by Linda Ladd
Novak was quickly surrounded, his hands bound in front of him with silver duct tape. He tensed his hands when they taped them and held them slightly apart and hoped his captors were too green to notice. They were. Good, he could get out of the tape in a matter of seconds. When the time was right. So, okay, he was taken. He had to accept it. Didn’t like it, hell no he didn’t like it, but it was only for the moment. Not for long. Other than the Brit, the lot of them appeared to be the usual greedy thug types. That would probably buy him time until they found out nobody was going to ransom him. But enough time.
Novak was prodded over to the girl with a gun barrel in his back. He could take them down, maybe, at a different time and in a different place. Subdue one or two of them, capture a weapon, and let loose on the others. That would not be a problem. He’d done it before, was trained to do it. But not here. Too many, too close to him. He couldn’t do it, not with an innocent young girl’s life at stake. Most of the foot soldiers in the boats looked young, teenagers probably, a few black guys, mostly Mexican nationals—poor, uneducated kids hired by the Brit in some seedy port city. Out of the slums, into the cool black bad-guy uniforms, big loud guns to carry, and ready to kill for a miniscule portion of the take. They were, to a kid, small, wiry, probably many of Indian derivation, Mayan, maybe. They looked quick and strong, and uncomfortable carrying deadly weapons. Likely had very little training in weaponry. All he had to do was bide his time and wait for the opportune moment.
As soon as Novak’s hands were taped, they forced him to sit down on the banquette close beside the girl. Then they taped her hands up in the same way. Wrists together, in front of her body. They left their feet unfettered. Bad mistake, that. Yep, they were definitely inexperienced goons. He could get away. No doubt about it. Isabella kept talking nonstop, telling Novak over and over that she was sorry, so sorry, she didn’t mean to get him in trouble. He pretty much ignored her. He could not let them think that she meant anything to him, or it would go worse for both of them. He could take care of himself, but she couldn’t make it three yards on her own. Too young, too timid, too weak, too stupid. Not a chance in hell could she get away.
After a while, she just sat silently beside him, her face stoic, but her entire body was trembling. The young men in black hats had noticed her, too, and were making obscene gestures about her breasts and other body parts, laughing and regaling each other with what they were going to do to her when they got her back to camp. Novak didn’t doubt a word they said. He just sat there and said nothing. Stared straight ahead. Didn’t look at them. Didn’t act as if he heard them. They would pay for the disrespect soon enough.
After they were secured, with the Brit at the helm and another guard watching them, two of the Mexican kids sat at the helm, also watching them. The other pirates returned to their boats. The helo turned, banking in one last wide circle of the area, no doubt looking for military gunboats. Then it headed home, flying due south. The Sweet Sarah followed suit. Novak and Isabella sat there at gunpoint, saying nothing, another guard watching them from the bench directly across from where they were held. No sign of the Coast Guard. The cavalry was way too far away and way too slow this time. Novak was going to have to bide his time and get the two of them out of this mess on his own. When Novak saw the nearest guard glance out to sea at the speeding boats riding herd on them, he leaned up close to the girl.
“Listen to me, Isabella. Don’t say anything. They’re going to question you eventually. Don’t go with the amnesia story, whether it’s true or not. Don’t tell them who your father really is, either. If you do, they’ll think you’re lying and try to beat the truth out of you. Make up a name, anything, some kind of background that makes sense. Somebody you know something about. Use their identity. I’m gonna get us out of this. Don’t worry about that. Just hang on and don’t say anything until I make my move.”
“No talking! Shut up! You, big guy! Stop talking!” The guard leaned forward and pressed the long gun against Novak’s forehead. Novak just stared up at him. He was going to enjoy taking these guys down. First opportunity that came along. But he could be patient when he had to. And he had to.
After that, they cruised along on calm blue seas, sun hot as Hades, wind-chased clouds scudding fast. Novak sat and fumed and got angrier with every passing minute. They had stolen his boat, damn it. He spent a lot of money having her custom designed for his size. Nobody was just going to take her away from him, especially not a bunch of young morons. Not without some serious blowback. He glanced to port and watched one of the speedboats. Another was on the starboard side. The third and fourth were following in the Sweet Sarah’s wake.
