Thomas Prescott Superpack (81 page)

Garret absorbed this. He hoped the collapse of the London Stock Exchange wasn’t in some way connected to the
Afrikaans
, but in his gut, deep down, he knew it was. Garret asked, “Why would that have anything to do with the topic at hand.”

“The shareholder was Track Bowe,” Karl said with a smirk. “And he is the principal shareholder of Oceanic Cruise Lines.”

THE ROAD TO PTUTSI

6:22
p.m.

Gina watched in horror as the six boys surrounded the vehicle. They couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven. One boy stuck his hand in and grabbed her breast. Then another hand darted in. Timon leaned over her and slapped one of the kids in the face, earning himself another blow to the head by the tall boy. Soon Gina was being groped from every direction. She covered her face. How had she been so naive? Kids with toys? These were monsters. Monsters with machine guns.

The door to the Jeep was wrenched open. One of them had her right leg. Then her left. Another grabbed her arm. She was being dragged from the car. She imagined what the next hour would hold if they successfully pulled her from the Jeep. She saw herself lying naked in the brush, the seven of them taking turns putting their tiny black dicks inside her.

Gina screamed. She kicked her legs frantically. Thrashed and squirmed. One of her legs connected hard with something and her leg was free. Then she got an arm free. She opened her eyes and saw Timon having a fight of his own. He smashed his forearm into the tall boy’s face. He too would not go without a fight.

Gina leaned over him and pushed down on the gearshift. It wouldn’t budge. She screamed, “Clutch. Step on the clutch.”

She watched Timon’s left foot, it was headed for the pedal, but then her head was ripped backwards. One of them had two handfuls of her hair and was yanking with all his might. Another had crawled on top of her and was ripping at her shirt. Tiny hands fondled her breasts. She let loose a terrifying scream. Her earlier scream had been a scream of fright. This was a scream of anger. A scream that sent every animal in South Africa scurrying for cover.

Probably scared senseless, whoever had hold of her hair, let go. The others were more resilient, but Gina had turned into a bucking bronco. Not even the best cowboy in the land would have had a chance. She slashed at faces, hacked away with her fists, kicked in every direction.
She grabbed the kid on top of her, hands holding onto her breasts like cup dispensers, and threw him into the windshield. The windshield spider webbed and she kicked the kid in the head, sending him tumbling out of the car. And then she was free.

She dove towards the gearshift and smashed it down. It moved. She yelled, “GAS IT.”

The car lurched forward. She had one hand on the steering wheel and was trying to visualize where the rock lay on the road. She yanked the wheel towards her, the car crunching over what she thought was probably the kid she’d kicked out of the car. Good, she thought. Then the car stalled.

They had gone sixty feet. They had maybe a second to spare before the kids were back. And after they’d probably just killed one of them, she doubted they would give a second’s thought to using their guns. The tall boy had somehow stayed with Timon and was smashing his gun into Timon’s stomach. Gina turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared.

“Clutch.”

Timon’s left foot found the clutch. Gina rammed the car into first gear, then reached down with her right hand and pushed the gas pedal down to the floor. The car shot forward. She couldn’t see, but she pulled the steering wheel to the right. Gunfire erupted. The windshield shattered, the glass cascading into her hair. She kept her hand down hard on the gas, then pulled the steering wheel back to the left. The car rose, bounding, and she knew they’d cleared the large rock. Bullets zipped through the air, clanking off the side of the Jeep.

Timon yelled, “Stay down.”

The jolt from the rock had sent the tall boy reeling. Gina heard the beautiful sound of a car door slam then felt Timon’s foot slide over her hand on the gas pedal. She slid her hand out from under his foot. She could feel him shift into second gear, the car zooming forward. Timon was leaning over, holding her head down, when a final barrage of gunfire ripped through the still air.

Gina felt Timon’s body lurch next to her. The gunfire stopped and Gina rose. Timon had his left hand limply holding the steering wheel. His right hand was clasped down on the inside of his left shoulder. Blood gushed over his fingertips.

