Off Course: A clean action adventure book

by Glen Robins

  “We both have, but we’ll get past this, Emily.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “We will. Together. I promise.” Sarah reached for Emily’s hand and grasped it.

  The two remained connected, though wandering alone in their own thoughts for a long moment.

  “Would you mind if I prayed for you?” asked Sarah.

  Emily, whose eyes were full, stared blankly at her for a moment. Not knowing what else to say, she whispered, “That would be nice.”

  During the prayer, Emily fought through many competing emotions, but was struck the most by the juxtaposition of Sarah’s comfort and familiarity with talking to God and her own clumsiness with it. This was something new and foreign to her, but not to Sarah. It seemed as normal and routine as brushing teeth or combing hair for her. In Emily’s memory, not once did her parents even mention the word prayer, let alone bow before their Maker like this. To Sarah, however, this was apparently commonplace.

  During the prayer, Emily cocked her head at the thought of Sarah thanking God for His goodness and blessings after what they had just experienced. Nonetheless, Sarah thanked God for His protection and their deliverance from evil, thanking Him for the valiant efforts of those who rescued them. She went on to express faith that Collin would be spared from his current predicament and returned to his family. To Emily, the whole experience was odd, but oddly comforting as well.

  Emily watched Sarah as she lifted her head and met Emily’s gaze. She remained hushed, unsure of what to say and afraid of ruining the moment.

  “Well,” said Sarah. “I feel much better; don’t you?”

  A tear ran down Emily’s cheek. She dropped her head but didn’t bother wiping it away. “I don’t know what to feel,” she quietly muttered.

  Sarah took in Emily’s far away gaze and returned it with perhaps the sweetest, most serene expression Emily had ever seen. “I know now everything is going to be all right. I feel it clear through to my bones. Don’t you?”

  Emily sighed. “Frankly, I don’t know what to think,” she said. “All I know is that the two of us have been through a lot and—”

  “Didn’t you find it strange how we were rescued all of a sudden?” interrupted Sarah.

  Emily raised her head, fixing her eyes on Sarah as she spoke slowly and introspectively. “I don’t know. The medic told me they followed my cell phone signal, but the guy with the eyebrow piercing threw it out the window. I watched him . . .” Her voice trailed off as she remembered things. “It is strange. I hadn’t thought about it, but the soldiers found the cheap flip phone Collin gave me in Chicago. I had stuffed it in my lab coat pocket along with some papers and bag of carrots. That creepy guy tore the lab coat off me in the back of the van and left it there.” Emily paused, mouth agape. “I don’t usually carry that phone with me because I don’t want to lose it and I don’t want other people to see it. But that’s how they found us.”

  “It’s a blessing you had it with you, don’t you think?” said Sarah. “I think it was an answer to prayers.”

  “Or maybe a coincidence.”

  “It’s easy sometimes to mistake the two,” said Sarah with a wink and a sage smile.

  ****

  London, England

  June 16, 2:35 a.m. London Time

  Nic returned to his desk from the break room with another cup of bad coffee. He’d lost count of the number of refills during the night. For what it lacked in taste, it made up for in potency. He’d tracked the Caribbean storm through the night as it intersected the suspect sailboat’s supposed path toward the small cluster of Colombian islands. The signal from Collin’s phone had gone dead earlier in the night, but there was no doubt that Collin and everyone aboard that sailboat was caught in the storm’s clutches. It had unexpectedly gained speed as it continued to surge west by northwest, hooking toward the Cancun peninsula, directly in the sailboat’s last known path.

  Alastair had retired to his office sometime around one a.m. where he slept on the floor. Nic had not seen Alastair this involved in a case since his earliest days in the department. He had learned that Alastair had a strange inconsistency about him, cycling between intense engagement and cold detachment.

  As Nic sat staring at the Doppler radar images on his monitor, the phone rang. It was an officer from the Colombian Coast Guard, calling at the request of his admiral to inform Nic that as soon as the storm passed the islands, they would restart their patrol and report their findings to him. They anticipated launching no more than three hours from now. A crew was prepped to search the area where a blip on their radar had stopped moving before it reached the northern apex of the island. Nic would have an update by 5:30 a.m. London Time.

