Sleeper Cell Super Boxset (2 page)

Mark wiped his runny nose along his sleeve. “Mother of Mary, if they start puking, I’ll throw them overboard along with their slop.” He descended the ladder, and Dylan heard his angered orders through the fiberglass of the wheelhouse.

Dylan took another swig of coffee as the bow of the ship crested a wave. He opened the windows, letting the salt air fill the cabin and whip his hair back. He closed his eyes, letting the breeze graze his cheeks and the sun soak his skin. When he opened his eyes, he glanced down at the picture taped between the speedometer and the wheel. Two faces stared back at him, one with a front-tooth-missing grin, and the other one with her tongue out. The picture was two years old but one of his favorites. Some of the color had faded and the edges furled from the wind and salt, but he refused to take it down. He barely got to see them as it was.

Then on the horizon Dylan saw the flash of a red flare. He reached for the radio and rotated the dial for the frequency. “This is Captain Dylan Turk on the
Wave Cutter
at coordinates 42.431566, -65.593872. I’ve got a distress flare from another vessel. Could need assistance. Do we have anyone in the area?”

The radio spat out static. Dylan waited a moment before he repeated the message. Then the raspy voice of a coast guard operator finally answered. “Copy that,
Wave Cutter
. We have a vessel ten miles from your location. Do you have any other information to pass along?”

“Negative. I’m going to take a closer look, make sure everyone is okay.” Dylan hung up the radio and whistled down to Mark, who was busy yelling at the deckhands. He pointed toward the direction of the flare, and Mark gave a thumbs-up. Dylan nudged the throttle down, pushing the engines to their peak, and the hull cut through the open waters.

The flare flickered out less than fifty yards from them approaching the vessel. It rocked back and forth on the waves, the anchor straining to hold the boat down in the growing seas. Dylan picked up the radio, scanning the frequencies to try and find any signal coming from the ship, but heard nothing. He scanned through one more time just to make sure, but again the radio spit nothing at him except silence.

The closer Dylan moved, the more he was able to see the ship itself. None of the crew was visible on the deck, and there was no sign of whoever had set the flare. He pulled back the throttle and turned the wheel left, allowing him to circle to the other side of the boat to get a better look. The windows of the wheelhouse had been tinted dark, and the nets and gear were stowed away, without a drip of water on them.

Mark ascended the ladder and stepped inside. “What’s wrong?”

Dylan shook his head, the bow of the boat veering around the distressed vessel’s stern. “Those buoys haven’t touched water, and I can’t get them on the radio.”

“You sure you saw the flare?”

“I’m sure.” They kept their eyes on the deck as they came around to the port side, and then a man waving his arms came out from under the deck, and then another mimicking the same gesture. “Maybe their radio was out?” Mark suggested.

“Maybe.” Mark exited the wheelhouse, and Dylan kept his eye on the two men on the deck as he sidled the
Wave Cutter
beside the distressed boat. Mark tossed a line, and the two men tied off the cleats while Tank tossed bumpers over the side to provide some cushion between the vessels with the growing waves. Dylan shut off the engine and opened the glovebox. He shuffled through some of the papers and pulled out a small black box with a lock. He rolled the numbers until he heard a click. The joints of the rusty box squeaked as he opened it and grabbed the black .380 revolver nestled inside. He opened the chamber to check the ammo. It was fully loaded. He snapped the chamber shut and stuffed the gun into his pocket before he descended from the wheelhouse.

Mark, Tank, and Billy were still on the deck of the
Wave Cutter
, pointing at the opened engine hatch, slowly enunciating their words and speaking loudly. “En-gine tr-ou-ble?”

The two men on the deck of the distressed vessel pointed at the open hatch and nodded. Dylan joined his men, and Mark was the first to speak. “I think they’re illegals.”

“Then how the hell did they get that gear?” While the boat itself wasn’t the most modern piece of equipment, the nets, lines, hooks, and other gear on deck were brand new and top of the line. Dylan walked to the edge of the port side, where the two boats floated together on the waves. “Do you speak English?” The two men looked at each other then shook their heads. They looked up to the wheelhouse and pointed, speaking in a gibberish that Dylan and his men couldn’t understand.

“Billy, Mark, you two see what you can do about the engine. I’m gonna radio the coast guard again to let them know what we’ve got.”

