Thomas Prescott Superpack (84 page)

There was probably no person on Earth that knew Paul as she did, not even his wife. Paul was too sensitive, he cared too much. He didn’t have the thick skin necessary to work in Washington, let alone at the tip of the sword. She never knew why Paul had decided on politics; even his father had tried to push him away from Washington.

Paul said, “Well, it’s probably getting pretty late over there so I’ll let you get some rest.”

It was almost as if Gina hadn’t known just how tired she was until Paul said these words. She found herself yawning. “Yeah, I should get to sleep.”

“Goodnight then.”

“Goodnight.”

There was a pause. Then Paul said, “And Gina?”

She tensed. “Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

She laughed. To expect to hear those three words after all this time. How naive. She said,
“Don’t mention it.”

The phone went dead.

Gina ate the other half of the banana and listened to the soft drumming reverberating from somewhere on the hill. Slow and rhythmic. The sounds made her eyes heavy. Even so, her mind raced. Somewhere in that sea of people were three small children. Three tiny ants she needed to find and somehow persuade to come with her. Yes, tomorrow was going to be a long day. Longer than today even. But today. Today was over.

Gina pulled up the handle and laid back the seat. A minute later she was asleep.

SHOW LOUNGE

2:35
a.m.

After Rikki had been dragged from the room, the security officer, Ganju, was left with Little Wayne, Tupac, and one additional pirate, my friend Greg Louganis. If the Warlord or Professor had been informed or cared about the missing Common, I didn’t have the foggiest idea. My instincts told me that Common’s drug use was no secret and they probably all assumed he was off doing smack somewhere. As for Ganju, I would describe his mood as distraught. He’d stormed down the walkway and ripped the curtains open. As security officer, he should have known about the exit behind the curtains. But evidently, he hadn’t. Or had he? Or had he thought that since you needed a crew ID to open the door, it was useless. Regardless, the clumping down the aisle, the throwing open of the curtains, it was a bit too showy for me. It easily could have been a reproduction of
Streetcar Named Desire
, the brown security officer in the role of Marlon Brando in an all-out rage. What I’m getting at is this; the whole charade didn’t fit the quiet, well-tempered man I’d chatted with for five minutes. But, then again, I hadn’t pegged him as a savage pirate either.

Ganju disappeared and I assumed he’d gone down the stairs. I silently prayed Bheka had been smart enough to change hiding places. But I knew he had. He was a smart little bugger.

“What the hell was she doing?” asked Gilroy.

I was curious as well, but I also knew that if Gilroy hadn’t sat on his ass and had done what he’d ensured me he would, than both pirates would be in line at the fiery gates and it wouldn’t have mattered why Rikki had fallen through the curtain. “Maybe she heard there was this guy in the front row acting like a total chicken shit coward and she had to see it for herself.”

He scoffed. “Seems to me we were doing just fine until you went on your little fucking treasure hunt.” And then he added, “And who the fuck put you in charge anyhow?”

How thick was this idiot’s skull? First and foremost, if I hadn’t sneaked out, Susie could very easily be dead by now, not to mention the unspeakable things that would have become Rikki. I didn’t expect Gilroy to care about either of these. But the bomb was another thing. Very slowly, pausing frequently, I said, “If
we
—do
not
find—a
way
—
off
this ship—in the
next
—
thirty-six hours
—
we are
going—
to die.
What
—don’t
you
understand
—about
that
?” And then I added, “And I wasn’t in charge before. But I
am
in charge now. And if you do anything else to jeopardize anyone’s chance of getting off this boat, I swear to the gods of Winterfell I am going to feed you your own dick.”

Gilroy didn’t say anything, he simply lunged. I pushed him off and he came at me again. He took a swing at me and I just barely escaped his giant fist. Frank was trying to get between the two of us, but Gilroy shoved him, sending him into Susie and Lacy and the three tumbled into the hallway. I picked up my chair and threw it at him. As he deflected it, I noticed Ganju had returned, pushing through the curtains. He was empty handed. No Bheka. No machine gun.

My brain made half a dozen computations in less than a second.
The conversation I’d had with him. The act. The look on his face when he watched Rikki dragged away.

Gilroy picked up his chair and threw it at me. I shoved it up and away and it came crashing down two rows behind us. Now there was nothing between Gilroy and myself. I knew the pirates were probably on their way down to see what the commotion was. I had to get to the stage quick. And Gilroy was directly in my path. It was a goal line stand. I was a running back and he was the middle linebacker. A white Ray Lewis. There wasn’t enough room for me to go around him. I would have to go through him.

