The Shadow Project

and-sixty-foot hull was crusted with salt and oily grime, but she was a fast and reliable ship. Her speed was one reason she’d been chosen for this assignment; the other was that her Icelandic captain and his crew of six were savvy enough to take the cash and ask no questions of the two men and the woman they were being hired to ferry eastwards across the northern tip of Scotland into Scandinavian waters. They wanted to know even less about the ‘cargo’ that their three passengers had stored down below.

The ship had sailed in the night from Clifden on the Irish west coast. A few hours into the voyage, the sun was shining but the salty sea wind was cool as they left the Outer Hebrides behind them, the Orkney Islands a few hours ahead. The diesels kept up their steady grind, the clouds drifted overhead and the sea foamed white in their wake as the vessel ploughed onwards towards Stavanger, Norway, where the plane would be waiting to deliver the package to its final destination.

The stocky guy was not feeling good. He hated this fucking pile of rust, the stink of oil and ocean, the nauseous pitch and yaw of the floor under his feet. He was ill all the time, and he’d have loved to shoot down one or two of those incessantly screeching fucking seabirds. Not the most rewarding job he’d been on. He couldn’t wait for it to be over.

The things you have to do for money, he was thinking as he clanged open the hatch and carried the tray down into the part of the hold that was off-limits to the crew. He hated having to act as waiter to the damn kid, too, and carried the tray carelessly. Some water sloshed out of the tin cup and spilled onto the thin cheese sandwiches. If the kid complained, then fuck him. Let him starve.

Down in the murky shadows, the stink of oil was even stronger. The guy could make out the pale shape of the mattress on the floor and the dull glint of the handcuffs that secured the kid’s left wrist to the pipe.

Hold on. He shone the torch. The white circle of light danced on the rusty wall.

The handcuff was dangling empty from the pipe.

He dropped the tray with a clatter and stood there, mouth hanging open as his rising fury quickly gave way to fear. He dropped into a squat and rubbed his chin. If he’d lost the kid, he was a dead man.

Spotting a twisted length of wire lying among the filth on the floor, he picked it up and examined it, and his rage started flooding back. Little bastard.

He couldn’t be far away. The guy muttered and cursed and shone the torch this way and that in the shadows.

A soft sound came from behind him. He started to turn towards it, but then something came whooshing out of the darkness and caught him a glancing blow to the side of the head. His vision flashed white with pain. He dropped the torch and fell to the floor. The hard object hit him again and he felt unconsciousness washing over him.

Then he was dimly aware of someone bending over him, feeling through his pockets. Light footsteps running away.

He gritted his teeth and forced himself to clamber to his knees, just in time to see the kid momentarily framed in the sunlight that streamed through the open hatch. Then he was gone.

‘Come back here, you little fucker,’ the guy yelled out. His head felt ready to explode as he staggered to his feet and over towards the hatch, stumbling over the length of iron pipe that the prisoner had hit him with. He tore the .45 auto from his belt and went for the phone in his pocket to alert the others.

It was gone.

Rory’s heart was pounding in his throat as he half-ran, half-clambered up a clanking metal stair and sprinted along a railed walkway. He glanced frantically up and down the length of the ship and over the side at the heaving grey-green ocean and shivered in the cold, wondering where on earth he was. Gulls and cormorants were swooping and circling overhead; he could see dark islands on the horizon. His mind was working so fast that he was tripping over his thoughts, but he knew he’d already made two mistakes.

First mistake: when he’d taken the kidnapper’s phone he’d seen the black butt of a pistol sticking out of his belt. He should have taken it, even if he didn’t know how to work a gun.

Second mistake: in his haste to get away, he hadn’t shut the hatch behind him. They’d soon be searching the ship for him. He ran on, his footsteps ringing on the walkway.

A riveted door swung open a few yards ahead, and Rory ducked behind a girder. The two men who came out of the doorway were wearing oil-stained overalls and talking in some language he didn’t understand. They were rough-looking, dirt on their hands and faces unshaven. It sounded like they were sharing a joke. One of them was lighting up a cigarette, and Rory caught a whiff of the smoke as they came past. For a moment he thought he was going to cough, but he clamped it in tight and held his breath. His heart was thudding so hard that he was convinced they would hear it over the rumble of the ship. He shrank behind the girder, trying to make himself as small as possible.

They walked on by. Rory let his breath out very slowly, waited until they were around a corner and out of sight. Then he darted out from behind the girder and made for the lifeboats up ahead. He dropped down on his hands and knees and crawled under their rusty mountings, where a tattered piece of tarpaulin dangled down to offer some cover. Crammed as deep into the space as he could get, he reached into his jeans and took out the phone he’d stolen from the man. It was switched on, and there was a tiny flicker of reception.

Rory hesitated. Police or home? Home first. He suddenly wanted to hear his father’s voice so badly. He quickly punched out the number.

Sabrina was sitting outside on the patio finishing a breakfast of coffee and croissants and gazing out across the lake with Cassini on her lap when she heard the phone ring from inside the house. She twisted her head towards the open sliding glass door. Two rings, three. Adam didn’t come to pick up.

Of course not, she thought. Her dear brother was too busy bustling about in a panic getting ready for his stupid last-minute conference to think of such things as attending to his visitor or answering his phone. What the hell was wrong with him? He was definitely acting jumpy. He hadn’t wanted breakfast, either, and looked like he hadn’t slept a wink all night.

She shooed the cat away irritably, jumped up from the deck chair and trotted over to the house. Maybe her big bro wasn’t cut out to be a businessman after all.

She picked up the phone on the seventh ring. ‘Hello, Slaves ‘R’ Us. How may I help you?’

‘Sabrina?’

‘Rory?’ She brightened momentarily. But then the tone of her nephew’s voice made her frown. He sounded scared. No, he didn’t. He sounded utterly terrorised. ‘What’s wrong, honey?’

‘Is Dad there?’

‘He’s not around. You sound upset. What is it?’

‘I’m in trouble. I mean really bad trouble. I’ve been kidnapped.’

Sabrina froze. ‘What?’ ‘I said—’

‘Where are you?’

‘I don’t know. I’m on a boat. No, a ship, in the sea. There are islands.’

‘Rory—’

‘I’m scared. I’m scared.’ He started sobbing. ‘Where’s my dad?’

Sabrina gripped the phone in horror. ‘Tell me where you are.’

‘Oh, shit. They’re coming. I—’

There were scraping and scuffling sounds, and then the phone went dead.

‘Rory? Rory?’

He was gone. Sabrina wanted to scream for Adam, but her throat was so dry and constricted no sound came out. Still clutching the phone, she went running through the house to find her brother. He was in the hallway, carrying a travel bag and a briefcase out to the car.

‘There you are. Oh my God, Adam.’

He stopped and stared at her. His face was pale, dark rings around his eyes.

‘Something’s happened to Rory,’ she blurted. ‘He’s been kidnapped.’

‘What? Say that again.’

‘I’ve just had a call from him. He’s been taken, Adam. Said he was on board a ship or something.’ Tears prickled her eyes. ‘What’s happening?’

He stared at her a second longer, then broke into a twisted grin. ‘Sabrina, that’s not possible. I talked to him