Running Dark Part 1

Running Dark.

Jamie Freveletti.

For my father, who says if you're going to dream, dream big.

With love, J.

1.

EMMA CALDRIDGE Pa.s.sED MILE THIRTY-SIX OF THE FIFTY-FIVE-MILE Comrades ultramarathon in South Africa when a roadside car bomb exploded. The force of the explosion blew her out of her shoes and catapulted her into the air ten feet before hammering her into the dirt at the side of the road. The detonated car burned, flames leaping out of the shattered windows. She lay in the clay-colored dust with the hot sun beating down, blinding her. She moaned, turned her head away from the sun's glare, closed her eyes, and lay still, trying to gather her wits about her. A shadow fell over her face. She opened her eyes without moving her head and saw the blurry image of a man's legs from the knees down. The limbs appeared to s.h.i.+mmer in the heat waves thrown by the burning vehicle. He wore running shoes, like everyone else that day. The shoes stopped next to her and rose to their toes as the person crouched down. A silver necklace in the shape of an antelope head swung into her line of vision. The amulet hung on a black rawhide cord. Emma tried to ask for help, but her dry mouth wouldn't form the words.

The man's dark hand came into view, holding a white plastic injector, similar to an EpiPen carried by people with allergies. In the next instant, the hand jammed the tip into Emma's forearm, right above the wrist. She felt the p.r.i.c.k of a needle and the rush of medication pulsing into her skin. Before she even had a chance to make a sound, he jerked the point out of her arm. The shoes flattened onto the dust and walked away with a crunching noise.

2.

KHALIL IBRAHIM MUNGABE'S NICKNAME WAS "THE BONE PICKER," because he began his career stealing the leftover shreds of offal found on the commercial fis.h.i.+ng boats that trawled the seas off the coast of Somalia. It was said that Mungabe liked nothing and no one, but that wasn't exactly true. He tolerated his wives well enough, and his children occasionally did something to make him laugh, even if he didn't know their names and so could not praise them. He called them "that one" or "this one" and left it there.

He sat in Dubai and s.h.i.+vered in the snow. Dubai's temperature that day was a blistering thirty degrees Celsius and rising higher, but inside the mall where he sat, it was snowing fake snow. Mungabe thought the affectation ridiculous. To him it just highlighted how the Saudis had bowed their heads to the European oppressors. He sat in the food court and waited for his contact, fingering the silver ring he wore in the shape of an antelope head as he did.

Mungabe's power was on the verge of exploding, and he was taking the next logical step to ensure his future in this life and beyond. The man he was to meet had the power to bridge Mungabe's world and the European world, and Mungabe planned on exploiting him and then killing him, in that order.

The man strolled up, tall and thin, like Mungabe himself, but wearing an expensive suit purchased in London. He had the hard, pointed face that Mungabe thought was the mark of a European. The man's nickname was "the Vulture," because he'd risen to power by driving his rivals into crisis through any means necessary. When the distressed companies began selling their a.s.sets one by one in their frantic attempts to save their floundering businesses, the Vulture would swoop down to s.n.a.t.c.h up the bones.

The Vulture took a seat across from Mungabe, looking unaffected by the freezing air, which Mungabe thought might be real rather than false bravado. Likely he was far more accustomed to such temperatures than Mungabe.

"How do you like the snow? I thought you'd want to experience it," the Vulture said.

Mungabe clamped his teeth together to stop their clattering. He hated the snow, and he suspected that the Vulture knew it. It was all calculated to put him at a disadvantage. Mungabe couldn't wait to complete their joint mission and then finish the man off. He'd do it in Somalia and leave his carca.s.s in the sun to rot. Wonder how he'd feel then? Mungabe thought. He s.h.i.+fted in his seat and got right down to business.

"Tell me what you require. I haven't much time. My s.h.i.+p leaves from the port today. Did my a.s.sociate in South Africa perform well for you?"

The Vulture raised an eyebrow. "You look cold. Perhaps we take a seat in the restaurant." The Vulture smiled a fake smile and waved Mungabe to the nearby bistro. Once inside, the Vulture crossed his legs and leaned back in the wooden chair. A waiter came by to hand them two menus. Mungabe took one and was somewhat relieved to see pictures next to the names of the dishes offered, which made ordering much easier. The Vulture waited for the server to leave before continuing.

"Your a.s.sociate worked fine. But I have another request of you. There's a large s.h.i.+p off the coast of Somalia that I want you to intercept."

