else was aboard?
Flynn recalled his conversations with the pirates he’d interviewed in Eyl. At the time they’d been holding a large oil tanker for ransom. They’d proudly informed him that all the captives aboard were being well looked after and treated like guests at a fine hotel. It was only later he’d discovered that two of the female hostages had been raped, and one of the male captives brutally murdered — even though the ransom was eventually paid.
Flynn’s mind started clicking into overdrive.
Advantages: he knew every detail of the yacht. He was into martial arts. He understood the pirate mentality. So far he had not been spotted.
Disadvantages: no weapon. No idea how many pirates there were. No form of communication with the outside world. Unsettling to say the least.
He’d heard a lot of shouting and a couple of gunshots. Not good.
His main thought was,
It was up to him to figure something out.
Roaming the yacht searching for stragglers, waving his gun in front of him ready to shoot anyone who gave him any trouble, Basra made a frightening figure with his deep sunken eyes, lack of teeth and unkempt, rain-soaked dreadlocks.
He passed the security room where Kyril now lay on the floor, a neat bullet-hole through the middle of his forehead.
Had he done that? He couldn’t remember.
After a moment he doubled back, entered the room, wrenched the watch from Kyril’s wrist and put it on his own emaciated wrist. The watch was black with a red dial. Cheap and cheerful.
Next he kicked and pushed Kyril’s body out of his way, and sat himself down in the command chair facing a slew of security monitors, all of them blank, for Cruz had cut the feed. A plate of brownies stood on the shelf in front of him. Basra snatched one up and shoved it in his mouth. Sweet and tasty. He wolfed down another one, and then a third.
Sitting back, he admired his new black watch with the smart red dial. The watch of a dead man was a fine souvenir for him to cherish, especially when he showed it off at home, making his three sons jealous.
Ah… his sons, lazy
Perhaps he’d remember, perhaps he wouldn’t.
On the first day the guests had boarded the yacht, Aleksandr had generously offered everyone the opportunity to take the full tour. Flynn had accepted his offer, and now he was glad he’d done so, for knowing the layout of the yacht was imperative.
There were four levels. The lower level consisted of staff quarters, kitchens and the engine room. On the next level were a series of luxury suites, all with their own small terraces, plus the movie theatre, spa and other facilities. On the middle deck, there was the swimming pool, gym, and various areas for relaxing and entertaining, plus the bridge, communication centre, and the master suite with its own large terrace. And finally the upper level was all lounges, sun decks and more entertaining areas.
Flynn realized that he had to figure out a way to reach Aleksandr, for maybe — just maybe — Kasianenko was still in his suite.
He made a dangerous but do-able decision. Before anyone discovered him, he was going over the side.
After getting Bianca into the safe room, Aleksandr headed towards the door. To his consternation it would not open more than an inch. Bending down and peering through the crack, he soon saw why. The door had been padlocked from the outside.
He wondered where Kyril was. The big man had protected him for so many years, always been at his side whenever Aleksandr had needed him. Indeed, Kyril had once taken a bullet for him when an irate business associate had attempted to shoot him. Kyril was loyal through and through. If he was alive he would be here now.
Aleksandr felt a thickness in his throat. Instinct told him that Kyril was either dead or mortally wounded.
Reaching back, he felt the reassuring presence of his gun. Motherfuckers. Whoever was on his yacht better beware. Aleksandr Kasianenko was not going down without a fight.
Captain Dickson was hauled unceremoniously from his bed by Amiin, who punched him in the stomach and muttered a gruff, ‘Up, mister, this boat now ours.’
Anxiety overcame the English Captain as he realized what was taking place. In all his years at sea, this was the moment he’d always dreaded.
‘What… what are you thinking?’ he managed, shying away from the dark-skinned man who stood before him brandishing a gun.
‘Come,’ Amiin said. ‘Follow me or I shoot you in gut.’
‘Can I get dressed first?’
‘Quick,’ Amiin said, waving his gun in the air. ‘You do it quick.’
Hurriedly the Captain pulled on a pair of pants and a shirt. Then at gunpoint he went with Amiin upstairs to the bridge, where Cruz restlessly waited.
When Captain Dickson came face to face with the man he assumed was the leader, he immediately attempted to assert himself. ‘This is outrageous,’ he said, sounding extremely stiff-upper-lip British. ‘Who are you people? What do you want?’
‘Waddya
‘You won’t get away with this,’ Captain Dickson blustered, swallowing hard. ‘My men have already alerted the coastguard. Help is on its way.’
‘Your fuckin’ men were all asleep on the job,’ Cruz sneered. ‘Comin’ aboard was like takin’ a walk in the park.’
‘Where are my passengers?’ Captain Dickson demanded. ‘If you’ve harmed them in any way—’
‘Shut your fuckin’ mouth an’ listen t’me,’ Cruz said roughly. ‘You’re gonna fetch the Russian motherfucker, an’ bring him here. Understand?’ He gestured towards Amiin. ‘Take him with. He give you any trouble, shoot him in the head.’ Captain Dickson swallowed hard again. Fear coursed through his body. If he survived this, he was retiring.
The
Meanwhile, down in the mess-hall, the pirates had discovered bottles of beer, and Daleel and Hani were swigging it down, quenching their thirst, jeering at their hostages, making lewd signs at the two petrified maids and the housekeeper.
Jeromy huddled in a corner, still wearing his silk pyjamas, and trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. These men were dangerous savages — God knew what they were capable of.
Guy did a quick head-count. All the crew were accounted for except the Captain, Mercedes and Renee. He felt fear for the two girls. He’d heard the stories, rape was not uncommon, and Mercedes and Renee were certainly attractive enough.
Den was thinking along the same lines, and in spite of his head injury he was definitely getting his macho up. Renee was a sweet girl who didn’t deserve what might be happening to her.
‘We just gonna sit here an’ do nothin’?’ he muttered to Guy. ‘These dickheads are gettin’ drunker than a dingo’s arse. Fair go, mate, we gotta do somethin’.’
‘And get ourselves shot?’ Guy said, eyeing the three pirates who were supposedly in charge. ‘Best to sit tight and wait.’
‘For what?’ Den said, his temper rising. ‘We gotta go for it.’
Guy realized that Den was young — twenty-five, twenty-six — he didn’t understand the danger they were in.