  In his frustration, he decided to call Crabtree and share the news.

  “That’s bloody three hours from now. What am I to do, just sit around waiting for these guys to do something?” cried Nic, his voice pitching higher with each syllable.

  “Unless you think you can command the Colombian Coast Guard to risk it all for you,” Reggie replied.

  “Maybe I can’t, but I think I know someone who might . . .” Nic said, the scheming mechanisms in his mind clattering to life. “I’ll call you back.”

  Nic hung up, whirled around in his chair, and stood up in one fluid motion, heading full steam for the opening of his cubicle. A coffee mug attached to an arm was coming right at him, but he couldn’t stop before he collided with it. Piping hot coffee seared through the front of his shirt and the skin of his forearm. “Watch where you’re . . . Ah, Alastair, just the man I wanted to see.” Nic’s tone and expression changed instantly as he tamped down the anger. He sucked in a breath between clinched teeth, waved his arm about, and pulled at his shirt. The pain wouldn’t last long. He needed a favor of his boss, so a little burn and another stain was a price worth paying. Nic turned back to his desk and rummaged through a drawer until he produced a wad of rumpled napkins and started wiping his arm and dabbing his abdomen.

  “Yes, well, I’ve come to check the status of things with our man, Cook,” said Alastair as he produced a handkerchief from a pocket and began blotting the coffee from the sleeve of his tweed sport coat.

  “Sorry about that, but you came at a good time. The Colombian Coast Guard just informed me that they are sitting in port, doing nothing, while this storm threatens to kill our quarry. Talk about indolent,” squeaked Nic.

  “I’m sure they have concerns for the safety of their crews—” Alastair started.

  “Our Coast Guard don’t rest when there’s a storm. They’re out there risking their lives to save people. That’s what they do. That’s what they train for. How can these guys hole up when there’s a boat full of people in serious trouble near their island? One of them is an international fugitive and they’re worried about getting wet?” Nic’s voice pitched higher and his face turned redder as he worked up a good mad.

  “What would you suppose they do, Detective Lancaster?”

  “Their bloody jobs, that’s what. They are the bloody Coast Guard. They are sworn to protect their shores from threats by sea and yet they sit on shore while a bloody terrorist approaches their territory. It’s unbelievable.” Nic’s face and neck flushed a pale magenta as the emotion ran through his strained vocal cords.

  “Now there, Nic, keep in mind this is dangerous business we’re talking about. Caution and prudence must come into play in these situations. Nonetheless, I’m sure we can find a way to work this out,” Alastair said. “Let me make a call or two and see what can be done.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Western Caribbean Sea, 2 miles north-northwest of Providencia Island

  June 15, 8:12 p.m. Caribbean Time

  As Collin felt himself slipping away into another sphere, there was a violent knock that exploded from somewhere to his side. The next thing he knew he was tumbling through space. The pressure was gone. He was moving freely, no more hands or legs pushing on him. He was being tossed about like a child’s
toy, knocking into hard surfaces and bumping repeatedly into another body.

  But there was air. He felt it on his face as he was being whipped about. Collin pulled in a quick breath as he collided with something hard and rolled into the water again.

  The power pushing the boat around quickly subsided, as if a driver had taken his foot off the gas pedal. A loud groan echoed in the water. There was still plenty of motion and agitation inside the cabin, but the rolling had stopped. Collin was able to get his footing on something and peek his head above the surface. As he was enjoying the sensation of breathing again, something hit him from behind, square in the back, and pushed him forward under the surface. It was Stinky tackling him and wrapping him up with both arms.

  Collin thrashed and kicked as best he could, but Stinky was strong and determined, like a bull refusing to give up the fight. The two twisted and lashed at each other in a tangle under the water. Stinky squeezed around Collin’s stomach, forcing out the air. Collin responded by kicking and gyrating like a fish in a net until his feet and knees and elbows collided enough times with Stinky’s soft spots that he could feel the pressure ease.