Mungabe's ears perked up. He excelled at stealing s.h.i.+ps. He commanded a large crew of Somali pirates, and in the last years his enterprise had grown exponentially. He'd expanded his fleet and just this quarter had purchased night-vision goggles, GPS radar-scanning equipment, and new weaponry. All so his pirates could troll farther out and net bigger fish. As a result of his investment, he was having an outstanding year so far. He'd taken fifty s.h.i.+ps to date, with eight hundred hostages, usually crewmen, and netted $20 million in ransoms paid. His spectacular successes included an oil tanker worth $90 million and two commercial tuna-fis.h.i.+ng boats worth $20 million each. One of the boats was currently docked in the village of Eyl, where it was slowly sinking into the ocean as the result of a hole shot in the hull by one of his crew. He often warned them to shoot above the waterline so that the boat, once boarded, could be piloted back to sh.o.r.e for salvaging, but that particular s.h.i.+p had put up a fight, and the only way to take it was to disable it and kill everyone on board.

Now, however, several freighters had hired Darkview, an American security company, to protect their s.h.i.+ps that used the Gulf of Aden trade route. In the last two months, Darkview personnel had managed to sink four of Mungabe's boats. In one incident the security company continued to chase his crew two hundred miles, not even stopping when they came within Somali territorial waters, as they were supposed to do. Darkview had captured the pirates and dragged them into Hargeisa to be tried. Mungabe had paid a princely sum to ensure their acquittal-it would not do to have any of his men sit in prison. Prison tested a man's loyalties, and Mungabe wanted no one to turn traitor on him. It was during the trial that he'd decided to launch his own offensive against the company that plagued him so.

"What type of s.h.i.+p do you want me to steal?" Mungabe said.

The waiter was back to take their order. Mungabe pointed to a fish dish, while the Vulture ordered in French. When the waiter left, the Vulture leaned in to him.

"A cruise s.h.i.+p. The finest in the world. It embarked on its virgin cruise from Dubai to Victoria in the Seych.e.l.les Islands a few days ago."

Mungabe settled back in his chair while he thought about what the Vulture had said. He didn't read papers, didn't care about world news, and had little interest in the politics of the West, but even he could see that taking the finest s.h.i.+p in the world would reflect well on him. Still, he frowned.

"The cruise lines don't come near Somali waters. Victoria is two thousand kilometers away. Too far. We've only taken s.h.i.+ps at six hundred."

The Vulture raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying you can't do it?"

Mungabe felt a flash of anger. He could do anything. "I can, but for a very large price. What will you pay?"

The Vulture shook his head. "I pay nothing. You do this for the s.h.i.+p and its hostages; your usual take."

Mungabe laughed. This Vulture was joking. "I don't need a cruise s.h.i.+p. I need a fis.h.i.+ng s.h.i.+p! They are at least useful after. What do you think my crews do when they are not pirating, huh? They fish. They use the hijacked commercial boats to do it. They do it for Somalia. Without my a.s.sistance Somalia's waters would be emptied by the rest of the world. They sneak into our territorial boundaries where the tuna lives, steal our fish by the tons, and leave nothing for us. We stop this plundering by the rich and give to the poor."

The Vulture smirked. "Spare me the Robin Hood story. You don't give anything to the poor. You keep it all for yourself."

Mungabe shook his head. "Still, I don't do this for the boat. You must pay."

The Vulture s.h.i.+fted. "I will pay you then, but in that case it is understood that I get both the s.h.i.+p and its cargo."

"Cargo? What cargo?"

The Vulture shrugged. "Pharmaceutical products. Not important for you, but I would like to have them."

The waiter returned with their meals. As he lowered the Vulture's in front of him, Mungabe thought he would retch. On the plate was a large lobster; its black legs, hard carapace, and beady eyes were revolting, as was the heavy, oily odor of the drawn b.u.t.ter that sat in a cup next to it. The sight and smell of it repelled Mungabe. Like most Somalis, he would never eat a lobster, which he considered the equivalent of a sea c.o.c.kroach. It was a bottom feeder, eating the fecal remains of the rest of the ocean's creatures.

The Vulture sliced the beast in half with one deft cut from a long, wicked-looking knife. He twisted off a leg, put it to his lips, and sucked on it. He did all of this while gazing at Mungabe. Mungabe feared no man, but in that minute he wondered if he was dealing with a demon. He shook off the thought.

