The Catch: A Novel (45 page)

The report echoed deafeningly in the enclosed space, and Munroe fired again, a round to Petrov’s knee. Two bullets, less than two seconds, and he screamed and his legs buckled and he began to swing his weapon toward her. Munroe put the muzzle to his head. Her hearing blown from the discharges, she spoke loudly, formed the words clearly for his sake. “Chances are, I won’t die before I pull the trigger again,” she said. “It’s certain that you will.”

The room remained frozen in calculation, hesitation. Anton lowered his weapon; Sergey Two did the same. Victor pried the firepower from their hands. Petrov’s gaze rose to meet hers, and in that pause Natan slammed the butt of his rifle at his hands, disarming him. “You were told to pay before boarding,” she said. “You should have listened.”

Muzzle of the gun back at Anton’s head, Munroe nodded at Natan. “We have this,” she said. “There is still another topside.”

Natan backed away, his small contingent following, while Amber and Victor and the crewmen surrounded the delegation and Munroe pressed the muzzle to Petrov’s thigh. “I need you alive,” she said, “but I don’t need you in one piece. I’ve got seven rounds left, so tell me, what’s your arrangement for getting off the ship?”

He glared, shaking, and slid down the wall, and when her finger moved from trigger guard to trigger, Anton answered for him.

F
IFTEEN MINUTES FROM
the start of the incursion and, weapon to Anton’s spine, Munroe walked him to the main deck, following slightly behind in an ostensible act of respect that allowed her to keep the weapon out of sight while she guided him down the gangway toward the waiting officials.

Munroe kept the pace calm, casual. Smirking, she leaned nearer his ear and whispered, “Relax,” and when they reached the portly man, Anton stuck out a hand. He was far stiffer than what she wanted, but it was the best she’d get from him.

“You have our most sincere apologies,” he said, tone overly formal. “Our intelligence is incorrect; this is not the ship we have been expecting.”

The officials were quiet for a moment, disappointed perhaps that there’d be no show, no excitement, and no contraband to confiscate and later sell on the black market. The portly man said, “There are no weapons?”

“The weapons exist,” Munroe said, and nudged Anton from behind.

“They do exist,” he said, stilted and forced. “But this is not the
ship. We are investigating the error and will seek an appointment with your office when we have gathered better facts.”

“Our team will leave momentarily,” Munroe said, jabbing Anton again.

“Yes,” he said. “And we are grateful for your graciousness and assistance in this grave matter. There is no work for your policemen here today. Unfortunately.”

The unspoken matter of payment hung thick in the air, and unwilling to risk Anton’s working off script, Munroe said, “Regardless, we will contact your office to secure for you the remainder of our agreement.”

Anton nodded, and although the portly man’s expression showed doubt and his body language spoke of irritation, he shook Anton’s hand again. Munroe stood together with Anton on the gangway, unwilling to let him move until the policemen had been called off and the entire assembly had started on their way to the vehicles. Only when they’d drifted far enough away did she march him back to a supply room where there were no portholes or hatches and where the reports of gunfire would be muted should she have to shoot someone again.

His companions had already been stripped down to their underwear, socks, and shoes, and Munroe had Anton do the same. Victor handed her the stack of passports he’d collected, and with the delegation bound and gagged, they left the room and sealed the door. Munroe rifled through their phones and wallets for a quick look, then set those pieces aside. They had but a small window to finish what they’d started. The rest could wait.

The crew, gathered in the passageway, observed silently as Munroe flipped through the passports, scanned the pictures, and, based on the facial features that were the closest match, handed out three sets of passports and clothing, and then tossed Sergey’s passport to a fourth man. Disguises weren’t necessary—they’d be leaving the country on their own documents. If any of the officials had chosen to remain behind, none were familiar enough with any member of the
delegation to really know who was who—bribery at its finest—and this was a show, the men who’d boarded now leaving the freighter, a precaution to avoid scrutiny. She’d get the rest of the crew off the ship after dark.