Fortunately, Novak knew both the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean Sea like the back of his hand. He’d sailed these waters often and for years. He knew the islands, the reefs, the atolls, the places to hide. He knew how to navigate with instruments and strictly by the stars. So he had already figured out basically where they were most likely headed. The Mexican coastline would be his initial and most generic assumption. More specifically, the southern Yucatan, where thick jungles provided the cover needed for this kind of operation. This type of outfit would have a camp, and it would be under the jungle canopy along the coast. He’d bet on it. He’d heard the stories of captives being held there, much like they were in Colombia and in some Central American countries, in makeshift camps—dirty, remote, hard to spot from the air. Most active pirates in this day and age were poor and uneducated, like the ones he’d taken down on a Somalian beach once upon a time, the guys who had left an ugly scar down the left side of Novak’s face but had not lived long enough to brag about it. These men were foot soldiers, told what to do and what to think by their superiors. Maybe the ones in this group might be a little smarter, but not much, from what he’d seen so far. Whoever ran this operation had a helicopter for surveillance, which was unusual, so they had been receiving lots of ransom money from somebody. Or their major source of income could be drug smuggling—heroin, probably.
After a couple of hours, night fell. Dropped down like a black curtain plummeting to earth on all sides, quick and hard and dark. The sea became a dense wash of ink. Bright moonlight now and then. No stars to be seen. Storm clouds hung low and threatening, one hell of an ugly downpour going on somewhere out on the horizon. Lightning flashed, faraway thunder rumbled. A storm was coming their way, for sure. But no Coast Guard cutter waving the Stars and Stripes. He and the kid were definitely on their own. As they moved along at a swift clip, the guards began to act a little undisciplined. Not good, that.
The Brit in charge had taken over steering the boat now. Novak did not like the way he was handling it. The Sweet Sarah was Novak’s baby, his most precious possession, and they weren’t treating her with respect. Their plan was to barter her off to other criminal gangs for drugs and weapons or sell her on the black market for half her worth, so he had to break free and steal her back. Novak was not going to let them get away with this. No way in hell. He started planning his escape, going over every scenario, everything that he could do, everything that might go wrong. He wished Isabella was not his problem. She was one giant complication that he didn’t want to worry about. But he was stuck with her, and he wasn’t going to leave her to the unthinkable fate these vile cretins had in store for her.
They sailed onward for hours. The sea gradually became rougher, big swells pounding against the prow. Novak set navigational markers by the stars he could see. Most were still hidden by the massive rain clouds. He knew they were heading for the east coast of Mexico. They had veered a little more south now, so he estimated they would hit landfall somewhere down the coastline, near the Belize border. Maybe these men were Nicaraguans or Guatemalans. Isabella had remained quiet and dozed off a time or two. Then she’d start up and realize where she was and what was going to happen to her. That’s when she’d push herself up against Novak’s shoulder. He understood her trepidation. He was it, as far as she was concerned. The only positive that she
had in her corner. She was terrified. Wasn’t showing much courage anymore. He had the distinct feeling that she had experienced little adversity in her life, but it was now hitting her in an avalanche. A Disney princess down on her luck and with no handsome prince galloping her way. He hoped she could step up and do her part when the time was right.
Lights finally began to appear, far out in the pitch black in front of them. A land mass, had to be, still miles away but glowing dimly, stretched out like a string of tiny lights over an outdoor cafe. He watched the shore come closer, trying to pick out a landmark he recognized. Didn’t see anything familiar. Just the pale hue of a strip of beach at the edge of the water, and what looked like a huge dark mass behind it. The jungle.
They eventually headed into a deep, sheltered cove, the curve of the beach wide and long. They headed for a lighted pier that stretched far out into the deep water. As they got closer, he realized there were two piers, and the light was coming from flaming torches set every ten or twelve feet along the edges. Looked like the piers reached about forty or fifty yards out into the water. He could make out the outlines of several other vessels tied up along them, probably other hijacked boats.
