He comes to a halt a few inches away, invading me space while gesturing at his watch. “It’s captain, motherfucker. And you’re late.”
I pause dramatically and consider his accusation. “Don’t think I am.”
“Listen to me, you pigeon ass. Ten minutes ago, all crew members were expected on the stern. You missed roll call so I’m docking you two days wages including missed time due to all your idling about.”
“That’s hardly legitimate.”
His ears turn scarlet. “You think my being subjected to a goddamn idiot who can’t keep his food down is legitimate? That you’re getting paid to pussy about instead of manning up is legitimate? Hands down, you’re the laziest excuse of a human being I’ve ever met.”
“Aw, Cap. Don’t be like that. A few cups of tea should settle me stomach. Then I’ll be back on deck.”
“Tea!” he shouts.
Ol’ Cap has a reason for being in a temper after the “unfortunate” incident outside his cabin. Two mornings ago, he stepped out the door and smack into the contents of my stomach, which I’d vomited right outside. The incident put a bit of a spring into his walk whenever he sets eyes on me. Displeased. Disgusted. Determined to make my life miserable.
The incident achieved the desired effect. Barely a day onboard, and I was banished to the engine room with two other useless pigeon arses. Tucked away from the hustle and bustle on deck. Assigned the arduous task of watching gears crank and pistons pulse. Out of sight, out of mind, and free to do as I will.
“Name one goddamn thing you’ve done to contribute to this voyage.”
“Entertainment,” I mumble loud enough to catch his ear.
“What was that?”
“I said I offer you and the lads entertainment. Nothing beats a good gaf, eh?”
“Entertainment?” he shrieks, then presses a finger into my chest. “Listen, pigeon shit, I don’t care who your daddy is, everyone who works for me pulls their weight.”
“Granda.”
“What?”
“My granda was with the British Navy for fifty-odd years. He put in a word.”
The credentials Hayden produced say I’m an OS, an Ordinary Seaman, which is more of an apprentice position rather than an AB, Able Bodied Seaman. It became apparent after the first twenty-four hours I wouldn’t be pulling the wool over anyone’s eyes. Something had to be done or every crewman onboard would sense things were a wee bit off.
I figured the captain wouldn’t want me on deck. Working anywhere in accommodations, a four-level structure toward the stern of the boat that houses everything from a galley and recreation room on the first level, crew quarters in the middle bits, and the bridge on top that includes the captain’s quarters, would have seemed more a reward than a banishment. The engine room was the captain’s obvious choice.
Below deck, in the belly of hell, I have nothing but time to drop weight and turn this body into a fighting machine. The twenty-two-member crew rotate schedules, working twelve hour shifts with three one-hour breaks. I’m alone for the better part of the day, alone to do as I wish. So, I train, curse the heat, and plan my next step in fueling the captain’s hatred of me.
“I’ll see to it that you’re permanently blacklisted from joining another crew.”
“Permanently is a long arse time, sir.”
He steps into me and pokes me again.
I stagger back like the force of his wee finger is too much for me. “Careful, captain, or I’ll report you for harassment.”
The man goes into total Mad Titan-mode, his face as red as a well-slapped backside. “Harassment? You threatening me, you do-nothing, worthless piece of shit?” He comes at me, raging with his fist clenched.
I see it coming a mile away. Do I have time to deflect it? Hell, yeah. Have I had me eyes blackened a time or two before? You bet. Did they pay the consequences? Always—I pride myself on that fact.
So, well before the punch lands, I know what I’m going to do.
Nothing.
His fist connects, and I take it like a professional. “Ouch,” I say in a flat voice, the devil within too damn proud to act the maggot. Let him have his fun and think he’s won. A black eye is just the face-value kind of cred I need to build a rapport with the cutthroats in Cork.
“One word about this, Antonio, and there’ll be more where that came from. Now get out of my sight.”
I place my hand over my aching eye and amble off like a man on the sauce, deciding then and there the captain’s cabin is long overdue for a thorough inspection.
The next day, while the captain is badgering another crewmate for spilling coffee on the deck, I steal into his private quarters. It doesn’t take long to discover just what a dirtball he is.
I hold a two-by-four, cellophane-wrapped brick up to the light. Well, what have we here? It’s white, though it sure ain’t a thick dollop of cream for me Sunday biscuits.
Stacks of the same are neatly stacked within a built-in drawer beneath the captain’s platform bed. Funny flour. Cocaine, as most like to call it.
I open a second drawer and then a third. Each is filled with kilo-size bricks. One brick has a street value of twenty-five thousand dollars. Ol’ Cap has to have a hundred here.
Drug dealers are the lowest of gobshites. A half step up from weapons dealers. And the airs the pigeon-hating wanker puts on, he’d made you believe he’s a bird-loving saint.
I have half a mind to toss his stash out the portal window. Millions washed away with the tide.
It takes great willpower to return everything as is. I need to make it to Cork without causing a ruckus.