I was getting ready to take a knee, when I felt Susie getting to her feet next to me. But she didn’t stand, she darted forward, a two hundred and forty pound Rainbow Brite of a full back. Gilroy didn’t know what to do until it was too late and Susie simply clobbered him. The two went down with a loud, “OOF.” I ran behind her, leapt over the two of them, and hit the stage. Ganju’s eyes opened wide. I put my shoulder into his chest, flattening him into the thick curtain. I could hear the wind knocked from his lungs. Our combined weight—300 pounds, 180 of them mine—ripped the curtain from its fastening. The curtain engulfed us and when we finally came to rest it was in complete darkness.

I had maybe twenty seconds before the pirates could make it to the stage and untangle us from the curtain.

The thin man wrestled in my grip, but he was no match for my strength. I squeezed his body between mine, then said, “Listen, I don’t know what the fuck you’re up to, but I know you aren’t one of them. If you don’t remember, let me refresh your memory,
you’re one of the good guys
.”

He continued to squirm. I took a deep breath. “I don’t know how much they’re paying you and I don’t really give a shit. If you keep helping them, you will never be able to live with
yourself. You’ll never be able to look your kid in the eye again.”

He stopped fighting.

“Do you even have any idea what these guys are up to? This isn’t about AIDS. It’s about the girl. A young British girl whose father happens to be rich as hell. They’re ransoming her.”

He probably figured this out earlier, but I could tell from the deep breath he exhaled that he didn’t know she was British.

“And guess what, the whole ship is loaded to the gills with plastic explosives.”

Thapa’s body tensed.

“That’s right. In about thirty hours they’re gonna blow this ship to smithereens. They’re going to kill every last person on this ship. Every person in this room. Me and
you
.”

He closed his eyes.

Loud footsteps surrounded the stage. I had five seconds left. “If you don’t believe me about the bomb, check the closet of the Computer Center.”

The curtain was being wrestled out from under me. Light darted in from somewhere and I could see Thapa’s eyes. I stared at him. He stared back.

One of them had my legs and yanked me free of the curtain. They flipped me on my back. My eyes wouldn’t focus. When they did, it was too late. Something slammed down on my right eye and white light seared through my brain. Then a blinding pain shot through my ribs. I brought my knees up to my chest. Something rained down hard on my leg, probably the stock of one of their guns, but it could have been a bullet. The last thing I remember was the acrid taste of my own blood.

DAY 3

PTUTSI

5:55
a.m.

G
ina stirred from a dreamless sleep. She sat upright and rubbed the kink in her neck. The kink may have come at the hands of her odd sleeping position, or possibly it was the result of the mauling she’d taken the previous day. Probably a combination of the two. At any rate, she was doing far better than her traveling companion. In the rising sun, Timon’s face didn’t resemble much of a face. His cheek was the size of a cantaloupe, pulling the skin taut. A couple of the stitches holding the large gash together had slipped out, giving his face the look of a misshapen football with broken laces.

She lifted the bandage on his shoulder. For as bad as his face looked, the bullet wound looked far worse. It was red, swollen, and crusted over. Yellow pus oozed from every opening and heat radiated off his shoulder like a light bulb. An infection had already taken hold.

Gina closed her eyes.

Any doctor at any hospital in the world would have taken one glance at Timon’s shoulder and been immediately concerned. Both for his arm and his life. They were dealing with a quickly propagating bacteria that needed to be wiped out. And fast. They would have put him on an IV drip with powerful antibiotics and would have checked in on him every hour to make sure they had impeded the infection’s growth. So to say Gina was concerned would be an understatement. She was scared.

She thought about her options. Did she abandon the mission at hand and try to get Timon to a hospital? Did she take a quick look around for the three children, maybe an hour, try to get lucky, and then take him to the hospital? Was she even being rational? Was Timon’s life worth more than any of the 400 people on the cruise ship? No, of course not. But she didn’t know any of those people. None of those people had taken a bullet trying to save her life. Didn’t she owe Timon that much? And big deal, if she didn’t find these children. The odds were stacked against her from the get go. It would have been a miracle if she did pull it off. It’s not like Paul could hold it against her, could he? And what if he did? Who cares?

She found herself laughing. Why was she even having this conversation? Of course she would turn around. She would turn the Jeep around right this instant and get Timon to a hospital. She turned the key in the ignition.

