International Incident

by Melissa F. Miller

  Binh sat with a small group and repaired nets. After a while, the round-cheeked Burmese man who called himself Thiha Bo said that he’d caught a glimpse of Mina, crouching in the cage nearest the door.

  “What will he do with her?” Binh asked in Thai, a language he was picking up out of necessity.

  Thiha Bo rolled his shoulders and didn’t offer any guesses.

  But the Cambodian with the deep scar bisecting his left cheek rasped, “Probably dump her at the next port. She’s no use to him.” His gaze grew dreamy. “Too bad. I know I could make good use of her.”

  The others laughed, but hot anger roiled in Binh’s belly and salty tears pricked his eyes. He blinked back the tears and balled his hands into fists but said nothing. After several moments, when he could trust himself to speak, he said, “What’s the next port? Songkhla?”

  The Cambodian narrowed his eyes and thought. Then he shook his head. “No. Samut Prakan.”

  Thiha Bo nodded his agreement.

  “Malaysia?” Binh asked as a small green bud of hope bloomed in him. The girl was from Malaysia. If Captain Vũ abandoned her near her home, maybe she’d make it back.

  “Thailand,” the Cambodian informed him with some disgust.

  Binh knew he should have a better sense of where they traveled—he’d made the circuit multiple times. But each voyage, the same disorientation overcame him. The miles of endless water washed away the landmarks in his mind’s eye. He never knew where they’d been or where they were headed. He was always turned around, confused. He wished he could fix a map in his brain. Maybe then he could plan his escape when they were nearing Phu My or another port near his home. Maybe a fellow Vietnamese would wander past the ship and agree to buy his freedom. He’d heard stories like that. But he just drifted from port to port in a constant seasick daze, and his hopes for himself grew smaller and dimmer each day. Now he would hope for Mina, he told himself.

  He returned his attention to the mesh netting in his lap. They needed to fix all the nets before nightfall. The captain had given the word that they would fish again tonight.

  5

  The Gulf of Thailand

  Sasha stared up at the ceiling, wide-eyed. Beside her, Connelly slept, his breathing even, deep, slow. She shifted onto her side and willed herself back to sleep.

  It wasn’t going to happen.

  She’d always been a light sleeper and, thankfully, didn’t require much more than five solid hours to function. Of course, since the twins’ birth, five uninterrupted hours of sleep had moved from the ‘doable’ category to the ‘you wish’ category. And here she was—finally able to sleep all she wanted—suffering from insomnia.

  She pushed herself up on one elbow and checked the time on the bedside table: 4:20 A.M., local time. She groaned, flopped back into the cloud-like pillow, and glared at her slumbering husband as if it were all his fault that her body clock was going haywire. He, on the other hand, had somehow magically reset his circadian rhythm before their plane had touched down in Singapore.

  Grumbling under her breath at the unfairness of it all, she slid out from under the light blanket and stood. She stretched her back and took several deep breaths then peeked through the sliding glass doors. The sky was still dark, but she didn’t think it would be long before the sun started its slow climb over the horizon. She padded to the closet and eased open the door. She dressed silently and quickly, choosing her running clothes mainly by feel, and hoped the shorts and top she selected kind of, sort of matched—or at least didn’t clash too badly. She tried to remember if she’d packed anything particularly colorful but drew a blank.

  She crouched and laced up her shoes then pulled her hair into a ponytail. She closed the closet door soundlessly and scooped up her cruise card. With a final, backward glance at Connelly, who had rolled into the dead center of the bed and was stretched out, still sleeping soundly, she disengaged the door lock and crept out of the room.

  The chill of the ocean breeze stung her eyes and she blinked a few times before filling her lungs with the crisp, salty air and heading down the stairs to the Promenade Deck. When she’d asked Bruce if there was a running track onboard, he’d recommended that she run on one of the fitness center’s fancy, technology-laden treadmills, which offered everything from a heart rate monitor and flat-screen television to a panoramic view of the Gulf of Thailand from the uppermost Sun Deck, but she preferred to run outside when she could. So he’d directed her to the Promenade Deck and told her three laps would equal a mile. She had plenty of energy to burn; she just hoped she wouldn’t get dizzy running in circles.

