The Covenant of Genesis_A Novel

  “Okay, I’m going to have words with Latan. You keep hiding here until I come back. Unless everything goes pear-shaped—then you run like buggery!”

  “Pear-shaped?” Bejo asked, puzzled.

  “You’ll know. Don’t take any chances—just run. Okay, see you soon.” Leaving Bejo hiding among the barrels, he crept across the camp to Latan’s hut.

  “Got you, you bugger,” he muttered as he looked under a half-closed shutter to see Latan’s hard features in the dimly lit room beyond. The pirate leader had claimed the best—or least worst—shack for his own private use, and done the same regarding its other occupant. He sat shirtless on a bed, an attractive young woman in a tight red minidress stroking his back as she whispered in his ear. Soft music was playing from an iPod connected to a small pair of speakers.

  Chase also saw the briefcase—and an AK propped up in a corner. It was within reach of the bed, but if Latan was preoccupied with the woman …

  He went to the door and peered through a crack. The woman unzipped her dress and shrugged it off her shoulders, and Latan’s hands groped her bare breasts. It was a good job he’d made Bejo stay behind; the clunk of his jaw dropping would have alerted the entire village.

  The pirate was still within an arm’s length of the Kalashnikov. Chase frowned. Come on, you horny bastard, move away …

  The pair finally changed position, the woman lying prone on the bed with the now-naked Latan on top of her. She let out a little grunt of discomfort as he thrust into her.

  Chase opened the door and advanced carefully across the wooden floor with the knife in one hand. The couple faced away from him, the AK just out of Latan’s reach. All Chase had to do was get to the gun before the pirate realized he was there—

  The floor creaked beneath his foot.

  Latan was preoccupied, but the woman turned her head—and squealed at the sight of the knife.

  His training kicking in, Latan lunged for the rifle.

  Too far away to make a grab for the gun, Chase grabbed something else instead.

  Latan gasped like a choking cat as Chase’s free hand clamped around his genitals. The pirate’s twitching fingers stopped just short of the AK-47. Chase pulled. The fingers hurriedly withdrew.

  “This isn’t my usual sort of thing, by the way,” said Chase. “Just so you know.” He nodded at the woman, who was pinned beneath Latan and watching fearfully. “Sorry to interrupt, love. Don’t mind me.”

  “I fucking kill you!” the pirate rasped.

  “Takes a lot of balls for someone in your position to make threats,” Chase told him amiably, “but you don’t have ’em.” He tightened his grip, and Latan gave a strangled groan. “So this guy who hired you, Vogler—who is he and where do I find him?”

  “Fuck you—gnngh!”

  “You won’t have anything to fuck with if you don’t tell me,” said Chase, jabbing the point of his knife against the pirate’s testicles, drawing blood. “Last chance. Or I’ll fucking feed them to you.”

  “Never met him before tonight!” Latan moaned. “He talked to me through a middleman in Singapore.” He glanced at the briefcase. “Hired us to get the computer and the tile with writing on it, then sink ship.”

  “Why did he hire you? What’s so important about that tablet?”

  “Don’t know, he didn’t say!”

  Chase frowned. Latan was probably telling the truth. “What about this … this Covenant of Genesis?” he asked instead. “What is it?”

  He felt Latan tense. “I—I can’t tell you!”

  “Oh, you can,” Chase said. “Get up.” The woman turned over, arms clutched protectively over her chest, as the pirate leader crawled backward off her. Chase did a double take as he saw there was more to Latan’s companion than first met the eye. “Whoa,” he said, amused. “You’re no lady—you’re a man, baby, a man!” He withdrew the knife so the pirate could sit up. “So you’re into ladyboys, eh? And I thought pirates preferred Roger the cabin boy—”

  The “woman” suddenly sprang to life, whipping both feet flat against Latan’s chest and shoving him backward with surprising force. Latan slammed into Chase, whose grip on the pirate’s jewels was jolted loose as he staggered back. With a roar, the naked man whirled to face his attacker.

