Off Course (7 page)

London, England

June 15, 12:20 a.m. London Time

For Nic Lancaster, the Collin Cook case would go down in his personal file as either a brilliant rookie triumph or an embarrassing start to his investigative career. Either way, his pride was involved and his emotions poured into it. Yes, this case had become personal and he knew that was unprofessional, but he also knew it could define his trajectory.

Because he felt his career track was in jeopardy, Nic was more nervous than he had been on his first date. Collin Cook, the crafty little bugger, had finally made the mistake that Nic had been waiting for. The cheap cell phones he bought for himself and his lady friend would prove his undoing. Now that he had the ability to track Cook’s location, it was time to coerce some cooperation from the higher-ups, starting with his section chief, Alastair Montgomery.

The sometimes helpful Alastair didn’t often see things Nic’s way. Knowing this and having spotted a pattern of irregular behavior, Nic had done some sleuthing into his boss’s out-of-the-office activities.

Nic reviewed the video recording he had of Alastair getting out of the taxi in Kensington during the middle of the day, having claimed to be off to a meeting with Scotland Yard. Nic had checked the validity of the meeting and learned that it was bogus, so he had followed him in a cab and used his phone to video the whole incriminating scene.

On the video, Alastair checked in all directions as he exited his taxi and strode blithely across the street. The footage became jumbled as Nic jumped out of his taxi, paid the cabbie, and darted behind a parked car to continue filming. He captured Alastair heading into a flat, the door held ajar by a very young and very beautiful lady, who he later learned was the daughter of a member of Parliament. He stitched the end of that video to the beginning of the next one, careful to show the time stamps on each. Approximately forty-five minutes elapsed before Alastair stepped out from the flat and into a waiting taxi.

With the potentially career-ending scandal for Alastair caught on his phone, Nic had the goods he needed to persuade his boss to bend to his will. The trap was set.

The next step was to convince Alastair that Collin Cook was alive and could still lead them to Pho Nam Penh. He had video footage from the bank in George Town and eyewitness accounts from boat owners at the marina. With some more arm twisting, Nic hoped to get surveillance video from the dockside cameras as well, to corroborate his findings and prove Cook was still breathing and moving and, more importantly, in real danger. The reports of hijackers increased the urgency of the mission to capture Cook before Penh and the Komodos put an end to him. Once they had what they needed from him, he would no longer be useful. Without Cook, Nic feared he might never find a way to take down Penh. Collin Cook, he knew, was the bait he needed to catch the big fish and the bait had provided a way for Nic to track him. That, the crowning piece of evidence, being the cheap burner phone Cook had hoped no one would find out about.
Thank you, Collin Cook
.

Quick and decisive action was necessary, but Crabtree’s attempts to get the Navy SEALs involved seemed a long shot at best. Nic would be the one with a plan in place, knowing the Americans would not be able to move in time. He would be the one to save the day and all previous embarrassments stemming from this case would be swept away.

Nic knew that Alastair, like the rest of the world, viewed Collin’s demise at the hands of Hurricane Abigail as certain and hadn’t given him another thought since he had disappeared over a week ago. It would take more than mere words and pleading to get Alastair to assist in finding a man he believed to be dead. Nic had his body of evidence concerning Cook’s state of undeadness compiled and ready to present.

One more call to the chief of security at the George Town Marina, then he would call it a day.

*              *              *              *

Scripps Cancer Research Patient Clinic, La Jolla, California

June 14, 5:44 p.m. Pacific Time

Sarah Cook woke as Henry’s large, but gentle hand caressed her cheek. “Dear,” he said. “The doctor is here to check on you. Can you wake up and talk to him?”

Dr. Navarro moved closer and studied her face. “Mrs. Cook, I’m so glad you’re awake now. I’ve been a bit concerned.” A scowl receded and gave way to a contrived smile.

Sarah cleared her throat and attempted to sit more upright. “Oh? What time is it?”

“It’s almost six o’clock, Mrs. Cook. You’ve been out much longer than I would have anticipated. How are you feeling?”

“I feel like I’ve been drugged,” said Sarah with a wry grin.

Dr. Navarro first hesitated, then allowed himself to chuckle. “I see you still have your sense of humor. That’s good. Your blood pressure, breathing, and heart rate are all back to normal now, so that makes me feel better about letting you return to your home tonight. We ran some additional tests, but they were all well within normal limits. You are free to go and rest comfortably at home after you eat and walk a little ways for us. We just need to make sure everything is working. How’s your appetite?”

