by Glen Robins
“It’s working,” said the passenger.
The driver nodded his head as he watched the red blip on the screen.
“Remember, the transmitter has a range of less than one mile. Don’t follow too close, but don’t let them get too far ahead,” said the passenger.
Annoyed by the patronizing tone, the driver grunted, “I know, I know,” and started the engine.
Chapter Nine
Western Caribbean Sea, 225 miles south of Grand Cayman
June 14, 8:45 p.m. Caribbean Time
Captain Sewell, his crew, and their hijackers were treated to a phenomenal sunset that night, though it went largely unnoticed. The Western horizon off the starboard side glowed purple, pink, and orange, the colors streaking across the glassy surface of the water. Ordinarily, a setting such as this would elicit a philosophical discussion among the Captain and his select crew. Conversations about life, death, God, nature, hopes, dreams, failures, and worries often occurred on nights like this. Collin had joined several during his time on the boat. Not tonight. Not after what had transpired. Everything had changed in the blink of an eye.
No one spoke. The beauty of the sunset stood in sharp contrast to the brooding, dark emotions fermenting inside the Captain’s heart. A heavy silence enveloped his three remaining crew members, still in shock from the suddenness and brutality that had claimed their friend and shipmate. The Captain had no words of comfort or solace to offer, not after watching the hijackers toss Tog’s body overboard like refuse, against Sewell’s angry protests. This turn of events violated everything the Captain held sacred. Life deserved more respect than these monsters gave it and death deserved more solemnity than they had allowed.
Captain Sewell remained silent, trying to control himself and prevent further violence. Thoughts of Tog and concern for Rojas, Jaime, Miguel, and Collin wrestled within him, stealing all joy from what should have been a glorious scene. He shook his head, cast his eyes toward his instruments, and fought back the boiling rage inside, knowing if he acted on it the outcome would be disastrous. Powerless to console and lost in his own angst-riddled mourning, he steered the ship toward the mounting storm to the south.
Then Stinky appeared from below and the stillness shattered.
The Admiral had been languishing for hours in the doldrums, chugging along at a mere eight miles per hour under power from the seventy-five-horsepower engine. The sails were at full flap, but that hardly helped. Every few minutes a lazy breeze would come along and provide a little push, but their southward progress was slow and tedious and Stinky had had enough.
“Go faster,” he commanded the Captain. “We move too slow.
“This is a sailing boat. It has large sails, but not a large engine. It’s going as fast as it can without wind,” the Captain explained for the umpteenth time. His patience was wearing thin and he had given up masking that fact.
Stinky’s impatience was less anger-driven, it seemed, and more motivated by a sub-surface urgency that was perhaps part of his Type-A personality. He never stopped moving. When he spoke, his words were clipped, sharp, and hurried. There was nothing about him that indicated he could tolerate the doldrums or anything that did not move at his command.
The shirt Collin had decorated for Stinky had since been rinsed out using seawater. When it dried, the silky fabric had stiffened, causing him to constantly adjust, itch, and tug at the salt-laden fabric.
“No good. We must go faster,” he insisted without conviction.
The Captain pointed to the western sky and said, “Enjoy this while you can. By tomorrow afternoon, we’ll have plenty of wind. And clouds. We’ll go much faster then.” His eyes smoldered as they narrowed; his tone radiated spite.
Darkness approached. The Captain ordered his men to top off the fuel tank while there was still enough light, so Jaime and Rojas set to work untying two of the red, five-gallon containers and moving them into position near the stern. As they worked, the Captain addressed Stinky. His voice barely under control.
“Our men need to rest. Tomorrow will be a difficult day. They will need all of their strength. We all will.”
Stinky thought about that. Clearly, he had not anticipated this scenario. “This is a trick―” he began to say.
The Captain cut him off. “No tricks,” he said sharply, pointing to the screen in front of him. “Look right here. Tomorrow, a storm will come. I need my men to be ready. If they don’t sleep now, they won’t be ready.”
Stinky glared at him, unused to being interrupted. Captain Sewell returned the stare, then added, “You can do what you want with your men. Mine are going to get some rest.” He signaled for Jaime and Rojas to head below decks. The Captain instructed Miguel to stay topside to help. They would rotate in four hours, he said.
Stinky huffed again and signaled Mr. Green to accompany them down the steps.
That’s when Stinky’s phone rang, a muffled and unfamiliar melody. He fumbled as he dug it out of his hip pocket. As he put the phone to his ear, a frown contorted his mouth.
Captain Sewell stood at the wheel, listening but not understanding the words Stinky uttered except when he said, “OK.”
****
Collin had been sleeping off and on for the past several hours. There had been no new attacks and the pain was starting to subside everywhere except his head. It pounded and throbbed. His mouth and throat were so dry it made him cough and choke. He realized that he must be dehydrated, but he dared not ask for anything, fearing another assault, so he lay still and listened to the rustling of the three men who had just entered the room.
