Thomas Prescott Superpack (62 page)

Now, he stood in the entrance, Little Wayne standing just behind him. He was holding a pistol in his right hand and a small metallic object in his left. The object made a soft clicking noise. It was one of those counters you sometimes see bouncers at clubs using. The sound of ten clicks filled the silent room.

Then as quickly as he came, he left.

DECK 6

8:40 a.m.

Decks 4, 5, and 6 were passenger decks, home to the 100 suites and six presidential suites that housed the 208 guests of the
Afrikaans.

Thapa approached the two presidential suites, 05 and 06, situated at the bow of Deck 6. He’d been inside each of the suites a handful of times and he was always amazed at how spacious they were. Although, he didn’t know the exact cost, Thapa had heard the rate to book one of the six suites for the eleven-day cruise was well over twenty thousand dollars. The last time Thapa had set foot in one of the large rooms was a year earlier when he’d been summoned by a maid who had overheard a woman screaming. Thapa had slid his master key into the door and barged in; only to find a man and woman both clad in leather, the man holding a large whip in his hand. Yes, that had been quite an experience.

There were two pirates leaning up against the outside wall, and they were conversing in broken English.

One of the pirates was the darkest black man Thapa had ever seen. The other, possibly the lightest. They were obviously both from Africa, but different parts. That’s why they were conversing in English. The universal language of money and as such, mercenaries.

Thapa nodded and both jutted their chins upwards in response. Friendly, these guys were not. Thapa slid his key into the door. Remembering the passengers were now
hostages
and might be even less friendly than the two African pirates, Thapa pulled the Beretta from his hip. He pushed the door in and took two tentative steps forward.

Hushed voices went silent and Thapa watched as countless heads whipped in his direction. He heard a “Thank God” and a “We’re saved.” Several women began weeping. Of course, they would
think
he had come to save them. They would think the brown man they’d seen walking the ship for six days had somehow overcome the even darker men and was here to free them.

Two men stood directly in front of him. One of the men, a bookish looking guy wearing a white tank top and briefs, threw his hands up and said, “What took you so long?”

The other man, clad only in boxer shorts, attempted to rush past him. Thapa stopped him with his arm, pushed him back, and then pointed the gun at his chest. “Step back,” Thapa said calmly.

The man’s eyes widened. He waddled backwards as if pulled by an unseen hand. “You bastard. You’re one of them,” he cried.

Yes, he
was
one of them.

God save him.

The hostages’ eyes bore into him. He noticed a woman—a large woman who had been friendly to him on the elevator—wearing a T-shirt and big white panties. She was lying on the ground, pulling her shirt down over her privates, tears dripping down her cheeks.

Thapa took a deep breath and did what he’d come into the room to do. For each person he saw, he clicked down the small metallic tab. The two men in front of him.
Click, click
. The large woman.
Click
. Eight sitting on the bed where he’d found the man lashing away at the woman with the whip. Five sitting at the table. Ten on the couches and chairs. One in the bathroom. Twenty-seven clicks in all.

Thapa exited the room and walked directly across the hall. The people were different but the faces were the same. Twenty-five clicks.

Thapa made his way down to Deck 5 and repeated the procedure. Deck 4 was a passenger deck, but it was also home to half the crew accommodations. Since there were no Presidential suites on Deck 4, the passengers had been crammed into the four double suites. Thapa clicked these people off.

The opposite side of Deck 4 was the Upper Crew Deck, home to the forty cabins of the higher-ups; the captain and his team of officers, the guest relations and entertainment staffs, theater techs, photographers, and outside concessionaires that worked the gift shops and salon. These folks were a revolving door of faces and many only worked a single cruise before moving onto greener pastures. Although Thapa was considered one these bourgeoisie and his cabin was
nestled between those of two officers, he couldn’t have named half the faces he clicked off. And he knew none of the faces could have named his.

But the faces on the Lower Crew Deck were a different story. As Thapa took the elevator to Deck 2, he could feel his stomach tighten. He would soon be forced to confront his fellow crew-members; the hardworking cooks, waiters, busboys, bartenders, maids, casino workers, and maintenance workers that truly made the ship run. Thapa had worked with many of these people for three years, and he would have to watch as they slowly comprehended what he’d done. What he’d
become
.

Thapa advanced towards the crew break-room. There were two pirates near the door leading to the room, which was filled with couches, flat screens, and a stocked bar; foosball, pool, and ping-pong tables; and a small attached fitness center.

Thapa pushed into the room. The crew-members who had been working were dressed in their different uniforms; white coats for the kitchen staff, black for the dealers at the casino, red for the waiters and waitresses. The others were all dressed in their sleeping attire; boxers, T-shirts, panties, pajamas.

There was a moment of silence as everyone took in Thapa’s presence; the silence broke when the ninety-plus individuals broke into wild applause. Thapa watched as they high-fived, many turned to one another and hugged. Some kissed. A guy sitting on the edge of the couch with a beer in his hand, set the beer down, and lunged towards him, his arms outstretched. A bartender named Joe. He was tall, built like a rock, charismatic, good looking,
a free spirit. Everybody adored him. Thapa couldn’t count how many of Joe’s hugs he’d had to ward off. But every so often Joe would be successful, sneaking up from behind him, wrapping his large arms around Thapa’s small body and lifting him off the ground in a tight squeeze. As humiliating as Joe’s hugs were, Thapa always found himself feeling a bit spryer, a bit younger afterwards, almost as if Joe had passed some of his zeal for life into him.

