Running Dark by Jamie Freveletti

his drink. The liquor scorched his throat. Even though he hadn’t wanted it, the whiskey seemed like the perfect solution to his problems. He kept silent. He didn’t care to go into his experience in Colombia. When Block saw that he wasn’t going to respond, he changed subjects.
    “What’s the plan up there with the officers?”
    “Round-the-clock security beefed up by enlisting willing passengers to take shifts. Your name came up, since you said you could shoot. You can shoot, can’t you?”
    “You ever met a Texan that couldn’t shoot?”
    Sumner shrugged. “I’m sure they exist.”
    “Well, I ain’t one of them.”
    “So you’ll take a shift?”
    Block nodded. “But don’t tell me we’re headed to Mogadishu.”
    Sumner shook his head. “We’re going to a small port in the northern part of Somalia run by separatist rebels.”
    “I don’t fancy the sound of that. Do we like these guys?”
    Sumner took another sip of the drink. It was even better on the second go-around. “If by ‘we’ you mean the United States government, the answer is complicated.”
    “Then why the hell are we going?”
    “The people are honest. In Somaliland the moneylenders leave stacks of cash unattended while they pray in church, and when they return, it’s still there.” Sumner thought the citizens hesitated to steal not out of honesty but out of fear of the controlling warlord, but he wasn’t about to express his opinion to Block.
    Block snorted. “They don’t sound honest—they sound damn stupid.”
    “They won’t kill us.”
    Block clinked his glass against Sumner’s. “Well, let’s get there quick.”

9
    MUNGABE SAT ON THE DECK OF A CHINESE TANKER FLYING THE Liberian flag and watched his two advance boats roar toward him. He was not pleased to see them. They were to make an initial strike against the Kaiser Franz and, if all went as Mungabe thought it might, board her then. That they were returning so quickly boded ill. The small craft came alongside the mother ship, attached themselves to the side, and prepared to unload. Within a few minutes, Mungabe watched his crew pull two injured men over the railing. Anwar Talek, his right-hand man, instructed that they be taken below to be treated. He strode across the deck toward Mungabe with his usual arrogant swagger. Mungabe thought Talek would try a coup against him one day—his ambition was such—but that day was a long way off. Mungabe was only forty, still strong, and had many years’ more experience. He would not relinquish power easily. Talek reached the place where Mungabe sat under a protective awning and delivered the bad news.
    “The tourists have guns,” he said.
    Mungabe snorted. “Since when do tourists from Europe have guns?”
    Talek spread his hands wide. “I cannot tell you. Perhaps the boat carries Americans? Americans sleep with their guns.”
    Mungabe shook his head. “The Vulture told me the passengers are wealthy Europeans. If I had known it was filled with Americans, I would have charged more.” He took a sip of the thick, sweet Turkishtea that sat on a low table before him and contemplated this development. In truth, he was a bit shocked. No cruise liner routinely carried weapons. Especially not those so far from the danger zones. He thought it not likely a coincidence that this one did.
    “The Vulture is keeping secrets from us. He must have known that this ship might be carrying weapons.”
    Talek squatted down next to him. “What is in the cargo hold that this man desires so much?” Talek said.
    “Medications, that is all.”
    Talek frowned. “Why? Surely these medications are not worth so much?”
    Mungabe pondered a moment. “Some drugs can cost one thousand American dollars per month to take.”
    Talek whistled. “That’s a lot. But still. Why does he pay?”
    Mungabe hadn’t really thought about it. “Who knows? The Vulture is the head of a large corporation. Perhaps the owners of the boat angered him and now he