Bodyguard: Ransom (Book 2) by Chris Bradford Page A

successful pirate gang, pushed and jostled their way forward to make their claims. But not everyone was jubilant. An elderly woman in a long blue
jilbaab
squatted in the dirt, her eyes red raw with tears.
    ‘Has … anyone news … of my son?’ she sobbed, raising her hands to the heavens.
    Another woman crouched at her side, trying to offer comfort. ‘I’m sure he’s still at sea –’
    Ignoring the old woman’s sorrow, Sharif shouldered his way through the crowd into the former mayor’s office that now housed the pirates’ ‘stock exchange’, a facility for raising funds for hijack operations. Six brokers weredealing with the numerous claims of the town’s investors, as well as welcoming new investments.
    Sharif approached a round-faced man wearing gold-rimmed glasses. Sitting at a rickety wooden desk, the broker welcomed him with a gap-toothed grin.
    ‘
Soo dhowow!
’ he said in greeting. ‘Cousin, please sit down.’ He gestured to a battered plastic chair. ‘How can I help you?’
    Sharif immediately got down to business. ‘I represent a client who wishes to invest in a pirate gang.’
    ‘You mean “maritime company”,’ corrected the broker with a knowing wink.
    ‘Ah … yes, of course,’ Sharif agreed amiably, although both men knew what they were really talking about. ‘And he only wants the best, the most reliable.’
    The broker didn’t even pause before replying. ‘That’ll be Oracle and his men.’
    Flipping to a fresh page in his battered ledger, the broker licked the tip of his pencil, wrote the date and scored a line down one side. He glanced up at Sharif. ‘What does your client have to invest? Weapons? Supplies? Cash?’
    ‘Cash. And moreover he wants to be the
sole
investor in an operation.’
    The broker’s eyes widened, gleaming like silver coins in his black moon-face. ‘I trust your client has deep pockets … start-up costs are a minimum of thirty thousand dollars.’
    Sharif nodded and placed a blue sports bag on the table. ‘There’s fifty thousand. My client wishes to ensure the “maritime company” has the best resources for the job.’
    The broker unzipped the bag and licked his lips at the sight of five large bundles of crisp $100 notes.
    ‘I’ll contact Oracle straight away,’ he said, re-zipping the bag. But as he went to take it Sharif grabbed his wrist and locked eyes with the broker.
    ‘My client
expects
results.’
    The broker gave Sharif a regretful smile. ‘Of course I respect such a request, but in this business, as you well know, we can offer no guarantees. Hijacking a ship is a risky business.’
    ‘Then this should reduce the risk,’ said Sharif, handing the broker a large brown envelope.
    The broker went to open it.
    ‘No,’ said Sharif. ‘For Oracle’s eyes only.’
    The broker held up his hand in apology. ‘I only wished to note its contents. The return on a successful hijack-and-ransom is usually ten times the amount invested.’ Placing the unopened envelope in the bag, he then carefully wrote down the items in his ledger. ‘Who shall I name as the official investor? Yourself, Sharif?’
    ‘No, I’m merely the middleman. No name. Just date it,’ instructed Sharif.
    The broker raised an eyebrow at this, but nonetheless did as instructed. He glanced up as he wrote. ‘Is your client trustworthy?’
    Sharif shrugged. ‘He’s rich. And pays cash in advance.’
    ‘Then who needs trust?’ laughed the broker. He tore a strip of paper from the bottom of his ledger. ‘Your receipt.’
    Sharif took the scrap of paper. ‘Thank you, cousin.
Nabadeey
,’ he said, bidding his farewell.
    Leaving the bustling ‘stock exchange’, Sharif crossed the dusty square and clambered back into the Land Cruiser.
    ‘It’s done,’ he said in English, handing his client the receipt.
    The man in the back pocketed the paper slip without a word.

 
    ‘
Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! This is motor yacht
Athena, Athena, Athena
. Mayday
Athena
. My