The sound of an approaching engine answers her question.
“Finally. How long is it going to take him to get to the port?”
“A few hours, ma’am.”
The port has to be Belize City.
The motor quiets as it comes closer, and I finally open my eyes a sliver to see. It’s still dark, but the vessel is docking.
Again I wonder how long I was out. Hopefully because it took longer for me to go down and I’m already coming back to normal, that means I didn’t lose too much time.
“Get him loaded up. These fucking bugs are eating me alive.”
I really wish I’d known what a toxic human being Anya was before I saved her ass from drowning. Maybe that was karma trying to step in early, but I had to be the good guy.
Not again.
The motor shuts off, and I have to make a choice. My hands are tied in front of me, and I work through my options. Normally I wouldn’t hesitate to take on two men and a woman, but I’ve still got nothing but tingling in my legs. My other choice is letting them haul me onto the boat as dead weight, and waiting until my body cooperates so I can take them out once we’re on the water.
I decide to bide my time.
“Hey, man!” the guy on the beach calls out.
Another male voice returns a volley of what I know is Kriol, a language spoken by some Belizeans. I can’t understand a fucking word they say.
When the man on the beach responds in kind, Anya snaps, “You know I can’t understand that, so knock it off. Speak fucking English. Or Spanish. Or French. But not whatever the hell that is.”
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“Just get him in the boat. I’m sick of waiting out here.”
“Ricardo, come get his feet.”
A few moments later, hands wrap around my shoulders and ankles, and I’m lifted off the ground. My body swings a few moments later, and I’m tossed in the air before crashing into the bottom of a boat. My shoulder connects hard, sending a jolt of pain through me.
“Careful. I get more for him alive than dead.”
Who the hell is she delivering me to that’ll pay more for me alive than dead?
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You know where you’re going?” she asks, and I’m assuming the question is directed at the captain.
“Yes. Got my instructions.”
“If you don’t call me to confirm delivery on time, I promise we will hunt you down and you won’t live to see the sunset. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Radio if you have any problems.” This comes from the man.
“Got it.”
“Then what are you waiting for? Go!” Anya orders.
Her voice grates on me, and I promise myself she’ll get hers.
Ricardo grunts and fires up the engine. A wet rope lands on my face as he shifts into gear. I wait a minute or two after we pull away from the dock to open my eyes. It’s still pitch black, and I can’t see a fucking thing. I reach out, feeling around with my hands, searching for any kind of weapon. I latch onto something wooden. A mop handle, maybe? A spear? I work it down between my bound hands so I can feel the other end. I’m hoping it’s something I can use to cut the rope.
When I get to the end, I realize it’s not a spear, but a thick barbed hook. A gaffe?
Whatever it is, I’m going to use it.
It takes about ten minutes of painstaking sawing to cut one rope and loosen the bonds. I’ve also got feeling back in my legs. I have no fucking clue why they didn’t tie them, but their lack of attention to detail is going to save my ass, and Kat’s.
Now that I’ve got a weapon in my hands and only one man to take down, I let all the thoughts of Kat and how fucking terrified she must be rush through my brain.
Now, it’s time for the rage. I need the fury.
Adrenaline dumps into my system.
Ricardo’s attention is on the ocean in front of him, no doubt a route he’s taken hundreds of times if he doesn’t even need a light to find his way. But still, in the dark, his attention is focused.
I use the blackness, the wind, and the crash of the waves to cover my movements and any noise I make.
Ricardo doesn’t hear or feel me rise up to a standing position behind him. And that’s his mistake.
When I reach around and jerk the hook across his throat, he gurgles his last breath before he tips over the side and hits the water with a splash.
The boat jerks to the side, slowing without a hand on the throttle. I grab the steering wheel and whip it around in what I hope is the opposite direction of where Ricardo was heading before hammering it down again.
Looking up, I get my bearings with the North Star. I can’t go back to Sweet Water, but I have to find the genie-in-a-bottle island. There are over a thousand tiny islands off the coast of Belize, and Kat is headed to one of them. The clock is ticking, and I have to find her before they move her again.
I need my team. Some of the best former operators Uncle Sam ever trained are somewhere in Central America right now, and the best shot I have at getting Kat back.
Anya told him to call. He has to have a phone.
It better not have been in his fucking pocket.
I slow down, and working by feel, open a compartment just under the helm. The first thing I touch is a flashlight. Praying for a stroke of good luck, I flip the switch. It turns on.
Thank fuck.
Ducking down, I shine it into the compartment. Two small dry bags rest against the back wall. I grab them both. One contains a radio. Not ideal, but better than nothing.
The second one . . . bingo.
A wallet, phone, lighter, and a pack of cigarettes. A human trafficker’s basic essentials. There’s only one thing missing—a gun.
Opening the bag, I pull out the phone and dial a number I’ve had memorized for a decade.
“Cabo Wabo Cantina. How can I help you?” a female voice answers.
“I need a cab.”
She pauses only a moment. “Can I ask who’s calling?”
“Delta Charlie One Seven Four.”
“Hold, please. I’ll transfer you.”
A wave of relief sweeps through me when the next voice picks up. “I thought you were on a fucking vacation, DC.”
“I need the team. Someone took Kat.”