Pirate Lair: Chapter 3
Gulf of Aden, off Somalia, 3:46 A.M.
“Hand me the gun or your friend dies.”
The English-speaking pirate extended his hand toward Tarita. She handed her gun to him. He signaled the other pirate to let go of Carlos, who slumped to the deck and lay there. Tarita ran to Carlos, knelt down beside him. The pirate’s stranglehold had blocked his windpipe and he’d blacked out from lack of oxygen.
She put her mouth on his, forcing air into his lungs.
About 30 seconds into this process she glanced at his eyes. They were wide open, staring up at her. She pulled back, giving him a quizzical look.
Carlos: “Don’t stop.”
Tarita: “You’ll take it any way you can get it, won’t you?”
Carlos: “Always.”
With her, anyway, he thought. That pleasant reverie was interrupted by the English speaker waving the gun at Carlos.
Pirate: “How much you say we get for her. If she’s so important.”
Carlos rose slowly from the deck, steadied himself.
Carlos: “I told you… probably as much as was paid for the Centauri Star. You might even break the ransom record8 — the $15 million someone paid for that Greek tanker in 2013.”
What Carlos didn’t tell him was that one of the hijacked ships was owned by a Saudi-Aramco subsidiary of Fisk’s empire. Fisk was out five million dollars in ransom money. And pissed.
The Somali hijackings were as brazen a bit of piracy as any of those by such legendary buccaneers as Morgan and Blackbeard. The attacks and hijackings had slowed since 2011, but Somali pirates continued to stalk potential prey all over the Arabian Sea.
The tanker they’d hijacked from Fisk’s company was as long as three football fields and as tall as a nine story building. Its officers had little reason to be concerned about pirates in puny ten foot skiffs 400 miles from land.
So the bridge officer had paid no attention to the two little blips his radar screen showed approaching. Big mistake! The speedy little skiffs were alongside before he knew it. They’d been released by a mother ship — a fishing trawler — miles away.
Using grappling hooks, ropes and aluminum ladders, ten pirates had boarded the tanker’s aft deck. Armed with assault rifles and grenade launchers, they’d encountered no resistance from the ship’s 25 crewmen. It was all over in a few minutes.
They’d taken the ship to the pirate-friendly Somali port of Xarardheere9. It had been anchored offshore there for weeks while Fisk negotiated the ransom down from 25 to 5 million dollars.
But Fisk was far from satisfied. He wanted to know who had ripped him off. And he wanted his pound of flesh — something to make his loss worthwhile.
So he’d ante’d up a yacht to attract the players. And thrown in Tarita to sweeten the pot. With Carlos as guardian and go-between.
Carlos had asked Fisk not to involve Tarita on this assignment. The pirates were unpredictable, desperate and male, and she had considerable appeal. But Tarita had insisted, probably hearing the word “yacht” and nothing else.
The English-speaking pirate with the gun pondered what Carlos had said, then questioned him skeptically.
Pirate: “Who would pay so much money for her?”
Carlos: “One person. Someone very rich. Whom I know, and you don’t.”
Pirate: “Would you bet your life on this rich man’s loyalty to her?”
Carlos: “Yes.”
Pirate: “Good. Because if you fail, you die. And she becomes part of someone’s harem here.”
Carlos acknowledged with a nod of his head. The pirate motioned them toward the bridge exit leading to the main salon.
He’s buying in, Carlos thought with some relief.
Carlos: “Hold for just a moment. I’ve got a little unfinished business here.”
Carlos walked to the man who had nearly choked him to death from behind.
Carlos: “Payback time.”
Before the pirate could react, Carlos drove his extended fingers into the man’s solar plexus. As he doubled over, Carlos brought a knee up into his face.
The man crumpled to the deck. Now maybe these goons would think twice before messing with him again, or screwing around with Tarita.
Assuming, of course, that they’d bought his pitch to be their bird dog for ransom money. He turned to the man with the gun.
And looked straight into the barrel of that gun, about three inches from his nose. Carlos smirked. He would call this bluff easily. He didn’t even put up his hands. The gun barrel didn’t move, but the trigger finger did.
Had Carlos miscalculated? Would this pirate really shoot him? Just for roughing up one of his men?
He saw the man’s trigger figure tighten. Carlos couldn’t believe what was happening. Couldn’t believe they hadn’t bought his pitch…
The gun flashed with a deafening roar.
To be continued in chapter 4….
