Bodyguard: Ransom (Book 2)

by Bradford, Chris

  Then a huge shadow was cast over the Orchid as a massive tanker loomed into view. Its blue and rusting hull rose sheer from the sea to its main deck high above. From Connor’s limited view of its stern, the tanker appeared endless, its hull disappearing beyond his vision.

  The Orchid was on a direct collision course and showed no sign of stopping.

  Connor braced himself. Although the yacht was going no more than a few knots, the impact was still shocking. The Orchid shuddered from stem to stern, there was a screeching of metal and a loud dong echoed through the tanker’s hull. As the Orchid rebounded off the hull, Connor caught a glimpse of a gangway being lowered from the tanker’s main deck to the yacht’s stern. Then he heard the Orchid’s anchor being dropped.

  Whether they liked it or not, they had arrived in Somalia.

  ‘Move!’ ordered Spearhead, jabbing his gun at the hostages.

  Captain Locke led his shell-shocked crew up the steep gangway. With as much grace as she could muster, Amanda followed close behind with Chloe and Emily in tow, the sisters clasping each other’s hands for moral support. Their feet tramped up the metal steps in a slow march of despair. Far below, between the grilles, the wash of the green-blue ocean could be seen lapping against the rusting hull, no longer so inviting for a swim.

  Reaching the main deck, the hostages were greeted by yet more armed men. Once aboard the pirate stronghold, the last vestiges of hope drained from the hostages’ faces.

  The deck itself was vast. An industrial network of walkways, pipes and machinery lined its length and breadth. The domes of several large storage tanks could be seen, upon which yellow warning signs declared: CONTENTS HIGHLY FLAMMABLE. The bow was so far away that it could have been part of another ship. At the stern, the navigation bridge towered over them like a skyscraper. Most bizarre was the sight of a pair of skinny goats tethered to the rail on the starboard side. They bleated indignantly at the new arrivals.

  ‘Welcome to Somalia,’ said a man cheerily, stepping from the disorganized ranks of pirates. Better dressed than the others, the man wore a pressed olive shirt, a cotton ma’awis in a black diamond pattern and a blood-red shawl slung over his shoulder. His face was smooth, his nose wide and his teeth stained green with khat leaves, but he kept his eyes hidden behind a pair of silver-mirrored aviator sunglasses.

  ‘It wasn’t our preferred destination,’ answered Captain Locke.

  The pirate laughed. ‘It’s good that you retain your sense of humour, Captain. I’m Oracle.’

  He offered his hand in greeting. Captain Locke ignored it.

  ‘Oh, come now, Captain. No need to be so impolite.’

  Captain Locke’s cheeks flushed with anger. ‘You expect me to shake your hand after your men have hijacked my yacht, killed two of my crew and taken us hostage! I’ve an injured crew member in need of urgent medical attention. That’s my immediate concern.’

  Oracle waved away his grievance, barely glancing in the direction of the pale and feverish Jordan. ‘With any luck, I won’t need to detain you for long. Now please follow me.’

  With several threatening prods from their guns, the pirates shepherded the group of hostages along the metal deck. Reaching the base of the tanker’s bridge tower, Oracle led them through a hatch and down a narrow corridor to a large open stairwell.

  ‘Captain, my men will take you and your crew to your new quarters,’ Oracle informed him. He barked an order in Somali. With a rough shove, Juggs and several other armed pirates hustled them down the steel stairs into the bowels of the tanker.

  ‘Not you, ladies,’ said Oracle, addressing Amanda, Chloe and Emily. ‘You’re my most precious cargo.’

  Captain Locke glanced anxiously back at the girls, sensing this might be the last time they saw one another. Then he was gone with the others.

  ‘This way, if you please,’ said Oracle, heading up the stairs.

  With Spearhead behind them, Amanda and the girls were left no other choice. They followed Oracle up two flights and down a stark white corridor to a wooden door. Outside stood a pirate on guard duty. He opened the door at their approach and Oracle strode into the cabin.

  ‘Captain Takayama, you have guests,’ said Oracle. ‘Do make them feel welcome.’