  A few more violent spasms and Collin was free and heading for the surface to replenish his lungs with oxygen. He caught one breath before Stinky’s hands were on him again, dragging Collin down as he tried to pull himself up. Collin knew Stinky had the clear advantage, but he couldn’t let that continue. Flailing his knees and feet in a desperate struggle to regain the access to air, Collin landed a few heavy blows. One he could tell must have been Stinky’s chin. It hurt his thigh as he made contact. Another, he thought, must have been ribs against his foot.

  Collin reached the shrinking pocket of air as his head hit the floor of the cabin above him. One gulp and he headed back under to find his target. In the bluish light coming through the salon windows above the dining table, Collin could see Stinky was struggling to reach the surface as he tried to recover from the multitude of dizzying blows Collin’s feet and knees had inflicted. Collin continued his assault, burying his feet into Stinky’s midsection with every ounce of energy he had. Stinky’s trajectory shifted sideways instead of upward. Collin dolphined his way into position to strike again and again, his feet kicking out full force and landing crushing blows to his assailant’s face, head, ribs, legs—wherever he could make contact.

  Collin’s air supply was exhausted. He surfaced for one last breath, kicking Stinky downward as he did. With a lungful of oxygen, he went in to finish the job, knowing deep in his subconscious that if he didn’t Stinky would finish him instead. He was locked in a struggle for survival and he knew he didn’t want to lose.

  Feeling Stinky’s labored movements near his kicking feet, Collin steadied himself. A plan bloomed in his mind, becoming clearer each time his feet made contact with Stinky’s body. He allowed his body to sink in the still-churning water. One foot was already holding Stinky’s flailing body down. Stinky’s hands were thrashing, alternating between trying to strike Collin’s legs and crawl to the surface. Collin used his other foot to pummel Stinky in the gut one more time. He then pulled himself closer but wedging his foot in an armpit as he maneuvered his body into position. He hastily wrapped one leg around Stinky’s chest and brought the other around his back. Collin locked one foot around his other ankle and began to squeeze, using his own weight to bear down as hard as he could. Stinky’s arms were pinned to his side, his whole body locked in place between Collin’s knees.

  Though his hands were still tied behind his back, Collin was able to grasp something that felt like the edge of a bunk to hold himself and his battered captive under the water. Collin increased the pressure until his muscles trembled under the strain. Stinky’s movements through the churning water grew slower, more lethargic, and uncoordinated. A stream of air bubbles escaped from his mouth.

  A brief flurry of sympathy and guilt swelled inside Collin. He pressed his eyes shut and let recent memories reel through his mind: Stinky’s venomous tirade about Collin’s family, particularly his mother; his promise that Penh would kill them all while Collin watched; his repeated slaps and punches and spitting on Collin; and, just moments ago, his holding Collin underwater with every intention of killing him. This man wanted Collin and his family to suffer painful deaths, and if Collin allowed him to live, surely he would follow through on his vituperative threats.

  As he felt Stinky’s body growing limp, the crushing horror of his culpability in another human’s death tugged at him to let go and save his captor and tormentor. But, before that instinct kicked in, the image of his mother and Emily bound, gagged, and held captive flashed through his mind. If Collin let Stinky go, Stinky would surely turn the tables on him and suffocate Collin. His ignominious demise at sea would certainly lead to his mother’s and Emily’s tortured deaths. No way could he let that happen. One bad man dying was better than three good people dying.

  It was a matter of properly setting his priorities. Saving those two was more important than the horror of killing another human. He could live with that, but not with causing the deaths of the two most important women in his current life. Collin knew he had to first finish the task at hand, then break free and tell Lukas to find his mom and Emily. Surely Lukas would know how to do that. Nothing was beyond Lukas.

