Broussard glared.
Sheibani sighed. “I see you need convincing.”
He drew a pistol and shot Santiago in the head. The man fell, twitching across Washington’s corpse, blood pumping out in a widening circle as Broussard’s screams were muffled by the tape and his attempts to stand thwarted by Sheibani’s underlings. Hopkins stared down in shock, attempting to move his feet out of the spreading blood pool.
Sheibani ripped the tape off Broussard’s mouth. “Now! The locations!”
Broussard tried to spit in Sheibani’s face, but his lips were still glued shut from the adhesive, and spit leaked down his chin. Sheibani laughed and put his gun to Hopkins’s head.
“Wait,” Broussard croaked, forcing his lips apart.
Sheibani prodded Hopkins’s head. “The locations!”
“In each boat,” Broussard gasped, “behind the fire extinguishers, and one in the forward storeroom.”
Sheibani smiled as one of his underlings rushed out. Only then did Broussard understand.
“You didn’t know.”
“I knew the number, not the locations,” Sheibani said, grinning. “You saved us a great deal of time and may be of further use. Cooperate and you two live. Fail to do so and Washington’s death will seem merciful. Consider that as you wait.”
Sheibani left the room and moved up the stairway to the bridge. He passed the captain’s cabin and saw DeVries through the open door, sprawled on his bunk with his headphones, in a funk of blue smoke. He sneered and climbed the last flight to the bridge.
On the bridge wing, he watched in the moonlight as a Zodiac inflatable matched Alicia’s speed and moved alongside. Lines were passed as a rope ladder dropped from main deck, and the transponders were transferred. He confirmed everything was going to plan and rushed back down to the lounge, where two men stood guard.
“Listen well, Broussard,” Sheibani said, producing a small recording device.
Sheibani pushed a button and Broussard’s voice came from the speaker, giving an earlier position report.
“You two,” Sheibani said, “will be placed in a small boat and report in as expected. If you try anything, Hopkins will be killed and you will be taken to a secure location, where it will take you a long, long time to die. Understand?”
Broussard nodded and Sheibani continued.
“Your previous reports were identical. Keep them so. My men have memorized these recordings, both words and tone. If you deviate in the slightest, they terminate the call and shoot Hopkins.” Sheibani smiled. “And you will envy him.”
The crewmen’s smirks confirmed their command of English.
Using the Americans to buy a bit more time was a calculated risk. If his men had to disconnect, and could do so cleanly, Singapore would suspect technical problems, given that the Zodiac was on Alicia’s agreed course. But even if Broussard managed a warning, Sheibani’s men would have plenty of time to kill the Americans and dump their bodies and the transponders before disappearing into the mangrove swamps along the Malaysian coast. And Alicia would be well concealed before the Americans even mounted a search.
First the stick, thought Sheibani, now the carrot.
“We don’t need you, Broussard, but if your help buys us a bit of time, I will spare you both. You will be hostages, eligible for exchange in time. Will you cooperate?”
Broussard nodded.
“Excellent,” Sheibani said as he ordered his men to get the Americans to the boat.
Minutes later, Sheibani stood on the bridge as the Zodiac maintained Alicia’s original course and speed, and Alicia inched to port. When the separation was sufficient, he set a new course and increased speed for his hideout, eight hours away.
Broussard lay on the plywood floorboard as the boat bounced along. They were still bound, their arms in front and their ankles bound more loosely, changed to allow them to inch down the rope ladder into the boat. He faced Hopkins, dumped there after the midnight call, when his resolve to warn Singapore had melted at the sight of the gun to Hopkins’s head. After that, the terrorists had relaxed, dumping the hostages on the floorboards, not bothering to retape Broussard’s mouth. He whispered to Hopkins in the moonlight.
“Donny, can you hear me?”
Hopkins nodded.
“Donny, you know they’re gonna kill us, right?”
Another nod.
“I’m warning Singapore on the next call. You with me?”
Hopkins stared at Broussard. He nodded.
“We got one shot,” Broussard said, and he whispered his desperate plan.
Broussard’s ears rang from a slap. “No talking,” screamed the closest hijacker, rolling Broussard so that his back was to Hopkins and taping his mouth. Something hard dug into Broussard’s thigh, and he smiled beneath the tape moments later as he slipped bound hands beneath his leg and felt the shape of his small folding Ka-Bar knife through the fabric. Tiny in the cavernous pocket, his captors had missed the knife. He adjusted his plan.
The outboard stopped, and Broussard was dragged upright and the tape ripped away. The two Alicia crewmen flanked him as opposite the two hijackers that had arrived in the Zodiac held Hopkins up, a gun to his head. The Americans sat across from each other, their bound feet flat on the plywood floorboard as they leaned back against the inflation tubes forming the boat’s sides. One of Broussard’s captors punched speaker mode on the sat phone and dialed Singapore, nodding to Broussard as the duty officer answered.
“Alicia—” began Broussard as Hopkins shot bound hands up to deflect the gun and jammed bound feet down to propel himself straight up, breaking the terrorists’ holds as he flew backward over the side. As anticipated, the men hesitated to fire with Singapore listening, and a heartbeat after Hopkins’s escape, Broussard duplicated his move, screaming “Mayday, terrorists” as he flopped overboard.
The original plan had been to escape in the darkness, with death by gunshot or drowning the likely outcome. The knife changed things.
Broussard stroked downward with bound hands, ignoring muffled shouts and gunfire. At ten feet he fumbled for the knife, forcing himself calm as he put it between his teeth and opened it with his hands. Blade open, he grabbed the knife in both bound hands and slashed the ankle binding to kick for the surface, the knife point extended above him.
The Zodiac was a dark shadow on the moonlit surface, and he kicked for the starboard tube. Just before impact, he lowered his hands, then thrust upward, relying on momentum and arm strength to pierce the tough skin. A maelstrom of bubbles erupted.
The boat listed to starboard as panicked terrorists rushed to stare at the roiling water. Broussard moved under the port bow, farthest from the disturbance, to break the surface with his face, sucking in sweet air. The men were shouting as he floated, hidden by darkness and the overhang of the inflation tube. He submerged again and clenched the knife handle between his teeth, sawing his wrist binding against the blade. With his hands free, he surfaced, unsure of his next move.
The list worsened as the men argued. Broussard had decided to puncture another air chamber when he heard splashes as the terrorists dumped the transponders, followed by the rumble of the awakening outboard. He dove deep, surfacing as the outboard faded to the east, and called out to Hopkins.