by Glen Robins
Emily’s body went rigid and her insides turned cold when the warm sweaty hands gripped her ankles. Her eyes instinctively shot open to see the young one with the spike in his eyebrow holding her and the older one climbing onto the platform to adjust the camera. He had a phone to his ear again and seemed to be answering questions. The two men had been talking together and to someone on the phone for several elongated minutes while Emily lay tied to the table, filled with fear. A red light atop the camera began blinking as the man with the tattoos stepped down and moved close to her. He held the phone near her ear.
“Good evening, Emily,” came a silky voice with an aristocratic accent. “It’s so nice to have you with us. My men have been anticipating this moment since they first saw you. I wish your friend Collin could join us. After all, he is the one who has brought us all together here. We have him to thank for the pleasure of your company, which we are all about to enjoy. It is unfortunate that your friend is unavailable at the moment. He is apparently preoccupied or too ashamed of the actions he has taken, which have placed you and his mother in my care. But rest assured, my dear Emily, we will record the proceedings and share them with your friend at a more convenient time. Who knows, we may even find a website willing to pay us for such footage. You may become famous, Emily.” Penh’s cackle echoed in the hollow warehouse.
The voice returned to its previous suave and regal tone and said something in another language. The tattooed man nodded to the younger one and he began moving his hands tenderly up Emily’s legs, massaging her calves as he licked his lips and whispered in a pseudo-romantic tone.
The older man barked something, and the younger man’s hands stopped and let go. He moved in front of Sarah. Emily couldn’t see what he was doing, but his frame was moving in an agitated fashion. Then she heard another slap, followed by muffled crying.
When he moved away, Emily could see a bright red mark growing on Sarah’s cheek and tears welling up in her eyes. Emily shut her eyes and tried to contain the sobs, but it didn’t work. Pent-up emotions, spiked with horror and dread, burst out. Her own tears began to flow, and her stifled snivels made it difficult for her to breathe.
The hands returned to her ankles, but instead of the gentle rubbing and attempted sensuality, the firmness of the grip alarmed her all the more. Then one hand forcefully grabbed the hem of her pant leg, tugging at it so hard it hurt, while the other held up the familiar knife blade—the same one he had used to cut her—so Emily could see it. He said something, then turned to show the blade to the camera. The carnal look in his eyes and devilish grin on his face when he turned toward her terrified Emily to the point her entire body started shaking uncontrollably.
****
Western Caribbean Sea, 2 miles north-northwest of Providencia Island
June 15, 8:08 p.m. Caribbean Time
Captain Sewell checked his glowing instruments again, the only discernible light in the tempestuous night, and confirmed out loud to his crew that they were now less than two miles from the shore of Providencia Island and its safe harbor. He hoped Collin heard him below and that it would keep his spirits up.
They were about to sail between two rocky islets, each one roughly the size of a short city block. Knowing that they were approaching Providencia from the west, the channel between these two tiny islands would essentially squeeze the waves into an even tighter area, further amplifying their height and power.
As he started the turn into the channel, the Captain shouted as loud as he could. “Brace yourselves.”
The crew hunkered into position in anticipation, a mixture of dread and adrenaline pulsing through them with the rhythms of the sea.
While this storm was not the worst Captain Sewell and his crew had encountered in their years of sailing together, he knew it was the most dangerous. To sail through this area was distressing in the best circumstances. With night approaching and in the pouring rain, battling fierce winds, it was downright terrifying. Being a proud man, he projected the eternal air of calm and control. Yet he seethed at the notion of having his boat hijacked and his passengers and crew members threatened. One had been killed and thrown into the sea like refuse. An unpardonable offense.
It was bad form to come aboard a boat without permission. It was even worse to wrest control away from the Skipper and force him to sail into bad weather. Still worse, however, was to hold a gun to him and coerce cooperation by threatening evil things. Nothing irked Captain Sewell more than bullies and thugs. The worst, however, was Tog’s murder. It weighed on him and on his crew like an anchor. There would be retribution. The Karma of the Sea would see to it.
