Thomas Prescott Superpack (60 page)

The lifeboats were situated at the back of the ship where Deck 6 and Deck 7 tapered inward. Each boat was roughly sixty feet long, white on the bottom, orange on top. They looked less like boats and more like the escape pods you might see on an interstellar spacecraft. There were eight in total, four on each side, and I deduced each boat was capable of holding more than fifty people. I figured we had three minutes to somehow get one of these things lowered into the water. And it would be favorable if we were in it when that occurred.

Lacy raised her eyebrows and said, “Uh, how, exactly, do we get that thing down?”

I was under the impression that while I’d been sleeping she’d been going over our cruise ship safety procedure. “Didn’t you go to the safety drill?”

“I took a bath and finished up the
In Touch
I bought for the plane ride.”

We Prescott's
really
had our priorities in order.

Each lifeboat was sandwiched between two hydraulic arms. There was a heavy chain attached to both the bow and stern of each boat. I searched high and low, but I couldn’t find any buttons, levers, cranks, anything that would denote it controlled the lowering of the boat.

Stymied, I said to Lacy, “Stay here. I’m gonna go snag Frank and Susie.”

Luckily the Veranda Cafe was on Deck 7 and more importantly, the
Get the Worm
breakfast buffet. If there were any two people on the boat that knew how to get this thing down, it was the Campers.

Lacy nodded.

The Veranda Cafe was completely outdoors, covered by an enormous domed white tarp. Tall metal chairs surrounded tall glass tables. There was a large buffet set up, everything you could imagine: eggs every conceivable way, sausage every which way, bacon, French toast, pancakes, muffins, cereal, yogurt, and every fruit imaginable.

There were four people eating; an elderly couple and the Campers.

As I passed the buffet, I grabbed an apple and a piece of French toast.

I bypassed the old couple, wolfed down the French toast in two bites, and approached the Camper’s table. Frank had three plates cast aside, each splattered with remnants of syrupy goodness and Susie had the better part of a whole pig in the form of a heaping pile of bacon. She snapped off a piece in her mouth and said, “Got hungry did you?”

I leaned forward and quietly explained the situation. Frank had only known me for five days, but he could tell I wasn’t bluffing. They both jumped to their feet. What I didn’t expect was for both to run to the buffet and begin filling tote bags with everything they could find.

I shook my head and told them to hurry. I turned and made my way to the old couple. They were both eating Cheerios and staring blankly at each other. I had seen them in and around the boat, mostly sitting in the shaded area around the pool playing cards. I said, “Not to interrupt your breakfast, but we are about to be boarded by a bunch of pirates.”

The woman looked up at me and in a heavy Boston accent said, “First this damn heat. Now pirates.” She shook her head, but didn’t look overly concerned. She went back to her Cheerios.

The Campers—their tote bags slung over their shoulders, an entire pineapple poking from the top of Frank’s—followed me from the cafe, down the stairs, and to the lifeboat.

I figured we had used up most of our allotted time and the pirates would be reaching the ship any moment, if they hadn’t already. Frank and Susie had both attended the safety drill and Frank knew exactly how to get the lifeboat down. “Follow me,” he said.

We followed him to a small glassed enclosure splitting the four lifeboats. It looked almost like a hockey penalty box. Frank tried the door. Locked. I pushed him aside and kicked the door until it opened. Frank fiddled with buttons for half a minute, then the lifeboat closest to us began to lower. The four of us shared a quick smile.

I told Frank the plan. The three of them would climb in. I would lower the boat the rest of the way, then slide down one of the cables. Frank would set course for land, we’d play cards, eat pineapple, and have a great story to tell in three days.

When the boat was level with us, I tossed in my backpack and the fanny pack. Susie did the same with their totes. Lacy gently set the now wide-awake Baxter in the boat and started in herself.

“
S
tap! Turn rand
!”

The four of us turned and stared at the man pointing the machine gun at us.

So close.

THE BRIDGE

6:14
a.m.

Thapa stared at the blood pooling around Stove’s head. He had killed before. He had killed often. But never in this fashion. And never for money.

The six others in the room had yet to speak a single word or make a single movement. This
may have been related to the gun Thapa swept continually at the group. Captain Holstrond, a tall Norwegian who had commanded the ship for fewer than six months, finally spoke, “What do you want?”

What did he want?

He wanted his son to have a long full life. One he couldn’t possibly have without the operation. His fourteen-year-old son had been crippled in a trip up the treacherous Himalayas. Carrying luggage for spoiled Americans who paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to climb his native mountains. He wanted nothing more than for his son to walk again. That
is what he wanted.

“No talking,” he said, waving his gun at Holstrond.

There was a clamoring of feet and seconds later the door to the Bridge was wrenched open. Four Africans entered. The lead pirate had a shaved head and a coarse black beard. He had twin scars running diagonally across his cheeks. His eyes were stained red and glowed against his shiny black skin. He swept his machine gun over the six men, then made his way back to the door and waved. Two more pirates entered. The first man wore a military style beret. He had dark aviator glasses. He had smooth, freshly shaved skin and a small puff of a goatee clinging to his chin. He was wearing military fatigues. He smiled, revealing white teeth with a small gap between the front two. He turned to his side, revealing a large pistol and a bowie knife on his hip. He had a machete hanging off his back, splitting his shoulder blades.

The second man was older. He had a heavily receding hairline; what remained was spongy, black, and dotted with white. He had a mangy beard of the same malleable curls of salt and pepper, which combined with his spectacles, gave him the look of a tenured college professor. He was dressed in a white gown, zippered high up his neck, its final resting place hidden within his spotty beard.