  Chase brought up the knife to defend himself—but instantly changed his plans as he saw the transsexual reach for the gun. Her hand closed around it—

  The knife thunked deeply into the battered old weapon’s wooden grip, transfixing the ladyboy’s hand. She screamed—and her finger clenched convulsively on the trigger. The AK-47 blasted a spray of bullets into the ceiling. Shouts rose outside as the other pirates heard the gunfire.

  Chase punched Latan in the face, knocking him down, and ran.

  SEVEN

  Chase sprinted through the little settlement. He passed the rusting fuel drums—Bejo was gone. The kid had done the right thing and gotten the hell out; now it was his turn.

  Yelling came from the large shack. He snatched up the handle of a broken oar and smacked it into the face of the first pirate to emerge, ducking around the shack’s side as more pirates jumped over the fallen man and came after him. He saw the sea ahead, the jetty extending out into the darkness. Maybe rigging the RIB hadn’t been such a good idea—he could have used it to escape—

  A man ran out onto the walkway in front of him. He saw Chase and raised his gun.

  Chase hurled himself through an open window into the neighboring hut: the pirates’ makeshift kitchen. He landed on a table, which collapsed in a shower of rice and clanging metal bowls. He jumped up, finding himself beside the sizzling wok as the pirate appeared at the window and brought his AK to bear.

  Chase snatched up the wok and whipped it around, its contents sluicing out. Boiling fat splashed across the walls—and the pirate’s face. The man screamed as his skin instantly blistered.

  A door across the room crashed open. Still holding the wok, Chase spun to see two more men rush in. Neither had a gun—but one saw the meat cleaver on a bench near the hanging goat and ran to pick it up.

  The other man, a thick-necked, heavily tattooed thug in a string vest, charged at Chase, knotted hands outstretched—

  Chase let him close in—then slammed the wok against the side of his head. The sturdy metal bowl rang like a gong, but that was nothing compared to the sizzling hiss as the hot metal burned the pirate’s cheek like a branding iron. He collapsed, overcome by pain.

  The second man approached more warily, the cleaver in his hand. Chase heard shouting outside. It wouldn’t take the others long to realize where he was … and surround him.

  A frying pan against Kalashnikovs. Not good. He had to get out into the open.

  The pirate wasn’t going to let him. He came closer, swinging the hefty blade. Chase jumped back, bringing the wok up like a shield. Another swipe, aiming for Chase’s hand. Metal clashed against metal—and the wok’s bowl broke off the handle to hit the floor with a hollow bong.

  He retreated, throwing the handle at the pirate’s face. The man swatted it away, then gripped the cleaver with both hands as they circled each other. Chase bumped against a bench, knocking over a plastic bottle of cooking oil. The glutinous liquid blurped out, spattering on the floor.

  The pirate swung.

  Chase threw himself backward, the tip of the blade ripping his shirt across his left pectoral before it struck a metal pole supporting the roof, hacking clean through it at a steep angle. The top half of the pole clanged to the floor, the roof creaking.

  Men rushed through the open door—

  Chase flung the plastic bottle at the naked flame of the gas burner.

  The oil ignited, the bottle bursting open and showering liquid fire across the kitchen. The pirates who had just entered were engulfed, hideous screams filling the room as they staggered blindly in a futile attempt to escape the searing fat.

  But the sudden inferno reached Chase too as it spread to the spilled oil on the floor. His d
ark jeans were still wet from his swim, but the fire leapt up to light the drops of splattered grease on his clothes. “Oh, shit!” he gasped, jumping back and swatting at his burning leg. He bumped against the hanging carcass, setting it swinging.

  The pirate with the cleaver took another swipe, forcing him back toward the blaze. Chase was now cut off from the door, and his opponent was between him and the nearest window. The dead goat caught fire. He flinched away as it swung back and forth, looking for an opening, a weapon. Nothing. The pirate advanced, flames reflecting dully from the cleaver’s blade as he pulled it back for another strike—

  Chase plunged his hand into the carcass and spun it around, a shield of meat and bone. The cleaver hacked deep into the dead animal with a crack of breaking ribs. He felt intense heat on the back of his head as his hair started to burn, but held firm as he slammed the flaming goat into the other man’s face and knocked him backward, jolting the cleaver from his grip.