The Captain clicked on a small but powerful flashlight and shined it through the darkness until he counted all six men on deck—three of his crew members; three hijackers.
When Sewell flashed the light at the longhaired man, he reacted by holding his Uzi in the ready posture. Since he used nothing more than his foot wrapped around a railing post to hold himself in place, he was not properly braced. The Captain’s attention was diverted for a moment as he pointed to the man’s foot and started to caution him. That’s when a giant wave hit the boat sidelong. A torrent of water rushed over the deck. The hijacker was knocked sideways from his post on the port side, three feet to Captain Sewell’s left. He caromed into the Captain’s knees. The Captain was cut down and toppled forcefully to his left. Holding the wheel grips firmly as he tumbled sideways, the wheel rotated in the same direction, turning the Admiral sharply into the next steep, cresting wave as she scaled toward its peak on a diagonal across the curling wall of water.
Chapter Twenty
Industrial Complex, 30 miles southeast of San Diego, California
June 15, 6:09 p.m. Pacific Time
Again, the young spiked one had stepped away when the older one called to him, pointing at the phone, and the two men conferred, leaving Emily in agonizing anticipation for what felt like an eternity. They loitered around the van for quite some time, allowing Emily’s hopes to rise briefly.
When they returned, the young one made a big show for the camera, waving the knife blade and talking in a low, sultry voice. He approached Emily from the side facing the camera and began to kiss her neck and ear, moving his body closer. One arm on each side of her head, his chest leaning into hers, his hands teasing her hair. Then he stood and let his eyes dance their way down her figure as he walked toward the end of the table again. He glanced seductively at her while he removed her shoes.
Her expression of disgust, though involuntary, did not please him. His face hardened. He grabbed the pant leg again and tugged it upward, the hem dug into her skin.
The long, sharp blade glided easily through the soft synthetic material of Emily’s pant leg. She felt the cool, smooth steel of the knife’s spine against her skin as it moved upward, which sent foreboding tremors throughout her body. When he reached her thigh, it stopped, and a boisterous laugh echoed through the building. The spiked tormentor was again playing it up for the camera. Emily could tell that he was going to make sport of her misery by the way he watched her face and smiled whenever she winced or let out a sob. This torture and agony was going to drag on and on. He seemed to be very amused by her distress. After a crude display with his tongue, the spiked one turned the blade perpendicular, cutting the pants off to become shorts, baring her shapely legs. Taking his time, he repeated the process on the other leg, allowing his hands to linger and make contact with her skin as he sliced. This made her cringe even more, if that was possible.
After cutting off the second pant leg to her mid-thigh, the young captor with the spiked eyebrow turned toward the camera on the platform, which was to Emily’s left. He displayed the material and the knife for the lens as he talked in a sadistic tone. As he spoke, Emily heard two simultaneous sounds. One came as the back door of the warehouse blew open with a muted phhhtt sound. The other from a side door to her left, twenty yards behind the camera. These noises were followed by a sudden booming echo that filled the
whole building with raucous clatter. Within seconds, twelve military operators in desert fatigues and full battle gear rushed in through each door in protective formation. Two soft thwaps followed a split second later. The spiked one’s arms flew outward as his body was launched backward out of Emily’s view and into one of the light stands, knocking it over with a thunderous crash. At the same time, the upper body of the one with the tattoos on his neck slammed into the table near Emily’s left elbow, then fell to the ground with a dull thud. She felt something warm and wet land on her bare stomach and legs, on her blouse and arms, causing her to jerk against the ropes and scream through the duct tape. Sarah, seated to Emily’s right, was also screaming. Checking to see what landed on her, Emily realized it was blood, bone, and brain matter. It was splattered on Sarah as well.