As they came closer, he could read their names: Lucia Annie. Dolphin Dive. Two Kings. He wondered if their owners were already dead and buried or, most likely, fed to the sharks. They probably were dead, unless their families had coughed up some serious cash. Most families tried to scrape enough money together. Sometimes the bad guys took what they could get and let the owners go home. But they always kept the vessels for sale on the black market. The Sweet Sarah would be lashed to one of those piers soon. Once Novak got his feet planted on dry land, he could make his move. He was eager for the right time to come along, champing at the bit—anxious, in fact—to put some of these guys down.
When the Sweet Sarah bumped against the tires lining the dockage at the far end, out in the deeper water, several men came running down toward them. These guys looked more like native Caribs, judging by the dreadlocks and headscarves. They spoke in fluent Spanish, though, not the island dialects. They were talking together about the girl, saying she was muy bonita and arguing who’d get her first. That’s when Isabella started up with the trembling and shivering again, because she understood every word. Novak whispered softly, telling her to act docile and afraid, but to fight them off as soon as she had to. She nodded, but she didn’t look like the sort of girl who could fight them very hard or very long. She looked ready to pass out.
Novak watched a different man come striding down the dock to meet them. He was tall and thin, dressed in a white linen shirt and white pants and smoking a cigar. All he needed was a white panama hat and an overseer’s whip. He stopped at the stern and stood looking down at Novak and Isabella. In the flicker of the torch, he appeared to be around fifty, maybe a little older, small eyes darting around the boat, estimating its worth. Didn’t seem the Brit answered to him, because he climbed up onto the pier and strode off toward the beach without a word to the prisoners or the man with the cigar. This new guy was a real hoodlum, Novak was sure of it. He couldn’t judge yet if he was more dangerous than the others. Novak didn’t see a weapon on him, but it could be hidden under his loose shirttail. He cut short the crew’s lascivious chitchat about all the atrocities they were going to carry out on the pretty girl. He cursed and told them she’d be worth more money than the boat they’d captured. So hands off, he said, in rapid-fire Spanish, until they found out who wanted her back and how much they’d pay.
After that, Isabella relaxed some, and so did Novak. But not much. Their captors became quiet and herded them at gunpoint up onto the beach and across about thirty yards of deep dry sand. They were flanked there by two more men and two more guns, and then marched up off the beach toward a thick copse of palm trees, the long dry fronds high above and tossing wildly in the incoming storm gusts, rattling like crazy.
The camp was a hell of a lot larger and more organized than Novak had expected. The criminals had a complicated operation and apparently made a lot of money. This was not as much of a ragtag, uneducated bunch of guys as Novak had first thought. At least, the people in charge weren’t. About thirty yards off the beach, he made out a cluster of maybe half a dozen prefab huts with tin roofs, all scattered around under the towering palms. Two long buildings lay at one end of the beach, farther back from the water. Barracks, or housing for the helicopter, maybe. Armed guards were posted here and there.
As they were prodded up through the thick trunks of the palm trees, Novak saw a couple of men come out of a hut. He hoped they didn’t separate captives. If they did, Novak knew the reason, and it wasn’t something he liked to think about. Fortunately, as it turned out he and Isabella remained together, at least temporarily. They were pushed into a hut, fairly far from the water. Inside, there was a sand floor and nothing else. On one wall, a sturdy wood beam had been bolted into place. Two sets of shackles hung from an iron ring. The guards wasted no time chaining them up. Novak got extra-rough treatment, probably because he was bigger than they were and they felt intimidated. They pushed him down on the ground and shackled his feet, and then they did the same to Isabella. Novak didn’t protest, because they made a big mistake by leaving only the duct tape binding his wrists together. Once she was shackled, the girl cowered in the corner and held the length of heavy chain in her lap. She kept her eyes squeezed shut. If she couldn’t see it, it wasn’t happening.
The guards went back outside and spoke softly to each other. Novak sat still, watched silently, and waited for their footsteps to recede. These guys were definitely not Mexican army, and thank God for that. He needed to find the brains of the bunch and put him down first. The rest would probably scatter once there was no one telling them what to do. He had a feeling he would meet the head guy soon. So he settled back and pretended to be docile until it was time to act. But it wasn’t easy. He had the overwhelming desire to hurt these guys. He believed in payback, and he was going to make that happen.
