Nine
The next morning
The rust-streaked prow of the ship cleaved through the waves at a steady ten knots, throwing up a bow wave of white spray. The tweendecker cargo vessel was more than forty years old, and every inch of her hundred-and-sixty-foot hull was crusted with salt and oily grime, but she was a fast and reliable ship. Her speed was one reason she?d been chosen for this assignment; the other was that her Icelandic captain and his crew of six were savvy enough to take the cash and ask no questions of the two men and the woman they were being hired to ferry eastwards across the northern tip of Scotland into Scandinavian waters. They wanted to know even less about the ?cargo? that their three passengers had stored down below.
The ship had sailed in the night from Clifden on the Irish west coast. A few hours into the voyage, the sun was shining but the salty sea wind was cool as they left the Outer Hebrides behind them, the Orkney Islands a few hours ahead. The diesels kept up their steady grind, the clouds drifted overhead and the sea foamed white in their wake as the vessel ploughed onwards towards Stavanger, Norway, where the plane would be waiting to deliver the package to its final destination.
The stocky guy was not feeling good. He hated this fucking pile of rust, the stink of oil and ocean, the nauseous pitch and yaw of the floor under his feet. He was ill all the time, and he?d have loved to shoot down one or two of those incessantly screeching fucking seabirds. Not the most rewarding job he?d been on. He couldn?t wait for it to be over.
The things you have to do for money , he was thinking as he clanged open the hatch and carried the tray down into the part of the hold that was off-limits to the crew. He hated having to act as waiter to the damn kid, too, and carried the tray carelessly. Some water sloshed out of the tin cup and spilled onto the thin cheese sandwiches. If the kid complained, then fuck him. Let him starve.
Down in the murky shadows, the stink of oil was even stronger. The guy could make out the pale shape of the mattress on the floor and the dull glint of the handcuffs that secured the kid?s left wrist to the pipe.
Hold on . He shone the torch. The white circle of light danced on the rusty wall.
The handcuff was dangling empty from the pipe.
He dropped the tray with a clatter and stood there, mouth hanging open as his rising fury quickly gave way to fear. He dropped into a squat and rubbed his chin. If he?d lost the kid, he was a dead man.
Spotting a twisted length of wire lying among the filth on the floor, he picked it up and examined it, and his rage started flooding back. Little bastard .
He couldn?t be far away. The guy muttered and cursed and shone the torch this way and that in the shadows.
A soft sound came from behind him. He started to turn towards it, but then something came whooshing out of the darkness and caught him a glancing blow to the side of the head. His vision flashed white with pain. He dropped the torch and fell to the floor. The hard object hit him again and he felt unconsciousness washing over him.
Then he was dimly aware of someone bending over him, feeling through his pockets. Light footsteps running away.
He gritted his teeth and forced himself to clamber to his knees, just in time to see the kid momentarily framed in the sunlight that streamed through the open hatch. Then he was gone.
?Come back here, you little fucker,? the guy yelled out. His head felt ready to explode as he staggered to his feet and over towards the hatch, stumbling over the length of iron pipe that the prisoner had hit him with. He tore the .45 auto from his belt and went for the phone in his pocket to alert the others.
It was gone.
Rory?s heart was pounding in his throat as he half-ran, half-clambered up a clanking metal stair and sprinted along a railed walkway. He glanced frantically up and down the length of the ship and over the side at the heaving grey-green ocean and
The next morning
The rust-streaked prow of the ship cleaved through the waves at a steady ten knots, throwing up a bow wave of white spray. The tweendecker cargo vessel was more than forty years old, and every inch of her hundred-and-sixty-foot hull was crusted with salt and oily grime, but she was a fast and reliable ship. Her speed was one reason she?d been chosen for this assignment; the other was that her Icelandic captain and his crew of six were savvy enough to take the cash and ask no questions of the two men and the woman they were being hired to ferry eastwards across the northern tip of Scotland into Scandinavian waters. They wanted to know even less about the ?cargo? that their three passengers had stored down below.
The ship had sailed in the night from Clifden on the Irish west coast. A few hours into the voyage, the sun was shining but the salty sea wind was cool as they left the Outer Hebrides behind them, the Orkney Islands a few hours ahead. The diesels kept up their steady grind, the clouds drifted overhead and the sea foamed white in their wake as the vessel ploughed onwards towards Stavanger, Norway, where the plane would be waiting to deliver the package to its final destination.
The stocky guy was not feeling good. He hated this fucking pile of rust, the stink of oil and ocean, the nauseous pitch and yaw of the floor under his feet. He was ill all the time, and he?d have loved to shoot down one or two of those incessantly screeching fucking seabirds. Not the most rewarding job he?d been on. He couldn?t wait for it to be over.
The things you have to do for money , he was thinking as he clanged open the hatch and carried the tray down into the part of the hold that was off-limits to the crew. He hated having to act as waiter to the damn kid, too, and carried the tray carelessly. Some water sloshed out of the tin cup and spilled onto the thin cheese sandwiches. If the kid complained, then fuck him. Let him starve.
Down in the murky shadows, the stink of oil was even stronger. The guy could make out the pale shape of the mattress on the floor and the dull glint of the handcuffs that secured the kid?s left wrist to the pipe.
Hold on . He shone the torch. The white circle of light danced on the rusty wall.
The handcuff was dangling empty from the pipe.
He dropped the tray with a clatter and stood there, mouth hanging open as his rising fury quickly gave way to fear. He dropped into a squat and rubbed his chin. If he?d lost the kid, he was a dead man.
Spotting a twisted length of wire lying among the filth on the floor, he picked it up and examined it, and his rage started flooding back. Little bastard .
He couldn?t be far away. The guy muttered and cursed and shone the torch this way and that in the shadows.
A soft sound came from behind him. He started to turn towards it, but then something came whooshing out of the darkness and caught him a glancing blow to the side of the head. His vision flashed white with pain. He dropped the torch and fell to the floor. The hard object hit him again and he felt unconsciousness washing over him.
Then he was dimly aware of someone bending over him, feeling through his pockets. Light footsteps running away.
He gritted his teeth and forced himself to clamber to his knees, just in time to see the kid momentarily framed in the sunlight that streamed through the open hatch. Then he was gone.
?Come back here, you little fucker,? the guy yelled out. His head felt ready to explode as he staggered to his feet and over towards the hatch, stumbling over the length of iron pipe that the prisoner had hit him with. He tore the .45 auto from his belt and went for the phone in his pocket to alert the others.
It was gone.
Rory?s heart was pounding in his throat as he half-ran, half-clambered up a clanking metal stair and sprinted along a railed walkway. He glanced frantically up and down the length of the ship and over the side at the heaving grey-green ocean and
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