The engine turned over. Then died. She looked at Timon. He was holding the key between his fingers. Timon’s good eye was trained on her. He said, “Do not worry bout me. I will bey fine.”

She shook her head. “Your shoulder is infected. We need to get you to a hospital.”

He put the key in his pocket. He took a deep breath and said, “You find doze children. I will bey fine. I’m strong like bull.”

Gina let out a nervous laugh.

“But I will take more medicine.”

She nodded. She made him eat another banana, then fed him a couple more Vicodin, and then a double dose of antibiotics. After he’d eaten, she cleaned the wound—Timon didn’t breathe for an entire minute while she scrubbed away the pus—applied a generous amount of antiseptic, then redressed the wounds.

She hardly noticed the constant flow of people making their way past their Jeep. She turned and looked over her shoulder. As far as the eye could see there were men and women holding baskets walking down the long dirt road.

She stood up in the driver’s seat. The sun had risen over the rolling hills and illuminated the waking village. But the village wasn’t what put the slack in Gina’s jaw. She attempted to coax Timon out of his seat with little more than unintelligible syllables.

Timon fluttered his eyes, then somehow found his way to his feet. He followed Gina’s gaze to the rolling hills behind the village. The hills, going back a mile or maybe even two, were overflowing with people. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands of people.

“They must come from opposite side,” said Timon.

Gina nodded.

They were both silent for a couple minutes. Trying to digest the sight. Timon looked at her and said, “When we get new President Motlanthe, I go hear him speak. So many people.” He pointed out on the rolling hills and said, “That more people.”

He sat back down. The strain of standing up had exhausted him.

Gina’s brain could hardly put the sight into context. There had to be over fifty thousand people surrounding the small village, with a steady stream joining the group every second. By this time tomorrow that number could double. Or even triple.

She took a deep breath. She needed to get down to that village while she could still part the masses. She looked at Timon. Her task would have been much easier if she had him at her side to translate, but it was out of the question. She patted him on the thigh and said, “Okay, I’ll go.” She added, “But, don’t you go anywhere.”

He opened his one eye. Then closed it just as quickly. Gina thought maybe he’d tried to smile or roll his eyes, but spotting an expression on Timon’s battered face was like trying to see the wave right
behind
a tsunami.

Gina readied him some food, then set aside a couple more doses of Vicadon and Cipro. She
put them on his lap and said, “When you wake up, take these. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She pulled on her backpack, gave Timon one last look, then fell in with the sea of people. She heard her name and turned. She was five or six feet from the Jeep by this point, but she had no doubt what Timon had yelled to her.

“Do not come back alone.”

SHOW LOUNGE

8:02
a.m.

I was alive, but I was one hurting puppy. I was pretty sure I had Ganju to thank for the
alive
part. It was all a bit foggy, seeing as I was getting my ass kicked at the time, but as I faded away into unconsciousness, I thought I’d heard the word, “Stop.”

At the time, I’d assumed it was the guard at the pearly gates telling me I couldn’t pass through, but a more logical answer was that Ganju had risen to his feet and yelled at the pirates to stop killing me.

Presently, I was confined to a chair near the entrance. Not only was Greg Louganis a skilled diver, he was gifted with duct-tape and I couldn’t as much as wiggle. Even so, every ten minutes either Greg or Tupac—Little Wayne was now sitting in a chair at the center of the stage, guarding the staircase—would walk over and double check that my sticky silver restraints were intact. Each time they would gaze at me, I knew how badly they wanted to put a bullet in my skull.

Every so often Lacy, Susie, Frank, J.J., Marge, Walter, Trinity, or even Gilroy, would turn around and peer in my direction. They must have been shocked beyond belief when I’d run on stage and tackled the security officer. But, I had to do it. If I could go back and do it all over, I would do it all the same. Maybe I would have rummaged around the attic for my old high school football gear first, but hindsight’s always twenty-twenty. Regardless, I would call the mission a success. I’d seen it in Ganju’s eyes. I’d gotten through to him.

Why else would my heart be beating this very moment?

As for Ganju, when I’d awoken from my imposed slumber, he’d been gone. That had been hours ago.