“I feel like I could eat a horse,” Sarah said.

Another slight hesitation. “Very well, Mrs. Cook. I’ll have the nurses bring you a horse for dinner,” Dr. Navarro dead-panned without looking up from his tablet. This brought laughter from both Sarah and Henry, easing the tension. The humor disappeared and Dr. Navarro’s brow bunched together. “In all seriousness, Mrs. Cook, I must remind you that your diet during this clinical trial must be highly regulated.” He turned to Henry, who nodded his acknowledgment and consent. “We’ll make sure your dinner conforms to that meal plan. The nurses will provide you another copy of the detailed meal planning guide. It shows not only what you should eat, but the schedule you should keep, including a suggested exercise routine.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” said Henry. “That will be very helpful.”

“We’ve now set up an online profile for you to report your daily activities. It’s quite detailed, but it will allow us to monitor the effectiveness of the prescribed diet. The nurses will provide you with the login information. You can even do it from your phone, which I think is extremely convenient and really cool,” he said with the grin of a schoolboy who had just learned a new trick. “Hopefully, by monitoring your diet and accounting for it, we can make the dietary adjustments needed to restore your strength and energy.”

Henry and Sarah both stared wide-eyed at the doctor, who looked back at his tablet and continued.

“It’s very important to keep your strength up so your body can utilize the enzymes we’ve injected and fight the cancer,” added Dr. Navarro. “Without proper nutrition, the enzymes die and the cancer thrives.”

“How do we do that when she hasn’t had much of an appetite, Doctor?” asked Henry.

“She’ll need to eat smaller meals more frequently. I know that doesn’t sound like much, but it has proven to be a significant factor. Remember, this is a clinical trial, so we need to regulate and monitor everything―food intake, caloric burn, even waste evacuation. Not only is it important to follow the meal plan and exercise routine, you’ll also need to keep a journal of all these activities. I assume this was explained to you when you volunteered for the program.”

“It was, thank you,” said Henry. “I have adjusted my work schedule so I can be there and take care of her.”

“That’s good. I can’t stress enough the role diet, especially, plays in this treatment. We believe there is a strong interplay between the enzymes we’ve injected and the foods patients eat in fighting the cancer cells and reversing the tumor growth. So, if it seems strict or restrictive, keep that in mind.”

“Will do, Doctor. Thank you again.”

“No problem. We’ll bring her dinner, then have the physical therapist come and walk her through the halls. After that, we can send her home.” Dr. Navarro turned to Sarah and continued, “I suspect we can have you out of here in a couple of hours. How does that sound?”

“The thought of sleeping in my own bed sounds too good to be true. I’ll take it, though.”

*              *              *              *

Scripps Cancer Research Center, La Jolla, California

June 14, 6:05 p.m. Pacific Time

Mike Zimmerman stood and clumsily attempted to retreat between the chair he had been sitting on and the empty chair holding his briefcase during this pow-wow. As Emily’s boss, it was his custom to debrief at the end of each day. These meetings were informal and friendly―a chance to review and plan―and part of a well-established routine. Like most people with Asperger’s, Mike thrived on routine. Emily needed little in terms of guidance and Mike did little in terms of micro-management, but sticking to the pattern was important. Theirs was a productive partnership based on mutual respect and a shared love of science and research.

Despite his position on the high-functioning end of the autism spectrum, Mike’s contributions to the laboratory research community were now legend. He was one of the most published researchers at Scripps and a pioneer in enzyme enhancement. His compliments, therefore, carried significant weight.

After Mike shuffled out of her office, Emily sat down and pondered her recent run of good fortune and the high praise Mike had just heaped upon her. He thought this current set of experiments using an obscure protein chain—an idea conceived during one of her early morning runs while preparing for her presentation at the Bio Med Conference—would be her third breakthrough in two years. Of course, it would take another two years of development and perfecting before it would be ready for clinical trials on humans, but the thought that her work could benefit cancer patients, gave her a warm sense of accomplishment.

She didn’t spend long luxuriating in Mike’s accolades. Her success only mattered if it resulted in helping real people and their families to live longer, more productive lives―something ingrained in her brain during graduate school. That thought led her back to Sarah, so she picked up the phone and dialed Dr. Navarro to check on her.