  A stocky Japanese man with round metal-framed spectacles rose from his chair. He blinked in surprise at the appearance of a woman and two girls on his ship, then bowed a respectful greeting.

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to get acquainted.’ Oracle smiled warmly at Emily and Chloe as if he were their long-lost uncle. ‘I’ll be contacting your father for the ransom. If he cooperates, you’ll be home sooner than you think.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ Emily muttered under her breath.

  Oracle raised an eyebrow at her. ‘Then perhaps we’ll need to persuade him.’ He motioned to Spearhead. ‘Bring her with us.’

  The pirate seized Emily by the arm and dragged her towards the door.

  ‘No!’ cried Chloe, clinging on to her sister’s hand for dear life.

  Spearhead shoved her away and she crumpled to the floor.

  ‘Yamae! Stop!’ cried Captain Takayama, moving to intervene.

  The guard levelled his gun at him and the captain backed away, his head bowed in submission.

  Spearhead hauled Emily out, slamming the door shut behind them.

  As Chloe sat sobbing on the floor, Captain Takayama glanced awkwardly at Amanda, waiting for her to comfort the girl. When she didn’t make a move, he helped Chloe on to a threadbare sofa. ‘I’m Captain Takayama of the chemical tanker Golden Phoenix. My crew members are held below.’ He offered her his handkerchief. ‘I am very sorry that you’ve been captured by these thugs too.’

  ‘No need to be,’ said Chloe, wiping her eyes. ‘It’s not your fault.’

  The captain nodded sadly, then said, ‘I’ll make you both some tea.’

  As the captain busied himself, Amanda stared morosely out of the porthole. ‘How long have you been held here?’ she asked.

  Captain Takayama offered her a thin regretful smile. ‘Five months and thirteen days … so far.’

  With the satellite phone clamped to his ear, Connor crouched beside the comms unit on the Orchid’s bridge, listening to the repeating ringtone.

  ‘Come on,’ he urged under his breath. ‘Pick up.’

  He’d finally managed to access the satellite phone, but now no one was answering.

  After the hostages had been escorted off the Orchid at gunpoint, he’d waited for everything to quieten down before making his move. But his hopes of a deserted yacht were dashed when he discovered two pirates sprawled on the leather sofas in the salon. Fortunately, they appeared intoxicated, chewing on mouthfuls of green khat leaves and drinking the last dregs from the bar. It had been an easy matter for Connor to sneak past and up to the bridge. But he was keenly aware he wasn’t alone on board, so kept his eyes and ears alert.

  After three more rings, a voice answered. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Charley! It’s Connor.’

  ‘Connor?’ gasped Charley. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On the Orchid. Close to the Somali coast, I think.’ He glanced at the GPS unit and continued. ‘Our exact location is North 5° 21' 18", East 48° 33' 30". We were attacked by pirates. Brad’s dead. The girls and the crew have been taken on to a tanker. You need to organize a rescue immediately.’

  There was a pause. ‘You’re hundreds of miles from where anyone is looking.’

  ‘So redirect the SAR teams here.’

  He could hear someone talking to Charley in the background. Her voice came on the line again. ‘Connor, you’re in Somali territorial waters now. Colonel Black says that means direct military intervention is out of the question.’

  ‘So we can’t be rescued?’ said Connor, incredulous.

  ‘You will be,’ assured Charley. ‘But we have to wait for the pirates to contact us with their ransom demands then –’

  A jaunty ringtone sounded aboard the yacht, making Conn
or flinch. He heard a man answer.

  ‘I have to go,’ Connor whispered, replacing the receiver and dashing for the opposite door.

  He slipped through just as a large pirate strode on to the bridge. Connor pressed himself against the wall of the corridor and held his breath. Continuing to jabber on his mobile, the pirate set aside his AK47 and plonked himself down in the captain’s chair. He had a big nose and a wide mouth that seemed filled with too many teeth, and he talked so loudly that he was almost shouting.

  Connor eyed the assault rifle and weighed up his chances of snatching the weapon before the pirate could. But he’d never fired such a gun in his life. Even if he did grab it first, by the time he’d found and released the safety catch, the pirate would easily overpower him.