I couldn’t help but think about Rikki. What were they doing to her? They needed to keep her alive; she wasn’t any good to them dead. But from firsthand experience, either inflicting it, or absorbing it, I knew there were several different levels of alive. Right now, I was at a level four. There was a good chance my right eye socket was busted. I had at least a couple broken ribs, probably some degree of a concussion, and every so often I would be hit with a wave of nausea so intense I would have to bite my lip to fight back throwing up. I’d been at a level three a half dozen times and a level two twice. Level two is when you’re just conscious enough to wish you were dead. Level one isn’t so bad. You don’t remember level one, but it usually includes paddles, the words
Code Blue
, and people with masks on.

I had a feeling Rikki was probably on the elevator headed for level three as we speak. But to stay with the analogy, my future plans included putting the Professor and the Warlord at a level zero.

I’m a
glass is half-full
type of guy.

At any rate, there wasn’t a damn thing I could do at this point. I would just have to sit and wait.

LONDON

6:25
a.m.

T
rack had been on his way back into town when it happened. Stopped at a stoplight, nonetheless. A father and daughter walking across the street. The little girl, no older than four or five, riding on her dad’s shoulders. The father was dressed in a business suit, probably just gotten off work, probably just picked his daughter up from daycare. He had his hands clamped down on his daughter’s tiny shoes, some black sparkly numbers, with this huge grin on his face. But his grin was nothing compared with the little girl’s. It was so wide it looked almost like a caricature.

Before the light turned green, Track had sold two billion dollars’ worth of stock.

Now, as he sat in the study of his 12 million dollar loft, sipping a single malt scotch made in one of several distilleries he owned, he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure if he could go through with it. For one, he didn’t know for certain these whack jobs had Rikki. Anyone could have gotten their hands on the photo they had sent him. They could have gotten it from any cruise she’d been on. Or they could have made the picture. It was easy to create documents and forgeries. You could become a completely different person, or conjure a person from thin air, for about five hundred dollars.

The phone had rung nearly an hour earlier. It had been William, Track’s accountant. Track thought he’d been calling to ask about the two billion in sold stock. He hadn’t. He informed him the
Afrikaans
—the cruise ship Rikki was supposedly on, and which was all over the news for having been hijacked by African pirates—was owned by Oceanic Cruise Lines. OCL was one of his holdings; he owned a 32 percent share in the company, which made him the principal stock holder.

Was this a coincidence?

William had promised to call back when he had more information.

Track plopped an ice cube into his scotch and stirred it around with his finger. The phone rang and he stiffened.

He punched the speaker button and said, “William?”

It was silent for a beat, then in a voice that did not belong to his friend Rich, came the words, “Good morning.”

Track leaned forward, “How did you get this number?”

“Why do you worry about such things? You should worry about your daughter.”

Track had to admit the man was right. As he’d rehearsed earlier, he asked, “How do I even know you have my daughter? You could have sent that picture from any computer in the world. And if you do have her, how do I know she’s still alive?”

“Do you want proof?”

Track did not like how the man said,
Proof.
He said it as a man who is holding four aces might say,
Check
at the poker table. The man didn’t wait for his answer. He said, “Check your e-mail. I will call you back in three minutes.”

The phone went dead.

Track picked up the scotch and took a long sip. He flipped open his laptop and logged onto the internet. Track logged into his private e-mail. He had one new message. It was sent two minutes earlier. The man had sent it before he’d called. He’d expected to provide proof. The sender was registered as
[email protected]
. No doubt, untraceable.

Track clicked on the message. A video box popped up. The date and time in the corner showed the time to be 2:07 AM, 09/25/2012. Today. If they were off the coast of South Africa, then they were a couple hours ahead of him, and if he could believe the date and time—which was easy to manipulate—the video was shot six hours earlier.

Track pushed the play button. The room on-screen was all metal and glass. There were a bunch of computers in the background. In the center of the screen was a young woman in baggy shorts and a tank top sitting in a chair. She looked older, and her hair was lighter and shorter, but there was no doubt the woman on the chair was his daughter.

They had her.

They had Rikki.

Rikki looked at the screen, then her head whipped violently to the left. Someone off-screen had slammed their fist into the side of her face. Rikki righted herself, shielding her face with her hands.

Off-screen a voice asked, “What is your name?”

She didn’t answer and she was hit again.

“Rikki Drough,” she sobbed. “Rikki Drough.”

There were a couple seconds of silence, then the same voice he’d heard over the phone asked, “Where are you?”

“Um. A cruise ship?”

“What is the name of the cruise ship?”

“The
Afrikaans.
”

“What day is it?”

She shook her head.

“What day is it?”

“Uh. The eighth day of the cruise. So, um, that would make it September, um, 25th?” She said this questioningly.