During her conversation with Dr. Navarro, Emily learned of Sarah’s difficulties recovering from the anesthesia and Dr. Navarro’s concerns about her general weakness. “As you know, Dr. Burns,” he told her, “Sarah’s cancer is the most advanced of any patient in the study and while her cancer type makes her a good match, her condition makes her less than ideal for total success. Having said that, this treatment is her best option to prolong her life. I’ll also tell you what I told her and that’s how imperative it is for her to strictly adhere to the diet.”

*              *              *              *

Scripps Cancer Research Patient Clinic, La Jolla, California

June 14, 7:42 p.m. Pacific Time

A white van sat parked along the street, under a tree, several hundred feet from the Cook’s Cadillac and out of range of the institute’s cameras. Inside, the driver with the ink up his neck nudged the passenger with the spikes, who had nodded off after hours of watching and waiting. “Look. There. It’s them. They’re getting in the car,” he said as he held out the binoculars.

The passenger put the binoculars to his eyes and adjusted the focus through the dim twilight. Sarah Cook sat in a wheelchair pushed by the tall, white-haired Henry Cook. The parking lights of the Cadillac blinked on, then off as Henry pushed the button on his key fob and slipped it back into his pocket. “You’re right. Let’s roll,” said the spike-wearing passenger. He placed the binoculars in their case and returned it to the duffle bag on the floor between the driver’s and passenger’s seats. His hand dove into the hip pocket of his coveralls and pulled out a sleek smart phone. He tapped the face of it a few times until a map opened up. Two dots blinked on the screen―one blue and one red. As Henry Cook’s Cadillac began to cross the parking lot across the street, the red dot blinked faster.

“It’s working,” said the passenger.

The driver nodded his head as he watched the red blip on the screen.

“Remember, the transmitter has a range of less than one mile. Don’t follow too close, but don’t let them get too far ahead,” said the passenger.

Annoyed by the patronizing tone, the driver grunted, “I know, I know,” and started the engine.

Western Caribbean Sea, 225 miles south of Grand Cayman

June 14, 8:45 p.m. Caribbean Time

Captain Sewell, his crew, and their hijackers were treated to a phenomenal sunset that night, though it went largely unnoticed. The Western horizon off the starboard side glowed purple, pink, and orange, the colors streaking across the glassy surface of the water. Ordinarily, a setting such as this would elicit a philosophical discussion among the Captain and his select crew. Conversations about life, death, God, nature, hopes, dreams, failures, and worries often occurred on nights like this. Collin had joined several during his time on the boat. Not tonight. Not after what had transpired. Everything had changed in the blink of an eye.

No one spoke. The beauty of the sunset stood in sharp contrast to the brooding, dark emotions fermenting inside the Captain’s heart. A heavy silence enveloped his three remaining crew members, still in shock from the suddenness and brutality that had claimed their friend and shipmate. The Captain had no words of comfort or solace to offer, not after watching the hijackers toss Tog’s body overboard like refuse, against Sewell’s angry protests. This turn of events violated everything the Captain held sacred. Life deserved more respect than these monsters gave it and death deserved more solemnity than they had allowed.

Captain Sewell remained silent, trying to control himself and prevent further violence. Thoughts of Tog and concern for Rojas, Jaime, Miguel, and Collin wrestled within him, stealing all joy from what should have been a glorious scene. He shook his head, cast his eyes toward his instruments, and fought back the boiling rage inside, knowing if he acted on it the outcome would be disastrous. Powerless to console and lost in his own angst-riddled mourning, he steered the ship toward the mounting storm to the south.

Then Stinky appeared from below and the stillness shattered.

The
Admiral
had been languishing for hours in the doldrums, chugging along at a mere eight miles per hour under power from the seventy-five horsepower engine. The sails were at full flap, but that hardly helped. Every few minutes a lazy breeze would come along and provide a little push, but their southward progress was slow and tedious and Stinky had had enough.

“Go faster,” he commanded the Captain. “We move too slow.

“This is a sailing boat. It has large sails, but not a large engine. It’s going as fast as it can without wind,” the Captain explained for the umpteenth time. His patience was wearing thin and he had given up masking that fact.

Stinky’s impatience was less anger-driven, it seemed, and more motivated by a sub-surface urgency that was perhaps part of his Type-A personality. He never stopped moving. When he spoke, his words were clipped, sharp, and hurried. There was nothing about him that indicated he could tolerate the doldrums or anything that did not move at his command.

The shirt Collin had decorated for Stinky had since been rinsed out using sea-water. When it dried, the silky fabric had stiffened, causing him to constantly adjust, itch, and tug at the salt-laden fabric.

