls of blackened brick and bunches of sweetcorn and purple shallots hanging from the roof. The scent of charcoal and coffee hung heavily in the air, spun lazily through the room by a ceiling fan.

  “You must be very thirsty,” said Mr. Buana.

  The woman swept past them into the kitchen and brought out a carafe of cloudy water and two earthenware mugs, which she placed on a tabletop covered with yellow plastic. Rafe’s throat burned at the sight of water. Shooting pains in his head warned of dehydration, but he couldn’t risk catching a waterborne bug.

  “Can I drink the water I brought with me, in my bag?”

  Mr. Buana nodded. He spoke to the woman, who left.

  Rafe noted a wall of photos, mostly in yellowed black and white. In the darkening room, his eyes strained to catch details: solemn framed portraits of men in fine suits, alongside pinned snapshots printed from a computer of children in Western settings and a postcard from Paris. A progression of framed certificates marched along the top of the wall, all headed up University of Oxford, with dates going back decades.

  Mr. Buana stepped up beside him, sipping from a mug. “That is mine.” He pointed at the last degree along the row. “That is my father’s. My grandfather’s. My great-grandfather’s. Every eldest son in our family, for four generations.” He indicated an empty spot on the wall, next to his certificate. “It is a luxury we could not afford for my eldest. We are a noble family. Unfortunately, there is little money in that anymore. Now, we are just poor fishermen.”

  “Your son—he came to Penipuan?”

  Mr. Buana’s mouth tightened. “You speak of my youngest son. He causes me many problems.”

  Rafe winced. Causes. Present tense, when his son was resoundingly past. “He was the one who didn’t come back?”

  “He is dead?” The man’s voice wavered.

  “I’m sorry, yes. He fell from a cliff, in the dark.”

  Mr. Buana nodded, the skin around his eyes bunching, sending deep parallel lines across his cheeks. “Ah.” He fell into silence. A minute passed.

  “His body is still on the island?” the man said, quietly. “I would like to bury him.”

  Rafe swallowed. The mechanism in his throat felt rusty. Which version of the truth should he tell? It would be honest enough to say the body was swept out to sea and lost—Gabriel’s men would have disposed of it quickly. The pain in Mr. Buana’s eyes decided it. He’d lost a son. Rafe owed him the truth. Au combat tu respectes les ennemis vaincus. In combat you respect defeated enemies.

  “I brought your son’s body to the villa on the island.” He paused. How much detail should he go into? “A helicopter came this morning and removed it. I wasn’t there. I don’t know where they took it, but I imagine he was buried at sea.”

  Mr. Buana lowered his head. Rafe gave him time. He didn’t know this man, but he well knew the greatest fear of a father. After a few minutes, Mr. Buana looked up and spoke. His eyes glistened. “This helicopter, it was red, with a white stripe?”

  Rafe’s eyes narrowed, the movement firing pain through his brow. “You know it?”

  Mr. Buana frowned. “You must be tired. Please, sit.”

  Before Rafe could press the issue, the woman returned with his backpack. Nearly falling on her, he dug out a bottle of water and guzzled. He had the hunger of a wolf, too, but that would have to wait. Sure enough, the pistol was gone.

  “Please, excuse us,” Mr. Buana said to Rafe, bowing.

  He ushered the woman into a room behind one of the partitions. Soft words filtered back, then quiet sobs. The mother, presumably. Rafe pressed his palms into his salt-whipped eyes.

  “I must thank you,” said Mr. Buana, returning.

  Rafe withdrew his hands, quickly. Mr. Buana was looking older by the minute. He closed the partition behind him.

  “What for?”

  “For sending my other sons home.” Bitterness skewed his tone. Rafe hoped it wasn’t sarcasm.

  “They were all yours?”

  The man sat heavily on a worn flower-print couch and closed his hands around his empty mug. “Two of them were, in addition to my youngest. One of the others—he is a cousin of my wife, from Jakarta. He thinks he is a ninja. Ninja Turtle, more like. He stirs up trouble with my sons, but he has connections to people I cannot afford to insult.”

  Rafe filled Mr. Buana’s mug. He wanted to ask about the helicopter, but first the man deserved answers.

  “You must understand, this is not the people we are. Not the people we were. They tried to rob you? I have been trying to see through their lies.”

  “I suspect that was their intention. Or possibly to kidnap us. In the end, they did us no harm.”

  Mr. Buana rattled off a string of words in his own language. Swear words, Rafe guessed.

  “Us?” the man said, suddenly. “Many honeymooners go to Penipuan. Your wife is still there? She must be worried about you. You may charter a boat from me, so you can return.”

  A charter? The man planned to make money out of this? Rafe blew out his cheeks, torn between the desire to enlist his help, and protect the mission. How much should he let on? Maybe he could buy a boat outright—and go where? But this was a good man. Desperate, but good. “She also left in the helicopter, not of her choosing.”

  The man’s eyes widened.

  “Mr. Buana, you know whose helicopter this is, don’t you?”

  “Why do they have your wife? Are you one of them?” He struggled to mask the hatred in his voice.

  Rafe took a punt. “They are no friends of mine.”

  Mr. Buana nodded, his lips tight. “Ah. We are agreed on this.”

  “Do you know where their headquarters is?”

  His mouth turned down. “They do not stay long in one place. I hear they work on many different islands. Sometimes I see their helicopter and plane, and I know they’re back, but I don’t know where they hide. They have many resources. They are destroying us.”

  “How so?”

  “You know the business they are in?”

  “Human trafficking—women and children.”

  “Not just women and children. Also men. They sell their slaves to the big fishing boats. These men are forced to live aboard, working, working, working, until they fall off and drown. Or are pushed. Or jump. We cannot compete in the marketplace with people who have slaves. They are shutting us out—the resorts and wholesalers only buy from these boats now, to save money. And the consumers in the countries they export to—they don’t care how food gets to them, as long as it’s cheap.” His focus had trained on something unseen in the distance, beyond the walls. Now, it returned to Rafe. “But this isn’t your problem, is it? You need to get your wife back.”

&nbs
p; “And my son.” Rafe’s voice cracked.

  Mr. Buana’s face turned hard as concrete. “They have your son? They took him as well as your wife?”

  “They took him earlier. I came out here to get him back.”

  “They are making him a slave?”

  “In a sense, yes. I believe they want him to join them.”

  “Ah.” He pushed his chair away from the table and folded his arms. “It is hard to keep our young men honest. How did he get mixed up with them?”

  “He was kidnapped from his home. He is nine years old.”

  “Nine?” In the low light, the whites of the man’s eyes gleamed. “Now I understand why you would wish to take a Windsurfer out in a cyclone. But you do not know where they are being held? They could be anywhere.”

  “I’ve narrowed it down.” Rafe’s eyes fell on the ruined laptop in his bag. There was still one remote chance of making up for lost time. “Is there anywhere around here I can access the internet?”

  “Of course.”

  “Will you take me there? I will pay.”

  The man pushed off the sofa and crossed the room. He pulled up a blind that had been screening a room: an office, with a carved teak desk, a phone—and a computer. “My internet rates are reasonable.”

  “I have no cash.”

  “No problem. I have PayPal.”

  “Do you have weapons I could buy?”

  He winced. “For that you will have to speak to the Ninja Turtle. I refuse to deal in weapons. But I will sell you an iPhone. Genuine. Good price.”

  Rafe guessed it would be neither.

  Chapter 23

  Dinner in Holly’s new prison was a repeat of lunch, though the rice and noodles were served with unrecognizable sinews of meat and a peppering of something green. It looked a lot liked chopped grass.