Gina instructed him to switch seats with her. She climbed over him into the driver’s seat. For the next ten minutes she traded glances with the wounded Timon and the curving road. When she thought they were a safe distance away, Gina pulled the car over to the side of the road. Timon was leaned against the passenger side door. He was a bloody mess. The cut on his cheek was two inches long and half an inch deep. It had already swollen to the size of a tennis ball, pushing his left eye closed. His right hand was resting lightly on his left shoulder, the blood trickling freely down his shirt, and to a blossoming puddle on the seat. His Adam’s apple moved slowly in his throat.

Gina pushed two fingers to his neck. His pulse was a strong 85. She whispered, “Timon.” She ran the back of her fingers lightly over the top of his unscathed head. “Timon.”

He stirred. He tried to sit up, then cringed. He took a deep breath and said, “How do I look?” He forced his face into a smile.

For all the punishment his face had taken, he’d kept all his beautiful teeth. Gina said, “Like shit.”

He laughed. Cringed again.

Gina said, “I need to look at your shoulder.”

“Yes, docta.”

She found herself smiling. Docta. Docta Gina. She moved his hand from his shoulder. She found the bullet hole in the red shirt and ripped it open. She jumped into the backseat, grabbed her backpack, and pulled out the supplies she would need. She told Timon to stick out his tongue. She asked, “Are you allergic to any medicine?”

He said placidly, “I don’t know. I’ve never taken any.”

Well. Okay, then.

She placed two Vicodin and two Cipro—a wide-spectrum antibiotic—in his mouth, then brought a water bottle to his lips. Next, she poured iodine on the wound. Timon never flinched as she scrubbed the wound. As for the gunshot, it was a clean shot. If the bullet had been an inch lower it would have clipped the brachial artery and Timon would have already bled out.

After cleaning the entry and exit wounds, Gina spent the next twenty minutes stitching them up. Then she went to work on the gash on Timon’s cheek. After bandaging all three wounds, Timon began snoring. The Vicodin had taken hold. He would be one hurting puppy in the morning, but he would live.

Gina kissed Timon on the forehead and stowed her backpack. The sun had long ago set, and as Gina flipped the lights, her eyes were drawn to the charm dangling in front of her. She wasn’t sure what Timon had said, or who or what he’d prayed to, but she thanked them.

She put the car in gear and eased back on the road.

SHOW LOUNGE

11:10
p.m.

I think I finally understood how those people aboard Flight 93 felt. They knew two planes had been hijacked and crashed into the Twin Towers. They knew their flight was destined to have a similar fate. They couldn’t let that happen. They had to do something. Even if it cost them their lives. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I was ready to die to save 400 people, because I wasn’t. And maybe in hindsight, plucking
Flight 93
from the Blue-Ray library on the first night wasn’t the best idea. But, after seeing the blood splatter from the six executed individuals and the ticking bomb, I knew no one was getting off this boat alive. Not unless somebody did something. And as I looked at my fellow hostages; heads down, dejected, coming to terms with their fate, or maybe just coming to terms with waiting it out, I knew the responsibility had fallen in my lap. Like it or not, I had to be the one. Thomas Dergen Prescott was the only chance these people had.

Needless to say, we were fucked.

Over the course of the past hour, Susie had continued to improve. When she uttered the words, “I want some beef jerky,” her full recovery was made official. Frank, too, was back in rare form. At one point he leaned over Lacy and kissed me on the cheek.

As for Lace, after swallowing down twelve of her pills, I asked how she was feeling. She said she hadn’t felt any weird sensations since the dizzy spell. I wanted to believe her, so I did. But, if we did come out of this thing alive, it could be weeks or months before she incurred a flare-up because of the missed dosages. On a side note; at one point, Lacy had noticed her favorite pirate had gone missing. I’d tried to act surprised, but Lacy knew better. Other than a suspicious wrinkle of her nose, she hadn’t pried. And as far as Baxter went, I told her that I didn’t find him. Not use getting her hopes up. For her to be reunited with the little guy a lot of chips had to fall into place.