  A crack. The ceiling beam from which the carcass was suspended broke. Chase threw himself sideways as it fell, landing perilously close to the rapidly spreading fire.

  He jumped up. The pirate also recovered, looking much less confident without his weapon. Seeing a chance, Chase ran at him.

  The other man grabbed the severed length of metal pole and whipped it up like a baseball bat. Chase raised an arm just in time to protect his head from the blow, but still took a jarring hit to the elbow.

  The pirate swung again. The pole whacked against Chase’s kneecap. He stumbled and fell. Before he could recover, another fierce strike smashed painfully down across his back. Powerful hands seized him by the throat.

  Thumbs dug into his neck, choking him. The pirate hauled him around to look him in the eye, triumph clear in his expression as he tried to crush Chase’s windpipe—

  Chase clapped both his cupped hands hard against the pirate’s ears, rupturing his eardrums. The pressure on his throat disappeared as the pirate screamed—but Chase didn’t let go, gripping the other man’s head and yanking it sharply downward.

  Onto the broken end of the support pole.

  The sharp spike of metal pipe stabbed straight through the pirate’s eye socket and punched into his skull.

  “You’ll need more than an eyepatch to cover that,” Chase told the dead man as he stood. The fire had spread to the walls and ceiling; the shack was being consumed around him.

  The only exit was one of the windows. He jumped through it, landing on the waterfront walkway.

  Two men on the jetty saw him. Opened fire.

  Chase ran past the burning shack as bullets ripped into it, blazing splinters spraying out in his wake. Ahead was the covered dock at the edge of the settlement. If he ran into the darkened jungle, an environment in which he had plenty of survival and combat experience, he should be able to escape the pirates—but that would give Latan a chance to escape and warn his paymaster …

  The option was removed as someone fired at him from the tree line. The surviving pirates had spread out to form a perimeter, trapping him. Latan, thinking tactically. The pirate leader wasn’t fleeing; he had organized his forces to catch the man who had attacked and humiliated him.

  More shots, more shouts. They were closing, hounds after the fox.

  Foxes. Bejo was running toward him, frightened eyes wide. “Mr. Eddie!”

  “When I said run, I meant away, not toward!”

  “They found the boat!” Bejo gasped. More bullets seared past. The only place they could go was into the dock. Chase crashed through the double doors, slamming them shut behind himself and Bejo. The planks would provide no protection against bullets, but at least they would be out of sight for a few seconds.

  Bejo turned in a rapid, panicked circle. “Oh, very bad, very very bad! What do we do?”

  The cruiser was tied up in front of them. Chase looked to its bow.

  The .50-cal—

  He grabbed the handrail and jumped up. The ammo belt was still hanging from the machine gun, but it was almost spent, maybe twenty rounds remaining.

  He heard movement outside, Latan bellowing instructions as the pirates ran to the doors.

  Chase looked frantically around. There was a toolbox on the deck, a ball of twine among its contents. He snatched it up and tied the end to the Browning’s trigger, then looped it around the rear grip before running to the side of the boat. “Bejo! Get in the water!”

  A splash from below—then the doors crashed open. Pirates rushed in, AKs at the ready … as Chase plunged into the water, pulling the twine as he fell.

  The Browning swung toward the door and roared, eating through the remaining bullets in less than four seconds.

  It was more than enough. The storm of lead swept across the dock, the force of the .50-cal at point-blank range literally explosive. The men were practically vaporized, limbs flying, heads exploding like watermelons stuffed with dynamite.

  The machine gun ran dry, the last links of the spent ammo belt tinkling to the deck. The sound of chunks of the pirates hitting the ground was considerably wetter.

  Chase surfaced, peering over the dock as a headless body slumped to its knees and keeled over in front of him. Bejo popped out of the water, gasping. He was surprised by the sudden lack of a threat. “What happened to the pirates, Mr. Eddie?”

  “They’re in pieces of eight.” Bejo was about to climb onto the dock when Chase stopped him. “You don’t want to look up there.” He pointed at the dock’s open end. “Swim out that way and wait for me.”

  Climbing out, he took in the rest of the scattered, splattered bodies, feeling absolutely no sympathy or remorse—not after what the pirates had done to the people aboard the Pianosa. “Amateurs.”