“No good. We must go faster,” he insisted without conviction.

The Captain pointed to the western sky and said, “Enjoy this while you can. By tomorrow afternoon, we’ll have plenty of wind. And clouds. We’ll go much faster then.” His eyes smoldered as they narrowed; his tone radiated spite.

Darkness approached. The Captain ordered his men to top off the fuel tank while there was still enough light, so Jaime and Rojas set to work untying two of the red, five-gallon containers and moving them into position near the stern. As they worked, the Captain addressed Stinky. His voice barely under control.

“Our men need to rest. Tomorrow will be a difficult day. They will need all of their strength. We all will.”

Stinky thought about that. Clearly, he had not anticipated this scenario. “This is a trick―” he began to say.

The Captain cut him off. “No tricks,” he said sharply, pointing to the screen in front of him. “Look right here. Tomorrow, a storm will come. I need my men to be ready. If they don’t sleep now, they won’t be ready.”

Stinky glared at him, unused to being interrupted. Captain Sewell returned the stare, then added, “You can do what you want with your men. Mine are going to get some rest.” He signaled for Jaime and Rojas to head below decks. The Captain instructed Miguel to stay topside to help. They would rotate in four hours, he said.

Stinky huffed again and signaled Mr. Green to accompany them down the steps.

That’s when Stinky’s phone rang, a muffled and unfamiliar melody. He fumbled as he dug it out of his hip pocket. As he put the phone to his ear, a frown contorted his mouth.

Captain Sewell stood at the wheel, listening but not understanding the words Stinky uttered except when he said, “OK.”

*              *              *              *

Collin had been sleeping off and on for the past several hours. There had been no new attacks and the pain was starting to subside everywhere except his head. It pounded and throbbed. His mouth and throat were so dry it made him cough and choke. He realized that he must be dehydrated, but he dared not ask for anything, fearing another assault, so he lay still and listened to the rustling of the three men who had just entered the room.

Rojas and Jaime conversed softly in Spanish. At first, they seemed to be testing the waters to see if either of the two gunmen in their company would tell them to stop. “Where’s my pillow?” “Do you want a blanket?” “I need my toothbrush.” Their words were spoken more clearly than usual. Their tone was still familiar and casual, but the conversation lacked the normal amount of slang incomprehensible to Collin, who spoke fluent Spanish but could rarely follow the exchanges between these two. It was a running joke.

When the guards said nothing to halt their chatter, they continued, still speaking softly and in the same tone. Rojas said, “Did you hear about Abigail’s little sister?”

Jaime replied, “Abigail has a sister?”

“Yeah, she’s coming to visit tomorrow.”

“Really? What’re you going to do?”

“Introduce her to our guests. Maybe she can take them out.”

“I hope she does.”

Both men grumbled and snorted, a sinister chortle shared between them. That’s when Mr. Green stepped closer, gun in hand, and ordered them to stop talking.

Collin replayed the short conversation in his head, interpreting the code. He tried to suppress a smile. Abigail, the hurricane that nearly killed him over a week ago, had a little sister who was coming tomorrow. Jaime caught Collin’s eye and gave Rojas a shove with his elbow.

*              *              *              *

Huntington Beach, California

June 14, 9:53 p.m. Pacific Time

With the push of a button mounted on the overhead console, the Cooks’ garage door began to open as the dark blue Cadillac approached the end of the cul-de-sac. The handsome two-story, Mediterranean-style home was mostly dark, save a few lights, which were controlled by timers, glowing in the front windows and in the bonus room above the garage. The decorative landscape lighting illuminated the willows and the Japanese maple in the front yard. The garage door was fully opened by the time the Cadillac reached the driveway. Henry inched the car carefully forward until the dangling tennis ball touched the windshield. He smiled at Sarah as she roused from slumber.

“Oh, are we home already?” Sarah said as she checked her surroundings.

“Already? You must have been in a deep sleep, my dear. Traffic was horrendous coming into Orange County.”

“I’m sorry, Henry. I should have stayed awake to keep you company.”

“No, no. I’m fine. Did you enjoy your nap?”

“I just can’t seem to keep my eyes open. I’m sorry to be so out of it.”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head. Rest is good for you. Now, let’s get you upstairs where you can sleep comfortably in your own bed,” said Henry as he turned to open his door.