Now is as good a time as any to locate the uranium. The problem with these ships is they carry feckin’ massive steel-encased containers. Some stacked forty feet, some twenty. Even with the ship being a quarter way full, it’s taking me a long time to locate the uranium. But I’ve come onboard prepared, with several small GPS devices that I’ll fix to the containers so TORC can track their locations. Keeping an eye on the merchandise until Hayden decides our next step.
I take a few extra moments to search for a shipping manifest but come up empty-handed.
I crack my knuckles, mildly annoyed but remind myself to be patient. That we’re ten days out and I’ve nothing but feckin’ time.
Pocketing one of the bricks for insurance purposes, I head off toward the bow.
Clarissa
The ship clears the Panama Canal through a series of locks. It’s a slow, methodical process and a sight I would have never seen if not for this investigation. A job perk, if you will.
Except I’m not here for the scenery.
It didn’t take long to locate the steel stack holding the crates of uranium once I figured out that every shipment has a unique number assigned to it. I realized the mysterious number on the slip of paper, A67H4C222-422, was just that. So, I now have proof of the uranium’s existence. I’ve been using the steel towers as a visual backdrop for my videos.
Is it risky filming like this? Not so much—especially when compared to the horrific events that preceded my being onboard. No, the voyage itself has been relatively uneventful, and, for the most part, I’ve been left alone.
The same can’t be said for one of the crewmembers. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the captain lose his temper and assault the man, punching him hard enough to send him staggering backward. The crewmember’s back was to me, so I couldn’t see his reaction. But judging by the twisted smile on the captain’s face, it had to have hurt.
Do I really want to have dinner with a man who assaulted his own crewman? I’m outside his cabin, my hand is paused, midair and ready to knock. The jerk charged me double for this voyage. I could have flown first-class by airline and around the world twice for the price he demanded. Now he’s invited me to dinner?
This is a prime opportunity to find out what he knows. I swallow hard, and knock. This trip will be money well spent once I expose him for his part in illegally distributing uranium.
The door swings open like he’d been waiting on me. He steps outside and slams the door shut behind him like he doesn’t want me to see inside.
“We’ll dine on deck.”
I flinch as he grabs hold of my elbow and guides me away.
“On deck?” It’s hot. August is rainy season. This doesn’t make sense.
What’s inside his cabin he doesn’t want me to see?
“Do you have a problem with that?” he snaps. He squeezes my arm more harshly than appropriate. I force myself to relax, not wanting to show fear.
“Of course not,” I answer in the gentlest of tones. Playing the easygoing tourist who’s thankful he took on a passenger at the last minute. “This is the voyage of a lifetime.” His grip softens, good. “You must be busy being the head of this ship. I appreciate your time and this dinner invitation.”
He grunts.
I give myself a mental high-five.
A small, round table covered in a blue plaid tablecloth, accompanied by two chairs, has been set up mid deck. Surprisingly thoughtful, I think, until he pulls out a chair and takes a seat.
I move to sit across from him.
“Wine?” he asks, then fills an empty glass from the bottle on the table and passes it to me.
“Thank you.” I wait for him to drink, my dislike and distrust of this unscrupulous man foremost in my mind. “You shouldn’t have gone through so much trouble.”
“Aside from gallivanting across continents,” he pins me with a look, “what do you do for work?”
Damn, he’s not wasting time.
“I’m a graduate student at Santa Clara University.”
“Never heard of it.”
I shrug.
“What field?”
“Chemical engineering.” I pause, letting my lie sink in and hoping he knows less than I do about the field. “But I’m taking the fall semester off. I wanted to see the world a bit before finishing up and then beginning a career.”
“You work with minerals?”
We’re interrupted by one of the crew, who places a house salad in front of me. I take a few bites before answering, deciding on how best to approach the subject. I play dumb. “Like diamonds and topaz?”
He frowns.
I laugh. “No. Not exactly.”
That catches his attention.
“Salt.”
“Salt?” he repeats.
“Yes. It sounds dull, really. But did you know that pink salt extractions are a very lucrative field? Pink salt actually increases hydration and combats acid reflux, which seems to be a huge problem nowadays—”
“Enough,” he barks out. My lips part at his rudeness. I sit silently while he gestures to our server to wheel the main course over.
The cart promptly arrives before us and just as promptly, the crewmember disappears.
Without a word, he serves himself and begins to eat.
I nibble on my salad. Eating a meal with this man is giving me a stomachache, especially when all I want is to gather whatever information I can and quickly be done with him.
He chews with his mouth open and ignores me for the better part of the meal.
I wait for him to finish his steak before adding in my sweetest voice, “It’s funny, though. My interest is in salt, but the chemistry department insists we learn everything from environmental engineering to thermodynamics.”
The last word is gold, and I thank Google and my own research for it. “Thermodynamics is the exchange of energy—”
“I know what thermodynamics is.”
I laugh. It sounds hallow even to my ears. “Not everyone does.”
He tosses his cloth napkin on the table. “That’s a lucrative field of study. You’d be surprised at the money to be had.”
“Really?” I exclaim, bright-eyed.
“Forget fucking salt. There’s more money in mining—”
“Silver? Gold?”
“Something even better.”
“Better?” I exclaim. “But the price of gold has skyrocketed.”