"I want two million dollars, and, as I told you last month, I want the American security company called Darkview put out of business. For that price I will hijack the s.h.i.+p. You get the carca.s.s and cargo. I get any money on board and its pa.s.sengers to ransom as I see fit."

"One million. No more. Plus, you pay all expenses."

"And Darkview?"

The Vulture waved a languid hand in the air. "It is already begun."

3.

CAMERON SUMNER STOOD NEXT TO A LOUNGE CHAIR ON THE deck of the Kaiser Franz cruise liner and stared at the horizon, waiting. The chair was one in a long row of chairs, all occupied by pa.s.sengers clad in swimsuits, baking in the sun. The woman to Sumner's right, noticing his preoccupation with the horizon, did her best to capture his attention.

"I see you watch the ocean every day after your workout. It's beautiful, isn't it?" the woman, an American, said. Sumner eyed her. She wore a string bikini on a figure with full hips, fake b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and striking, artfully streaked hair. Her lips were painted a bright coral, and her forehead didn't move when she spoke. Her husband, a good ol' boy from Texas who owned a string of car dealers.h.i.+ps, spent his days in the s.h.i.+p's casino drinking gin and playing blackjack. His wife spent her days watching Sumner swim laps in the pool or run on the track. The woman's question marked the first time she'd worked up enough nerve to speak to him.

"It is beautiful," he said. He grabbed a towel and dried his dripping body, while the American woman looked at him with bright, avid eyes.

"So what brings you on a cruise s.h.i.+p alone?"

"I work for the company that owns the Kaiser Franz." Sumner kept his answers short to discourage more conversation.

"How interesting." The woman breathed the words.

Sumner did his best to contain his annoyance. His patience ran thin these days. He slipped on a pair of track pants, sank into a nearby lounge chair, and thought about Caldridge. He'd been having dreams of her, some so vivid that he thought he might be able to touch her, some so frightening that when he would reach her after a slow-motion chase, he would find himself to be too late and his anguish at her death would overwhelm him. He pulled up a mental picture of her: light brown hair a little past her shoulders, green eyes, a straight nose with no upturn, and a lithe, athletic runner's body. He sighed and kept his eyes on the water.

The s.h.i.+p's sundeck ran the width of the foredeck. In the center was the rectangular lap pool. Lounge chairs, each with a bright blue cus.h.i.+on, filled the rest of the available s.p.a.ce. A small walkway ran along the railings. Sumner spent much of his time on the sundeck, because it allowed him to view both sides of the vessel.

The s.h.i.+p itself was smaller, more intimate, and much more luxurious than the larger cruise liners out of Miami. It boasted mahogany-paneled staterooms with flat-screen televisions, marble bathrooms, and thick Persian carpets. Each room had a private butler a.s.signed to it. They'd embarked from Dubai, pa.s.sed through the Arabian Sea, and were deep into the Indian Ocean on their way to the Seych.e.l.les Islands. It was ten in the morning. Only half the sundeck chairs were taken.

The woman s.h.i.+fted in her chair to lean toward him. Her blond, highlighted hair and overly manicured nails were the ant.i.thesis of what Sumner liked in a woman. He said nothing as he finished drying off. He grabbed a pair of Ray-Ban sungla.s.ses and stretched out on the lounge chair, basking in the sun while he continued to keep watch.

"Are you working on this trip?" The woman interrupted his reverie. It was all Sumner could do not to sigh out loud.

"I'm headed to the Seych.e.l.les to check on our land-based operations."

"How interesting," the woman said again.

Sumner continued to scan the area, his eyes hidden behind his sungla.s.ses. The ocean swelled in calm, regular waves. A waiter worked his way through the lounge chairs, handing out complimentary juices to the sunbathers. Another employee followed, offering a spritz of mineral water to cool them.

The German family walked along the deck rail toward Sumner. He felt a p.r.i.c.kle of awareness shoot down his spine. Sumner worked for the Southern Hemisphere Drug Defense Agency and had been hired out to the Kaiser Franz in response to a vague piece of intelligence suggesting that trouble sailed with the s.h.i.+p. The trouble was thought to be drug-related, but nothing in the communique detailed the precise nature of the problem. An a.s.signment off the coast of Africa carried the added benefit of getting Sumner as far away from the Southern Hemisphere as possible. His last a.s.signment had disrupted a major drug cartel in Colombia, and his employers feared retaliation.