Chapter Five
The hut was roughly twelve by twelve, the prefab walls the color of gunmetal. It was dark inside, except for one electric lantern on the floor to the right of the door. The room smelled like a latrine, as if hostages had sweated and urinated or been left to rot inside it. Isabella pulled up the hem of her shirt and held it over her mouth and nose. Novak sat and waited for the guards to leave the hut and their voices to fade into the distance. He wasn’t sure if there was a guy left outside the door. Probably was. Novak would have left a guard out there if he had secured prisoners inside.
Novak squatted down in front of the bolt hammered into the wall and tested the strength of the chain. It stretched out about four feet, not quite to the door but long enough to reach the bucket sitting in the corner for physical needs. Smelled like it was already full of excrement. He could pull the chain loose, maybe. The duct tape on his wrists was not a problem. He knew how to get out of most bindings. These guards were rank amateurs but well-armed. There were plenty of weapons to be had once he was free. All he had to do was put down the first guard he encountered and he’d have a weapon. Again, however, Isabella was Novak’s problem. He had a feeling she’d panic at the least provocation, and that would do him in, too.
So Novak ignored her sobbing and listened again for nearby voices. Figured not more than two men would be outside. He looked at his watch. Surprisingly, they had neglected to take it or Isabella’s crucifix when they patted them down. Three o’clock in the morning. Most likely the pirates who’d captured them would be tired, maybe green enough to doze off on duty, if Novak got lucky. After a while, he heard nothing except the night calls of birds and the buzz of nocturnal insects. He heard no movements outside and smelled no acrid cigarette smoke, of which most of their guards had reeked. He wanted to get both of them out of the hut and well away or the girl was going to completely lose it. He couldn’t blame her, wished he had the time to console her, but they would probably have one chance to get out of th
is thing alive and that would be it.
Novak considered for a moment and decided it was too soon yet to make a break. The whole compound would be on high alert for the first hour, and then they would probably decide that Novak was not going to make trouble. So he settled down to wait—relaxed his tense muscles, tried to calm his mind, went over precisely what he was going to do. Usually not a problem for him, but this time the initial wait seemed like an eternity. He wanted out of that hut before anything worse went down with the girl.
As it turned out, he wasn’t given time to be patient. About thirty minutes after they were chained up, two men ducked back inside the hut. These guys said nothing, but they were different from the men he’d seen so far. Better dressed for their mission. Matching uniforms. Jungle camouflage, like American troops wore in Vietnam. They said nothing, not to each other, and not to him. Oh yeah, these two were much better trained than the ones sent out to commandeer boats with lots of guns and lots of backup. Both these men were older than the others by a decade at least, and were trained in military doctrine and procedure. One guy knelt down and quickly unchained the girl, and the other one released Novak. They left the duct tape binding their wrists. They both stood back while their prisoners stretched their backs and legs, and then got impatient and prodded them to move outside into the warm tropical night. Things were happening a whole lot faster than Novak had anticipated.
Such prompt attention probably meant one of two things: The powers that be in this outfit had deemed Novak and Isabella unworthy of suitable ransom demands, and they would now be hustled out into the dark jungle, summarily forced to their knees, and bullets placed in the backs of their heads. Or, they were now considered high-end value hostages and needed further questioning for contact information. Novak inhaled a deep breath of the salty sea air and searched their surroundings for landmarks. They were being taken somewhere else, and he needed to be able to find his way back to the beach and his boat. Thirty yards in front of him, waves rolled in, gently, rhythmically, endlessly, and that’s where his boat was, still tied up at the end of the nearest long pier. He was going to get the Sweet Sarah back. Tonight. The wind had picked up considerably now, rattling and scraping the dry palm fronds, bending them inland. He could smell rain in the air. The storm was moving closer, still fairly far out, but coming, nevertheless. It would hit the beach with lashing winds and high breakers. But that was good. That would give the guards something else to think about.