  Fifteen laps, a quick five miles, she promised herself. Then she could go brew some of the amazing coffee that Julia had procured, seemingly by magic.

  Spurred on by the thought of strong, hot coffee, she glanced up toward the sky. It was still navy blue and starry, although a faint light was beginning to glow below the horizon. She filled her lungs with air and started running. About a quarter of the way through her first lap, she hit her stride, her arms and legs pumping in rhythm. She found running oddly relaxing as she took in the views and sounds around her. She never listened to music or podcasts when she ran. Will, who logged his miles on a treadmill while listening to audiobooks of biographies, called her a purist. But the simple truth was she was too aware of the dangers of being disconnected from her surroundings to ever want to risk zoning out while she ran.

  She scanned the deck, looking for a stray metal staff that could be pressed into service in the event of a fight or a doorway that might conceal an assailant. She made note of alcoves she could hide in if she needed to evade an attacker and stairs that could lead to escape. After all the years of practicing Krav Maga, she wasn’t about to lower her guard just because she was on a cruise. In fact, she’d read that the crime rate on cruise lines was surprisingly high. If she had to guess, she imagined it was precisely because civilians on vacation wanted to relax and bliss out. She huffed out a laugh as she ticked off one full lap in her mind: there was no worry that she and Connelly would grow so laid back they’d fall prey to an onshore pickpocket or room charge scam from a fellow cruiser. Even surrounded by opulence and luxury, she knew they would both remain vigilant—it was an occupational necessity for him, a lifelong habit for her.

  Although she stayed alert as she circled the deck, she did allow her mind to wander just a bit. Her thoughts turned to her babies, who were losing their babyness surprisingly quickly. In just six short weeks, they’d be turning one, and, already, she could see them morphing into tiny, little people. Each time they pulled themselves up on the furniture, opened a cabinet door, or rolled a ball back and forth between one another, she saw a flash of personality. It was amazing to think that they would soon be talking to her and Connelly, sharing ideas, dreams, and, if they were anything like her nieces and nephews, telling truly stupid, unfunny jokes. She smiled to herself.

  Her mind turned to her active caseload. She got some of her best and most strategic ideas while she was running. She went on for several laps, testing out and rejecting causes of action for her newest case—a class action against a local car dealership for violations of the Truth in Lending Act. At the beginning of each new lap, she paused for a breath to admire the changes in the lightening sky.

  She was three quarters of the way through her thirteenth circuit around the deck when she noticed that her right shoe had come untied. She propped her leg up on the railing and leaned forward to tie her shoelace, working in a quick stretch while she was at it. After double knotting the offending lace, she switched legs and stretched her left against the railing as well.

  As she straightened, a flaring light in the distance caught her eye. The report of gunfire followed, the sound oddly flat across the sea. Her heart jumped. The sound was so distant, she knew that she was in no immediate danger. Instead of seeking cover, she instinctively leaned forward over the railing and strained to see where the muzzle flash had come from. She spotted a small boat rocking gently
in the distance, several miles away. In the weak light, the shadowy figures moving around on the deck of the boat were featureless and genderless. She counted three shapes.

  She grasped the top railing and climbed so that she was standing on the middle rail. She held tight and leaned even further over the rail, trying to shrink the distance between her and the other boat. The wind carried the sound of muffled laughter from the boat. Her brain registered confusion at the combination of gunfire and laughing. She might have considered the dissonance longer, but one of the figures raised an arm and moved forward toward the smallest of the three.