Sumner reviewed the s.h.i.+p's manifest and had settled on three potential groups of pa.s.sengers as the ones he would watch: a Russian traveling with his mistress, a Frenchman traveling with two other businessmen, and this German family-two parents with their grown daughter. The father, a businessman in his late fifties, had the build of a steelworker. His large stomach hung over his expensive pants, throwing a shadow across his black loafers. His face bore the bright red hue of a man whose skin was unaccustomed to the outdoors. He held the Frankfurter Allgemeine newspaper in his hands and looked surly.

His wife, also somewhat north of fifty, was as thin as he was wide. Her blond hair-her natural color and none of it highlighted-ended at her ears in a blunt cut. Her blue eyes and cool, superior att.i.tude telegraphed that she was from Hamburg, where blond hair and cool eyes abounded. Her manner telegraphed her dislike for her husband.

The daughter, a shy beauty with blond hair and a fresh, almost translucent complexion, was twenty-four. Six years younger than Sumner and light-years more innocent, she, too, would cast glances at him whenever their paths crossed, but she hadn't yet gotten up the courage to talk to him.

The father turned his head to gaze at the horizon. The woman next to Sumner was speaking again.

"Harry says we don't need to travel anywhere, that there's nothing to learn. But I think you should always see how the other half lives, don't you?"

Sumner refrained from commenting on the fact that she was unlikely to see "the other half" while sailing on the sea in a yacht with ma.s.sive suites and private butlers, but he a.s.sumed the woman meant well. Before Sumner could respond, Harry himself walked up to his wife.

"Whatcha doin', sweetheart?" He boomed the question at his wife, towering over her in her lounge chair. He thrust his hand out at Sumner.

"Harry Block. Pleased to meet you."

"Cameron Sumner."

Sumner rose to shake Block's hand. Based on his own six-foot-two-inch height and weight of 175, Sumner estimated that Block stood a full two inches taller and weighed an easy 300 pounds. He was built like a linebacker, with a doughy face, hair just starting to gray at the temples, and shrewd eyes, despite his easygoing exterior. Sumner watched Block size him up.

"No need to stand. Didn't mean to bother you." Block shook Sumner's hand in a vise grip.

Sumner squeezed back. Block's wife sat up.

"This is Harry, my husband, and I'm Cindy. Harry, hon, he works for Kaiser Franz."

"You a cabin boy?" Block hollered at Sumner.

"Harry!" Cindy hit Block on the arm.

"What's wrong with that? It's honest enough work, ain't it?" Block turned innocent eyes on Sumner. Sumner hid his amus.e.m.e.nt.

"I'm not a cabin boy, no," he said.

The German family was upon them, walking along the rail. Sumner felt the father's presence at his right, then behind him. He heard the wife speak to the daughter in German. Since Sumner spoke fluent German, eavesdropping came easy.

"Americans are so loud," she said. Sumner kept his eyes on Block while he strained to hear the German girl's response.

"But friendly, I think, Mother." She spoke in low tones.

Don't be fooled by Harry, Sumner thought.

The father stepped past him. Out of the corner of his eye, Sumner could see that he continued to stare at the ocean. Sumner redirected his attention to Block, who was speaking.

"What's the point of all this *cultural differences' mumbo jumbo? Folks from Africa to Mexico count their money the same as us, is what I say. So what do you do for Kaiser Franz?"

Sumner glanced back at the water. He saw the dot speeding toward them. He felt a surge of adrenaline that made his scalp tighten and his fingertips tingle.

He slipped a black T-s.h.i.+rt over his head. The dot grew larger every second. Soon it was joined by another. Sumner heard the distant roar of the cigarette boats' engines. The craft hurtled toward them at an impressive speed.

"Block, get Cindy and the others off the deck. Tell the waiters to move everyone below."

Block looked shocked. "What?"

"Mr. Block, do it. Now."

"Well, I never been ordered around like that," Block said.

Sumner didn't stay to see if Block obeyed. He sprinted across the deck to the stairs that led to the bridge, clambered up them, and burst onto the small walkway that surrounded it just as Captain Joshua Wainwright stepped out.

"Pirates," he said.

Sumner nodded. "Coming fast. Use the LRAD."

Wainwright, a competent, friendly man in his early forties, snapped an order to his second-in-command. They pointed a large gun in the direction of the cigarette boats, now well within a mile of them.

"Hit it," Wainwright said.