Soon Kyril should be sleeping like a ninety-year-old grandma.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Cashoo jabbered away in Somali about the boss’s woman and how he’d ejaculated over her. He pantomimed her big breasts with his hands and cackled with ribald laughter.
His cohorts in the second boat licked their lips, chewed on their khat, and wondered if they’d ever get a chance to be as daring as Cashoo. He was their Casanova, with many girls back home. They were in awe of his sexual adventures; he entertained them with his stories, and they always asked for more.
Amiin was in charge of the second boat. He thought to himself how fortunate that Cashoo was not doing his boasting in front of Cruz, because obviously the young fool didn’t realize that the big boss’s woman was also Cruz’s sister. If Cruz found out, he’d probably cut off Cashoo’s dick with a rusty razor-blade.
It wasn’t Amiin’s concern. He was here for the money, that’s all.
Although he had to remember that Cashoo was a relative, and if anything happened to him, his mother’s sister, Kensi – a true witch – would probably place a damn curse on his head.
There were five men crowded into each boat. In Amiin’s boat were Cashoo, two other pirates, Daleel and Hani, and Viktor, the Russian. Amiin wasn’t sure why Cruz had chosen to break the two Russians up, but he supposed the boss had his reasons.
The sea was calm at first, although as the boat headed further out, the water began getting choppy. Amiin and his men were seasoned seafarers. Viktor wasn’t. He started turning green as the choppiness changed into full-on bouncing waves.
Once again the Somalians laughed and jeered at him. One of them offered him a bunch of khat to chew on. When he refused, they laughed even louder. ‘Kamayo,’ they muttered. ‘Guska meicheke. Suck my dick.’
Viktor wasn’t sure if he was receiving insults or sympathy. He only knew that the rougher the sea became, the more his stomach churned. This was not what he’d signed up for.
Amiin called Cruz on their two-way radio. ‘The Russian’s getting sick,’ he muttered. ‘What should I do?’
‘If he gets too sick, toss him overboard,’ Cruz responded.
Amiin didn’t know if Cruz was joking or not. Somehow he had a hunch – not.
* * *
When the rain began to fall, Cruz embraced it. He’d always looked upon rain as a good luck omen, a cleansing.
His men grumbled and began pulling well-worn sweatshirts and old stained jackets over their heads. They huddled together like a team, as Basra steered the fast speedboat through the treacherous rolling seas.
Like his partner, Viktor, Maksim was becoming seriously sick. The waves were now huge, causing the Somalians to pull out their prayer beads and start chanting.
Cruz managed to force a soggy cigarette into his mouth. He couldn’t get it lit, which infuriated him. Goddamm it, nothing was ever easy.
Maksim was leaning over the side of the boat groaning and throwing up.
One solid shove and he would be gone.
Cruz considered the possibilities. No more Sergei’s henchmen looking over him. And if he was changing plans, that’s exactly what he had to do, dump the Russian. His crew wouldn’t care – there was no love lost between them and Sergei’s men.
Cruz did not have the stomach to do it himself, so he moved next to Basra, took over driving the boat, and pantomimed what he wanted him to do.
Basra – to whom life meant nothing – didn’t hesitate. He took pleasure in violence: it had been that way since, as a child, he’d witnessed his father beat his mother to death.
After manoeuvring himself next to Maksim, Basra waited for the next big wave to hit, then shouldered the Russian man overboard as if he was disposing of a sack of garbage. No emotion crossed his skeletal face.
Maksim was caught unaware, his desperate screams for help obliterated by the noise of the storm.
Cruz glanced back to see if the second boat had noticed. The night was pitch black, it was impossible to see your hand in front of you.
Cruz reached for the two-way radio. ‘Get rid of the other Russian,’ he instructed Amiin. ‘Do it now.’
How fortuitous that he’d thought of separating them.
In their weakened state, neither of the Russians saw it coming, although burly Viktor put up more of a struggle, and almost took one of the pirates with him.
‘Done,’ Amiin advised Cruz.
