Darkness: Captain Riley II (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 2)

by Fernando Gamboa

  “It’s cold,” he said with fright.

  “That’s impossible,” the commander said, also touching the metal. He immediately realized Riley was right, and his expression changed. “My God, it is cold. How is that possible?”

  “There don’t seem to be wires going to it,” Riley said, shining his flashlight on the floor.

  Hudgens grew pensive for a moment. “Well, there ought to be,” he said. “Whatever it is.”

  “It’s a refrigerator,” Riley said, suddenly somber.

  “A refrigerator?” Hudgens asked. “And why would they want a—” He stopped suddenly, stepping back and pointing at the giant iron chest. “Is it like the one you found on the Deimos?”

  “No, it wasn’t like this one,” Riley said, “but there’s no reason it would be.”

  “No, of course . . . ,” Hudgens said, scratching his neck. “Help me pick it up,” he said suddenly, moving to one side and trying to find a handle. “We have to take it.”

  Riley looked at him as if he’d suggested they sit down and play cards. “Don’t be silly. This thing probably weighs a ton and even if it didn’t we could never take it off the boat. We have to destroy it.”

  “Destroy it?” Hudgens asked, looking like he’d suggested they light a cigar with a hundred-dollar bill.

  But before they could say more, the door to the storeroom closed with a bang, and with uncanny calm, Jack announced, “They’re already here.”

  He stuck his gun in the door latch, trying to win them a few extra seconds. “Whatever you’re going to do, make it fast,” he urged. “I don’t think the door’ll hold much longer.”

  Hudgens slapped the chest in frustration. “Fuck!” he said. “So close!”

  “What the hell is this?” Jack asked, going up to the container.

  “No goddamn clue,” Riley confessed. “But it’s cold.”

  Jack put his hands on the wooden edge like it were a balcony. “Shit,” he said, immediately thinking of what happened on the Deimos. “I’ve done this before too. What do we do?”

  “We’d need explosives to open it,” Riley lamented.

  “Or a couple hours with a blowtorch,” Jack added.

  “Why is it so big?” Hudgens asked himself aloud. “It wouldn’t need to be if it just had specimens and samples. Right? All the other boxes have jars with animals in formaldehyde. So, wouldn’t it be something similar? Maybe there’s just an animal being preserved by the cold in here.”

  “An animal?” Jack repeated skeptically, opening his arms to emphasize the size of the chest. “What type of animal? A gorilla?”

  “Maybe a man,” Riley said with complete seriousness.

  23

  As soon as she got to the end of the pier, not far from the casino, the streetlamps started to light up again, touching the area around them with a halo of yellow.

  The avenue veered left toward the interior of the island, and a small dirt road shot off to the right along the shoreline. If Carboneras Beach really was there, that would be the way.

  Carmen paused a moment to look backward.

  She saw the city lighting up slowly and hesitantly like an old person awakened by a noise in the middle of the night.

  But what really got her attention was a group of lights less than five hundred yards away, which flitted like a swarm of fireflies at the waterfront before scattering in all directions.

  They were looking for her.

  Carmen turned into the thick darkness of the small dirt road. As far as she knew it was as likely to take her to the sought-after beach as it was to the gate of the Colonial Guard headquarters. Nevertheless, as soon as she felt she’d caught her breath, she pulled up her dress again. It was sticking to her body from the sweat. She prayed she wouldn’t step on a snake as she penetrated the darkness.

  Carmen was forced to walk carefully after a sharp rock cut her toe. She still kept a good pace but had to watch the ground instead of the road ahead, where worse dangers may lie. That may have been why it took her a moment to realize she’d already reached the end of that road.

  It wasn’t until she felt soft sand sinking under her weight instead of compact dirt that she stopped and looked up.

  There was nothing but shadows. Dense, impenetrable shadows that made her think she was locked in a room without doors or windows. She instinctively reached forward to break the claustrophobic illusion, and a lightning flash lit up the equatorial sky, allowing her to glimpse her whereabouts.