  The pirate swung his feet on to the console and settled back, showing no signs of leaving the comfort of the captain’s chair any time soon. Connor realized he couldn’t stand in the corridor all day. So, with one final regretful glance at the satellite phone, he silently edged away from the door and headed down to the main deck.

  At least Charley and the rest of Alpha team knew he was alive. Where he was. And, most significantly, not held captive.

  But for how long? He was on his own. No rescue was coming. While he could hold out hope of a successful ransom negotiation, the process could take months.

  Connor very much doubted Emily would be able to endure another lengthy hostage experience. He also feared that he’d lose track of the girls if they were transferred across to the mainland. But most worrying was the violent and unpredictable nature of the pirates. This more than anything convinced him that he alone had to rescue the girls sooner rather than later.

  Connor had already prepared himself for such a mission. He’d dressed in his darkest clothes and baseball cap, and replaced his shorts with cargo trousers. Into the pockets, he’d packed his night-vision sunglasses, the Dazzler and the flare gun. With some black gaffer tape from the storeroom, he’d covered the neon yellow of the Go-bag and emptied it of everything non-essential. He wanted to travel light and move as stealthily as possible.

  It also gave him enough room to pack the last of Chef’s special pirate cocktails.

  As he crouched at the bottom of the tanker’s gangway, he briefly contemplated waiting until dark. But that was ten hours off and anything could happen to the girls in that time.

  Connor was stunned by the sheer scale of the tanker. The deck alone had to be the size of two football stadiums. How on earth will I locate the girls, let alone get them to safety? he wondered.

  The bridge tower seemed to be the most logical place to start searching. But that in itself was as big as a block of flats. At the very top Connor thought he saw movement – a possible pirate lookout. He’d have to be careful. At least the tangle of pipework, for loading and offloading the tanker’s chemicals, provided him with good cover.

  Darting from the gangway to the shelter of a mechanical pump, Connor picked his way along the deck. At one point, it seemed his ears were playing tricks on him. He could hear bleating.

  Then he spotted a couple of goats tied to the starboard rail.

  More hostages, thought Connor grimly.

  He was over halfway when the sound of voices alerted him to danger. He ducked behind a cluster of oil drums. A few moments later, two pirates strode by, laughing, barely bothering to look around them. If they were on guard duty, they clearly weren’t concerned about the possibility of an attack or a rescue attempt.

  From his hiding place, Connor watched as they approached the goats. One of the pirates untethered a scrawny grey one and led it over to an area of open deck. With a twist of its head, he pinned the poor beast to the floor. Crouching beside it, the other pirate drew a long curved knife. With a practised hand, he slit the goat’s throat and began to saw through the sinew and tendons.

  Connor had to look away as the goat’s pained and desperate bleats faded to a final gargled breath. When he glanced back, the deck was slick with blood. Connor flashed back to Brad’s death, the security officer’s corpse still lying on the Orchid’s deck, untouched and unmourned. If the pirates could murder Brad in cold blood and slaughter a goat with such lack of compassion, he dreaded to think how they’d treat their hostages, or him if he was caught.

  While the two pirates finished butchering the goat, Connor managed to stay hidden by weaving through the maze of pipes and metalwork as he made his way to the bridge tower. With a quick check above, he sprinted across an exposed walkway and ducked through a hatch. Inside he paused for breath, the image of the bleeding goat still fresh in his mind. It impelled him to keep going.

  A narrow corridor led to an open stairwell. Up or down? he thought.

  He guessed the hostages would be held on the lower decks, secure and out of sight. Connor was about to descend when he heard Emily’s voice cry from above, ‘Let go! You’re hurting me.’

  ‘We know exactly where my family are, Clive. Send in your warship now,’ demanded Mr Sterling, his hand almost strangling the phone’s receiver as he spoke direct with the Australian Prime Minister. ‘What do you mean international incident? I’ll give you a domestic incident that’ll end your career if you don’t rescue them at once.’

  Mr Sterling’s face purpled as he listened to the Prime Minister’s reply. ‘Well, that’s a fat lot of help!’ He slammed down the phone. ‘Bloody politicians.’