Billy and Mark nodded, and the moment they stepped over the side of the boat and set foot on the distressed vessel’s deck, one of the men grabbed Billy and pulled a pistol out of the back of his pants and jammed it in Billy’s temple. The man’s partner pulled out his own weapon and aimed it at Mark. “Anyone moves, and they die.” The man’s words were accented but still understandable.

Dylan felt the weight of the revolver in his pocket as he lifted his hands in the air. “Hey, nobody needs to get hurt.” Both men’s movements were jerky, and Dylan could see their fingers on the triggers.

“Off the boat! Off the boat!” The man with his pistol aimed at Mark motioned for Dylan and Tank to come over to their side. When they did, two other men descended from their wheelhouse, both their faces covered with bandanas. Only one of them spoke, his voice muffled by the cloth covering his mouth, and it was in the same foreign tongue as their comrades.

After an exchange, the two men in bandanas nodded then turned to head below deck, but Dylan stopped them when they had their backs turned. “What do you want?” The man that had aimed his pistol at Mark immediately turned on Dylan, screaming at him, and marched until the end of the barrel was against Dylan’s cheek. The piece of steel was hot against his skin from baking in the sun, and the man forced it into Dylan’s face with enough momentum to almost knock his teeth out.

The man moved close enough for Dylan to smell the stink of his hot breath. It smelled sour, rotten. “You do not speak to
him
unless spoken to.” The man with the mask barked a harsh order at Dylan’s captor in their native tongue, and the pistol was slowly removed from Dylan’s cheek, leaving a circular mark from where the tip of the barrel had rested.

Dylan squinted from the sunlight. The only sounds were the waves lapping against the two boats’ hulls and the thump of shoes from the man in the bandana making his way toward him. Sweat rolled down Dylan’s temples and broke out on his neck and chest. When the man was right in front of him, he lowered the bandana, revealing a thin beard of dark-black hair outlining his upper lip, chin, and jawline, all connecting in one fluid line. His eyes were a dark green, his face tanned. The dark circles under his eyes were the only sign of weakness that Dylan could see. While Dylan could tell that the man wasn’t hardened by the sea, there was no denying the look of someone who had bathed themselves in pain.

“I want you to hurt.” The words rolled off of his tongue with a light slur, his accent thicker than the other man. He looked around to the rest of Dylan’s crew, individually sizing each of them up, turning his back to Dylan. “I want all of you to hurt.”

It could be his only chance. Dylan wrapped his arm around the man’s neck, putting him in a choke hold, and reached for the revolver in his pocket. He thumbed the hammer back and jammed the pistol into the man’s temple. The man’s henchmen immediately scrambled for his own crew, aiming their pistols closer to Mark, Tank, and Billy.

Dylan felt the pulse pumping through the vein in the man’s neck against his arm. “You want your boss to live?” He started breathing heavily, his sweating increasing twofold. He kept readjusting his grip on the revolver’s handle, which slid against the perspiration oozing from his palm. “Drop the guns now!”

“They will not answer to you.” The man’s thick accent muddled Dylan’s ears. He took a step backward, dragging the hostage with him. “Both myself and my men are willing to die. Are yours?” The man spat a round of his foreign tongue to his men, and one of them grabbed Tank by his shirt collar and dropped him to his knees. He placed the barrel on the back of his head, and Tank began to sob.

Adrenaline and fear ripped through Dylan’s body. His stomach twisted into a knot, and his heart dropped to his feet. His throat went dry, and he readjusted his grip on the revolver’s handle. “I’ll do it! Do you want him to die?”

“My life is of no significance to them, or me. It will only take one of us to complete our task. Do
you
want your man to die?”

Tank’s face flushed red as snot and tears dribbled down his face. “Captain, please. Please, I don’t want to die.” He pressed his forehead against the boat deck, collapsing within himself.

Tank couldn’t have been older than nineteen. All Dylan could think about when he looked at him was his own son. Tank had a father somewhere, a mother, friends, people who loved and cared about him.

Dylan slowly disengaged the revolver’s hammer and released the man. He placed the gun on the ground, keeping his hands in the air. “No one needs to die. Take the boat, take whatever you need, and just go.” He kicked the revolver away, and it skidded across the slick boat deck until it landed by the man still holding a gun to the back of Tank’s skull.