He offers me a smug smile, pleased as punch at the game he’s playing. The power he has in taunting me with the inside-information he has.
I can’t wait to go public with his name. “Thank you,” I exclaim, changing tactics.
His eyes widen. “For what?”
“For being such a smart man. Not to sound shallow, but I’d like a career where I make money . . . like a lot of money. But I have connections in the salt business, an uncle who will put in a good word for me.”
His chest is still puffing up from my compliment, which loosens his lips. “Ever hear the name Ogdenhayer?”
I shake my head.
“South Africans. They run a mining business dealing in a substance far more profitable than salt. When you’re ready, you should look them up online. I’m sure a smart woman like you would be an asset to them.”
I carefully sip my wine. Trying not to show my excitement. Trying not to jump to my feet and waltz across the deck. Ogdenhayer. I store the name away.
“Goddamn it,” he growls, jumping to his feet. “What the hell is that pigeonshit up to now?”
I turn to see who he’s angry with. But the only person on deck with us is our server.
“Finish your meal.” He pushes his chair in. “I hate to see good food go to waste.”
“I enjoyed your company,” I hastily say. Terrific. He just started opening up.
“I hope one day you remember the kindness I showed you,” he says before hurrying off.
Oh, I’ll remember. Just not in the way you suspect.
Finn
She looks so harmless asleep. Covers half-on, half-off her gorgeous body. Arm flung out across the small mattress. Cheeks pink from the warm night air.
To say I’m surprised she’s onboard is an understatement. But I’m more surprised at myself for underestimating her. She’s a pot-stirrer for sure. Wining and dining with the captain. Batting pretty eyelashes and buttering him up. Oblivious to what a shyster he really is. But whatever she was dishing out, he was buying it. A standing ovation performance. So, what did he tell her?
Trouble, she is.
Trouble, and she’s in over her head.
I’ve been following her about for days. Eavesdropping on her narrating her videos. Locating the uranium containers only because the clever lass found them first. How did she do it?
What else does she know?
I pick up her cell phone, hack into it, then download TORC developed spyware from an encrypted site. Whatever internet site is accessed, whatever files are uploaded, whatever codes and numbers she enters, I can trace, access, or delete them. There’s also a GPS feature so I can monitor her whereabouts.
With that done, I place the phone on the table and then, when curiosity gets the best of me, pick it back up.
How about we take a gander at what she’s been up to?
I set the volume on low then hit play.
There’s a whole lot of footage in Acapulco. The warehouse and El Chulo’s men. The port. Her describing what’s in the shipping manifest. It’s not until I’m midway through I realize exactly the lengths she’s taken to be here.
Christ on a bike. She was there. With that vicious woman and worse . . . Diego.
I watch it all. Her connecting the dots from drugs and weapons to the uranium. From Fahder’s involvement to his wife, Señora del Leon’s. The moment everything went to shite.
BOOM.
She drops the camera.
Fire and smoke and chaos.
Death.
How much dynamite did that muppet use?
The explosion visibly scared her. It’s in her face, her tone, in the way the camera shakes. The woman has got balls, she does. And no matter how fecked up it is to see her there, I’ve got to say, I respect the hell out of her. Courageous. Persistent. Excellent at her job and in documenting the details.
Now she’s onboard. Like me, tracking the uranium.
I rub my beard,
wondering what to do with her then it’s off to the bed to find out. I sit down on the mattress with a bounce.
She doesn’t budge.
Reaching over, I nudge her hip.
She sleeps on, dead to the world, unaware of the danger I pose.
I study her for a few minutes: her toned body and long runner’s legs, perky nipples standing at attention beneath her cotton shirt, that pale white throat of hers, which I could easily wrap my fingers around. A beautiful complication, she is. Christ knows this feckin’ assignment has been riddled by them.
I crawl up on the bed, straddling her body then give her a firm shake.
She comes awake with a start.
The room is dimly lit, and I can see the exact moment she realizes her predicament.
Pure horror crosses her pretty face. “You?”
I don’t reply.
She struggles to sit up then realizes she can’t, not with my thighs straddling her hips. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Mad as a magpie.”
She wiggles beneath me. “Get off me.”
“Make me.”
Her eyes go wide, and I almost smile . . . until with her free hand, she sends a fist into me balls. I pivot, fighter instincts kicking in, quick enough that her second punch lands on my arse.
She hisses.
I grasp hold of her arm then immobilize her by tightening of my thighs.
“Not very charitable of you.”
“What are you doing here, Antonio?”
“The question is, why are you onboard, Clarissa?”
She stiffens beneath me. “You know my name.”
“Clarissa Steele. Twenty-six years old. Born in Rangeley, Maine. Majored in journalism at The University of Augusta. Worked as a rookie war correspondent with the Associated News and then more recently at ActionNews7.”
A deep V mars her otherwise smooth forehead. “You ran my name through the CIA database?”
I feel myself relax. She still believes that nonsense. “Something like that. Missing a bit of information, though. Like, what in shite’s sake you’re doing on this ship?”
Player: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (A Deadliest Lies Novel Book 4) Page 5