  He paced the briefing room of the Seychelles Regional Anti-Piracy Coordination Centre like a caged tiger. Colonel Black sat on the opposite side of the conference table, Charley next to him. Both waited for Mr Sterling to calm down. Then the colonel said, ‘What did your Prime Minister have to say?’

  Mr Sterling stopped pacing and pulled out a chair. ‘He’ll station HMAS Melbourne off the coast of Somalia – twelve nautical miles out. A pointless gesture. What use is it there? Why can’t my government be like the Americans and act? A few Navy SEALs and this would be over in no time.’

  ‘If you’re referring to the Maersk Alabama hijacking, that US rescue occurred in international waters,’ explained the colonel. ‘Unfortunately, your Prime Minister’s hands are tied. The Australian Navy can’t breach Somalia’s territorial waters without creating a diplomatic crisis.’

  ‘We already have a crisis!’

  ‘Yes, but once a ship is taken it’s very hard to rescue the crew and passengers without loss of life. Moreover, as soon as the pirates see the warship coming, they’ll relocate the hostages. All they’re interested in is the money. The lowest-risk method is to pay a ransom.’

  ‘Fine,’ relented Mr Sterling, holding up his hands. ‘So why haven’t the pirates contacted us yet?’

  Colonel Black didn’t have an answer for that one.

  They sat in silence, the air-conditioning unit whirring in the background. Mr Sterling’s bodyguard, Dan, poured his boss a cup of coffee then offered one to Colonel Black and Charley. Declining, Charley gazed through the glass into the centre’s operations room. A live satellite surveillance feed on a monitor displayed a magnified section of the Somali coastline. In the waters beyond the port of Hobyo, several large cargo ships could be seen. Each contained hostages – more than a hundred seamen in total, from every corner of the globe, all waiting desperately for the shipping companies to pay their ransom demand. The chemical tanker in the middle, the Golden Phoenix, was where they presumed Mr Sterling’s family and crew were being held. In her shadow, barely visible, was the white outline of the Orchid.

  Is Connor still aboard? Charley clasped her phone in her hand, praying for another call from him. But an hour had passed and nothing. Perhaps Connor has been captured? Charley tried to push the dark thoughts to the back of her mind.

  A mobile phone rang, breaking the tension.

  Charley’s heart leapt with hope until she looked at her phone’s display and discovered it wasn’t hers.

  Mr Sterling pulled his mobile from his pocket. For a second or two, he stared at the screen. The number displayed a
country code of +252. Somalia. He thumbed the Answer button, putting it on speakerphone.

  A smooth, lightly accented voice spoke. ‘Hello? Mr Sterling?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied cautiously.

  ‘My name’s Mr Ali. I’m a local NGO worker in Somalia. I’ve heard about your family’s plight. I want to help negotiate their release.’

  Connor crept along the corridor. He’d followed the sound of Emily’s struggle up three flights, then lost her.

  Despite the overwhelming urge to run, he couldn’t rush his search for Emily or her sister. A pirate could appear at any moment. There were countless cabins, storerooms, alcoves and stairways from which they could materialize; the bridge tower was like a rabbit warren. Yet the dangers of encountering a pirate were matched by the safety that all the nooks and crannies offered Connor as places to hide in.

  As he approached an open door, halfway along the corridor, he heard a man speaking in English.

  ‘No, I’m not a pirate myself,’ assured the honeyed voice. ‘As I said, my name is Mr Ali. I volunteered to help. I want to save your family and crew.’

  Connor slipped into a storeroom opposite. Peering round the door frame, he gained a narrow view of the scene. A pot-bellied man with a receding hairline and greasy skin sat at a Formica table. Sweat patches blotted his dark green shirt that hung limp over a pair of long chino shorts, and on his feet he wore a pair of worn plastic sandals. He had a mobile phone wedged between his ear and left shoulder, while lighting up a self-rolled cigarette. Blowing out a puff of smoke, he said, ‘I understand your concern. I will do my utmost to help.’

  Another man sat opposite. Connor caught a glimpse of a pair of silver-mirrored sunglasses and a blood-red shawl, but most of Connor’s view was blocked by the mountainous pirate who’d hijacked the Orchid. Beside him stood Emily, small and frail by comparison.