‘They needed to go,’ Cruz shouted over the howling wind. ‘Change of plan. We won’t be returning to the villa.’
‘Yes, boss,’ Amiin said.
His job in life was not to ask questions, merely to obey.
Chapter Seventy-Nine
And while the pirates were on their way to take over The Bianca, a story hit the front page of a New York tabloid with one of its usual stop-you-in-your-tracks headlines:
PATTERSON DOES A CLINTON
HERE WE INTERN AGAIN!
The headline was accompanied by a photo of Skylar with another girl – both in skimpy tank tops with prominent nipples – both sticking their tongues out at the camera.
Radical had personally chosen the photo from a selection on Skylar’s Facebook page. The fact that the photo was three years old didn’t bother Radical; she was searching for provocative, and that’s exactly what she got.
‘My parents will kill me!’ Skylar had said when Radical had first approached her with the idea of selling her story.
‘Yeah, but you’ll be like a rich as shit dead teenager,’ Radical had slyly joked. ‘Like, so will I.’
Radical had inherited the power of convincing people to do things her way from her father. He’d parlayed his gift into becoming a respected Senator, while all Radical wanted to do was make lots of money.
So she’d convinced Skylar that her parents were screwing with her and would not do anything about Hammond’s sexual indiscretions, and surely he would do the same to other girls, which made it Skylar’s duty to get the word out there.
And so Radical – even though she was a few years younger than Skylar – got her way. And the two of them had marched into the offices of the New York tabloid and sold their story for – as Radical put it – ‘a shitload of money’.
Now the headline and the story were out there. No stopping them anytime soon.
* * *
When Eddie started getting calls at five a.m. he flipped out.
WHAT . . . THE . . . FUCK?
How could this have happened?
And with a feeling of deep dread, he knew that if anyone was about to get the blame, it would be him.
Chapter Eighty
The storm hit at 1 a.m. It was a tropical summer storm – the worst kind – violent and unpredictable.
Mercedes darted around the yacht taking note of who was still up and about. As the large yacht began to buck and roll, she was sure that some of the guests would get seasick and come staggering to the upper decks.
She wondered if Captain Dickson would surface. Probably not, he wasn’t exactly hands on.
Kyril had finally fallen into a drugged sleep, snoring like a freight train, his big body sliding down in his chair, hefty legs spread wide, mouth gaping open.
The timing was right on. Cruz and his men would be boarding the yacht – if the storm didn’t hold them up too much – in around twenty minutes.
It wasn’t going to be as easy as they’d thought, what with the yacht heaving in the wild sea; getting aboard would be a struggle. Mercedes had no doubt that her poppa could handle it, he always did.
She’d already unloaded Kyril’s guns, rendering them useless. And earlier that day she’d made it into the master suite and commandeered the revolver Kasianenko kept in a locked drawer by his bed. If anyone else on the yacht had weapons, she hadn’t found them, and over the past few days she’d conducted a pretty through search.
It was on, and she was ready. There was nothing else to do now except wait.
* * *
‘You’re not s
hy, are you?’ Hammond enquired. He was getting impatient with this tall Australian girl who was not giving up her pussy to him as fast as he would’ve liked. He had her top and bra off – nice breasts – and he figured if he played with them long enough she’d be good to go. The annoying problem was that every time he attempted to make it downtown, she shied away from him like a nervous colt.
He had a strong urge to fuck her and get out of the miserable room she’d taken him to. If it didn’t happen soon he was contemplating slapping her into submission.
They were on top of an uncomfortable lower bunk bed, lying side by side. He was fully clothed and hard as a rock.
‘I’m . . . I’m not shy,’ she whispered, shivering as he twisted one of her nipples a fraction too hard. ‘It’s just that . . . uh . . . I know I should have told you before.’
‘Told me what?’
‘It’s uh . . . embarrassing.’
‘What?’ he thundered, starting to lose it.
‘I’m . . . a . . . virgin.’
For some men, those three words would deflate a hard-on quicker than a bucket of cold water. Hammond was not one of those men. Her words made him more excited than ever.