There were now fourteen men crammed into the Bridge. Six pirates, six officers, and Thapa. Plus, of course, the dead Stoves.

The older man took a couple of steps forward. He glanced down at the fallen security officer. He leaned down on his haunches, said a couple words in his native tongue, and slid the man’s eyelids shut with his thumb and index finger. He stood, appraised Thapa, and said, “Death is not the worst that can happen to men.” The man’s voice was deep, the words heavy, made of molasses.

Thapa had heard the adage before. Plato. It did not cleanse him of any of his guilt.

“I am Baruti.”

Thapa took his hand.

Baruti cocked his head at the other man and said, “He is called The Mosquito.”

Thapa had heard of this man. He was a horrible man. He had done horrible things. Thapa could feel The Mosquito’s gaze behind his mirrored glasses devouring him.

“He is a man of few words, but trust me, you want him on your side,” remarked Baruti.

Thapa wasn’t sure about this.

“I trust you got the money.”

Five hundred thousand dollars had been transferred into a bank account known only to him. He had checked the account this morning in the ship’s computer center. The money had been there. Gaining interest at this very moment. The money, not Plato, made him feel better about the latest life he’d ended.

He would get another half million in three days’ time. Enough to cover his son’s surgeries, their move to England, and to live modestly for the rest of their lives. Stove’s life would be the last life he took.

“Show me the deck plan.”

Thapa nodded to Holstrond, nearly unable to meet the tall man’s accusatory glare.

The Captain retrieved a thick black binder from beneath the electronics and reluctantly handed it to Thapa, who in turn handed it to Baruti.

Flipping through the binder, Baruti pointed to one of the pirates and said, “Take any passengers on this level, here. Leave a man at the door. Then clear all suites on Deck Six and lock the passengers in the four presidential suites, here. The same for Deck Five.” He spent the next five minutes detailing where he wanted the passengers and crew taken.

Three of the pirates left, leaving Baruti, The Mosquito, and the pirate with red eyes behind. Baruti pulled the large metal briefcase up and laid it on the Captain’s chair. He clicked it open. Inside were a laptop computer and a number of other electronics. He handed a small, sleek video camera to Red Eyes, then he nodded to The Mosquito.

The Mosquito smiled, pointed his gun at the six officers and said, “
Wak
.”

Thapa watched as Holstrond and the others exited the bridge, The Mosquito and Red Eyes nipping at their heels.

Baruti stared at Thapa, then pointed at Stoves and said, “Throw him overboard.”

≈

Ben
made his way gingerly up the stairs. It still hurt to walk. But at least he no longer felt like there was a fireball in his stomach.

His watch had beeped a second time eight minutes earlier. That’s when he’d slipped from his room and made his way up the elevator to Deck 5 and walked to Suite 218.

He knocked on the door. No one answered. He pulled the card he’d
borrowed
from one of the maids and slipped it into the reader. The light turned green and he eased the door open.

He slipped into the foyer of the balcony suite. He pulled the gun from his waistband and clicked off the safety. That’s when the lamp hit him. He grunted and fell backwards into the wall. A blur rushed past him and he reached out his hands and clasped a handful of hair. The woman screamed. She thrashed her arms and legs and lightning struck Ben’s cheek. The bitch had scratched half his face off.

He pushed her off and stood. That’s when she’d kicked him in the balls. He’d never felt such pain. He crumpled to the floor and watched through half open eyes as the small feet scampered out the door.

When he was finally able to stand, Ben took a deep breath, cupped his tender balls in his hand, and walked the final steps to the Bridge.

≈

Thapa watched quietly as Baruti silently studied the deck plans, which he had been doing since Thapa had returned from tossing Stoves’ body over the side of the ship. A couple minutes later, the door opened and The Mosquito returned. He was alone. The two pirates conversed in some African dialect for several minutes. Their conversation was interrupted by a thin rap on the window. All three turned. A member of the crew stood at the door. Thapa remembered him; Ben.

He had streaks of blood running down his cheek. How had he escaped the pirates? And why was he at the Bridge? Thapa glanced at Baruti and the Mosquito. Neither looked alarmed.

Ben was one of them.

Baruti opened the door and Ben entered. “Kimal, it has been too long.”

Kimal
gave a slight bow and said, “Yes, it has.”

A wave of disappointment swept over Baruti’s face.

Kimal looked down at his feet.

The Mosquito pushed forward and said, “
Whey de gurl
?”

Thapa noticed Baruti shoot The Mosquito a look of disapproval, then utter something in African.

The Mosquito gave a sideways glance at Thapa, then turned to Kimal and began speaking in African. Kimal responded likewise, ending his statement with a shrug.

The Mosquito touched his fingers to the blood on Kimal’s cheek and stuck it in his mouth.
“And dis?”

Kimal spoke and Thapa could tell from his animations that he was saying that he fell. He took a step forward to mimic falling and grimaced.

The Mosquito stuck out his right hand and grabbed Kimal’s groin. Kimal let out a wail. The Mosquito pushed Kimal to the center of the room and yelled, “
You liya
.”

The Mosquito removed the machete from his back. Thapa thought for certain he would slash it across the man’s neck. But he didn’t. He pressed the blade against his throat and screamed, “
Fine hur
.”

SALON MUSA

7:01
a.m.

Salon Musa resembled, well, a salon. It was all mirrors and that foggy green glass that reminded me of green beer on Saint Patrick’s Day. Everything was in threes. Three chairs in the small waiting room, three haircutting stations, three hair-washing stations, and three hair-dryer stations. The only thing missing were three hairstylists, but as we’d been marched through the door, I’d noticed the salon hours were 8:00 a.m
.
to 7:00 p.m.