Rojas and Jaime conversed softly in Spanish. At first, they seemed to be testing the waters to see if either of the two gunmen in their company would tell them to stop. “Where’s my pillow?” “Do you want a blanket?” “I need my toothbrush.” Their words were spoken more clearly than usual. Their tone was still familiar and casual, but the conversation lacked the normal amount of slang incomprehensible to Collin, who spoke fluent Spanish but could rarely follow the exchanges between these two. It was a running joke.
When the guards said nothing to halt their chatter, they continued, still speaking softly and in the same tone. Rojas said, “Did you hear about Abigail’s little sister?”
Jaime replied, “Abigail has a sister?”
“Yeah, she’s coming to visit tomorrow.”
“Really? What’re you going to do?”
“Introduce her to our guests. Maybe she can take them out.”
“I hope she does.”
Both men grumbled and snorted, a sinister chortle shared between them. That’s when Mr. Green stepped closer, gun in hand, and ordered them to stop talking.
Collin replayed the short conversation in his head, interpreting the code. He tried to suppress a smile. Abigail, the hurricane that nearly killed him over a week ago, had a little sister who was coming tomorrow. Jaime caught Collin’s eye and gave Rojas a shove with his elbow.
****
Huntington Beach, California
June 14, 9:53 p.m. Pacific Time
With the push of a button mounted on the overhead console, the Cooks’ garage door began to open as the dark blue Cadillac approached the end of the cul-de-sac. The handsome two-story, Mediterranean-style home was mostly dark, save a few lights, which were controlled by timers, glowing in the front windows and in the bonus room above the garage. The decorative landscape lighting illuminated the willows and the Japanese maple in the front yard. The garage door was fully opened by the time the Cadillac reached the driveway. Henry inched the car carefully forward until the dangling tennis ball touched the windshield. He smiled at Sarah as she roused from slumber.
“Oh, are we home already?” Sarah said as she checked her surroundings.
“Already? You must have been in a deep sleep, my dear. Traffic was horrendous coming into Orange County.”
“I’m sorry, Henry. I should have stayed awake to keep you company.”
“No, no. I’m fine. Did
you enjoy your nap?”
“I just can’t seem to keep my eyes open. I’m sorry to be so out of it.”
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head. Rest is good for you. Now, let’s get you upstairs where you can sleep comfortably in your own bed,” said Henry as he turned to open his door.
Sarah watched as he swung his legs out, stood, and stretched his tall frame. Once he closed the door, she began to gather her purse and sweater while she waited for him to open her door, as was his custom. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, summoning her strength for the journey up the stairs.
It seemed to take Henry longer than usual to make his way around the back of the car. And it seemed strange to hear the garage door closing already. He didn’t usually do that until they reached the door to the inside of the house. That’s where the button was, the one mounted on the wall right by the door frame. Why had he closed it already, she wondered? When her door opened, she reached out for his hand without opening her eyes. A hand, a much smaller and gloved hand, grabbed it and yanked her up with such force, she lost her breath. She was hurled into the arms of another man, short and wiry. One of his hands covered her mouth while the other wrapped around her waist and lifted her off her feet. She kicked and tried to scream, but it was to no avail.
A strange smelling cloth was placed over her nose. That was the last thing she remembered from that day.
****
Western Caribbean Sea, 285 miles south of Grand Cayman
June 14, 11:45 p.m. Caribbean Time
Collin tossed and turned all night. His captors had offered him a small drink of water and some bread shortly after Rojas and Jaime settled into their bunks. It was not enough. A splitting headache, an empty stomach, and hands cuffed behind his back by plastic zip ties kept sleep at bay although his body was beaten, bruised, and exhausted. His wrists were raw, swollen, and painful. Everything hurt. And now, his mind ached with a yearning for freedom so powerful he could taste it. Thoughts swirled in his brain like leaves in the wind with no aim, constantly changing direction.
During the few short bouts of sleep he managed to get, Amy would appear to him. One time, she sat next to him and stroked his hair. It was comforting and soothing but ended too quickly. Another time, she brought the kids to him, but he could not reach them, nor hug them, nor wipe away their tears despite his desperate attempts. Each attempt brought more pain to his wrists and to his heart as he struggled against the bands and against reality. The last time, he saw her driving her minivan down the mountain with the kids buckled into their seats, engrossed in a movie. She talked on the phone with him using the van’s hands-free Bluetooth connection. Then his mind replayed the sounds he had heard over the phone nearly a year earlier: screeching tires, the faltering brakes of a loaded big rig, metal scraping against metal. Amy’s gasp followed by her high-pitched scream. Crunching. Breaking glass. Absolute silence.
This agonizing replay startled him awake. His body jolted upright in the bunk, and he let out a scream, which he stopped short as he realized where he was and recalled the events of the day. As he struggled to normalize his breathing, he surveyed his darkened surroundings, including the lemony disinfectant smell, the sploshing sounds of the waves against the hull, and the gentle bobbing action of the boat. His insides tightened and his breathing constricted as it often did when he counted his losses. His situation at the moment was hopeless, his outlook bleak. Tog was dead. Collin had every reason to believe that the rest of the crew would be expendable once they reached Panama, if not sooner. Knowing he had brought this danger and the accompanying pain to his newest friends and protectors, felt like a white-hot branding iron had seared a mark inside his heart. He could never undo it. There would always be loss and heartache and emptiness. No amount of money could change what he had brought to the men who considered each other family and called the Admiral Risty their home.
