by Glen Robins
“Our cause is just; yours is not. We seek to pull down the greed and pride and arrogance of your country and bring prosperity to all the world, not just one rich country. You only seek to keep the money that you stole from us. We will prevail. You and the other American scum will not. You will all be brought down to the dust to beg for mercy. And we shall laugh.”
“How can you say your cause is just? All you want to do is harm and kill and steal, you lunatic animal.”
As the waves smashed into the Admiral, the two men continued to tumble together in the cabin.
“You shall think differently when this is all over. When our plans are complete, you shall see our triumph,” Stinky said. “This will be after you watch your mother and whore girlfriend suffer in a most cruel fashion. First, my fellow team members will enjoy the companionship of your beautiful friend. They have been waiting to do so all day and have a special plan for her. When they are through, your mother will be sacrificed while your girlfriend watches. She will be as helpless as you. And you will have a perfect view. You will beg me to kill them first, and then you.”
“You’re deluded,” hissed Collin.
Stinky broke concentration during his speech. Collin felt the slack in his arms and took advantage during the next slide across the floor. He broke free and used his feet and legs to scrabble to the opposite side of the cabin.
Collin’s eyes were fixed on Stinky’s through the dim light spilling from a single, plastic-covered bulb mounted on the ceiling above the galley sink. The rage inside burned with a ferocity Collin had never in his life experienced. Stinky was inexplicably passive about his escape. An air of superiority enveloped his countenance. He was full of some sort of philosophical confidence, which perturbed Collin to no end.
Stinky fought for balance so he could regain higher ground. First, he crawled on hands and knees to the salon table. Then he scrambled to a sitting position on the bench and glowered downward at Collin who was leaning against the bulkhead near the steps to the hatch.
The ship was being tossed about in the roiling sea, making it difficult for Collin to keep his intensity as he struggled to maintain an upright position.
“I wish the boss would say it is time right now,” said Stinky. He raised his Uzi and pointed it toward Collin’s face. “I will enjoy seeing your face when they ravish your girlfriend.”
Another powerful wave propelled Stinky face first from his perch on the salon bench, knocking the gun out of his hands, and sending the two men careening toward the front of the boat across the wooden floor. They skidded in a jumble, aimed directly at the two steps leading down to the galley as the boat raced down the face of a towering wave. Stinky banged his shoulder against the wall before going head long down the steps. Collin managed to catch his balance just before plunging into the same low spot with Stinky by pressing his legs against the cabinet on one side and the wall on the other side of the steps to the galley and pushing his back into the floor.
Stinky scrambled to collect himself, but his weapon was behind Collin, and Collin blocked his path. The boat quickly changed angles as it climbed toward the crest of the next gigantic wave. Collin was now sliding backward toward the hatch and the steps leading up to the deck. The Uzi ricocheted off the wall and hit his bound hands as he slid toward the rear of the boat. With some effort, he was able to grasp it with his right hand by the stock. At that moment he sensed movement coming in his direction. It was Stinky making a last-ditch effort to seize the weapon. Collin hit the bottom step with the middle of his back and fought off the pain to stay in the moment. As Stinky left his feet, the step gave Collin just enough support so he could lift both legs in the air and kick out.
It wasn’t a solid hit, but it did the job. One foot connected with Stinky’s left arm, the other grazed his ribs on his right side. The impact, though not injurious, knocked Stinky’s trajectory toward the steps instead of directly at Collin. One knee just missed Collin’s left leg, but Stinky’s left shoulder barreled into Collin’s stomach, knocking out his breath.
The next moment, both bodies were slipping toward the kitchen and its precipitous step again. Collin struggled for air as he skated on his back. Stinky, dazed from the head-first collision with the steps, was tumbling on his side, shoulder over shoulder until he slammed against the base of the cabinet. Collin was heading toward the opening where the steps to the galley were located. This time, however, the boat pitched to the right. Collin’s left foot made contact with the cabinet and the inertia from the boat caused him to slip under the dining table to his right. Stinky followed, his head hitting Collin’s thigh as Collin’s shoulder crashed into the bulkhead below the dining room’s bench seat.
Collin still clutched the stock of the compact submachine gun.
As the boat began another steep ascent, the two men slipped along the floor as one tangled mess toward the rear of the boat again. Without hands, Collin’s ability to fight was severely impaired. Stinky thrashed his arms in an attempt to commandeer the gun.
“I warn you,” Collin growled into Stinky’s ear, “given the chance, I will kill you.”
“You won’t. You have no guts. You are no killer.”
“Believe that if you want,” Collin barked. “I’ll kill all of you if I have to.”
****
Industrial Complex, 30 miles southeast of San Diego, California
June 15, 5:41 p.m. Pacific Time
Emily had closed her eyes to summon her strength and hide her fear. When hands gripped each arm above the elbow, she flinched. One of the men cut her feet free, then each man held her down more tightly on each side while they cut away the duct tape from her arms. Together they yanked her out of the chair and dragged her toward the table. She wanted to kick, but she couldn’t move her legs. They had been bound in the sitting position for too long, too stiff to move.