  She’d somehow reached the sea. The beach was made of black sand, and small waves left only a thin trail of foam when they kissed the shore. Behind her a wall of vegetation rose ominously, from which came whistles and clucks from strange birds. Meanwhile, the ocean extended like a straight line toward infinity, somber and silent, oblivious to everything.

  She was sure she was completely alone, but she still gathered enough strength to shout into the nothingness. “¡Hola! ¡Zorrilla! Are you there? It’s Carmen!”

  She waited a few seconds then said again, “Abelino Zorrilla!” at the top of her lungs. “If you hear me, answer! I need help!”

  She lowered her hands and tried to scrutinize the night with all her senses, straining her ears for a response.

  “Please . . . ,” she mused, desperate. “Please. Answer.”

  Her heart shifted as the wind suddenly carried a voice calling her name from the distance.

  She held her breath, trying to find out where in the distance the voice came from. One, two, three seconds passed . . . but it didn’t call again.

  She put her hands around her mouth, and when she was about to shout again, she heard her name called once more. But it wasn’t coming from the sea.

  She turned to her right and saw a flash of light through the vegetation by the road she’d taken. There were several points of light moving quickly. Coming closer.

  They’d found her.

  Carmen Debagh put her hands on her face. For the first time in a long time she felt completely and absolutely hopeless. There was nothing else she could do. It wouldn’t make sense to hide or run. They’d find her sooner or later on that little island.

  Exhausted, she dropped to her knees on the sand.

  She was sure she would end up in a dungeon. She was sure too that the Germans and Italians, injured and tricked, would more than likely want to take their anger out on her in less than pleasant ways.

  She’d have to use the information she had to barter for her life and liberty. She’d tell them everything she knew about the operation if it’d grant her some kind of immunity. To hell with the English, the Americans, and their damn war games. She didn’t owe them anything.

  Like a volcano about to explode, she clenched her fists in rage when she thought how she’d be implicated in that circus of spies and secret missions just because she had to follow a man. She had always valued her freedom above all else, and men had crawled to her for whatever bit of her attention they could get.

  She suddenly understood, obviously too late, that this wasn’t her place or the life she should be living.

  Outside of her imagination, she’d never been some kind of Mata Hari, who she’d read so much about. Mata Hari’s myth had made Carmen see herself as a legendary international spy who with only beauty and intelligence had been able to destroy entire armies.

  But ironically she might end up like her, standing in front of a firing squad.

  Kneeling on that lonely beach in the middle of nowhere, Carmen Debagh realized she wasn’t a seasoned secret agent but a luxury prostitute. Her world was that of pleasure, parties, and seduction—living like a queen in a cosmopolitan city like Tangier, where she was equally desired and envied. Not sailing on a ship full of smugglers, sharing a bed with a man who snored like a bear, having to flee angry mobs to save her skin.

  No, she said, slowly shaking her head. I shouldn’t be here.

  It was her fault. She wasn’t going to kid herself, but there was someone else clearly responsible for all that. Some
one who didn’t only push her to make those bad decisions but also, on top of it all, had ended up leaving her behind on that miserable island. Someone who she’d blindly believed in, who in the moment of truth had abandoned her.

  Carmen punched the sand and, no longer able to contain herself, screamed into the night as the Pingarrón went farther and farther away.

  “Fuck!” she screamed with all her might. She was furious at fate, at Riley, and most of all at herself.

  But this time a voice answered her in the darkness. “Shh! Don’t scream, miss,” it urged, concerned. “They’ll hear you, you know?”

  The shouts and knocks on the door to the storage room grew louder, but the three men didn’t seem worried. All their attention was on the mystery before them, as it reflected the light of their flashlights.

  “This makes no sense,” Hudgens said.

  “None of it does,” Riley added, resting both hands against the metal surface. “We don’t even know if this is what we’re looking for. Maybe,” he continued with a humorless smile, “we’re in the wrong hold.”

