Authors: Glen Robins
Emily looked up and saw that the two Asian men remained in the van. Since there were no windows, it was unlikely that there were passenger seats inside. That meant they probably weren’t there to pick up a patient. The decals on the van’s side indicated that they were in the business of home entertainment, so it was equally as unlikely they were at the Scripps patient clinic to install the latest in theater quality surround sound equipment. She cocked her head, took a mental note, and fired up her 328i. She was in a hurry and had to get back to her lab, but the thought crossed her mind that she ought to call security.
The driver of the van watched her from behind dark sunglasses through his side mirror. Her unease grew, but was soon quelled by the realization that the FBI detail starting up the Ford Taurus behind her was on the job. It was time to get away from the creepers in the van and get back to work. Her phone rang as she backed out of the parking spot. Soon she was involved in a discussion about her current experiment’s control group at the lab and forgot all about calling security.
* * * *
After the white BMW and the gray Ford sped away and exited the parking lot, the tattooed driver squeezed out of the van into the narrow gap between his vehicle and Mr. Cook’s. The driver’s door banged into Henry’s passenger door, leaving a mark. His cell phone dropped, as if by accident, hit his foot, and skittered under the back bumper of the Cadillac. He strode to the back of the car and glanced in all directions before leaning down to pick up the phone. As he bent over, his hand slid deftly out of his coat’s pocket to a spot beneath the bumper. He tapped the spot, collected the phone, stood up, checked his surroundings, and climbed back in the van. His visit to the clinic’s parking lot, according to the security camera footage reviewed two days later, lasted approximately two and a half minutes.
Los
Angeles, California
June 14, 1:05 p.m. Pacific Time
Reggie let out a long, exasperated sigh as he leaned forward in his government-issued, vinyl-covered, swivel chair, and placed both elbows on the imitation wood grain-topped, metal desk. He had just read aloud for his partner an email from Nic Lancaster, the Interpol agent in London they had been working with on the Cook case.
Spinner McCoy sat across from him and smiled that Texas smile of his. “Come on, Reg. You know you were just like that kid when you were starting out,” he said with a mile-wide smirk.
Head still shaking, Reggie looked up at his partner. The gray hairs at his temples and the wrinkles around his eyes seemed more pronounced after the all night drive from San Francisco to San Diego the night before and the growing angst at all levels concerning the whereabouts of their quarry, Collin Cook. “I know. That’s what bothers me. He’s too impetuous, too heavy-handed, and too damn eager.”
“Rumor has it you were much the same as our friend across the pond, this Junior Agent Lancaster,” McCoy said as he stood and stretched. He turned to survey the view of L.A.’s West Side from the sixth floor window of their borrowed office at the FBI’s Los Angeles Bureau. “Question is, Mr. All-Knowing Expert, how do we utilize his strengths without letting his bull-in-the-china-closet tendencies screw up another opportunity.”
“Exactly. He can be useful, you know. He’s bright. He’s familiar with the case. Lord knows he’s hard-working―it’s what, nine o’clock over there and he’s still grinding away. The kid is just dying to show someone what he can do,” Reggie said with a check of his watch.
“And don’t forget, he’s got those bankers in the Caribbean scared. Whatever he’s said or done, he’s got them working for him,” added McCoy.
“It’s just a matter of harnessing all that energy he’s got. We need to keep him in the loop and share information, but somehow prevent him from rushing in too early and too heavy again. You know, kind of like having him prepare the patient so we can perform the surgery.” Reggie was now smiling, too. “Everyone wins, right?”
“That’s what I’m saying, boss. Now, let’s look at that map again and see where that boat is headed.”
“My guess is Panama,” said Reggie before Spinner had time to pull up a map.
“Why do you think that?”
“I’d bet Penh knows Cook was there. Probably suspects he hid a bunch of money in one of the many underground banks in the city, one of those that is supposed to be unknown and unknowable except to a select few―the real movers and shakers of the financial underworld. Either he’s the one that directed Collin there in the first place, or he is directing him there now. Collin may be trying to get away from him or on an errand for him. We have no way of knowing, do we?” Reggie stopped and rubbed his face as he thought. “There’s one more possibility: If Penh and Cook were working together, it’s feasible that Collin got caught trying to double-cross Penh. If Cook hid the money so well that we can’t trace it, then maybe Penh can’t either. All outward signs indicate that Penh must not be able to hack into the bank to get the money. He’s going to force Collin to get the money for him, since he undoubtedly knows where it is and how to get to it.”