Within seconds, Emily saw the powerful lights atop the helmets and affixed to the rifles of the commandos as they spread beams of light in all directions. The ten men and two women swept through the dark, open space, systematically assessing any and all threats between them and the two bedraggled women—Sarah bound to a chair and Emily tied to a table—in the middle of the cavernous warehouse. Finding no additional threats, Emily heard men call “clear” from the area of the van and other men making the same call from the office to her left before four others moved quickly to the two women.
The relief this time was real. These people were true saviors. Emily, who was not given to the gushing of emotions, could not contain the flood. As soon as the ropes were cut from her wrists and ankles and she was helped to a sitting position, Emily collapsed into the arms of a woman who wore the red cross of a medic on her uniform. The other members of the team quickly and efficiently unpacked and unfolded equipment and supplies. After a comforting embrace and encouraging words from the medic, Emily turned to Sarah, who was being helped onto a short-legged, portable cot.
As she was helped off the table by her female medic, Emily was amazed at the efficiency of this group. These people were equipped and experienced. Before she was able to speak, Emily noticed the enormous pack that gaped open beside the medic who attended to Sarah and determined that was the origin of the cot. She also noticed three other massive camouflage packs in an array nearby. Each medic was assisted by another member of the team. Looking beyond their immediate area, she observed two sets of lights moving toward the front, where the roller door was, and another pair moving in the back, near the door they had burst through. A third pair stayed near the side entrance and the fourth pair inspected the van inside and out.
Before she could speak, Sarah’s medic answered the question Emily’s face must have asked. “They’re securing the entrances,” he said. “We have an assault team on the roof of this building and another on the roof of the building across the way.” He pointed with two fingers, jabbing the air toward the front door. “No chance anyone else will hurt you again. At least, not today.” The young Hispanic man with the dark, clean crew cut was warm and professional. The name embroidered on a patch above his breast pocket said Garcia.
“Thank you,” muttered Emily, her gravelly voice low and strained. “How did you find us?”
“Apparently from your cell phone signal,” he said. Garcia never stopped working. His hands glided in and out of the open pack, pulling out items, ripping open packets, and setting things in place.
“But they threw my phone out the window,” said Emily, puzzlement twisting her expression. “I saw him do it. The guy with the pierced eyebrow. He threw it out the window on the freeway.” Her words came in short bursts and her countenance carried that far away, frightened look.
“That’s all I can tell you, Dr. Burns.” He hung the IV bag on the shorter than usual IV pole he had connected to the corner of Sarah’s cot.
“How do you know my name?”
“It came with the mission intel we were given,” he said matter-of-factly as he attached the blood pressure cuff to Sarah’s arm and started pumping.
The female medic who had embraced Emily, a Corporal Hanes, put her hands on Emily’s shoulders and steered her toward a cot similar to Sarah’s that was set up and ready for her. Emily resisted. “We have to get her to the hospital. Right away. The Scripps Cancer Research Clinic. In La Jolla. She’s a cancer patient there. Dr. Javier Navarro. He needs to see her. She must get proper care.” Emily was agitated, spacey. Shock was settling in.
“We are aware of her condition,” said the female medic as she moved Emily into position on the cot. Smiling, she added, “You’re safe now. You can relax.”
“She’s stage three. This stress, it can’t be good . . .”
“We know, Dr. Burns,” the woman said, smiling. “We will transport her there as soon as we get the ‘all clear.’ Don’t you worry. We’ll take good care of the both of you.” Corporal Hanes handed Emily a water bottle. “First, we need to get you both cleaned up and hydrated. It’s hot as hell in here.”
After hours of bravely battling to protect Sarah from the rats and steeling herself for the two goons’ torture, Emily slumped into a regressive, almost catatonic state, letting the military rescuers assume full responsibility for the situation.