Munroe walked Petrov’s passport to the berth where the captain waited under guard. His face creased with surprise when she stepped in, and she handed him the booklet. “I’ve given you a head start, a way to disappear again,” she said. “Do with it what you will.”

The captain thumbed through the passport, stopped at the data page, and studied Aleksey Petrov’s picture for a long while. A slow dark smile spread across his face, and within that unguarded flash of triumphant gloating, he gave up his inner sanctum.

Munroe turned from him, disgusted.

By fulfilling promises made to avenge a boy who hadn’t deserved to die, in returning to Amber the man she loved, by washing her conscience of the tugs of obligation, she’d waded into a history between two men that ran deep, that coursed personal and ugly. For all she knew, by fulfilling her side of their agreed exchange, she would allow the devil to walk free.

“You have his passport,” the captain said. “This means Aleksey has come to Kenya.” He smiled again and his voice lilted with hope. “He is dead?”

Munroe didn’t answer. Wouldn’t gift him the knowledge of what had happened belowdecks or what would happen next. The captain had wanted Petrov out of the way so that he could continue his run for freedom. Well, fine, he could run, hide, and chase shadows until he figured events out on his own.

Munroe opened the door and paused at the threshold. Despicable as it was for a captain to abandon his ship and crew, his final act of perfidy would rid her of him. “You have ten minutes to be dressed and ready to leave,” she said. “After that, I can’t guarantee your safety.”

M
UNROE LEFT THE
Favorita
together with the new delegation, walked them to the waiting cars. With borrowed identification and
hotel rooms, they had enough to make it through the night, could find a way to get to Nairobi and find their embassies.

She stared after diminishing taillights, and when at last they were fully on their way toward the city, Munroe dialed the
hawaladar
and returned with him to the office of the port officials, buying time and paying for temporary loyalty.

T
HE TEAM ON
board waited until nightfall, and until money had changed hands, to get the rest of the crew off the ship, and then, with the help of an improvised stretcher, while Amber guided the blinded second mate by the arm, Khalid and Marcus carried Leo off to the
hawaladar
’s waiting vehicle. Munroe gave the driver directions to the Aga Khan Hospital, the start of the path to finding help for both men, if help could be had.

Amber slid into the front seat and Munroe, standing beside her, stretched out a hand. Amber stepped back out and wrapped her arms around Munroe’s neck in a hug. Whispered, “Thank you, Michael,” and, releasing her, clasped Munroe’s hands in a good-bye that was, perhaps, not really a good-bye.

Munroe kissed her forehead and stepped aside for a look into the rear. Leo caught her eye and held contact for a moment, two, then tipped his fingers in a salute—probably the closest she’d ever get to receiving thanks.

She turned away and smiled. To Amber she said, “I need the inflatable. I’m willing to pay whatever you paid for it.”

“You’d do that?”

“It’s not a favor.”

“Then it’s yours.”

“Check the business accounts in a day or two. I’ll wire the money in.”

“Thank you,” Amber said, and Munroe waved her off. Walking for the gangway, Munroe said, “I told you, it’s not a favor.”

The favor would be the rest of the money that she sent along with the payment for the boat, courtesy of Anton and Aleksey Petrov,
enough to cover medical expenses and the lost equipment and put Amber back into the black.

Munroe leaned against the gunwale, observing as Marcus and Natan lowered the inflatable from the dhow into the water and, at gunpoint, nudged each of the Russian captives, still stripped down to underwear and socks, overboard into the smaller boat. Sergey with his lightly slit throat and destroyed shoulder was the lucky one. He’d never come to the port, had never been taken captive.

The wind picked up, leaving the swells choppy and violent, and Munroe glanced at the sky and the sun that had dipped beyond the midpoint, allowing them about four hours of daylight.

Petrov, hobbled by his injuries, was the last overboard, his descent more fall than climb, and when he had settled, Natan dropped a pair of oars to waiting hands. Munroe tossed down several water bottles, and then, against the captives’ rising protests, Natan and Marcus shoved the inflatable away from the dhow.