“Which means he’s going to double-cross Cook,” interjected McCoy.
Reggie nodded. “However you look at it, Collin loses. He’s in a heap of trouble with little chance of surviving, I’m afraid, unless we can get to him first.”
Spinner scratched the stubble on his chin. Neither man had shaved since early the previous morning. “What are you saying, Reggie, send in the Navy SEALs?” he said, turning again to the window.
“I don’t know, Spinner,” Reggie said. His voice dry and growing hoarse. Exhaustion seeped from every word as he spoke. “This whole scenario makes me nervous. It might already be too late for the SEALs. And even if it’s not, the whole thing could back fire on us.”
“How so?” asked Spinner.
Reggie balled his fists and leaned into them. “One hint of intervention, and Penh could put a bullet in every man on that boat. That wouldn’t bode well for us.”
“It wouldn’t help him, either.”
“Yeah, but I think he’d rather win the game, to show us how serious he is. The money is less important than maintaining control over his syndicate and trying to keep the upper hand against us and Interpol by proving to be merciless. Penh ain’t playing around.”
* * * *
Scripps Cancer Research Center, La Jolla, California
June 14, 2:13 p.m. Pacific Time
It was after two o’clock before Dr. Navarro returned to Sarah’s room. The fact that Sarah had not yet awakened concerned him. His apprehension caused Henry a fair amount of consternation. The good doctor checked the read-outs on the machines and looked at the tubes running from the IV bag. He tapped his tablet’s screen and swiped and read and swiped some more. His facial expression changed only slightly as he let out a succession of “hmmphs” after each page was read. He turned to Henry and said, “I expected her to come around some time ago. Everyone reacts differently to these treatments and, being experimental, we don’t have a baseline established yet for patient reactions. Maybe we just need to alter our expectations. Either that, or we need to alter our approach to your wife’s treatment plan.”
“Is there something wrong, Doctor? You seem much more concerned this time around,” said Henry.
“My concern is that we find the proper balance between aggressively attacking the cancer, managing pain, and maintaining quality of life. Her body may not be ready for such a potent dosage,” said Dr. Navarro.
“But if we don’t treat the cancer aggressively, it could spread, right? We don’t want that. She very much wants to live, even if it means she has some setbacks in the short term,” said Henry.
“Very well. We will continue to monitor her condition very closely. Please page the nurse when she wakes up.” Dr. Navarro left with a promise to check back in another hour or two.
* * * *
London, England
June 14, 10:55 p.m. London time
Nic Lancaster’s jaw dropped open in surprise. Things in the Caribbean rarely moved at the same speed as things in London. The people there were friendly and relaxed and the island culture catered to vacationers looking for that very change of pace. So when the president of the Bank of George Town returned his phone call near the end of their business day, Nic was pleasantly surprised. When the head of the bank’s security promised to send him a clip from the previous day’s video footage, he was stunned. Now that a link to the footage showed up in his email just an hour later, he was nothing short of shocked. He pumped his fist and let out a triumphant, “YESSS!” when he opened the link. He jumped up from his seat and did a dance after reviewing the footage. “It’s him! It’s him! The little bugger’s alive!” he shouted into the darkened and empty cube farm.
Cutting his celebration short, Nic sat down at his computer, not wanting to waste any time, and forwarded the email with the link to Reggie Crabtree, then dialed his cell phone. “I found him,” he said when Reggie answered. “You were right. He went back to Grand Cayman and withdrew another half million dollars. The link I just emailed to you shows him in the bank. Sure, he’s in disguise, but I know it’s him.”
“Have you run it through FRS yet?” asked Reggie, referring to facial recognition software.
“I haven’t yet, but I will,” said Nic, trying to maintain an air of professionalism. Overly enthusiastic rookies got mocked and he didn’t want that.
