The Judas Strain - James Rollins [86]
Monk’s hands clenched on the rail, hard enough to rip it away. Goddamn assholes were toying with Jessie, stretching out the torture.
Although he was unable to act, refusing to turn away, Monk’s fingers tightened into a knot. His face, heated to a red-hot fire, must be glowing through the nut-brown makeup.
All my fault…
Jessie fought toward shore, on his side now, searching for how far he had to swim to reach the beach. The speedboat circled back. Laughter echoed over the water.
Jessie kicked faster. Suddenly he popped up, finding sand under his toes. He ran, fell, shoved, and dove toward shore. Then his legs were high-stepping through the lapping water. He pounded across the beach toward the dense jungle.
Go, Jessie…
The speedboat raced by. Shots were fired. Sand exploded, leaves shredded. Then Jessie dashed the last steps and vanished headlong into the forest, arms still tied behind his back.
More cheers, some disappointed groans.
Money changed hands.
But most were still chuckling, as if at some private joke.
Monk nudged his neighbor. “Apa?” he asked.
As the band of pirates here was a mix of locals and foreign mercenaries, Monk had learned that pigeon Malay passed okay. Not everyone was as fluent as the native pirates.
The gentleman at his side was missing several teeth, but was happy to show how many he had left by grinning broadly. He pointed toward shore, but he aimed higher up. A few wisps of smoke could be seen near the ridgeline. Some camp was up there.
“Pemakan daging manusia,” the pirate explained.
Same to you, bud.
The pirate must have noted his confusion and only smiled wider, showing his decaying wisdom teeth. He tried again. “Kanibals.”
Monk’s eyes widened. That was one Malay word Monk could translate himself. He stared back toward the empty beach, then up toward the trails of smoke. It seemed the pirates shared the island with a local tribe of cannibals. And like any good guests returning home, the pirates had thrown their caretakers a bone.
Literally.
The pirate at his side continued to babble and pointed toward the water. Monk only caught a few phrases, a word here and there.
“…lucky…at night…bad…” The man pantomimed with his hand, a claw rising up and grabbing something and dragging it down. “Iblis.”
The last was a Malay curse word.
Monk had heard it enough times, but he was fairly certain the man was using its direct translation.
Demon.
“Raksasa iblis,” he repeated, and babbled a bit more, ending in a whispered name, drying his grin into more of an ache. “Rangda.”
Monk frowned and straightened, leaning over a bit to stare at the water.
He remembered Jessie’s old wives’ tale. Rangda was the name of the Balinese witch queen, whose demons were supposed to haunt these waters.
“At night…” the man mumbled in Malay, and pointed to the water. “Amat, amat buruk.” Very, very bad.
Monk sighed. Just great. He stared with concern toward the forest, toward where Jessie had vanished.
Demons and cannibals.
What’s next? Club Med?
9
Hagia Sophia
JULY 6, 9:32 A.M.
Istanbul
WITH THE SUN blazing across the rooftop restaurant, Gray listened to the threat. It sapped all warmth out of the morning.
“If you don’t follow my directions precisely, I’ll kill your parents.”
Gray strangled Vigor’s cell phone within his grip. “If anything happens to them…”
“Something will. I promise that. I’ll send you pieces. In the mail. Over months.”
Gray heard the simple certainty in the man’s words. He turned his back on the others, needing to concentrate, to think.
“If you attempt to contact Sigma,” Nasser continued in a dispassionate voice, “I will know. You will be punished. With the blood of your mother.”
Gray’s throat had tightened to a strangled knot. “You bastard…I want to know they’re alive…unharmed.”
Nasser didn’t even respond. Gray heard a shuffle of the phone, muffled voices, then his mother came on the line. “Gray?” she gasped out. “I’m sorry. Your father. I needed his pills.” Her words ended in a sob.
Gray’s whole body trembled, teetering between fury and