  Collin shook off the soft feelings and steeled himself, tightening his leg muscles with renewed energy to put more pressure on his victim’s diaphragm. This had to be done. There was no other way to save his own life and the lives of his loved ones. Collin’s survival depended on him seeing this through, despite how repulsive it was.

  For good measure, Collin twisted himself to and fro, eliminating any leverage Stinky might have been able to gain, and continued to press his legs around Stinky’s rib cage. After what felt like an hour, Stinky stopped thrashing and went completely motionless. Collin didn’t release his grip until his own lungs burned for want of oxygen.

  Collin pushed up from the ceiling, his head hitting the floor of the overturned vessel as he breached the surface and sucked in air. Water was now up to his neck. His feet found the underside of the table and he stood on it, panting. His head felt like it might explode, and his eyes burned. He was exhausted. One bright spot, he noticed, was that the wave action had died down considerably. The boat was still being jostled about, but not with the same destructive force.

  Collin gulped air and tried to reorient himself. He had no time for remorse or contemplation. Yes, he had just killed a man, something he never imagined he would or could do. He knew the guilt would catch up to him at some point. But at the moment, he had to move in order to save his own life. Getting out of this sinking tomb before it was too late was his first priority now.

  As the oxygen flowed back to his brain cells, Collin realized the next task: he had to free his hands. The galley below him was fully stocked with all manner of utensils and cutlery. Surely, he could find something there to cut the plastic zip ties that held his wrists bound behind his back. As he dove down, he realized for the first time that everything in the cabin had broken free from its normal place. A menagerie of objects lay strewn across the ceiling of the cabin, swaying and rolling with the tidal action. Books, cans of soup, silverware, sodden rolls of paper towels, floating articles of clothing, the Uzi, Collin’s backpack, cups, plates, pillows. It was a jumble of items that were useless to him at the moment. He needed a knife or scissors ASAP, but he was having trouble locating anything in the clutter. With no hands to move things around, he was reliant only on his vision to spot his quarry. Twin LED emergency lights at opposite ends of the cabin had come on and cast a dim, bluish glow—just enough to make out objects, but not bright enough to see under or around them. Collin swam toward the galley. He knew there was a drawer full of knives and hoped he would be able to locate one in the mess. He was out of air.

  He rose to the surface, using the lip on the underside of the counter to stand on. Since the galley was two steps lower than the rest of the cabin, there was a la
rger air pocket there. He inhaled as much of it as he could and dove again to continue his search. As he scouted the area around the galley, he noticed a few objects he hadn’t noticed before. The Captain’s stateroom was adjacent to the galley, so some of his things had splayed across the galley’s ceiling. There were a couple of shirts and shoes, but most notably, there was a dive mask and snorkel, a fin, and a compass. He knew there had to be more, so he continued toward the Captain’s room.

  The Captain’s bed looked like the gaping mouth of a whale shark as gravity had unlocked its hinges. It yawed in the dark, while all the contents of the compartment under the bed, which was now inverted, lay scattered about. Collin kicked and wiggled his way through the space, fighting to stay down where he could see better, hunting for the items he knew would accompany the mask, fin, and snorkel: a scuba regulator, a buoyancy compensator, lead weights, the other fin. At last, he located the one thing he needed above all else at the moment—the Captain’s dive knife, still in its rubbery sheath. It tumbled back and forth, knocking against the cabinet that normally was above the Captain’s bed as the boat rocked forcefully in the surf.

  Water was still flowing into the overturned boat and now reached Collin’s mouth as his head met the floor. He took a few quick breaths, then returned to the ceiling below the Captain’s bed where the knife lay. In the swirling tug of the tide, Collin struggled to position himself directly over the object he needed, turn his body around, and get his restricted hands on it. The continual sloshing and jostling pushed him this way and that. Holding himself steady enough to grasp the handle, the sheath, or the straps on the sheath in the tumult proved frustrating and difficult. Each time he gained a tenuous grip, he would fumble the slippery, narrow, and surprisingly heavy knife. Although panic lurked at the edges of his consciousness, he had to push it back. He was running out of time and air. He had to stay focused.