  The ONI commander opened his mouth to say something, but then the door gave in and a dozen men in military uniforms and ski masks busted into the hold, shouting and pointing their guns at them.

  The three of them immediately put their hands up and turned around.

  “We’re Americans!” Hudgens said. “Don’t shoot!”

  Several of the commandos made them kneel and roughly tied their arms behind their backs.

  “I’m Commander Hudgens!” he said in an unconvincingly authoritative tone. “I demand to speak with Captain March-Phillipps!”

  In response, one of the commandos went up to them and aimed his gun. “Who are you?” he demanded in a strong Yorkshire accent. “Are you crew members of the Duchessa?”

  “I’m Commander Hudgens.” He tried to stand up, but one of the soldiers behind him made him stay down. “An officer of the US Navy, and I demand to speak with Captain March-Phillipps right now.”

  “You’re not in a position to demand anything,” he said firmly, cocking his gun. “Explain to me what you’re doing on this ship.”

  “I demand—”

  Before he could form the phrase, the commando gave a signal to one of the men behind Hudgens, who hit him in the back with the butt of his machine gun, causing Hudgens to fall down.

  Then he shined his flashlight on Riley and Jack before deciding to ask them the same question. “Who are you and what are you doing on this ship?”

  Riley glanced at Hudgens, who was on the ground, mouth open and with a soldier’s boot on his neck.

  “We’re the group sent to create a distraction in the city and get the German and Italian officers off their boats. And you,” he added, “are the English commanders under orders from Captain March-Phillipps, who came from Nigeria in the tugboat Vulcan. As you can see, I know the details of Operation Postmaster”—he looked at Hudgens—“so we’re on the same team.”

  The Englishman seemed to think for a moment before taking off his ski mask and putting the Browning back in its holster. Then he signaled for the soldier to let Hudgens stand up.

  “I’m Lieutenant Geoffrey Appleyard,” he said. “And you two?”

  “Captain Alexander Riley and my second.” He tilted his head to his right. “Jack Alcántara.”

  “And what are you doing aboard this ship?” he asked, still shining his flashlight on them. “Your mission was to be exclusively on land.”

  “We had some free time,” he said with a shrug, “and decided to get some fresh air.”

  The lieutenant crouched over Riley. “Are you trying to get funny with me?” he hissed through his teeth.

  “More or less.” Then he turned to Jack. “How am I doing?”

  Jack, also on his knees, and with his hands tied behind his back, shook his head with reproach. “Not great.”

  Lieutenant Appleyard took a moment, apparently wondering if he should subject them to the same treatment he had Hudgens, but decided it wasn’t his business and that he had more urgent things to do.

  “Take them to the bridge to see the captain,” he told the two commandos still aiming at them. “Let Old Gus take care of them.”

  Several voices responded with a “Yes, sir,” and pulled them up by their arms. Then they shoved them out of the room while Appleyard surveyed the mess with his flashlight.

  24

  With guns pushed into their backs, the Pingarrón’s crew walked up five levels to the bridge of the Duchessa, where a group of soldiers with ski masks searched them carefully.

  A wiry officer with an angry face and brown beret watched the night through the windows of the bridge.

  One of the commandos got close to say something to him quietly, and it wasn’t until then that he turned toward the trio.

  The officer studied them carefully before forming the first question. “What are you doing on the Duchessa d’Aosta?” he spat.

  “Captain March-Phillipps?” Hudgens asked. “I’m Lieutenant Hudgens of the United States Navy.”

  “I know who you are,” he responded impatiently. “And that’s not what I asked.”

  “Well, it’s all I can say, Captain.”

  The Englishman frowned before repeating, “I’ll ask you one more time.” He looked at them one at a time. “What are you doing on this ship?”

  “We were just trying to lend a hand,” Riley said innocently. “You must have seen we took care of the watch.”

