The Power Trip

just such a man. Senator Hammond Patterson.

A wolf-like smile spread across his face as he lowered himself on top of the quivering girl. She was nervous. He liked that, it made him even harder. A delicate virgin waiting for her master to deflower her — what could be more inviting?

Hammond Patterson. Master of the Universe. He recalled the Hollywood director James Cameron picking up an award for his movie, Titanic, and calling himself King of the World. Yes, that’s what he felt like right now as his penis thrust inside her, breaking the barrier, ignoring her sharp cries of sudden pain.

He was on a path to glory. He was about to fuck the life out of her. Give her something to think about, to remember.

Hammond Patterson was on fire.

* * *

Panic ensued. Panic as various crew members were dragged from their beds by a ferocious rag-tag band of men who jabbered to each other in a foreign language and wielded lethal-looking weapons such as assault rifles and knives.

There was hardly any resistance from the crew, who were too shocked and scared to do anything as they were hustled into the mess-hall in various stages of undress.

Den attempted to grapple with one of the pirates and received a pistol-whipping across his forehead, causing a large gash. Blood dripped down his face as the housekeeper and the two Polish maids screamed in terror.

One of the maids handed him a dishcloth, which he held to his head while searching around for Renee and Mercedes. Neither of them were there.

Guy was marched in by a pistol-wielding pirate who shoved him to the ground. ‘What the hell?’ Guy shouted, as he landed on the floor next to Den.

‘I think we’re in trouble, mate,’ Den said in a low voice. ‘Big friggin’ trouble.’

Guy staggered to his feet. ‘Where’s the Captain?’ he asked, trying to sound authoritative.

‘Dunno,’ Den answered, stemming the flow of blood from his forehead. ‘They’re still bringing people in.’

Guy shook his head. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t possibly be happening.

Unfortunately for everyone on The Bianca, it was.

* * *

‘Here’s what I want you to do,’ Aleksandr said to Bianca, keeping his voice low and reassuring.

She’d pulled on black leggings and a sweatshirt. ‘What?’ she asked, wondering why Aleksandr was suddenly so serious.

‘I think there might be something going on.’

‘Like what?’ she said, gazing at him expectantly.

‘I’m not sure, Bianca,’ he said patiently. ‘I need to find out.’

‘Was that gunshots we heard? Was it?’

‘Perhaps,’ he said, deliberately sounding non-committal. ‘Do not worry, just do as I say until I find out what is taking place.’

‘Should we go investigate?’

‘I will do that while you stay here.’

‘Can’t we call someone?’

‘The internal phone system is dead, so are the TV monitors.’

Bianca experienced a tiny shiver of apprehension. ‘Are we in any kind of danger?’

‘I doubt it. However, in case there is a problem, I have a plan.’

* * *

Settling himself in a comfortable chair on the middle deck lounge, Jeromy noted that the storm was gone and the sea was almost calm again, making him feel considerably better. Once that insolent girl brought him his tea and seasick pills, he would return to bed. In the morning he would make damn sure that Luca heard all about how ill he’d been, and hopefully Luca would be filled with guilt for not waking up and ministering to him.

The room was dark as he had not bothered putting on the lights, so he did not see Cashoo until the tall, lanky boy was standing over him brandishing a lethal-looking dagger.

‘Move!’ Cashoo yelled, proudly using the one word of English he knew. ‘Move, kumayo.’

Jeromy almost fell off his chair. Was this some kind of joke? Some kind of bizarre plot cooked up by Suga to get him out of Luca’s life?

‘Move!’ Cashoo yelled again, grabbing Jeromy’s arm and yanking him up.

‘Excuse me,’ Jeromy said, quite affronted.

Cashoo had his eye on Jeromy’s robe. He imagined himself strutting around showing it off in front of his girlfriends. He had two girlfriends at home. One of them was pregnant.

He snatched the robe off Jeromy, who was too startled to struggle. Not that Jeromy would, he’d always abhorred violence unless it was of the sexual kind. Chains, whips, cock-rings — all good at the right time.

Cashoo held Jeromy’s arm in a vice-like grip, and pulling him along, he marched him downstairs to the mess-hall.

Jeromy’s eyes swept around the room in horror. Where were the other guests? Where were Bianca and Aleksandr? For God’s sake, why was he being thrown in with the crew?

This was completely unacceptable.

* * *

Flynn had been caught in many situations. Over the years he’d travelled through war zones, interviewed masked and hooded terrorists, almost been captured by bandits twice, survived two earthquakes and a tsunami. But this — what the hell was this?

They were cruising the Sea of Cortez, for crissakes. They were in safe waters. Apparently not so safe. The Bianca was being taken over. And what was he supposed to do about it?

He knew the drill. A couple of years ago he’d interviewed several Somalian pirates when he’d been thinking of maybe writing a book about the modern-day piracy industry. And it was an industry; they shovelled in millions of ransom dollars a year.

Talking with the pirates in Eyl, the small town by the sea that was famous for being the centre of pirate activity, accompanied by four armed bodyguards and a translator, he’d discovered that a large percentage of them were former fishermen who felt that their livelihood had been affected by illegal fishing vessels raiding their waters, so it was perfectly fine to take what wasn’t theirs.

Apart from the fishermen, some of the pirates were ex-militiamen, tough as old leather, and each clan had their own technical geek to deal with satellite phones and GPS systems.

The pirates had enjoyed boasting about their activities, how much money they made, and how they earned respect, drove big cars, and married the most beautiful clan women.

They refused to address the violence and the weapons they amassed.

In the end Flynn had decided against writing a book. He didn’t trust any of them, and he knew that if he wasn’t protected by armed bodyguards he’d be immediately kidnapped and held for ransom. It was their way.

Usually they didn’t stray far from familiar waters. So how was it possible they were running riot on The Bianca? This was a crazy situation.

Safe on the top deck, he knew he wouldn’t be safe for long. If these intruders were indeed Somalians — and from the stray words he’d heard shouted, they were — then their next move would be to secure the boat, making sure everyone was accounted for and locked away. After that it was a question of demanding the required ransom. Until then, the yacht and its occupants would remain their prisoners.

And if the ransom wasn’t paid…

He recalled that a couple of years ago Somalians had hijacked a yacht with four Americans aboard. Bible- thumping Christians. The pirates had killed all four of them.

Flynn had a choice. He could try to launch one of the tenders and go for help.

Or he could stay.

Sierra was aboard. He decided to stay.