****
Western Caribbean Sea, 2 miles north-northwest of Providencia Island
June 15, 8:10 p.m. Caribbean Time
The force of the sudden erratic turn against the power of the breaking wave sent the Admiral Risty toppling over on its side. Captain Sewell reached for something to hold. His fingers grazed the edge of the bulkhead near the pilot’s chair. The boat pitched at such a severe angle that his whole body went airborne as he and the long-haired terrorist tumbled toward the edge of the boat. He collided into the gunwale, first with his shoulder and second with the side of his head, as he catapulted into the dark, churning water.
The three crew members, cosseted with protective life jackets and recognizing the danger, launched themselves into the sea as the boat tumbled. Miguel, closest to the water when the boat tipped over, tried to get as far from the toppling vessel as possible, knowing the masts and sails presented deadly traps. Jaime, who was near the bow, launched himself forward of the boat. Rojas, the man nearest the stern, jumped off the back away from the hull. Jaime and Rojas, positioned on the uphill side, fell a long way before finally hitting the water.
The other two terrorists held on to the railing with everything they had, not sure what else to do.
The Admiral was rolled and tossed by the monster wave, like a pair of pants in a front-load washing machine. Its masts protruded deep into the water as it tumbled and sifted through the surf like a rake, slowing the rate of spin.
Below the surface, seven bodies either thrashed or floated under the surface of the turbulent sea, arms and legs in all directions. Some kicked wildly. Some moved quickly and with purpose. Others remained deathly still while the ocean carried them in suspended animation.
****
Collin faintly heard the Captain’s voice. Something was wrong, he could tell. There was panic in that normally calm baritone. Suddenly, he and Stinky were shot through the air from the steps near the hatch toward the bunks on the port side. Collin curled into a ball the best he could. His side slammed into a hard surface with a jarring thud. Again, the wind was knocked out of him and searing pain burst through his ribs, hip, and shoulder. He was pinballed between hard and soft objects repeatedly before falling a few feet and landing with his back against the ceiling of the salon, above the dining table. Everything in his world was rotating.
Struggling to gain a sense of what was happening while pain enveloped him, he noticed a flowered shirt bouncing near him. With a shake of his head, he realized the boat was capsizing and tried to anticipate the boat’s next movement. Disoriented and bruised, Collin couldn’t get into position before the next violent revolution of the boat. He bashed into things and rolled uncontrollably. Out of the corner of his vision, he noticed the flowered shirt mirroring his movements.
Another wave hit the side of the overturned b
oat, causing more tumbling. The lights went out and Collin was plunged into total darkness, then cool wetness.
****
Miguel, the crew member positioned closest to Captain Sewell before the Admiral turned over, opened his eyes underwater and began to search for the surface. With the churning action of the waves, it was nearly impossible to tell which way was up. In the semidarkness, he could only make out shapes and masses. The long pole-like structures protruding through the water, he knew, were the masts. What little ambient light there was in the water glinted in wavy, silvery lines off the aluminum tubes. They moved in an agitated, unpredictable fashion. He needed to steer clear of them, so he began to kick and pull his way through the water in the opposite direction as his life jacket began tugging him upward. There were dark objects ahead of him, floating and tumbling through the water. Unsure what they were, he propelled himself away from them.
Miguel was so preoccupied with avoiding the dangers he had identified, that were now behind him and to his right, he didn’t notice what was in his path. He bumped into something that spooked him. At first, the something brushed his cheek, then it made more solid contact with his shoulder. The fright caused Miguel to blow out some of his precious breath. He turned to look at the strange object, and pushed it away, when he realized it was the motionless body of Captain Sewell. The flashlight was still on, dangling from his wrist. It spun a beam of light through the dark water.
With the buoyancy of his life vest dragging him toward the surface, Miguel was fortunate to grasp a handful of shirt and to hook a foot under an arm. As he rose, Miguel clamored to get a better hold, but he was moving too fast and the sea was too turbulent. He managed to drag the Captain with him for several seconds but lost his grip before he breached the surface.