  Two quick muzzle flashes, two cracks of a gun firing, and then a woman’s high-pitched scream filled the air. The screaming continued, louder and urgent, and then the woman was falling, arms wind-milling, as she plunged backward into the water below the boat. Sasha gasped and unthinkingly reached for her throat with one hand. She lost her balance on the slick metal railing and quickly grabbed hold again, steadying herself. She stared at the point in the water where the woman had entered the ocean, but there was no splashing, no calling for help, no arms flailing wildly. There was nothing. After a moment she heard distant male voices raised in the sort of excited celebration she associated with touchdowns, not murders.

  She lowered herself back to the deck and shakily sat down in one of the Adirondack chairs arranged in a row nearby. She almost couldn’t believe that she’d just witnessed a murder. But the sour taste in her mouth and her shaking hand told her that she had.

  She straightened herself, relaxed her shoulders, and forced herself to breathe. Once her heart rate had slowed to something close to normal, she pushed herself up and ran toward the observation deck in search of an officer. She didn’t notice the watercolor sunrise painting the sky.

  6

  Derek looked over his shoulder. Austin was lounging against the mast, chatting with the captain like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  “Austin, man, come on. The resupply boat’s about to leave. We gotta go,” Derek urged.

  Austin threw him a look of pure disdain. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, McGraw. It’s not like he’s gonna leave without us.”

  “Well, he might. He’s gotta get that fish to the refrigeration unit like now.”

  Derek had no idea whether that was true. But what he did know was he didn’t like hanging around a boat where they’d just killed a teenaged girl. He wanted to get as far away as possible, as fast as possible, from Vũ and his fishing boat. Especially because nobody had mentioned the freaking cruise ship that was no more than ten miles away. How many potential witnesses were on that thing? He didn’t even want to think about it. He shouldn’t have had to think about something like that—it was beyond sloppy to call in a hit when there was a ship so close. But Vũ had obviously panicked; and Derek would have bet a month’s pay that he hadn’t told Thale that he was in populated waters.

  Derek had even suggested that Vũ could put some distance between them and the cruise ship first, but Austin had argued that in another hour the sun would be high in the sky. It was better to have the poor light of dawn for cover. Besides, the rich gasbags on the cruise ship were probably all still sleeping off their lobsters and champagne. So, yeah, fine, he’d gone along with it. But now it was time to split.

  Austin narrowed his eyes and stared at Derek like he was reading his mind. “Gah, you’re always such a punk. What’s your hurry to get back there? Think you’re missing something?”

  Derek knew exactly why Austin was dragging his feet. The armory was brutal. There was nothing to do but lift weights and get into petty fights with the other ‘independent contractors.’ Derek didn’t understand exactly why the floating arsenal always had such a volatile, crappy atmosphere, but it did. He’d have thought that since most of them were former military and had been through basic training, they’d be more than used to cooling their heels while waiting to be called in to action. But, unlike the military, there was no discipline, no structure, no nothing really—just contraband liquor, a boatload of guns and ammunition, and sour, bored men, none of whom were making any money by sitting on the barge. Instead, it was the opposite. They had to pay a daily rate for their spaces, which ate into their earnings and further frayed their nerves. As a result, there was plenty of fighting and little else. While Derek understood all that, it still didn’t mean that it was good idea to hang around a crime scene.

  “Suit yourself. I’m leaving.”

  Austin waved a hand at him. “What’s the matter, Derek? Afraid mommy’ll get mad if you miss your curfew?”

  “Come or don’t come,” he snapped and started across the deck.

  Behind him, he could hear Austin wheedling Captain Vũ to let them stay on the boat as permanent security. Derek didn’t stop, but he did slow his step and turn to see Vũ’s reaction to the suggestion. That would be a good, and lucrative, gig.

  But Vũ was shaking his head vigorously while spitting and pointing. “No, no. You go. Too much money, too much money,” he said in his broken English.

  Derek wasn’t surprised. The fleet owner paid them by the incident. It really only made financial sense to call out the ‘bodyguards,’ as they were euphemistically known, when there was an issue.

  “Ah, man, come on,” Austin said halfheartedly. He was already starting to follow Derek toward the ramp down to the resupply boat.

  Vu was still sputtering, “Go, go. Get out.”