  A commando appeared with Marovic, who also had his hands tied. He had a large bump on his forehead and a trickle of blood running from the corner of his lips, which were curled in a fierce smile.

  “Is this one of your men?” the Brit asked.

  Riley looked at him as if he weren’t sure how to respond. “What happened to him?”

  The soldier shoved him over to his crewmates. “He’s lucky we didn’t shoot him. He put three of us out of commission before we managed to knock him out.”

  Marovic’s smile widened.

  “What were you doing in the hold?” the Englishman insisted. “What were you looking for?”

  “Looking?” Riley answered as if it were the strangest question in the world. “We weren’t looking for anything. We were just poking around.”

  “Just poking around,” March-Phillipps repeated. “That’s all you have to say?”

  “It’s all we can say,” Hudgens said.

  “I see,” he said, stroking his thin blond mustache. “In that case, I’ll have to treat you like stowaways on one of His Majesty’s warships. I would be well within my rights to throw the four of you overboard.”

  If the British officer expected protests or some kind of plea, he must have felt very disappointed, because none of the four opened their mouths. Marco was even still smiling.

  “You won’t do that,” Hudgens said. “Our superiors know we’re on board, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to be responsible for causing a dispute between our countries, am I wrong?”

  March-Phillipps went up to the American, ignoring the more than four inches of height separating them. “I could claim there was a firefight with the Italians,” he said in a threatening tone, scratching his chin, “and we couldn’t save you.”

  Hudgens shrugged. “Is that what you intend to do?” he asked coldly. “Shoot us and throw us overboard?”

  “Not if you tell me why you boarded the Duchessa and entered Hold Seven.”

  “I already told you I can’t talk about that, Captain. I just follow orders,” he said, “like you.”

  “Orders . . .” The Englishman seemed to roll the word around his mouth until he finally turned toward Riley. “You’re not a soldier,” he said, then addressed Jack and Marco. “None of you three are, so as far as I’m concerned you’re spies.” His voice hissed as he spoke. “Do you know what they do to spies during wartime?”

  “Save the threats, Captain,” Riley said, mustering all the arrogance he could. “If you want to throw us
overboard, do it. At least that way we won’t die of boredom from all this chitchat.”

  March-Phillipps’s eyes narrowed like knife wounds. “Do you mean to say I won’t? And you?” he said sharply to Jack. “Do you think I’m joking too?”

  Jack raised his hands and smiled goofily as he shook his head. “I sorry . . . I no speak good your language.”

  The man in charge of Operation Postmaster punched the table next to him. The reputation of Captain Gus March-Phillipps as an irritable and permanently grumpy man seemed well deserved. “Sergeant!”

  “Sir!” one of the commanders on the bridge replied.

  “Take these four clowns out of my sight,” he ordered. “Lower a boat and put them inside, no food or water. Oh, and take out the oars too.”

  “Sir?” the sergeant asked as if he hadn’t heard right.

  “The African coast is fifty miles north,” he explained. “So they have a one in four chance that the current will take them in the correct direction. Unless, of course,” he added, looking at the four subdued men, “they want to swim back to Santa Isabel. We’re still less than two miles away.” He pointed toward the stern of the ship. “Though with the number of sharks in these waters I don’t think they’d make it halfway.”

  “This isn’t necessary, Captain,” Hudgens said, trying to appease him. “We’re just following the orders of the ONI, and leaving us in a boat with no oars in the middle of the ocean isn’t going to fix anything.”

  “It would give me satisfaction,” he responded. “Is that nothing?”

  “But . . .”

  “Shut your mouth now,” the captain said, pointing a finger. “If you don’t want me to gag you.” Then he told the sergeant, “Follow my order. Get them off my ship.”

  “Hold on,” Riley said when a soldier was already taking his arm. “That backpack is ours.”

  March-Phillipps looked at the black bag they’d taken off Hudgens, now sitting in a corner.

  “I don’t think so,” he responded with a biting smile.

  “Fine, but at least give us our flashlights and weapons back.”