A virgin. Ripe for deflowering. Ah yes, he was just the man for the job.
The yacht began to rock – but Hammond didn’t notice.
Now he had to have her.
No doubt about it.
* * *
‘What’s going on?’ Ashley stuttered, sitting up with a start.
Taye was sleeping soundly. He’d had great sex with his wife for the fourth day in a row and now he was sleeping like a satisfied stallion, dreaming about winning the World Cup, then fucking Angelina Jolie. Didn’t every man dream about fucking Angelina Jolie?
Ashley vigorously shook his shoulder. He groaned and opened one eye. ‘Wassamatter, toots?’ he mumbled.
‘The boat’s shaking,’ she said in a weak voice. ‘I feel sick.’
Taye launched himself into an upright position. He could hear the rain pounding on the porthole and a flash or two of bright lightning, followed by loud rumbles of thunder.
‘It’s nothin’, babe,’ he assured her. ‘A bit of a storm, that’s all.’
‘I feel sick,’ she repeated.
‘Want me t’hold your head over the loo?’ he offered.
‘No, thank you,’ she said crossly. ‘I didn’t say I was going to be sick, I just feel it.’
‘That’s ’cause the boat’s churnin’,’ he advised. ‘It’ll soon stop.’
‘How do you know?’ she said accusingly.
‘’Cause it’s a tropical storm, an’ that’s what they do, babe. Now spoon up against me and go back to Bye Bye Land.’
For once Ashley did as she was told.
* * *
Sleep was impossible for Sierra. Her mind refused to be still.
Was there going to be some big political sex scandal when they got back to New York? Would she be forced to stand by her husband’s side while he made a smarmy televised apology?
The good wife. The obedient wife. The stupid wife who puts up with her husband’s indiscretions and continues to support him.
Or perhaps Hammond would summon people adept at running damage control. He would get the girl’s accusations squashed before they went public. Then he’d pay off Skylar and her parents, and that would be that. No cringe-worthy TV appearances. No fake apology. All quiet on the political front.
Which left Radical to contend with, and what were they supposed to do about her? The girl was difficult to say the least; she hated her father as much as he hated her.
Sierra sighed. There was nothing she could do to intervene. It was what it was.
Her thoughts drifted to Flynn. The man she’d always wanted, the man she could never have – not while Hammond was still around.
It was all too much.
The storm roared outside, and the yacht was in constant motion. She barely noticed.
Where was Hammond anyway?
She didn’t know and she didn’t care. Perhaps he’d slipped and fallen overboard – what a relief that would be.
* * *
Jeromy’s stomach flipped and flopped. He felt light-headed and quite ill. To his fury Luca didn’t care. Luca was in a deep sleep.
Jeromy staggered towards the bathroom and collapsed onto the floor by the toilet. The boat swayed back and forth. He could hear the storm outside and it unnerved him. Once, in the South of France, he and some acquaintances had been caught in a storm on a sailing boat. He could still remember the nausea that had overcome him, and now it was back, that ghastly seasick sensation.
He leaned his head against the cold porcelain of the toilet, and prayed for morning.
* * *
‘It’s okay,’ Cliff assured Lori when she nudged up against him. ‘This yacht is built to withstand anything.’
‘It is?’ she asked tentatively. ‘It feels awfully rough.’
‘Think of it as turbulence when you’re on a plane,’ Cliff said. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
‘You’re sure?’ Lori said, shivering.
Cliff held her close. ‘Positive.’
* * *
Flynn never made it to bed. After churning fifty or so lengths in the lap pool, he’d gone to the gym and worked out with weights.
He’d made up his mind that he was leaving tomorrow. Leaving Sierra and everything she’d once meant to him. He’d finally realized there was nothing he could do about the situation. She was married to Hammond, and that’s the way it was. No going back. After a vigorous workout he made his way up to the front of the top deck, grabbed the railing and leaned out, gazing at the turbulent black sea, getting drenched, but liking the feel of the driving rain hitting him in his face.
