The Judas Strain - James Rollins [85]
And now the vast net had captured the Mistress of the Seas and hid it forever from prying eyes.
Not good.
The engines cut and the ship slowed to a drift. Monk heard the chug and gentle vibration as the ship’s anchors were dropped.
A commotion toward the bow drew his attention forward.
Monk headed over to investigate. Other pirates were less stealthy and ran past him, assault rifles held in the air, cheering.
“That can’t be good,” Monk muttered.
Keeping back, Monk discovered a large crowd of the pirates gathered on the forward deck, massed around the pool and hot tub. Bahamian music blasted, courtesy of Bob Marley and his Rastafarian riffs. Many had bottles of beer, whiskey, and vodka, reflective of the mix of mercenary and local pirate. It seemed a welcome-home party was under way.
Along with games.
The pirates’ attention focused toward the starboard side of the ship. Assault rifles were shaken in upraised fists; encouraging shouts rang out. Someone had unscrewed the diving board and had it protruding out from the rail, over the water. A man was dragged forward, his arms tied behind his back. He had been beaten, bloody-nosed, split lip.
Shoved around, Monk caught a glimpse of his face over the crowd.
Oh, no…
Jessie babbled desperately in Malay—but his words fell on deaf ears. He was forced at gunpoint over the rail and onto the diving board. It seemed these were fundamentalist pirates, sticking with tradition.
Jessie teetered on the plank, poked and prodded to the end.
Monk made a step in his direction.
But a mass of pirates stood between him and the young nurse. And what could he do? Plainly Monk could not shoot his way through the throng of pirates here. It would just get them both killed.
Still, Monk’s hand drifted to his rifle.
He should never have involved the kid. He’d come to lean too heavily on him, pushed him too far. Jessie had left an hour ago, searching for any local maps of the region. Someone must have a map or could sketch one. The pirates had to be getting their supplies from somewhere nearby. Monk had urged caution, but Jessie had scampered away, eyes bright.
And look what it bought him.
With a final wail, Jessie fell from the plank’s end and tumbled into the water, striking it hard. Monk rushed to the rail, along with most of the pirates, standing shoulder to shoulder as they catcalled, cheered, and cursed. Bets were placed.
Monk let out a held breath when Jessie resurfaced, kicking hard, on his back, gasping. A pair of pirates near the bow leveled rifles at the struggling victim.
Oh God…
Shots cracked crisp, especially loud under the muffle of the netting.
Spats of splashes marked the impact.
At Jessie’s heels.
More laughter.
The kid kicked harder and writhed, swimming away from the boat.
He would never make it to shore.
One of the blue speedboats aimed straight toward his floundering shape, meaning to run him over. But at the last moment, it dodged away, swamping Jessie with its wake.
He sputtered up, looking more angry than frightened.
On his back, he scissor-kicked and used his bound arms as some sort of rudder. The guy was strong and wiry.
But the speedboat was faster.
It swung around again, sweeping back for another pass.
A laughing gunman in the back of the boat braced himself and aimed his assault rifle. He strafed the water as the boat passed between the cruise ship and the boy.
Monk cringed, knowing Jessie could not have survived this time.
The speedboat buzzed past.
And there Jessie was, coughing and sputtering. He paddled and kicked. A small