Shadow zero, p.9
SHADOW ZERO, page 9
He was still smiling, but his eyes were as dark and hard as obsidian. “Tell me what is on that data core, or I will tie your legs open, cut your clothing off, and let my men take turns.”
Maya chuckled. “I guarantee you there’s nothing you and your men could do to me that others haven’t done worse.”
He sighed and pulled his hand away. “Perhaps we’ve started on the wrong foot. I am Bakari Masai, Commander of the Waswahili Liberation Front. You are Agent Specter of the Central Intelligence Agency. You are here to retrieve the data core that is now in my possession.
Maya tried to hide her shock, but it must have shown on her face. Bakari grinned, revealing twin rows of yellowed teeth. “Yes, I know who you are. You are here to take back what is rightfully yours.”
Maya’s head was reeling at the revelation that her identity had somehow fallen into the hands of these terrorists, but she collected herself and tried for boldness. “I am. And I guarantee you that I’m not the only one coming. When I don’t report back to my superiors, they will send others after you, a lot of others, and they won’t be as nice as I am.”
“You weren’t very nice, though. You killed over twenty of my men.”
“Exactly. Think about how much worse it can get.”
“Hmm.”
Bakari sighed and looked over her shoulder at the wall. He tilted his head as though considering something. Maya saw his shoulders tense and braced herself for the blow to come.
And come it did. His hand moved like a blur, the back of it striking her face with the force of a cast iron skillet. Her ears buzzed, her eyes fluttered, and her head lolled forward on her chest. She breathed harshly, fighting for consciousness. She could feel the swelling begin over her right eye.
“I suggest that you think about how much worse it could get,” Bakari replied. Despite the violence he’d just showed, his voice remained calm. “I wasn’t bluffing about the men. Many of them have never lain with a woman. You are rather ugly, but when a man is desperate, anything female looks beautiful to him. I will give you some time to think better of your actions.” He stood to his full height. “But not much.”
He left the cell. Maya waited until he was gone, then muttered, “Who are you calling ugly?”
For some reason, she found that hilarious. When her laughter finally subsided, that humor faded, though.
She knew a few important things. The data core was here somewhere. The terrorists still couldn’t figure out how to crack into it. They were planning to sell it within five days. They knew her identity. Not her real name, or else he would have boasted that, but they knew her Agency handle. That suggested a mole in the CIA. She’d have to deal with that, but not right now. She needed the data core first.
And she was alive because Commander Bakari believed she could help them access that information. That meant she wouldn’t be killed or tortured so badly that she wasn’t useful to them. She wasn’t ready to say that Bakari’s threats were empty, but she wouldn’t be subjected to anything too severe.
Yet. One thing Bakari said that she was absolutely sure was true was that she didn’t have much time. Just because the Waswahili Liberation Front couldn’t access the satellite’s data didn’t mean their buyers couldn’t.
She had to do more than just escape. She had to escape and find that data core. The safety of the world depended on it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Zero had made a mistake. A profound one.
At the time, it seemed like a good idea. Taking a helicopter from the Maldives to Africa would cause a commotion. Whoever had captured Maya would notice an aircraft leaving from whatever random location Alan called it from, flying to the Maldives, then dropping him off in the jungle near Kilimanjaro. They would know someone was there to rescue Maya, and there was at least a good chance they would know who that someone was. He thought that making his way to Africa himself would keep his movements quiet long enough for him to get close to Maya before they knew he was back.
So, he sailed to the town and traded everything he owned for a fishing boat. The owner of the boat laughed at first, but when he saw the steel in Zero’s eyes, his laughter faded. He sold Zero the boat, and in return got Zero’s entire island. Zero had no idea what legal claim he did or didn’t have to the island. He wasn’t familiar with how the law worked in the Maldives.
But he didn’t care. The island’s new owner could work that out. All he needed he had taken with him. He had his radio. He had his tools, and he had his only weapon: a combat knife that was the only remaining object he carried from his old life.
And now his new life. Zero wasn’t Agent Zero and had no plans to ever be an agent again, but he was definitely going to be the specter whose name had been whispered in fear among the evil people of the world. He had to be. His daughter needed him.
Except that Zero didn’t think about just how far it was to Africa or the fact that he was sailing to Africa in the middle of cyclone season. His thirty-eight-foot fishing boat was sturdy and in seaworthy condition, but it was very small and very slow, and he was still hundreds of miles from shore when a tropical storm arrived out of nowhere.
Zero was not an experienced boater. As with many things, he had some experience with boating, typically in short-duration emergency situations when it was perfectly acceptable to end his acquaintance with the boat by crashing, capsizing, or otherwise sinking it. And, of course, there was his fishing raft that he'd taken a few hundred yards offshore in calm weather.
But he wasn’t ready for this. He was completely unprepared for the storm and the suddenness with which it arrived. One moment, the storm was an ominous line of dark clouds on the horizon, and the next, it was a raging hurricane with ninety-mile-per-hour winds, torrential rain whipped by those winds into shards of glass that stung his face, and waves that towered twelve feet high and crashed over the deck with enough force to send him sprawling.