The men lifted her onto the table and pressed her down on her back. The younger one climbed onto the table, straddling her with his knees and pinning her arms down over her head while the older man worked quickly to tie down her wrists first, then her ankles. She tried to resist, but her stiff muscles had very little strength or coordination.
The spiked eyebrow moved in close to her face, whispering something she couldn’t understand in her ear. A demonic grin spread across his face as he pressed himself against her. Emily again closed her eyes, trying to block out the looks from the man as he leered at her. Her attempts to wrestle free were vain. The man was thin, but muscular. Every struggle to break free caused him to apply more pressure and snigger more obscenely.
Emily felt a tug on her left ankle and realized the older man with the tattoos on his neck had finished tying her down. When he stood, he raised his voice and wrestled the younger one off Emily. She imagined him saying something like “Not yet, but you’ll have your chance later,” as the two men moved back toward the van.
Emily had never felt so vulnerable in her life. Tied to a table with her shirt ripped open, dried blood on her face and neck, and fresh blood mixed with rat urine dripping down her chest, she experienced a level of humiliation and degradation she had never imagined possible. Being at the mercy of these two miscreants conjured feelings of helplessness and hopelessness more overwhelming and dehumanizing than anything she had ever thought possible.
Though her eyes remained closed, Emily could sense them moving and could hear them talking. The young one was anxious; she could tell by the tone of his voice. The older one was trying to settle him down.
She ventured a look as the voices grew distant. They were dragging Sarah’s chair closer. Then she heard a slapping sound and tried to scream. The younger one was slapping Sarah’s face to wake her up. She was not responsive, so he began to shake her and scream. Powerless to stop them, Emily could only watch as the young bully grew more impatient. Finally, the older one showed up with a syringe in hand. After he injected her arm, Sarah’s eyes popped open and she began to bob and sway in an agitated frenzy.
Emily�
��s eyes met Sarah’s, which were wide open and darting about in a frenzy until they locked in on Emily. She watched Sarah’s brow furrow and a look of sorrow and pity overtake her countenance. Sarah’s head shook and her mouth moved. Unintelligible sounds came through the tape, though it was obvious that Sarah wanted these two men to stop what they were doing.
The older one with the tattoos was holding the younger one with the spikes at arm’s length and speaking strong words to him. Then a phone rang somewhere in the background and both men moved toward the sound. A conversation ensued that Emily could not understand, but yet she could. Instructions were being given by the man in charge for how this torture and assault would go down and how it would be filmed. They were going to show it to Collin as a means of punishment. The thought wrecked her. Anyone seeing her like this would be the ultimate disgrace, but for Collin to witness what was about to take place would completely undo him. She was supposed to be helping him. How could she be strong knowing what was coming and knowing Collin would be forced to watch it?
Chapter Nineteen
Western Caribbean Sea, 3.5 miles north-northwest of Providencia Island
June 15, 7:45 p.m. Caribbean Time
The sun hung above the western horizon, though they could not see it. The storm had swallowed nearly all of the sunlight by day’s end with its ominous black clouds and heavy showers. The Admiral slogged through thickening darkness and relentless wind and rain. Only through the miracle of modern technology and the gadgets onboard, along with Captain Sewell’s knowledge and experience, had they managed to make it this far in these conditions.
Less than four miles to go. Three and a half treacherous, perilous, life-threatening miles. At their current rate, it would take roughly half an hour to reach the harbor. That felt like an eternity to Captain Sewell as he fought through the mounting swells and the lashing winds. He had ordered all sails furled and all hatches battened down, choosing instead to use engine power. It was the only safe way, if you could call it that, to navigate in these conditions. Their progress would be, necessarily, much slower. He threaded the Admiral through the maze of shoals with the hearty fortitude of an old sea dog. But it was a wearying task.
The swells came at the Admiral head-on and had grown to ten feet in height. In the shallow water around the shoals, the waves were amplified, being squeezed up from the rising ocean floor and pinched on the sides by the reefs and rocks. Climbing the face of each wave and fighting the increasing current, had slowed progress to a crawl.
Although the Admiral Risty was well-equipped for severe weather, including some retrofits to the bulkhead and mast for storm-ready sails, the winds had become too powerful and unpredictable for sails. The Captain and crew, like the ship itself, were experienced and prepared for such weather; their captors were not. The three hijackers above-decks clung to the railings near the cockpit, trying to maintain a vigilant guard. Guns drawn and ready, they let the Captain know they were wary and ready to shoot.
Noting their vigilance, the Captain, using a mix of nautical terminology and dialectic Spanish, spoke directly to his crew, warning them to be careful. One wrong move would spell disaster for them all.
The real danger now was the natural surroundings. So far, they had successfully navigated through several miles of shoals and reefs but were still surrounded by multiple rocky spits and islets, barely discernible on the Captain’s instruments. The waters were shallow, the winds blew at gale force from the east, and the seas were rougher than ever. The peaks and troughs were closer together, making the swells steeper and more treacherous to navigate, and much less comfortable for all on board.