Lightning flashed. Thunder roared. Nature was doing her thing.
Too bad he didn’t have anyone to share it with.
* * *
Xuan pulled the covers over her head. Lightning terrified her. Reminded her of when she was escaping from Communist China and running, running, running.
She’d gotten raped in the middle of a raging storm. Five men. Five pigs. Five penises drilling into her until she’d passed out.
Somehow she’d survived that horrific night, but the bad memories still lingered, especially when she saw lightning and heard the roar of thunder.
Where was Flynn when she needed him?
* * *
Bianca suddenly shot up in bed. ‘It’s a storm,’ she announced, as if she was only just making such a startling discovery.
Aleksandr was already up, sitting in a chair smoking a cigar. ‘I was hoping you’d sleep through it,’ he said.
‘Don’t you know?’ Bianca retorted, green eyes flashing. ‘Storms are my thing.’
‘They are?’ Aleksandr said. Bianca never failed to surprise him.
‘Yes, ever since I was a little kid,’ she said, leaping out of bed. ‘Storms are so exciting! All that thunder and lightning, it’s major sexy.’
‘What are you doing?’ Aleksandr asked.
‘Getting my storm on,’ Bianca replied, a wicked smile playing around her lips as she wrenched open the terrace doors and raced outside.
‘Are you crazy?’ Aleksandr bellowed as the wind blew a deluge of rain into the room. ‘It’s dangerous out there.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Bianca yelled back at him. ‘It’s a major trip.’
‘You’re naked,’ he shouted. ‘Put some clothes on.’
‘Why? There’s no one to see me,’ she said, jumping into the churning Jacuzzi. ‘Come, my big bad Russian. I wanna make love. Get your ass out here an’ join me.’
* * *
The one person Mercedes didn’t want to run into was Guy. Yet there he was, in sweatpants, rumpled T-shirt and a rain slicker, checking things out on the middle deck.
Before she could dodge out of sight, he spotted her.
‘What are you doing up?’ he asked, throwing her a suspicious look.
This was not good. What if he noticed Kyril slumped in a drugged-out stupour on the job? What if he figured out something was about to go down?
She managed a concerned expression. ‘I was worried about the guests,’ she said. ‘Wonderin’ how they’re coping.’
‘Well, well, well,’ Guy said, a look of surprise on his face. ‘Little Miss Lazy Pants actually cares.’
‘You never know,’ Mercedes said, putting on her all wide-eyed innocence expression. ‘Some people get quite seasick. It’s not a great feeling.’
‘You seen anyone around?’ Guy asked. ‘Any of the passengers?’
Mercedes shook her head.
‘You’re sure?’ Guy said, thinking it was quite possible that he’d misjudged this girl.
‘Quite sure,’ she said firmly.
‘Then I expect we can both go back to bed,’ he said, stifling a yawn.
‘Yes,’ Mercedes said, realizing that at any moment Cruz and his team would be making their play. Two boats. One on each side of the yacht. Pirates boarding. Fast and furious.
‘Good night,’ she said, and quickly hurried out of Guy’s sight.
Chapter Eighty-One
The band of pirates were wet through and through, freezing cold, pissed off and ready for action. They all knew what they had to do – secure the yacht – which meant herding the crew into the downstairs area so that they could be controlled, securing the guests, then keeping everyone in place until the ransom was paid and they could be on their merry way.
Amiin had supplied each of them with a crude map of the interior of the yacht. Their job was to get all of the crew into the mess-hall next to the kitchen in the bowels of the boat, while Cruz took care of whoever was on the bridge – or at least in the control room, since the yacht was at anchor for the night.
The storm had held them up, but fortunately, as they got nearer to The Bianca, it had started to abate, making it easier for them to board.
Everyone had a job to do, and since the two boats were approaching from both sides of the yacht, it all had to happen at top speed. The element of surprise was crucial, which was why Cruz had decided to stage the raid in the middle of the night when most of the crew and guests would be sleeping.