Mr. Green approached; gun drawn. He eyed Collin suspiciously, then yanked him forward by his shirt collar until their faces were inches apart. “What are you doing? You keep quiet.”
Collin nodded and said, “But I need water.”
Mr. Green opened a bottle and poured it on his face. Collin caught as much of it in his mouth as he could and gulped it down hurriedly, not wanting to waste a drop.
“No more noise,” Green demanded, shoving Collin back down.
Collin felt himself spiraling into a round of self-pity, once again at a critical crossroads, endangering his safety and the safety of his friends. Scenes played on the screen in his mind like an accelerated slideshow: Stinky’s initial attack, Tog’s murder, Stinky punching him in the face, the dreams of Amy and the kids at his side, driving the dinghy through Hurricane Abigail, Amy beckoning for him to come to her. Collin’s thoughts were rising up like a tsunami ready to sweep him up and drown him. Don’t let this happen, he thought as he tried to push them out of his head. He knew he could not afford another disastrous meltdown. He had to pull himself together. It was time to will his way back into usefulness. But how? When every possible factor was stacked against him, and the odds of success so frightfully low, how could he hope to escape this time?
Collin forced his mind to start thinking about solutions instead of problems. Focus on the outcome you want, he remembered hearing in a sales training session years ago. Forget the negatives you don’t want. Train yourself to think past the crisis of the present and into the future you design for yourself.
Collin closed his eyes and started unraveling the problem by first reviewing the conversation he had just heard between Jaime and Rojas. They were sending him a message so he could prepare as much as possible. A storm was coming, and the crew planned to use it to their advantage. This both buoyed his spirit and filled him with dread, not knowing how severe the storm would be or what he would be able to do to help. And in his impaired condition, he wondered how he’d survive if things got too dodgy.
Next, he thought about Lukas. Surely Lukas was monitoring his movements by pinging his iPhone. Remembering he had the phone attached to an external battery charger eased Collin’s concerns, knowing it could send a signal, even out at sea, for up to forty-eight hours.
The memory of Stinky as he appeared to be getting seasick flashed across his mind, bringing a small measure of hope.
Another bright spot was that Captain Sewell and the remaining crew members were veterans of the sea. They could handle the weather much better than the hijackers could and turn it to their advantage.
The storm could prove to be a blessing, but Collin had no idea how far away it was or how large. Knowing the Captain and crew anticipated it, added to his tentative but rising level of comfort. The hardest thing to do was waiting for it to arrive. Freedom beckoned and pulled at him, like a dog owner tugging on a leash. Collin was not unwilling to follow the call; he was unable. He wanted to end his captivity now and avoid suffering the excruciating angst of being held inside in a cramped space for days on end.
With his mind spinning on the potentially positive outcomes, Collin’s painful memories receded into the background. Time slipped away and Collin was lost in dreams of seeing the sun again and moving about freely and not worrying about being struck repeatedly. As the moonlight streamed into the cabin of the boat, he drifted deeper into a dream-like state where he saw his family and friends standing on a shore at the edge of his vision. He could just barely make out the faces on the figures in the distance. But they kept changing. At first, he saw his wife. Then the face changed to his mother. Standing next to her was his father, who then became Lukas. In his dream, he looked away, then looked back. When he did, the faces were Stinky, Mr. Green, and Pho Nam Penh, laughing and jeering while a fire burned in the background. Then it was Tog lying in a pool of blood just a few feet from him.
Collin woke with a start, breathing hard and sweating. The cabin was dark, except for the streams of gray light filtering through the round, tinted portholes in the wall next to the upper bunks and above the dining table. Hal
f of Mr. Green’s face was illuminated. His eyes were shut, and his body swayed with the gently rocking waves.
With his guard at rest, temptation skittered through Collin’s mind. How easy it would be to knock out Mr. Green. A swift kick to the side of the head ought to do the trick. Collin sat up and eased himself to the edge of the bed, calculating the movements required to execute his scheme.
The second phase of his plan was still murky and required cooperation from the other hijackers. If they came down to the cabin one at a time, he would simply ambush them as they came down the stairs. He felt he could handle any of them one-on-one as long as he had the element of surprise working for him, as well as his hands. That was a problem. Surely Rojas and Jaime would jump in and defend themselves. If they could cut his hands loose, it could be a fair fight―three on three―except for the weapons.
Collin summoned courage from his vast reservoir that had only grown deeper over the past few weeks. It was now or, perhaps, never. A sleeping guard presented an opportunity he could not pass up. He reviewed his plan of attack in his head one last time as he adjusted his body into a perfectly balanced position, then rose to his feet. As he stood for the first time since early in the morning, another wave of nausea overtook him. He closed his eyes to fight it back, his body reeling with the swaying of the boat. Instead of making panther-like treads toward his unsuspecting victim before he pounced on him, he lost his balance and knocked into the wall next to the bunk bed. His feet slapped the floor as he struggled to regain his equilibrium.