Finally, he lashed himself to the wheel of his boat, using makeshift rope he’d constructed from palm fibers and brought with him along with a ration of food and fresh water he’d purchased from the town before leaving the Maldives for good.
He struggled grimly against the hurricane, baring his teeth to the storm and keeping his boat pointed west. He would reach Africa. He would rescue his daughter. He had to. This storm was just another obstacle to overcome, just another hurdle in his way. He was Zero. He was Kent Steele. Damn it, he was Reid Lawson, and his daughter was in danger. No hurricane on Earth was enough to stop him.
Nature, as it had so many times throughout history, cared nothing for Zero’s determination and even less for the flimsy aluminum tub that he trusted to carry him across an angry ocean. The waves grew taller, the wind grew stronger, and the rain beat down, tossing his boat like a child’s toy across the ocean. The vessel somehow managed to remain upright as the hurricane strengthened, but it felt heavier by the second and sunk deeper with each wave.
Zero realized that he was taking on water. Of course he was. Several thousand gallons of water were washing over the boat every ten seconds.
He cursed and cut the ropes from his wrist just in time for the boat to buck underneath his feet and send him flying backwards. He burst through the door that led belowdecks, tumbling down the stairs and landing with a thud and a splash in the boat’s saloon.
He got to his feet, tasting copper and salt in his mouth, and looked around. Water had flooded the saloon a foot deep. Worse, with the noise of the storm somewhat muffled by the deck above, he could hear the choked burble of the engine below. It had been flooded out. It gave a final cough, then died.
He was now stranded and at the mercy of the waves.
Oh yeah. Because you were totally in control of the situation before.
He looked around for the pump control to bail the water from the boat. The man who had sold it to him said it was in the engine room.
The engine room that was now flooded.
Fear struck his heart like a bolt of lightning. He couldn’t die. Not out here. Not like this. Maya needed him.
The boat tilted again. Zero stumbled and struck his head on a bulkhead. Pain shot through him. He winced and growled, pressing his hand to the bruise and gritting his teeth.
The pain centered on him. He was still alive. Until the last of his breaths left his body, he would fight. He sloshed his way through the deepening water to the stairs that led to the engine room, took a deep breath, and dove.
He grabbed the rail and used it to pull himself below, where he ran into another problem. The lights were out, and the engine room was pitch black. He had to feel his way around and hopefully find the pump handle.
And he had to do it quickly. He dove often on his little island, sometimes fishing for mussels and sometimes just enjoying the little reef that surrounded his home. He could hold his breath for four minutes under heavy exertion like this, but four minutes might not be enough time.
Yes, it is. It has to be.
He felt along the walls, kicking off of the ceiling and pulling himself along. His hand touched something warm, and he realized he had reached the engine. Despite being surrounded by frigid seawater, it had overheated, probably from friction as the oil was replaced by saltwater.
Because that’s important right now. Focus!
He turned his mind solely to the pump. If he was at the engine, then he was in the back third of the deck. He tried to recall where the owner had pointed out the pump.
We were near the engine. He was explaining to me how to prime the engine if it stalled. I was impatient and asked if he had an owner’s manual I could read on the way. He told me the manual was written in Dhivehi, and I wouldn’t be able to understand it. I sighed and turned away so he wouldn’t see the frustration in my face. My eyes fell on a red handle sitting near the rear corner of the room to the left of the engine.
The handle's image flashed in Zero's mind. That was it! He needed to get to the left of the engine. He was on the right side now because he had touched the warm engine with his left hand.
His lungs burned. The boat swayed as he pulled himself around to the other side, but the swaying seemed far less than it was before. Had the boat sunk already? Was he only wasting his time trying to pump water from a boat that was already well on its way to the bottom of the ocean?
You have to try. To the utmost of your strength, you have to try.
Zero pulled himself around the engine, ignoring the fire burning in his lungs. He kicked and pulled to the back of the room and felt around for…
There it was! The handle!
He pulled on it, but with no leverage, he only moved his own body. Another surge of fear ran through him. He forced calm and pulled his body so that his legs were bent underneath him. He tried to push the handle upward, but his feet slipped, and he floated toward the ceiling again.
He had too much carbon dioxide in his lungs. It was making him buoyant.
Despite his instincts crying out for him to inhale, he forced himself to push the air out of his lungs. His chest cramped. His diaphragm spasmed, and against his will, he inhaled a small amount of seawater. The acrid liquid seared his already melting respiratory system.
He grunted, pushing the liquid and the last of the air from his lungs. He could see spots forming in his vision. He didn’t have long.
But he wasn’t buoyant anymore. He sank to the floor and was able to brace himself and get good leverage on the handle.
The handle moved slowly, so slowly. Then all at once. Pain shot through his right hand as the sudden motion caused him to wrench his fingers.
But he had succeeded. The pump was working. He could feel the water moving, and when he stepped closer to the wall, he could feel the turbulence the pump caused as it sucked water out of the boat.
Elation filled his heart, but he didn’t have time to celebrate. He had held his breath for far longer than the four minutes he could comfortably hold it. He needed to breathe soon, or he would fall unconscious and drown.