“Well, it may be a moot issue anyway. The cell phone he’s been using to communicate with the girlfriend places him nearly two hundred miles south by southwest of Grand Cayman as of one hour ago. We’ve also picked up reports of armed men boarding a sailboat in the harbor and heading out to sea.”
“Any description of these gunmen?” asked Nic, feeling somewhat deflated that his news was not the most earth-shattering of the day, but trying to assert himself.
“Nothing conclusive, just that they appeared to be Asians, dressed as tourists, and in a big hurry,” said Reggie.
“Is there video available? Or photos?”
“Nope. Neither. Only eyewitness accounts. The best thing we have is that cell phone, which will be very useful until the battery dies,” said Reggie.
“I’d imagine, though, that we’ll get a pretty good sense of where they’re heading before that happens.”
“We think they’re heading to Panama. We must try to intercept that boat before anyone gets killed.” Reggie’s voice was grim and urgent and Nic could hear the tapping of a keyboard in the background as he spoke. “We’re working to get help from the US Navy on our end. See what you can do on your end. Once these guys have what they want, no one onboard stands a chance.”
La Jolla, California
June 14, 3:08 p.m. Pacific Time
The driver with all the ink on his neck checked his watch and nodded to his passenger. Speaking in his native Malaysian dialect, he rattled off the list of items to report to the boss. The young passenger stared at him and curled his lip.
“You want
me
to talk to the boss?” he asked, a thinly veiled tremor in his voice.
“I drive. You talk. If I drive and talk on a phone here, the police will pull us over. That would be a very bad thing. You talk. Tell the boss we are ready for either scenario.”
The passenger hesitated. He looked at the driver, then at the phone in his hand, then back to the driver, who nodded calmly, providing the assurance he needed.
The call lasted ninety seconds. The passenger sighed as he turned to the inked driver and said, “The boss says to go to Plan B.”
The driver nodded, his countenance ice cold as he continued to drive through the streets of La Jolla. “First, let’s make sure Plan A is still operational in case he changes his mind.”
“But what if we miss our chance to initiate Plan B?”
“We will have many opportunities to initiate Plan B, but we will have only one chance to set up the original plan. We will go there now,” the driver mumbled. He first checked the GPS on his phone, then dropped the shifter into Drive and pulled away from the curb.
The passenger shrugged and pulled the duffle bag onto his lap and began raking his hand through the bottom of it. He pulled out four similar packages, each containing a video camera no larger than the eraser at the top of a pencil. Next he searched for the right wires and the super-extended life batteries that would supply power for up to sixteen hours. He tore open the packaging and began connecting wires to batteries and transmitters.
By the time they reached their destination, the passenger had also connected all four cameras to his smart phone using a special app. Now they would be able to monitor their subject and act when the opportunity presented itself.
* * * *
Western Caribbean Sea, 200 miles south of Grand Cayman Island
June 14, 5:35 p.m. Caribbean Time
Slowly, Collin became aware of his surroundings. Time had melted away along with the initial shock of watching his friend and shipmate murdered. As his eyes opened and focused, he saw that Mr. Green had stationed himself across the salon from the lower bunk bed where Collin lay with his hands zip tied behind his back. He was maybe twelve feet away, wiping his weapon with a cloth. The galley was to Collin’s left. The steps leading up to the deck were a few paces to his right, along the center line of the hull. Immediately to his right was the second set of bunks that lined the port side. Mr. Green sat on the end of a U-shaped bench that wrapped around a teakwood table capable of seating four men for dinner. Down a small passage to his right was the crew’s head, situated beneath the cockpit where the Captain piloted the boat, complete with toilet and shower. Beyond the galley to Collin’s left, tucked under the bow, was the Captain’s quarters with his own bathroom and closet.
Things had changed while he was unconscious. Stinky was nowhere to be seen and Mr. Green, the trigger man, was now guarding him. Collin pushed down the rising anger that pushed him to take hasty vengeance. Everything was shiny―the walls, the floors, the table. Tog was gone. And there was a strange scent, like lemon cleaning solution had been poured over hot copper. That scent mixed with the gun oil Mr. Green was applying to his weapon.