There was enough gas in the engine for the boat to make the trip to shore, enough to get them a bit farther if they chose to go in the opposite direction. The oars would get them farther still, if dehydration, starvation, and exposure were the course they plotted.

Victor waited until the boat was several hundred meters off port and the dhow was back on its way to sea, then shot a flare into the sky. Somewhere on the coast, courtesy of the
hawaladar
’s information network, an envoy waited. Men who had nothing good to say about Russians, who’d gladly take hostages of value in exchange for forgetting that an old and aging ship had been stolen from them. Unlike the crew of the
Favorita
, these captives would likely produce a ransom. Or perhaps not. Only time would tell. Either way, the fate of the delegation, and the success of the strategy birthed those many
moves before—convincing Amber and Natan to come to Mombasa, trading the
hawaladar
the ship for his men, and negotiating the payment for the captain’s delivery—all brought a sweeter satisfaction than exacting death in revenge for Sami’s blood.

In the distance, the men in the inflatable fought over oars.

Munroe whispered, “Checkmate,” and turned away.

They headed north, armed with the Russian weapons they’d transferred off the
Favorita
after crossing into Kenya, prepared to battle against another hijacking attempt should so small a vessel attract pirate attention: a return to Djibouti, where those who remained of Leo’s team could sell off the vehicles and supplies, close down the operation, and follow their own way.

Munroe left Victor for the bow, for the wind and the salt air, and he trailed after her, stood beside her, traced her gaze out over the open water. He put his arm around her shoulders and she sighed, allowing the intimacy of contact that he would never have attempted before discovering she was a woman. “And you?” Victor said. “Where do you go?”

Munroe glanced toward the sun, pointed her finger high, and drew an arc toward the west. “I’m riding off,” she said, “into the proverbial sunset.”

Writing is a solitary endeavor; getting a book published is anything but, and I’ve been blessed with a team that does an amazing job at making me look a whole lot smarter than I really am. To everyone at Crown Publishers—those in publicity, marketing, sales, foreign rights, production, audio, design, and more—all of you who put in so much effort on my behalf: thank you!

I’m especially grateful to Christine Kopprasch, my editor. Not only for wielding her fierce and fantastic powers of all-around awesomeness on my behalf, but because when travel and scheduling got in the way of deadlines, and I submitted this book only eighty percent written, she didn’t even blink. We played tag-team while the clock ticked down, editing through the writing process—or, perhaps it was writing through the editing process. Together we got the job done
and
were able to get the manuscript into the production stream on time. Score one for team Christine!

Love and appreciation to my agent, Anne Hawkins—without her I would have no career, and possibly no sanity. Anne is the best thing that has happened to me in publishing; she has become my advocate, confidante, and friend, and every day I wake up grateful that she has my back.

I also want to say thank you to Captain Max Hardberger, the world’s baddest badass, without whom we would have never had this story—or if we did, it would have been a very different story. He is one of the most fascinating people I have ever met, and I’ve been the honored recipient of Max’s time, generosity, and friendship. Any details in this book that I got right concerning the ocean, ships, the maritime industry, maritime law, and even some of the parts that deal with Somalia, are because of him. Anything I got wrong is my own doing. If you’re interested in hearing just a smattering of the stories this amazing man can tell, you can find them in
Seized: A Sea Captain’s Adventures Battling Scoundrels and Pirates While Recovering Stolen Ships in the World’s Most Troubled Waters
. It’s a fantastic read. I highly recommend it.

Appreciation also to Abukar Abraham, linguist, educator, and certified Somali language tester and developer out of Atlanta, for double-checking the Somali in the text and tweaking it for accuracy and spelling (
www.somalitranslator.com
).

To my family and friends, thank you for putting up with my long silences, and for not taking it personally when I drop off the earth for months at a stretch or when I become flustered by the phrase “we should do coffee when you have time.” Also, my children, for begrudgingly letting me do what I do; I promise that one day it’ll all seem more impressive than it does right now. Hopefully you’ll forget that I live in my pajamas.