J.J. had peppered me with questions about the hour I’d been gone. The questions came out like a Gatling gun—a weird New Jersey accented question shooting Gatling gun.
Where did you go? Did you see any pirates? Did I give you enough time? Did you see me look at you behind the curtain? What did the Catholic priest say to the altar boy?

I tried to downplay things. Told him it was a piece of cake. Told him I couldn’t have done it without him. I think I said those exact words seven times and each time, J.J would beam like an eight-year-old winning the egg toss.

In fact, I hadn’t disclosed much information about the hour I’d been gone to anyone. Even Lacy. I’d made it sound as if it was a breeze. No mention of Rikki, the dead pirate, or the bomb. I was too busy trying to formulate a plan.

Sadly, my plan only considered the people in this room. Well, along with Bheka and Rikki.

But back to my plan. It was a work in progress, but here is what I had so far:

1) Kill the pirates.

2) Get off this stupid fracking ship

No, it was more complex than that. Killing Little Wayne and Tupac would be the easy part. It
was the next part that would get tricky. The gunshots would attract unwanted attention and there would be a short window to coordinate an escape plan. Best-case scenario, the gunshots weren’t overheard, and all of us got off the ship and none of the pirates were any the wiser. Worst-case scenario, the gunshots were overheard and the pirates cut down every last one of us in cold blood.

The true outcome would probably be somewhere in the middle.

I looked over my shoulder at the entrance. Only Tupac remained. Little Wayne must have been patrolling the ship for the now deceased third wheel. Hopefully, he wouldn’t stumble on the towel cart holding his dead comrade and would come back shrugging his shoulders. That’s when I would approach them, pull the gun from my waist, and put a hole in both their foreheads.

As for the present, with only one pirate on guard, this was a perfect time to reveal my plan to Lacy, Susie, Frank, and J.J., all of whom, the plan would rely heavily on. And as much as it pained me, I would need Gilroy’s help as well. I tapped him on the shoulder and he turned around. Walter and Marge had been with us since the beginning, and I decided they deserved to know the truth too. They both leaned forward. I told everyone to act cool, but listen closely.

I didn’t hold anything back. I told them about Bheka and the note. About Rikki and her connection to Track Bowe. About how I’d killed Common. About the six puddles of blood on Deck 7. And about the bomb. To say the group was shocked would be an understatement. They were like eight deer in headlights.

“There is no way they’re letting anyone of this ship alive is there?” asked Susie.

“No, there is not,” I answered.

I needed them to be scared. They would be more open to my plan if they knew—if they accepted—that our backs were against the wall.

“What does the gun look like?” asked Frank.

I thought about opening the fanny pack and showing him, but it would cause too much of a stir. Tupac might even come back over. And I had an inclination Gilroy wouldn’t stop until he had the gun. Or at least a couple of the energy bars.

I told him it was a 9mm semi-automatic.

“Good and accurate. Plus, after we kill these two assholes, we’ll have two machine guns.”

I would have preferred a couple grenades, a dozen light sabers, Wolverine, the Predator, an invisibility cloak, and a couple of the Real Housewives from Orange County, but a 9mm and two machine guns wasn’t shabby.

I informed them about the fishing boats and if it came to it we could jump overboard and use them to escape. A selfish act, but a selfish act we would be able to tell our children about. And Katie Couric.

We spent the next half hour going over the small details. The second I took the first shot the wheels would be in motion. J.J. and Frank would jump up and coax every man to pick up their chairs and carry them to the stairwell. Susie, Trinity, Marge, and Walter, would usher all the women to the lifeboat and get them inside. And Lacy would run behind the curtain, down the stairs, and retrieve Bheka and Rikki.