  Someone was still alive, though, a quavering voice calling out. Latan. But his anger and arrogance were gone, replaced by shock. When Chase picked up a fallen AK-47, the pirate leader turned and fled.

  Chase pursued. Latan was heading for the RIB. Chase went around the other side of the flaming kitchen, on to the walkway, running to intercept him at the jetty—

  A thick arm lashed out from around the corner of a shack, clotheslining Chase to the floor. The big, scar-faced man scowled down at him.

  Chase raised the AK, but the pirate kicked it from his hand, then drove his heel down into the Englishman’s stomach. Chase groaned. The man lifted his foot, about to stamp on his head, but Chase grabbed it and twisted hard to throw him off balance. The pirate staggered back into the shadowed, overgrown gap between the shacks, almost tripping over the tree stump.

  Chase heard the whine of a starter motor. Latan had reached the RIB. Clutching his aching stomach, he got up, seeing the dull line of the steel cable he had earlier secured around the stump.

  Scarface saw it too, and immediately realized what Chase had done. He shouted a warning, but the RIB’s engine drowned him out. The cable was still slack: he tried to pull the looped end off the stump.

  “No you fucking don’t!” Chase wheezed, ramming the pirate with his shoulder. The pirate fell over the stump and landed in the junk behind it. Chase moved to kick him in the head—

  The man slashed at his leg with a jagged spike of rusty metal. The tip ripped through his jeans. Chase lurched away as the pirate stabbed again; he barely escaped having the six-inch shard plunged into his thigh but caught his heel on a root and fell backward.

  Still clutching the makeshift dagger, the pirate leapt up. The RIB surged away from the jetty. The cable flicked back and forth on the ground beside Chase, hissing metallically.

  The pirate dived at him, the spike plunging down at his chest. Chase whipped up both hands to catch the man’s wrist, stopping the bloodied point an inch above his heart. Face contorting, yellowed teeth bared, the pirate pushed harder, his weight forcing the trembling blade lower, lower …

  Pressing into the skin, piercing it—

  Whack!

  “Get off him!” yelled Bejo, hitting the pirate across his back with a length of rotten wood, knoc
king him off Chase. The plank snapped in half, the blow only distracting rather than hurting the muscular pirate, but it was enough.

  Chase grabbed the whipping cable and looped it around the pirate’s neck.

  The other end of the cable had been firmly fastened to the RIB’s outboard. The retreating boat reached the limit of its length—and jerked to an abrupt stop as the line snapped taut. The loop around the pirate’s neck closed to nothing in an instant, neatly snipping off his head, which thumped off the tree stump, its expression frozen in shocked horror. The look on Bejo’s face was almost identical.

  “You okay?” Chase asked as he kicked the decapitated corpse away and stood. Bejo nodded wordlessly as Chase retrieved his AK and looked out to sea. The RIB’s engine was still running, but the boat was drifting at the end of the cable, the propeller shaft broken. In the light of the burning hut, he could see that the sudden stop had caused Latan to slam headfirst into the boat’s steering wheel … then bounce back into his seat, leaving most of his face behind. He wouldn’t be giving warnings to anybody.

  “Mr. Eddie,” said Bejo in a strained voice. Chase turned—to find a gun pointing at his chest. The transsexual prostitute stood before him, shakily clutching a revolver in her uninjured hand. From the anguished rage on her face, her relationship with Latan had been more than merely that of hooker and client.

  “Oh, bugger,” muttered Chase. Being gunned down by a ladyboy wasn’t even remotely how he’d pictured himself going out. “Okay, sorry about your boyfriend,” he said, stalling, “but he was kind of a bad guy. Nice, er, lass like you could do a lot better …”

  She spat something in Malay, thrusting the gun at his face. “Pretty lady is very angry with you,” said Bejo, raising his hands.

  “Yeah, I got the gist.” She thumbed back the hammer. “All right, so you’re a bit upset,” Chase continued, getting worried, “but shooting me won’t make you feel any better. Trust me, I’ve shot plenty of people, and—” His eyes flicked to something behind her, and he raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Bloody hell, it’s Latan! Latan’s alive!”