****
Below-decks, neither Stinky nor Collin had the strength to continue their fight. Stinky rolled to his side and retched violently. Although exhausted and parched, Collin had managed to land a knee to Stinky’s gut as the two tussled about on the floor of the cabin, causing the intense reaction. When he was done, Stinky struggled to his knees, braced himself against the bunk, shimmied his way to the galley, and found the store of water bottles in the refrigerator. He gulped one down, then opened another. He drank another mouthful, then crawled to where Collin lay half unconscious.
Stinky grabbed Collin by the shirt and pulled him close as he wrested the Uzi out of Collin’s feeble grip. While bracing himself and holding Collin steady amid the jostling of the sea, Stinky studied Collin’s face, paying particular attention to his eyes. “My boss says you must live,” he muttered as he began pouring the water on Collin’s face. At first, Collin gagged at the stench emanating from Stinky’s mouth as he spoke. His breath was hot and foul, his face far too close to Collin’s. But Collin’s need for water was powerful enough to overcome the gag reflex. Instincts kicked in and Collin opened his mouth to catch every drop possible, licking and lapping like a starved dog.
The water was refreshing and renewing, but far from adequate. He needed much more. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.
“You have been very clever, Mr. Cook,” Stinky said. His energy was zapped, and the statement hung in the air. “But my boss is cleverer. You will not beat him.”
“I don’t feel the need to.” Collin was lying, but his lack of vigor hid that fact. He sounded desperate and beaten, much like Stinky.
“You should not have hidden his money. My boss is a very stern man. He will do bad things. Your mother and your girlfriend will suffer and so will you. I will kill you then, slowly.”
There was a period of silence between the two men, filled only by the sounds of the intensifying storm outside, the clanging of objects in the cupboards and closets, and their labored breathing.
Collin spoke slowly and clearly, his voice loud enough to be heard over the din, but hoarse and strained. “Only I can get the money out in person. Without me, the computer codes are useless. That account has no Internet access. I wanted it to be completely secure, so a retina scan is required. Then the codes. When we get to Panama City, I will get the money. But only if my mother and friend are released, unharmed. I told you guys this.”
“That is for Mr. Penh to decide.”
There was pause in the conversation as the ship slid down the face of another large wave, then up the side of the next. Both men were braced on the floor, using each other, the walls, and the table legs for leverage to prevent themselves from careening out of control. “Why does he want my money?” Collin asked. “He’s shown that he can skim money from any major bank in the world. I’m sure he has plenty of money for his little cyber jihad. Why can’t he leave me alone? I’m a nothing.”
Stinky’s voice was harsh and condemning now. Any trace of humanity or compassion had vanished. “That is not your money. You must first realize that fact. You must also realize that Mr. Penh does not tolerate thieves like you. You have proven that all Americans are filled with greed. Money. It is your god. Your family and friends will also pay for your greediness.”
“I am not the greedy one here,” Collin said with more strength than he thought he had. “And my family and friends should be left out of this. Justice was served and Penh’s insurance company paid what was agreed upon as compensation for my loss and the neglect of his client. All of this,” he said with a wave of his head, “is proof that your boss’s greed is far more insidious than any greed you might think I have.”
“You are wrong, Mr. Cook,” Stinky snapped. “Americans are all greedy. They steal from poor countries like ours so they can get richer.” His eyes bored into Collin’s. “We must bring it to an end. Our cause is just. You are an American scum—a thief and a cheater. You and your family are like vermin that must be exterminated.”
Another wave hit the boat from the side and the two men were knocked from their positions of balance into each other. They clamored and kicked as they slid, banging into the opposite wall then back again.
“I will watch you suffer, Mr. Cook. You, your mother, and your whore girlfriend.” Stinky’s words spewed out like foaming acid that burned Collin’s insides, mak
ing him sick to his very core.
Collin shook his head slowly and clinched his jaw. The two men glared across the cabin at each other, bracing against the constant rolling action of the sea. Neither spoke another word.
The Captain’s voice above them grew in volume and urgency. His orders were crisp and clear, fueled with authority. Those orders were followed by indiscernible activity on the deck. Scrambling, knocking, and whirring. Metallic pings. Ropes whistling through pulleys. More clanging. More yelling.
The Admiral pitched forward, leaning hard to the left. It was then thrown upward, bending sharply to the right.
These motions repeated themselves over and over for what felt like interminable hours, although it was only minutes.
Collin saw Stinky’s eyes widen and his body tighten even more. His face had become ashen. He looked up and all around as everything inside the Admiral Risty banged and clattered with the violent motions of the storm-whipped sea. As if a thought struck him, Stinky whipped his head in all directions, searching for something. He crawled across the floor on hands and knees, eventually standing and stepping down into the galley. Emerging with the satellite phone in his hand, Stinky studied its screen. He tapped on it and muttered to himself as he turned and pointed the device to the sky in all directions, presumably trying to find signal.
****
Industrial Complex, 30 miles southeast of San Diego, California
June 15, 5:56 p.m. Pacific Time