Collin tried to move into a more comfortable position, but every movement jostled his brain, which caused a pulsing sensation inside his skull, as if a steam piston was knocking one side of his head, then the other. The constant wave action, limited amount of fresh air, and lack of food and water combined to increase his misery. Every attempt to think and string concepts together so he could make some sort of plan ended in shear frustration. He allowed his swollen eyes to shut again and his bruised body to remain prone on his left shoulder.
Mr. Green didn’t notice Collin’s eyes had opened. His snub-nosed Uzi lay across his lap, while he tumbled the slide-action hand gun over and over, inspecting every inch of it as he wiped it clean.
Collin lay still, trying to push away the images of what he had witnessed, but his efforts were fruitless. And his guilt over it would not be assuaged.
If only I had just turned over the laptop to them
, he thought.
The farther south the
Admiral Risty
plowed, the more the sea roiled. Collin needed rest. The short cat-naps these hijackers allowed him thus far were not enough to aid in his recovery. He tried once again to close his eyes and his mind, but the constant battering of the swells against the ship’s hull, accompanied by the violent rocking side to side, thwarted any chance of sleep. A call from above deck caused Mr. Green’s head to swivel and lock in anticipation. He stood and moved to the stairwell. He called out in his native tongue, then listened for a reply. Moments later, an unfamiliar face appeared, gun at the ready, to trade places with Mr. Green. Collin watched through the slits of his barely opened eyelids.
This man walked immediately to the bunk, grunted as he hovered over Collin, poking his ribs with the muzzle of his machine gun. Collin raised his head. Another grunt, but nothing else. As Collin lay motionless, trying to sleep, this new guard roused him every ten to fifteen minutes. Each time Collin grew comfortable, slipping into a fanciful dream about breathing fresh air or having the use of his hands or standing on solid ground, Grunter would repeat the same sequence of actions: Grunt, mumble, poke, grunt.
Collin had now met all four hijackers. So far, Grunter appeared to be the least violent of them. But, he remained vigilant at his post, not allowing Collin to rest and regain his strength.
Time passed, although it was hard to measure in his semi-conscious state. All Collin knew was that the rays of the sun were at a much shallower angle now, coming in the small, shaded window above the dining table on the starboard side. Dusk approached. And with it, a calming of the wind and the waters. The sounds outside now were less boisterous. The sails flapped with less intensity. The slap of the waves against the hull less potent and less frequent. All seemed more languid and peaceful. Collin’s prospects for rest were increasing.
The illusion was shattered when Stinky’s raucous voice breached the still in a virulent stream of high-pitched inquiries. It was obvious he was questioning the Captain; his voice climbed an octave at the end of each word string. Collin could not make out the words, but he could imagine what was being asked.
Why are we slowing down? Did I say to slow down? What are you doing, trying to cause trouble?
As he strained to listen, Collin could hear the Captain’s deep voice as it projected from his perch at the helm into the open hatch, calm and assuring, explaining the situation and attempting to educate the armed novice before him of the ways of the sea. It seemed to Collin the Captain’s efforts fell short of their desired effect. Stinky kept shouting, his tone brooding and suspicious.
“I told you,” the Captain said, “I cannot control the wind. If there is no wind, we cannot go faster.”
Stinky screamed some more and the Captain responded with, “Yes, we do, but if we run the engines we will run out of fuel and will be helpless in an emergency.”
As expected, Stinky stomped his way down the steps and entered Collin’s immediate space. He yanked Collin by the collar into a sitting position and demanded his cooperation. “We go too slow now. Your friends making trouble. You want more trouble?” Stinky’s face was just inches from Collin’s. His breath was sour and his beady eyes shot daggers.
It took Collin a moment to reply. He tried to lick his parched lips and form words. At last, with his eyes closed in concentration, he slowly muttered, “This happens sometimes when sailing. It’s called the doldrums. The wind just stops and the water gets calm.” Collin braced for the onslaught. It didn’t come.
Stinky barked at Grunter and a short conversation ensued. Collin understood nothing.
Before marching back up the steps, Stinky approached Collin and shook him by the shoulders. “You better hope no funny business,” he commanded. “Or you lose another friend.”
Collin slumped back down and tried to sleep, knowing it was not an idle threat.