Sarah watched as he swung his legs out, stood, and stretched his tall frame. Once he closed the door, she began to gather her purse and sweater while she waited for him to open her door, as was his custom. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, summoning her strength for the journey up the stairs.

It seemed to take Henry longer than usual to make his way around the back of the car. And it seemed strange to hear the garage door closing already. He didn’t usually do that until they reached the door to the inside of the house. That’s where the button was, the one mounted on the wall right by the door frame. Why had he closed it already, she wondered? When her door opened, she reached out for his hand without opening her eyes. A hand, a much smaller and gloved hand, grabbed it and yanked her up with such force, she lost her breath. She was hurled into the arms of another man, short and wiry. One of his hands covered her mouth while the other wrapped around her waist and lifted her off her feet. She kicked and tried to scream, but it was to no avail.

A strange smelling cloth was placed over her nose. That was the last thing she remembered from that day.

*              *              *              *

Western Caribbean Sea, 285 miles south of Grand Cayman

June 14, 11:45 p.m. Caribbean Time

Collin tossed and turned all night. His captors had offered him a small drink of water and some bread shortly after Rojas and Jaime settled into their bunks. It was not enough. A splitting headache, an empty stomach, and hands cuffed behind his back by plastic zip ties kept sleep at bay although his body was beaten, bruised, and exhausted. His wrists were raw, swollen, and painful. Everything hurt. And now, his mind ached with a yearning for freedom so powerful he could taste it. Thoughts swirled in his brain like leaves in the wind with no aim, constantly changing direction.

During the few short bouts of sleep he managed to get, Amy would appear to him. One time, she sat next to him and stroked his hair. It was comforting and soothing, but ended too quickly. Another time, she brought the kids to him, but he could not reach them, nor hug them, nor wipe away their tears despite his desperate attempts. Each attempt brought more pain to his wrists and to his heart as he struggled against the bands and against reality. The last time, he saw her driving her minivan down the mountain with the kids buckled into their seats, engrossed in a movie. She talked on the phone with him using the van’s hands-free Bluetooth connection. Then his mind replayed the sounds he had heard over the phone nearly a year earlier: screeching tires, the faltering brakes of a loaded big rig, metal scraping against metal. Amy’s gasp, followed by her high-pitched scream. Crunching. Breaking glass. Absolute silence.

This agonizing replay startled him awake. His body jolted upright in the bunk, and he let out a scream, which he stopped short as he realized where he was and recalled the events of the day. As he struggled to normalize his breathing, he surveyed his darkened surroundings, including the lemony disinfectant smell, the sploshing sounds of the waves against the hull, and the gentle bobbing action of the boat. His insides tightened and his breathing constricted as it often did when he counted his losses. His situation at the moment was hopeless, his outlook bleak. Tog was dead. Collin had every reason to believe that the rest of the crew would be expendable once they reached Panama, if not sooner. Knowing he had brought this danger and the accompanying pain to his newest friends and protectors, felt like a white-hot branding iron had seared a mark inside his heart. He could never undo it. There would always be loss and heartache and emptiness. No amount of money could change what he had brought to the men who considered each other family and called the
Admiral Risty
their home.

Mr. Green approached, gun drawn. He eyed Collin suspiciously, then yanked him forward by his shirt collar until their faces were inches apart. “What are you doing? You keep quiet.”

Collin nodded and said, “But I need water.”

Mr. Green opened a bottle and poured it on his face. Collin caught as much of it in his mouth as he could and gulped it down hurriedly, not wanting to waste a drop.

“No more noise,” Green demanded, shoving Collin back down.

Collin felt himself spiraling into a round of self-pity, once again at a critical crossroads, endangering his safety and the safety of his friends. Scenes played on the screen in his mind like an accelerated slideshow: Stinky’s initial attack, Tog’s murder, Stinky punching him in the face, the dreams of Amy and the kids at his side, driving the dinghy through Hurricane Abigail, Amy beckoning for him to come to her. Collin’s thoughts were rising up like a tsunami ready to sweep him up and drown him.
Don’t let this happen
, he thought as he tried to push them out of his head. He knew he could not afford another disastrous meltdown. He had to pull himself together. It was time to will his way back into usefulness. But how? When every possible factor was stacked against him, and the odds of success so frightfully low, how could he hope to escape this time?

Collin forced his mind to start thinking about solutions instead of problems.
Focus on the outcome you want
, he remembered hearing in a sales training session years ago.
Forget the negatives you don’t want. Train yourself to think past the crisis of the present and into the future you design for yourself.