The man Dylan held rubbed his neck gently, which was flushed red. He walked to his comrade and picked up the revolver. He tossed it over in his hands, opened the chamber, closed it, and gripped the handle. “Three-eighty special. A detective gun. Growing up, did you play cowboys and Indians, Captain?”

Dylan looked down to Tank, still reeling on deck. “Tank, you’re going to be fine, okay? It’s going to be all right.”

“I am sure you did,” the man said. “I bet you ran around your yard, green with grass, wearing your cowboy hat and your sheriff’s badge, hunting down the bad guys and throwing them in jail. I bet you liked that, being the hero. The good guy.” He cocked the hammer back on the revolver and twisted his face, the thin line of his beard forming a grimace. “There are no good men or bad men. There are only those that are willing to do what it takes to get what they want.” He pushed his comrade aside and placed the revolver’s barrel on the back of Tank’s skull, and Tank broke out in another fit of cries.

“Please.” Dylan took a step forward then stopped when the rest of the pistols were aimed at him. “I was wrong. Okay?” It took everything in him to keep his voice steady. “If you’re going to hurt someone, hurt me.”

“I am.” The man pulled the trigger, and the piece of lead entered the back of Tank’s skull and exited his left cheek. Both Mark and Dylan lunged at the pirates the moment the shot was fired but were pistol-whipped to the deck, joining Tank on the ground, where a stream of blood poured out of Tank’s face and mixed with the salt water puddled on the floor.

Dylan collapsed to the deck, looking to Tank, whose eyes were still open and his body motionless. He reached out and lowered the boy’s eyelids. Then, two of the pirates picked Tank’s body up and tossed it overboard.

“Even if you would have killed me, the boy would have died,” the man said, tossing the revolver over the side of the ship along with the body. “At least you’re alive. For now.”

Chapter 2 - Saturday 1:00 a.m.

The tires of a 1985 Oldsmobile with its headlights off pulled onto the graveled pavement that was the makeshift parking lot for the small harbor and docks that sat alongside the Atlantic. The only light that the harbor provided was a few lampposts along the docks and one flickering bulb encased in broken plastic against the harbormaster’s building.

Adila Cooper checked the clock on the Oldsmobile’s dash as it flashed 1:00 a.m. She cut the engine and leaned back in her seat, which creaked. She drummed her fingers on the wheel. “C’mon, you bastards. Don’t get cold feet on me now.” A pair of headlights flashed in her rearview mirror, and a surge of relief and adrenaline kicked in. “Here we go.” Cooper pushed herself out of the car and leaned against the back of the trunk, her arms crossed in an annoyed stance. “You’re late, Demetri.”

The doors of the black Mercedes seemed to shut in unison as the four figures exited the car. All of them dressed in long black overcoats with the same short black haircut and broad faces that accompanied their Russian heritage.

“Relax,” Demetri replied. “Good business takes time.” He was a second-generation son of a Russian mob boss that worked the Northeast. He spoke both English and Russian but never had the accent that his father and uncles had yet to shed.

“Good business happens when people agree to the terms,” Cooper retorted. “You talk with your father?”

“I did. Both he and I are in agreement. Three shipments a week. Twenty kilos per shipment, at six hundred thousand upon delivery.”

Cooper frowned and cocked her head to the side. “The agreement was for six fifty a shipment. Don’t try and lowball me on this, Demetri.”

“
Eta zhenshchina. Vsegda so spetsifikoy,
” Demetri said, turning to the crew behind him. “You and I both know you’ll make up the difference in the volume. There isn’t anyone on the east coast that can handle the kilos you’re bringing in. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.” He reached out and gently rubbed one of the dark-black locks of her hair that rested on her shoulder.

Cooper reached up and gently rubbed the top of his hand with her thumb then squeezed her fingers and twisted Demetri’s wrist, causing him to howl in pain. “It’s not that beneficial, sweetheart.” She shoved his hand away, and he took a few steps back, rubbing his wrist and chuckling.

“I always thought you’d like it rough.”

“It’s best not to mix business and pleasure.” Cooper led them down the docks, past rows of boats floating silently in the night air. They boarded the second-to-last boat on the dock, and Cooper ripped off a tarp that covered a massive cooler with a lock. She reached into her pocket and tossed Demetri the key. “Take a look. Make sure everything’s in order. And then I’ll be taking my
six fifty
, and be on my way.”