Thapa drew the gun from his side, but he was too late. Joe was already dipping to engulf Thapa in his muscled arms. Thapa brought his left hand up, the one holding the clicker, swept it across his body, and struck Joe in the throat. Joe’s eyes bulged and his hands flew to his throat as he crumbled to the ground.

Thapa still remembered the day one of his instructors had taught him the blow. His instructor, a retired British Special Ops, had said of the strike to the Adam’s apple, “He won’t die from the blow, but for the next couple minutes, he’ll wish he had.”

The ashen faces of the crew traded glances between their writhing leader and the man who had betrayed them. Thapa quickly clicked off the men and women, then left.

Finally finished, Thapa walked outside and leaned against the railing. As of the last port there were 381 people aboard the
Afrikaans
.

He looked down at the clicker.

380.

Someone was missing.

≈

Kimal averaged five minutes to a room. More than enough time to peer into every nook and cranny. He exited room 218 and walked directly into room 219. Kimal hoped he would have the restraint not to kill the girl if he found her. His testicles were still aching something horrible.

He completed his search and moved onto the next room, then the next. Between rooms 206 and 204 there was a door. Kimal pulled the door open. There were two maid’s carts and a cart full of towels. He looked around the small room for any place to hide, but unless the girl had turned herself into a mop, she wasn’t there. He turned to leave, then decided better, plunging his hand down into the towels and fished around.

Nothing.

He shook his head, closed the door, and walked to Suite 204.

Had Kimal inspected the maid’s carts more closely, he would have noticed one of the cart’s trashcans was filled with clean sheets and one of the carts was a hundred and ten pounds heavier than the other.

SALON MUSA

11:43 a.m.

“H
ow about some red highlights?”

Berta looked at Trinity questioningly.

“Red is all the rage right now,” said Lacy.

Susie nodded. “Oh, I think that would look marvelous.”

Trinity ran her hands through Reen’s hair and said, “And for you, I’m thinking platinum.”

“Oh, yeah,” Lacy cooed.

Berta and Reen looked at each other. They were both smiling. Then they both turned to Trinity and nodded.

This had been going on for the past hour. And again, Lacy was to blame. Conversation had been at a standstill—you can only fill the silence with expectations of death for so long before it
becomes droll—and in fact, I’d been flipping through a magazine—
Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue
—at the time Lacy decided to lift the lid on Pandora’s box. I believe her exact wording had been, “So ladies, let’s hear it, what were you going to have done to your hair?”

And everyone turned and listened as Berta announced she’d just wanted a couple inches off and Reen was going to get a bob. Yes, a bob. To which Trinity had exclaimed, “No, no, no, no, no,” and proclaimed she
almost
completed cosmetology school and she was going to do their hair.

Again, this had been over an hour ago.

Susie and Lacy stood behind Trinity as she began washing both women’s hair, which left Frank, Gilroy, Walter, Marge and I in the back of the salon.

Taking up Susie’s seat next to Frank, I said, “Welcome to
Extreme Makeover, Luxury Cruise Liner Overtaken by Pirates
edition.”

He laughed.

I noticed Gilroy even cracked a grin.

Frank shook his head and said, “Women and weddings.”

“You mean, women and civil union ceremonies.”

“Right.”

“Where did you and Susie get hitched?”

“Vegas.”

“No!”

“
Chapel of Love
baby.”

“You’re that couple.”

“We’re that couple,” he said with a smile. “My parents were long dead and I only have one brother—who I barely talk to. And her parents are crazy hippies that live in Montana and they wouldn’t come for the wedding. And Susie and I had just put our savings into the business and didn’t have a pot to piss in.”

While on the safari, Frank had recounted how he and Susie had made their fortune. They met Frank’s junior year—Susie just a freshman—at New Mexico State University. Fast forward a year and the two were living together in an apartment off-campus. Both were working full-time—landscaping for Frank, waitressing for Susie—and going to school full-time, and they were barely scraping by. They were so poor in fact that Susie refused to let them run the heater in the winter. Whenever Susie would study, she would wrap herself in a blanket, but she continually complained to Frank that each time she moved her arms to turn the page of her text book, or take a drink of tea, she would let all the warm air out. Come Christmas, they made a pact not to buy each other anything, but to make their gifts instead. Susie made Frank a couple mixed CDs. Frank, whose grandmother had forced him to knit with her every Sunday for ten
years, knitted Susie a blanket. But not any blanket, a blanket with sleeves.

That’s right, Frank invented the Snuggie.

It wasn’t an overnight success. For the next two years, Frank worked during the day and knitted Snuggies at night. Susie was finishing up her degree in Finance and would join him on the weekends trying to sell door-to-door. Or in most cases,
not sell
, door-to-door. Finally, Susie decided that they needed to do something drastic. So they pooled all the money they had, took out two loans, and made an infomercial. The rest is history.

“Sounds like a recipe for a Vegas wedding,” I said.

He turned and stared at Susie’s backside—which was blocking the hair washing stations, Trinity, Lacy, the salon entrance, and everything in-between—and said, “If I could go back and do it different I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“I got married in Vegas once.”

Frank and I turned and looked at Gilroy. He was nodding. “Yep, wife number two. Sammy. Man she was a looker. I was playing Blackjack, the big table, thousand dollar hands, and she was my cocktail waitress. First time she walked by, I hit on a nineteen, a fucking nineteen. Don’t know what I was thinking. Lost my ass that night, like ninety thousand, got hitched two hours later.”

I said, “It’s like a fairy tale.”

Gilroy shot me a look. Frank fought down a smile, then asked, “What happened?”