  “You’re welcome,” Austin snarked over his shoulder.

  Derek could see his point there, too. Here they had just solved Captain Vũ’s crisis of letting a female sneak onto his boat and this is the thanks he gave—kicking them off unceremoniously. He turned back to tell Austin to forget about Vũ because he had a bottle of cheap vodka hidden in his footlocker when he caught motion out of the corner of his eye.

  Derek froze and peered into the darkness of the stairs leading down to the disgusting crew quarters below deck.

  Austin stepped behind him, “What’s up, man?” he whispered.

  Derek put a finger to his lip and kept his eyes locked on the stairway. Vũ had insisted his crew was too cowardly to try to intervene on behalf of the girl. But what if they’d gotten up their courage and were planning an ambush? He heard a rustling and reached for his Glock. After a second, a scrawny rat scurried past the base of the stairs, its claws clicking against the wood.

  He exhaled and relaxed his grip then shook his head. “It’s just a rat. Let’s get out here.”

  Austin didn’t argue.

  As they boarded the resupply boat, Derek’s gaze was pulled as if by a magnet to the spot where the girl entered the water. The surface was calm, like glass. The sharks hadn’t found her body yet.

  7

  Breathless, Sasha convinced the first officer to take her to Captain van Metier. As they raced through the gleaming corridors of the observation deck, she had to admit the captain’s assessment of his ship’s technology hadn’t been far off. It really did look as though one could control a space shuttle from here. They sped past rows of monitors and bright-eyed young ship’s officers chattering into headsets while their fingers clattered over keyboards and found the captain standing on the bridge surveying the ocean with his steely gaze. He held a china mug of what looked to be English breakfast tea in his hand.

  “Sir,” the first mate began, “Mrs. Connelly would like to speak with you urgently.”

  The captain turned and eyed them both coolly. “Regarding?” His expression conveyed mild curiosity and just a hint of irritation at being bothered.

  The first mate, a freckled kid whose name tag identified him as Liam Davidson, stammered, “She said it was for your ears only, sir.”

  The captain held his gaze for a moment, making plain his views about that answer before turning to Sasha. “I see. Mrs. Connelly, now you have my ears. What can I do for you?”

  Sasha cleared her throat and reminded herself speak as calmly as she could. “I’d really rather not say in fr
ont of Officer Davidson. It’s a private matter.”

  The captain’s silver eyebrows meandered up his forehead and an expression of discomfort flashed across his face. “If this is a female matter, our medical officer has—”

  “No, it’s nothing like that,” she explained, resisting the urge to tell him she knew how to handle her ‘female matters.’ “It’s a criminal matter, actually.”

  She apparently said the magic words because the captain nodded curtly to dismiss Davidson. The young officer wasted no time beating his retreat. As soon as he was out of earshot, the captain asked, “What sort of criminal matter?”

  Sasha nodded. “I went for a run on the Promenade Deck and I saw something.” Her voice faltered, and she took a moment to steady it before going on. “Something on the ocean.”

  A smidgeon of relief registered in the captain’s eyes when he realized that whatever she’d seen hadn’t happened on the ship. “I see. What exactly did you witness?”

  Sasha didn’t see any point in sugarcoating the news. “A murder.”

  He blinked but otherwise didn’t react visibly. “A murder,” he repeated.

  “Yes. Out there.” Sasha turned and scanned the ocean, trying to find the boat in the distance. “There! Do you see that speedboat or whatever that is? Just behind it, there’s another vessel. It happened right there.”

  He frowned and looked where she pointed then swapped his cup of tea for a pair of high-powered binoculars. He surveyed the ocean for a moment and then lowered the binoculars. “That’s not a speedboat. It’s a resupply ship. The fishing fleets use them to retrieve the catch from the fishing vessels and take it back to land while also bringing in supplies for the crew. This enables the fishing vessels to stay at sea longer which is more cost effective and efficient for the fleets. There’s nothing untoward at all about this.”