He walked forward, pushing against the current of the water that now tried to pull him backwards. He reached the stairs, grabbed the railing and pulled himself upwards. His arms and legs began to tremble. His fingers lost their strength. His hands began to slip, and the spots in his vision seemed to push deep into his brain.
No! You will not die!
A last bout of strength surged through him. He grabbed the railing firmly and pulled himself up through the water. Just before he reached the saloon deck, his head broke the surface of the water. He drew in a ragged breath, his lungs flaming anew as his body forced him to gulp a copious amount of fresh air. He coughed and shuddered, slipped on the damp but no longer flooded deck, gulped more air, and finally staggered back to his feet.
He raised his hands in joy and tried to laugh. What came out instead was a hoarse cough that sounded like the bark of a sea lion. A few more barks followed at the sound, Zero’s elation at surviving—no, at winning—temporarily overriding his sanity.
But he had won. He had defeated the hurricane. He had saved his boat from sinking. Already, it felt lighter. His engine was no doubt done for, but he had a mast for emergencies, and he could run up the sails when the storm finished and complete his journey to Africa.
He took one more deep breath, then climbed the stairs to the top deck. He cast a fierce grin at the raging storm.
And all of the strength left his body.
The wave approaching his boat had to be forty feet tall. It towered over the vessel like the vengeance of a wrathful god. It was no wonder so many cultures feared and worshipped the ocean. Zero had used every ounce of his strength, and the ocean was about to swat him like a fly anyway.
Tie yourself to the mast. Do it now!
He wasn't sure whose voice was commanding him to do that. It sounded like his own. At the same time, it sounded like Alan's. It also sounded like Maria's. Like Kate's. Like Maya's and Sara's. Like Mischa's. The collective consciousness of all of Zero's memories of his loved ones urged him not to give up, even if his efforts were nothing in the face of a god's fury.
He moved without being fully conscious of it. The command of that collective voice stole his agency and forced him to the mast of his soon-to-be stricken vessel. He found a length of palm rope, miraculously still here and not washed overboard by the storm. He looped the rope around his waist just as the boat began to tilt sideways, lifted by the storm.
As he looped the rope around his wrists, fingers deftly tying a bowline knot, he shouted in defiance at the wave that was now tilting his boat upside down. He felt gravity shift, pulling him first sideways, then upside down. He saw the ocean rush up toward him as the storm god closed its fist.
Then the boat struck the water, and Zero slipped into darkness.
***
A hand slapped Zero’s cheek, lightly at first. He groaned and shifted, his head lolling to the side. The hand slapped him again, more firmly, and he gasped and sat straight up. His hand seized the one slapping him, and he snarled into the face of an African fisherman.
The man recoiled, eyes wide. He tried to pull his hand away, but Zero’s grip was iron. He shouted something Zero couldn’t understand and reached toward his belt for a long fishing knife hanging from a loop.
Zero released the wrist and opened both of his hands in an apologetic gesture. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I was startled. I… thank you.”
The man stared at him warily, keeping one hand on the handle of his knife. “Tsy maintsy adala ianao.”
Zero recognized the language as Malagasy, but he didn’t speak a word of it. He lifted his hands and bowed his head slightly. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
The man slowly released his knife. He nodded and asked, “inona no nataonao tao anatin'io tafiotra io?”
Zero didn’t understand what the man was asking, but he answered as best he could. “I need to get to the mainland. Do you understand? Mainland?”
The man looked at him the way a man might look at a homeless man spouting gibberish on a street corner after making the mistake of engaging him in conversation. Two parts pity, one part disgust, and seven parts resignation to his fate. He looked ahead and thrust his chin. “Ho entiko eny amoron-dranomasina ianao. Avy eo ianao irery.”
Zero followed his gaze. Realization sparked in his head with the explosive force of a firecracker.
He was on a fishing boat. Not his fishing boat. That was gone. He looked behind him and saw a splintered section of mast five feet long attached to a portion of the deck about nine feet long. The palm rope lay in pieces around it, cut off of his wrists and waist, probably by one of the long-bladed knives that the man talking to him or one of his three equally wary companions wore on their belts.
The voices in his head had given him good advice. The wave had broken his boat apart, but the portion of the deck to which the mast was anchored had somehow remained upright and kept his head above water until the storm subsided and he was found by this boat.
He looked back in the direction his rescuer had gestured. He assumed the landmass ahead, about ten miles distant, was Madagascar.
He had done it. Somehow, despite everything, he had reached Africa. Not quite mainland Africa and still hundreds of miles from where he needed to be, but much closer than he was the day before.
He looked up at the sky. The sun was high. It blazed down on him with a warmth that was just on the verge of being too hot.
He wasn’t sure what time of night it was when he had gone unconscious. For all he knew, he had been unconscious for days. He was certainly thirsty as though it had been days.
He turned toward his rescuer. “Can I have some water, please?”
The man nodded and called to one of his companions. A moment later, a canteen was thrust into his hands. He drank, forcing himself to take small sips. When he’d had his fill, he handed the canteen back. “Thank you.”
The man gave him a nervous smile, then said something to the others. They laughed and returned to their duties. Zero’s rescuer left him alone, and Zero turned his face toward shore.
